#flying bread seems like one of those job hazards

[psykoe100]

lets get this bread 🥖

[not-a-space-alien]

Falling Hazard, part 15:  The Empty Throne

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

Series masterpost

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It is one thing to scream and fight and rebel and make your great speeches to someone who you think hates you.

It is quite another to make them to an empty room.

As the door creaked open amidst the silence of everyone holding their breath, it revealed the continuation of the red carpet leading up the Almighty’s throne—which sat unoccupied.

Maltha stood in the open doorway, staring into the room with wide eyes. The doors hit the walls on either side with a dull thud that echoed in the huge room. Nobody moved.

Kabata coughed.

Maltha turned around, her dumbfounded eyes sweeping across the room. “Well?  Where is He?”

Nobody responded.

“Hey,” said Maltha, holding her arm out towards the place where everyone had been convinced an all-powerful deity made its permanent residence.  “He doesn’t leave there.  He’s always there.  He’s always on the throne.”

Nobody responded.

Panic began to flare on her face.  This was the equivalent of going outside and being unable to find the sun in a clear midday sky.  “He doesn’t leave there!”

Mykas was still holding the Metatron like a chew toy.  Maltha walked over and grabbed the archangel.  Mykas resisted her pull, clamping down like they were engaged in a tug-of-war.

“Drop it,” Maltha snapped.

Mykas released the Metatron, and Maltha pulled them out of his jaw, holding them up and shaking them.  “Hey. Hey!  Where is He?”

Metatron’s windpipe had teeth marks all through it, and they struggled against her without answering.

She cursed and tossed them to the ground, then advanced on Kabata, who drew back into the corner.  “Where is He?”

“I thought He was in there!” wailed Kabata.  

Maltha paced back down the red carpet to the threshold of the throne room, peering into it again, as though God might have been hiding inside of it. Then she whirled back around and stomped to Uriel, still lying prone on the floor.  “Where is He?  Huh?”

“She can’t answer you,” Crowley reminded her.

Maltha’s eyes roved down to Mykas, who made no attempt to move or contribute.  Then she looked back to Aziraphale, who raised his shoulders helplessly.

“Where is He?” she shouted to the whole room, an acutely freaked-out expression on her face.

Metatron, dropped on the carpet, made a break for the throne room, forcing themselves up and sprinting with wobbly steps.  Maltha, all the way over by Aziraphale and Crowley, was too far away and too late to realise she needed to stop them.

“Hey!” she shouted.  She reached the door to the throne room just as Metatron pulled it shut behind them. She flew into the door and kicked it full speed, but only succeeded in smashing her foot.

She fell down, righted herself, and started pounding on the door. “Metatron!  Metatron!  Open this door!  Explain yourself!  Metatron!”

She drew her hand back and cursed as her skin sizzled.  A red-hot sigil had appeared on the door, glowing faintly as its curly lines began to expand through the heavy, gilded door.

“Metatron!” she screamed as more and more anti-demon sigils grew through the door, crackling, barring her entry.  “Metatron, what have you done?  I demand you come out this instant and explain this to me!”

The expansion of the supernatural sigils halted only when the door was completely covered.  The air around the door wavered with heat.  Sweating, Maltha backed up.

Kabata dashed for the exit, knocking Aziraphale down on the way out.

“Hey!” shouted Maltha.  “Kabata!”

She gave a half-hearted chase, then stopped in the center of the room. Mykas sat with his ears flat to his head.

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

Maltha stomped out of the hall, then returned a moment later dragging a terrified-looking Vincent by his wrist.  “Destroy the door,” she commanded, pushing him towards it.  “I require entry to the throne room.”

“T-the throne room?” Vincent stuttered.  “I can’t—I can’t do that.”

“I insist you destroy the barrier to the inner chamber.”

“I can’t.”

“I insist you do.”

“I can’t.”

Maltha looked at him, then back at Aziraphale and Crowley, as though they would have any guidance.

“Then we’re leaving!” she said, in a fit of anger.  “The mission is over!”

“Over?” said Vincent.  “It’s over?”

Maltha stomped over and grabbed Crowley by the wrist, yanking him up away from Uriel, and dragged Aziraphale along by a wing.  Mykas rose to all fours and trotted out ahead of her.

The invading force cleared the throne room antechamber quickly, leaving Uriel bleeding out on the floor alone, the only sound the sizzling of the heated defenses on the inner chamber.

And just like that, the attack on Heaven was finished.

The Metatron removed their hands from the door, where the last of the defensive sigils now crawled over the surface.  The pounding on the door had stopped, but they could still hear the yelling.

Just barely.  It was a muffled, indistinct scream, but they could guess the words closely enough.

They turned around to look at the empty throne.  It was completely quiet in here, in this little bubble of a reminder of Him.  Even the angels whose jobs it had been to eternally chant His praises had given up and moved away.

It was just Metatron.

They wearily dragged themselves over, using their wings to lift themselves up onto the throne.  The elegant, carved structure was so huge they had to fly up a few meters before grabbing the edge, dragging themselves up and lying out on the seat, pooling blood underneath of them.

And they just lay there curled up, feeling very small in that enormous, empty seat, and cried.

Crowley forgot about the Bentley until well after the raid on Heaven was over, when he was standing in his kitchen and looked out the window to see that its usual parking spot was empty.

Oh, that would go over great, waltzing up to Heaven’s gates in the aftermath of an attack while they were cleaning up.  Just pop his head in.  Hi, the gates?  That was me, sorry.  Anyway I’ll be taking my automobile back now.  Thanks, ciao.

That would go over wonderfully.  He’d probably be smitten before his feet even hit the clouds.

He supposed he’d just have to write the poor Bentley off as a loss. Who knows what they’d do to it. They had probably already removed it.

He thunked his head on the window, staring out, watching a lark on a telephone wire.

“Now what?” he said to the bird.

The bird flitted away.

Crowley occupied himself for a while with healing his wing.  It was difficult solely because of the angle, but as the tendon mended itself, he found himself shivering at the thought of what Uriel might have accomplished had she not been interrupted.  He pinned it to his back with a bandage to stop it from moving around, confident it would be back to normal without much trouble.

He could not say the same for the situation outside of his bodily injuries, though.

The buzzer sounded at his front door.  Crowley thought that maybe he ought to start taking down all the spray-paint he had absolutely decimated his flat with.  Maybe that would help things get back to normal.

He looked through the peephole.  It was Oryss standing in the hallway.

Crowley stepped out and shut the door behind him out of habit.  “Oryss,” he said, holding his hands out.  “It’s good to see you again.”

She took his hands.  “You too. Olivia was just telling me about what happened.”

“Crazy stuff, huh?”

“Yeah.”

They just stood in each other’s company, two friends feeling utterly overwhelmed.

“Olivia seemed pissed that Maltha pulled the plug before they were finished,” Oryss offered.  “Word just got out that Metatron is still alive.  Not sure about Uriel.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Is Maltha going to send out any kind of statement about the attack?” said Oryss.  “Not even Olivia knows why she called it quits so suddenly.”

“I don’t know,” said Crowley, who hadn’t yet told anyone what he had seen either.

“Well…” said Oryss.  “I just came by to get my Tupperware.  I left it here last time I was over.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.  “Yes, I almost forgot about that.  I washed it out for you.  Here, let me grab it.”

He turned back around and looked at the closed door, supernatural walls standing sturdy in his face.

“Do you…ah…Have a spare key?” said Oryss.

“Ah…no,” said Crowley.  “Whups.”

It felt like it had been years since Aziraphale had been in his shop instead of just the previous morning.  A cold cup of cocoa still sat on the kitchen counter, and his book was open on his desk.

Crowley had wanted to go back to his flat alone, so Aziraphale had let him without an argument, and gone back to his shop.  Now he wished he had tried to convince Crowley to come back with him. He found himself aimlessly going from the bedroom down to the kitchenette and out to the bookshop counter, then back again, only to sit at his desk and stare at the open pages of his book with unfocused eyes.

His head was full of too many restless thoughts, and he couldn’t share them with anyone except Crowley, his partner, the one he could share everything with.

The front doorbell jingled.  Aziraphale bolted from his desk and nearly tripped coming down the stairs.

Crowley was in the entrance, tucking his shades into his breast pocket.

“Hi,” said Aziraphale.

“Hi,” said Crowley.  He smiled cautiously.  “I, uh…kind of locked myself out of my flat.”

“You’re welcome to hang about here for a while.”

“Thanks.”

Aziraphale hesitated.  “Can we talk?”

“I was just thinking that.”

A few minutes’ time found them walking through St. James’s park with hands entwined together.  The ducks quacked at them demandingly when they were within bread-throwing distance, but neither had brought anything for them.

Crowley sat down and miracled one of the rolls in the window of the bakery the next block over into his hands.  He tore off a few pieces and tossed them.

“Listen,” said Aziraphale.  “I know I’m not perfect.  I realise how hurtful those things I said to you were.  I was scared, I wasn’t thinking, and I felt betrayed, but that doesn’t excuse it.  Nothing you could ever do would make you deserve to hear me say something so awful to you.  You’re the most important person in my life, and I love you.  Will you forgive me?”

Crowley’s hand came up and stroked Aziraphale’s cheek.  “I forgive you, angel.  I’m not so perfect myself.  I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

Aziraphale smiled, putting his hand over Crowley’s.  “I deserved it.”

“No,” said Crowley.  “I mean it. You’ve been through a lot.  You were scared and confused and I just expected you to figure it out on your own.  I had no patience with you whatsoever.”

Aziraphale patted his hand.  “Then I guess we’ll just call it even.”

Crowley leaned into him, and Aziraphale stroked his hair.

“I’m lucky you’re such a forgiving demon,” said Aziraphale.

“You know, Aziraphale, it means a lot to me that even when you felt like I had betrayed you, you still insisted that I come with you instead of leaving me there in Hell.”

Aziraphale gave him a kiss.  “Well…even when I’m angry, I don’t know what I’d do without you…”

“Me neither.  And then I went and rushed ahead to try and save you, and you ended up nearly getting gutted by Uriel to save me from my bad decision…  We’re no good when we’re apart, Aziraphale.”  

“Agreed.”

“From now on, let’s just…have each other’s’ backs, all right?  No matter what.  We stick together.”

Aziraphale kissed him, and he kissed back.  Crowley’s hands rubbed at Aziraphale’s neck softly.  Aziraphale’s hands held him firmly by his waist.

“Let’s not fight again, all right?” said Crowley.  “I missed you.”

“Likewise, my dear,” said Aziraphale.

A particularly impatient duck waddled up to the bench to investigate what was delaying its meal.  Crowley tossed the rest of the roll to it.

“Here comes trouble,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley followed his gaze to see a blonde woman with a big black bird on her shoulder picking her way towards them.

Crowley raised a hand and waved to her.  “Hey, Beth.”

Beth held her arm out, and the bird alighted on her hand, then dropped to the ground.  Beth wedged herself between Aziraphale and Crowley, spreading all her limbs out on the bench, letting out a tired sigh.

“How’s it feel to be a free woman again?” said Crowley.

“Bloody Hell, as you Brits say,” said Beth.  “I feel like I’ve got a Heavenly hangover.”

“Not uncommon when dealing with the Holy Boneheads,” laughed Crowley.  “Take some Aspirin.  It’ll go away eventually.”

The black bird, which had been pecking aimlessly at the ground, shifted into a huge woman.  But she did not take a seat on the bench.

“Hello, Maltha,” said Crowley.

Maltha stood there wringing her hands.

Beth sighed.  “She wants a hug, but she’s too embarrassed to ask for it.”

“B-beth!” said Maltha.

Crowley smiled sadly.  “Well?”

Biting her lip, Maltha nodded.

Crowley slipped off the bench and encircled his arms around Maltha as high as he could, which was about her chest.  The archdemon lay her head on top of his, sniffling.

Aziraphale stood.  “Maltha, I’d like to say something to you.”

Crowley withdrew, and Maltha stood facing him, waiting.

“Listen…” said Aziraphale.  “I don’t think I was entirely fair to you.  I’m certain this has been very stressful for you.  On top of having to keep Hell in line, you also had your sweetheart taken from you, were framed for the destruction of the Temple, were declared war on, and were expected to lead a siege against Heaven itself or die trying. Under those circumstances, anybody might make a few mistakes here and there, and, well…you were right about me, apparently.  I made a real arse out of myself, and I want to apologise.  I know you’re really only friends with me for Crowley’s sake, so I don’t expect any great show of kissing and making up, but I hope we can still…well, be cordial with each other.”

Maltha let out a sound and reached an arm towards him.  “Aziraphale, this whole time you thought I was only friends with you because of Crowley?  I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale hesitantly went to her, and she wrapped an arm around him. “Aziraphale, you were the first angel to ever treat me like a person.  To ever show me mercy.  You helped me see the value in the Earth.  You shared your funnel cake with me, even though you obviously wanted to keep it for yourself.”

Blushing, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Of course I can forgive you, Aziraphale.  Your friendship is worth more to me than all of Hell.  I will treasure it for as long as you’re willing to give it to me.”

Aziraphale blushed more deeply.

Maltha let out a great sigh and plopped down onto the bench next to Beth. “I swear by somebody, I can’t get all the aches out from yesterday.  We all really kicked the crap out of each other.”  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  “And we only got one-third of the way through our agreement.  I suspect the coalition of angels isn’t too happy with me. They’ve disbursed back to Earth for now, though, so I’m not expecting any angry mobs soon.”

“One-third?” said Aziraphale.  “Then Uriel…”

“Survived,” huffed Maltha.  “Maybe I should have kept Raphael in Hell just a little longer, so she would have died of her wounds.”

“Well,” said Crowley, “I can’t imagine she’ll be in fighting shape any time soon.”

“Mmm, yes,” said Maltha.  “The revelation that demons can get into Heaven by itself should be enough to give Heaven some pause.  Should push back any further attacks.  That and…”

Her heavy gaze fell to the ground.

“Yes, and that,” said Aziraphale.  “I admit I have been unable to stop thinking about it.”

“I guess we didn’t even need the angel dust,” said Maltha.  “Nobody really even thought to check.  Why would we?”

“Yeah,” said Crowley.  “I don’t know what I really expected, but…it wasn’t that.”

Maltha put her face in one hand, and with the other she unfurled a piece of parchment.

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale, taking a corner.

“A message from the Metatron,” said Maltha.  “They wish to have a conference with us.”

“Us?”

“Me, you, Crowley, and Kabata.”

“…Everyone who saw the empty throne,” said Crowley, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “Except for Mykas.”

The letter was in Metatron’s handwriting, an unsteady scrawl which read:

To the archdemon Maltha, former Bearer of Divine Healing, current regent ruler of Hell:

We have a great desire to speak with you.  A nonviolent conference will benefit us all.  Please bring Aziraphale, Crowley, and Kabata with you.  We assure you there will be no retaliation.  We are not in a state to retaliate, anyway.

-The Archangel Metatron, former Voice of God.

“Do you trust them?” said Crowley.

Maltha rolled the parchment back up.  “Trust them?  No.  But do I think they’re lying about not being able to perform any sort of retaliation for what just happened in Heaven?  No.  And do I want whatever information the Metatron intends to deliver in this conference?  Yes, very badly.  I think we all know what they want to talk about.”

“Indubitably,” said Aziraphale.

“Whether or not you two are going to go, I leave that up to you.  I wouldn’t blame you for sitting this one out, and I’m sure I could figure out something to tell Metatron.”

“I’ll go,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley grimaced.  He was already being tested on the whole “let’s always stick together” thing they had promised each other just recently.  “All right,” he said regretfully after a few moments.  “I’ll go, too.”

“My court spellcaster has a way to summon Kabata however far away he is, so all I have to do is wrestle him into submission.  Frankly, I suspect Metatron may demand his execution, and I’m not too interested in fighting that.”

Nobody argued with her on that point.

“I’ll not have him causing any trouble, so he will be restrained.”

“…with the sigil from the Key of Solomon?” said Crowley.

“I’m afraid that’s the best option, so yes.  Why?  Something the matter?”

“No,” said Crowley with a sense of odd satisfaction.  “No, nothing at all.  That’s fine.”

Maltha gave no indication that she knew about what had happened with that sigil and Crowley, but she had to have found out somehow, Crowley thought.  When they finally met Kabata, the septacle had been burned into his flesh in the exact same spot where Camael had forced Aziraphale to burn it onto Crowley.

When the four of them had assembled, Kabata crossed his arms.  “I suppose it’s time for the torture now?”

“I suppose being forced to talk to Metatron counts as torture,” said Maltha. “We are expected.”

“And there’s no point in trying to convince you not to make me go with this thing burned onto me, is there?”

“None at all.”

“All right,” said Crowley, understandably nervous.  “Can we get on with it?  Where is the meeting supposed to be?”

Maltha showed him the scroll again, which had a location at the very bottom, underneath the signature.

“There?” said Crowley, dismayed.  “Must we?”

“Apparently,” said Maltha, materialising a heavy jacket.  “Why there of all places, I don’t know.  Uriel must have picked the meeting place.  No other angel in the garrison could be this damn overdramatic.”

It took a few rounds of teleportation to even get within a reasonable distance of their destination.  Kabata, predictably, did not look happy about any of it, and grudgingly pointed out he would need help since he was inflicted with the binding sigil that barred use of any of his demonic powers.

The final jump through space landed their feet in deep snow drifts, in a kind of cold none of them had ever experienced before, at the very bottom of the world.

Maltha snapped snow goggles onto her face.  “Right.  Let’s get going.  I think I see them over there.”

She began to trek forwards.  Aziraphale and Crowley linked arms and slogged through the snow to follow her, holding each other close.

“Aziraphale, whatever happens, whatever we find out,” said Crowley.  “I love you.”

“I love you, Crowley!” said Aziraphale.

Maltha turned back to see that Kabata had not moved.  “Come on!”

The snow that had accumulated on Kabata’s horns dislodged as he moved, bulldozing the snow out of his way to catch up to Aziraphale and Crowley.  He tugged on Crowley’s sleeve, and when he spoke, it was barely audible over the howling wind.  “Crowley, I…  Look, I know what I…  What I did to you…”

Crowley halted in his tracks, looking at Kabata.  “Are…are you trying to apologise to me?”

Tear tracks were frozen on Kabata’s face.  “What I did to you as an angel was petty and mean and there wasn’t any good reason for it other than I could.  And what I did to you as a demon, I…  I’m a jerk, okay!  I know I’m a jerk!”

“You’re just realising that now?” said Aziraphale.  

Maltha gave no indication that she was listening as she plodded on.  

“Look, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die here one way or another,” said Kabata. “And I thought maybe I could die with more honour than I lived.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you,” said Aziraphale, who did not feel like trying to figure out whether he had it in his heart to forgive him.

“I know I’m not in any position to be asking favours, but I was hoping there’s something you could do for me,” said Kabata.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“What is it, Kabata?” Crowley said.

“That demon who stole the angel dust from you.  She only did that because I made her.  She doesn’t deserve any of the punishment I’m going to get.  Her name is Yulera.  She has a hideout in the rocks in the southwest corner of the seventh layer.  And she’s been waiting for six-thousand years to see the Earth.  Will you take her up there?  Please.  Not for me. But for her.”

Crowley stood staring at him through the snow.  “Genuine love.  I’m sure you’ve never felt it before.  It changes you, doesn’t it?  But not in ways that you’d expect.”

The wind howled.  The snow whipped at them.

“Out of all the places I expected to see kindness,” said Kabata, “she was my last guess.  She deserves so much better than what she has.  Than Hell.  Than...me.”

“I’ll do it,” said Crowley.  “I’ll give her a ride in my car.”

“And will you tell her?” said Kabata.  “That it was the cockatrice?  From out of the bestiary?  The cockatrice was my favourite.  She’ll know what you mean.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Crowley.

“Thank you,” said Kabata.  “Thank you so much, Crowley.  I’m so sorry I chose…this.  This path. That I hurt you.  You don’t deserve that, either.”

Maltha had stopped ahead of them, too far ahead to hear their conversation. “Quit dragging your feet!” she yelled back.

“Tell her,” said Crowley.

“Tell her what?” said Kabata.

“Everything you just told me.  She might take pity on you.  She might protect you.”

Maltha had begun to wade her way back to them through the snow.

“Don’t try to save me, Crowley,” said Kabata.  “Make no mistake…I deserve whatever’s coming to me.”

“Why are you all dallying here in the snow?” Maltha growled upon reaching them. “Come on.  Don’t think you can get out of this, you wretch.”

Kabata started forwards again without further prompting.

“Look, that must be it,” said Maltha, gesturing to something in the distance.

When they got closer to it, they saw a space had been cleared in the snow, and a swathe of green grass was growing in a circle.  The Metatron and Uriel were sitting at a small table in the center of the oasis of calm amidst the whipping snow.

“Here we go,” said Aziraphale.

As their feet made the transition from snow to grass, the howling of the wind faded and the snow ceased to touch them, as though they had stepped through an invisible barrier defining a room.  It was warm and pleasant and there were flowers growing under their feet.  There was a pot of tea on the table, ringed by a fine set of teacups.  

It was difficult to judge who looked unhappier, Metatron or Uriel.  It was also difficult to judge who was hurt worse. Metatron’s throat was wrapped tightly up, and they were missing an eye.  Uriel’s entire leg was still gone.

Maltha shook the snow off herself and let her jacket drop to the floor.  “I see Raphael still needs some more time to work on you two,” she said, a wry smile creeping over her face.

They both scowled at her.  “Please have a seat,” said Uriel.

They took their coats off and pulled their chairs up.  Except Crowley, who stood and looked at Uriel with understandable wariness.

“Sit,” said Uriel.

Crowley pulled a chair out, one that would put Maltha between Uriel and himself, and sat down.

“Look!  It can be trained!” said Uriel.

Crowley grew red.  Maltha and Aziraphale both glared daggers at Uriel.

“Please have some tea,” said Uriel.  Nobody had ever managed to invite someone else to help themselves to tea with as much malice as she did just then.

Aziraphale and Maltha poured themselves some.  Crowley politely declined.  Kabata, whose meaty paws were clearly too big for the teacup, and who was not in a position to change his shape, did not even bother trying.

Uriel cleared her throat.  “And now that we have gathered here, in the most desolate spot in Creation, in the furthest icy clutches of—”

“Jesus,” said Maltha, “just get on with it, or we’ll be here all day.”

Uriel sourly put her hands back on the table.  “For the record, I did not want to attend this meeting.  I thought this was a bad idea. But the Metatron thought we should proceed with haste before the situation got out of control, even before Raphael could finish healing the two of us.  And seeing as how somebody who shall remain nameless destroyed the Metatron’s throat, rendering them unable to speak...”

Maltha groaned.

“…I was forced to attend and speak for them.”

Uriel did not sound particularly happy about it.  The Metatron, glowering from under their shroud of bandages, did not look particularly happy about it.  And perhaps most of all, Maltha did not seem particularly happy about it.

“I’m not listening to everything being filtered through you for however long this takes, Uriel,” said Maltha hotly.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” said Uriel.

“Oh, I’m positive I dislike this much, much more than you do,” said Maltha.

Uriel leaned back.  “And yet you have no alternative if you want your information, which I can see on your warped little face you clearly do.  So we shall move on.  Our first order of business is thusly:  He dies.”

Her finger was pointed at Kabata, who gripped the table with sweaty palms.

The voiceless Voice of God tugged at Uriel’s sleeve with a stormy look.

“We are all in agreement that it should be Kabata’s fate to be executed here,” said Uriel, ignoring Metatron. “We are all perfectly in accord with Heaven’s will.  There is no reason any of us would ever disagree.”

Metatron sat back and crossed their arms.  Uriel muttered something that sounded like Doesn’t feel so good to be on that side of it, does it?

“I thought this meeting would be nonviolent,” said Maltha.  “And you want to kill someone I’ve brought with me?”

“Don’t pretend you care for him, Maltha,” said Uriel.  “He has done something to harm practically everyone in Creation.  No one will mourn his passing.”

Maltha sipped her tea.  Kabata’s eyes bounced back and forth between her and Uriel tensely.

“And this meeting will not continue, and you will not get your information, until he has been removed,” Uriel added.  “This is not negotiable.”

“All right,” said Maltha.  “Fine, I’ll grant you that.  He has been nothing but trouble for us.  Do as you want.  I won’t stop you.”

Kabata and Uriel both pushed their chairs back to stand simultaneously. Kabata turned to run; Uriel materialised a bow, drew an arrow back, and released it.  The arrow cleared the two or three meters between Uriel and Kabata instantly, thunking directly through his skull.  He toppled over his chair with the force of the blow, sprawled out on the ground, feet up in the air.

Maltha unfolded her hands and played with her teacup, trying to hide her discomfort.  Crowley and Aziraphale looked down at the dead archdemon’s newly emptied corporation with horror.  

And…and Crowley just could not help himself.  He knelt down and put his hands on Kabata, tilting the archdemon’s head. But he was already dead, eyes rolled back in their sockets.

He continued kneeling there for a few moments, scared to stand back up and see what everyone else’s reactions would be.

“Are you quite finished?” said Uriel’s voice.

He stood, sweating.  Everyone was looking at him.

“What kind of healer is this?” said Uriel, disgusted.  Her bow disappeared, and she reseated herself.  “It attends to enemies, even the most loathsome creature who deserves no help.”

Maltha slammed her teacup on her saucer.  “Yes, and you’d be dead if he was not so soft-hearted, Uriel, as one of those creatures who deserve no help.”

“What are you talking about, demon?” said Uriel, face twisting.

Crowley scooted himself a bit further away from Kabata, dismayed that it appeared the conversation was going to continue with his dead corporation lying there with an arrow sprouting from its head.

“Nobody told you?” said Maltha.  “Crowley saved your life while you were bleeding out in the throne room.”

Uriel’s outraged gaze snapped to Crowley, who slunk lower in his seat.  “That is absurd.  Why would he do that?”

“I’m asking myself that same damn question right now,” said Crowley savagely.

Clearly frazzled, Uriel downed the rest of her tea in one gulp and poured herself more.  “There is no motivation for any demon to help me,” said Uriel.  “They all hate me.”

“It’s not hard to see why,” Maltha snapped.  “But he helped you because unlike you he cannot stand to see others suffering when it is within his power to help them.”

Uriel stared at Crowley very hard.  Crowley, determined for once not to be cowed and embarrassed, stared back with as much gall as he could muster.

“And just so you are aware,” said Maltha, “if the decision had been in my hands, you would have died long before anyone else could have reached you.  Now then, if your bloodthirst has finally been sated, can we please get to the point of this meeting?  I’m positive it wasn’t to put Crowley under a microscope.”

“I consider it no great surprise that the ruler of the kingdom of darkness would have refused to show mercy to me,” said Uriel.  “Considering that being a cruel tyrant is your job description.” She bitterly sipped her tea.  “And considering the serpent attends to whatever strikes his fancy at the time, I won’t feel so flattered that he put his hands on me.”

“Only you would find out Crowley saved your life and mock him for it, Uriel,” said Aziraphale.  

“You’re one mouthy principality,” said Uriel.  “I’m surprised you didn’t fall like the filthy creature that constantly defiles you.”

Aziraphale spluttered indignantly.

Maltha put her teacup down with exaggerated, tense calmness.  “All right.  I’m done with this.  Metatron, come here.  I’m going to heal your throat so you can speak.  I’m not listening to Uriel anymore.”

Metatron drew back with a fearful look as Maltha stuck her hand out.  “You will certainly not lay your filthy, perverted hands on the Voice of God!” Uriel shrieked. 

“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Maltha.  “There are two healers at this table, and Metatron continues to labour under incapacitating wounds.”

“Absolutely not!” said Uriel, standing, stamping her foot.  

“Uriel, if I wanted to hurt either of you, I would have already started instead of subjecting myself to this inane conversation for so long,” said Maltha testily.  “I can’t get the information I want if I kill Metatron.  Please just stop complaining and let me do this.”

The Metatron wobbly got to their feet and stood beside Maltha.  Maltha stood and held out her hands.  “There we go,” she said.  “Crowley, come help me with this, would you?”

The Metatron flinched back as Maltha’s hands reached their throat. “It’s all right,” said Maltha. “Just stand still.”

Uriel crossed her arms and plopped back into her seat, finishing another cup of tea and moving onto the next, angrily pretending not to be interested.

The Metatron squeezed their eyes shut as Maltha’s aura connected with theirs, prying it open and stroking the raw wounds in their true form.  The archangel would not stop trembling under her hands.  “You’re doing very well,” cooed Maltha.  “This won’t take very long.”

It was a few minutes of precise work.  The whole time Maltha was disparaging Raphael mentally for somehow not getting it done.

“This is inappropriate,” said Uriel.  “To the highest degree.”

“Oh, Uriel, shut up,” said the Metatron’s raspy voice.

Maltha withdrew.  Metatron massaged their throat, coughing.

“Drinking some tea with honey might help,” suggested Maltha.

“I think we’re done here,” said Metatron coldly.  They took their seat next to Uriel once more.  They tried to be discreet about miracling a few drops of honey for their tea, but everyone noticed anyway.

Maltha regained her seat between Aziraphale and Crowley.  “Now, maybe, can we get to the point before we sit here bickering until the inevitable heat-death of the universe?”

Metatron slurped their tea.  “Yes, the point,” they said.  “The point is we wanted to have a discussion with those who saw that God’s throne was empty.”

“Okay,” said Maltha impatiently.  “But Mykas also saw it.”

“We meant those who are important,” said Uriel.  “That beast may be what’s left of Heaven’s noblest warrior, but he’s still just an attack dog, nothing more.  I’m sure you’ll keep him in line just as Heaven did.  He need not be involved in any of the weighty discussions.

Maltha inhaled deeply.  “Uriel. Metatron.  Do you still not understand that that attitude is exactly why Michael turned against you as soon as someone else helped him get out from under your control?  Are you really so cruel?  He is intelligent and curious.  You’ve done nothing with that but let it fester until he went mad.”

Uriel and Metatron looked at each other, then back to her.

“You give him far too much credit,” said Uriel.  “He runs wild at the slightest opportunity.  He needs a leash.  You’ll regret it if you don’t provide him one.”

“If that’s really how you think,” said Maltha, “then I think he will be much happier as a demon.”

“The queen of Hell means to preach to us about cruelty,” said Uriel. “Spare us.”

All the sniping was too much for Aziraphale and Crowley, who were now downing tea that had been augmented with alcohol.

“All right,” said Metatron.  “We said we were going to get to the topic at hand.”

“Yes, the topic at hand,” said Maltha.  “We are here to discuss God’s empty throne.  Tell me about it.”

“You were asking where God was,” said Metatron.  “We thought it might be prudent to tell you, before things got out of control.”

Maltha took gulps of her tea, trying to hide her desperation to know.

“How to begin…” rasped the Metatron, swirling their teacup.  “The first thing you should know…would be that God is a…different class of being entirely.  The reason we cannot comprehend Him is because He is simply on a different scale.”

Maltha looked at Aziraphale, then at Crowley, then back to Metatron.  “Yes, we already knew that.”

“Just let us talk,” Metatron said with irritation.  “He is a different class of being.  We are not sure if there are others like Him, but He is from elsewhere other than this universe, this pocket of space and time.”

Silence fell in their little bubble, the snow and wind howling muffled a few feet away from them.

“God is an alien,” said Crowley.  “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Crowley, if you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll have you removed,” said Metatron.

Crowley, who had in fact been asking in earnest, clamped his mouth shut.

“The point is He is a different type of being,” said Metatron.  “Very powerful on a scale above us.  But not truly immortal, just as we aren’t.  Not truly all-powerful.  But very good at convincing everyone that He is, because no one is in a position to question Him.  But He has needs just as we do, and suffers if they are not fulfilled….or, I should say, had…”

Aziraphale took a gulp of tea with a shaking hand.

“What are you saying?” said Maltha.  “Tell me.  I want to hear you say it.”

“God is dead,” said Metatron.  “He had been sick for a while, and we were unable to save Him.”

The snow raged distantly against their pocket of calm.

“Dead?” said Crowley.  “You mean like literally, physically dead?  Not in the metaphorical, Nietzsche way?”

“I do not know what that means,” said Metatron.  “But yes, there is nothing metaphorical about it.  I suspect He may have left before the sickness overtook Him, to save Himself, but he was very weak.  On the verge of death.  If He did simply leave, I suspect he is not coming back. So either He is dead, or He is somewhere else, but either way, He is gone.”

“Metatron and I were originally the only ones who knew what was happening with Him,” said Uriel.  “Because we were the only ones who attended to Him.  His true nature and the extent of His sickness was not clear to us until undeniable physical symptoms began to manifest.”

“We tried our best to keep it hidden,” said the Metatron.  “I did the best I could to mitigate the damage He was doing, but His mental state began to spiral, and not only did He get physically violent, but He also started giving contradictory commands.”

“People often wonder what happened to the vengeful God of wrath who burned Sodom and Gomorrah and now sits so silent,” said Uriel, sniffing. “The truth is He was still there. He was always there.  He just…wasn’t quite what everyone thought He was.  He was growing steadily weaker over time for reasons we could not figure out.  He would not tell us.  He was never as powerful as He was in the beginning, when He first made the universe.”

“He told us the war would save Him,” said Metatron.  “He needed food of a different kind.  I do not know exactly what it was.  Attention.  Worship. Chaos, war, bloodshed.  Something.  Perhaps it was human souls themselves.  But apparently He was not getting enough of it.”

“Hold on, back up,” said Crowley, throwing his hands up.  “Humans souls themselves?  What do you mean?  Food?”

“This perpetual dance between our sides, between good and evil, sustained Him somehow,” said Metatron.  “He would not tell me how.  But once I…saw Him eat a human soul.”

Everyone stared at Metatron.

“You saw Him….” said Aziraphale.

“Yes,” said Metatron.

“Eat.”

“Yes.”

“A human soul.”

Metatron kneaded their hands.  “He thought no one was watching.”

Even Uriel seemed a little disturbed by that.  “Oh, get over it, Metatron.  It’s pathetic you’d be so affected by seeing that,” she said, although it was obvious not even she believed what she was saying.  There was no bravado or scorn in her voice, just weakly masked disquiet.

Nevertheless, the Metatron snapped, perhaps more out of impatience than genuine anger, “Well, I’m sorry we can’t all be as heartless as you, Uriel. Some of us are actually affected by the things we see.”

Uriel took a sip of tea and did not argue.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” said Metatron.  “But it didn’t matter.  There was only one path that led to His survival.  We had to start the war at any cost, because His power was dwindling by the day.  But given His deteriorating state, we had to do it alone, without Him, sometimes even against His commands. He was starting to break down mentally as well as spiritually. He started giving orders that went against His own self-interest.”

“When God found out about the two of you,” said Uriel, with a look at Aziraphale and Crowley.  “He threw a tantrum.  He was disgusted.  He demanded you be separated.”

“What?” said Aziraphale with astonishment.

“It was His will that you fall, Aziraphale,” said Uriel.  “That would have been your fate, had things gone according to His wishes.”

“He blamed you for ruining the war and wanted to see you suffer for it,” said Metatron.  “But we knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything, and we had to move on our own if the war was ever going to happen.  In a moment of clarity, God told me to put the war as the priority, even if it meant disobeying Him.  We had no time to focus on something like breaking up you two and punishing Aziraphale. So we told Him we would see to it, then never did.  His omnipotence was shrinking, so He wouldn’t have found out, except that you tried to pray to Him.”  They took an angry sip of tea.

“You lied to God?” said Aziraphale.  “You just…lied to Him?  To protect me?  To protect us?”

“I don’t see what bloody choice we had!” the Metatron yelled as loud as their voice would allow.  “Calling a tribunal would have meant a fatal delay in the war efforts!  We tried our best!  And it still did not work.”  Metatron downed their tea, then poured more, then downed that as well.  Crowley suspected theirs also had alcohol in it now.  “And then one day He was just gone, with no warning as to where He went!  And then we had to scramble to prioritise hiding His absence!”

“Metatron thought casting Michael out of Heaven would be the best course of action,” said Uriel.  “Because the war, had it proceeded, would have failed at the critical moment when God was supposed to participate, thus revealing the glaring fact of His absence. Raphael’s proposed fate for Michael was a convenient escape, stopping the war after we had put up such a fuss over starting it, thus allowing us to delay the inevitable revelation of God’s departure from this world.”

“Mmm,” said Maltha.  “It sounds like you had other ideas, though?”

Uriel set her teacup down.  “Why, funny you should mention that!  I thought that delivering Heaven’s sword straight into the hands of the likes of you would inevitably backfire on us.  And I was exactly right!  But what do I know?  Right, Metatron?”

“Look,” said Metatron hotly.  “I don’t know what you wanted me to do.  This whole damned series of events has been nothing but one disaster after another. Gabriel insists stealing Maltha’s human pet will provoke her into attacking, and that backfired.  Gabriel insists destroying the Temple would generate enough outrage that the momentum would start the war, and that backfired.  Then he insisted promoting Victoria would help us resolve the situation with Raphael, and that backfired even harder.  Maybe I didn’t always make the best decisions!  It’s not like I had any competent help!  And I was scared!  Yes, I admit it!  I was scared!  Because He kept calling out to—”

Metatron clamped a hand over their mouth.

Uriel looked at them sharply.  “Oh? This is new.”

“Please continue, Metatron,” prompted Maltha.

Metatron put their hand back to their teacup miserably.  “He kept…calling for someone to come save Him.  He…”  They downed their tea, taking a very long draught, as if to avoid answering.

“Metatron,” said Maltha.

“He kept calling someone,” said Metatron.  “A number of Someones.  That He said He missed, that He regretted leaving behind somewhere, that He wanted to be reunited with.  And yes, I admit that I was bloody fucking terrified of someone answering that call, because the more I thought about it and listened to Him, the more He sounded like a scared human child calling out for His family to come save Him, and not even I could imagine what horrors might befall Creation should that happen!  The war would be a humane ending for us compared to that!”

Everyone at the table sat reeling from what Metatron had just dumped on them.

“Hold on,” said Crowley.  “Are you saying there might be more? Like Him?  That He has family?”

“I bloody fucking hope not!” said Metatron.  “Because one was bad enough!  We bent over backwards to make Him happy, to not second-guess Him, to entertain Him like we were a damnable toy, and He still threw tantrums and abused us. And yes!  I’ve been holding that in for six-thousand years, and yes I’m finally going to say it!  I can’t stand Him!  I hope I never see Him again!  He is cruel and child-like!”  They drank tea with a shaking hand.

“Then the obvious next question,” said Maltha gently, “is to ask:  Why did you simply not let Him die, Metatron?  Why did you work so hard to save Him?”

They both stared at her.

“It sounds like he had a function like Michael’s inbuilt obsolescence that made Him steadily weaker over time.  And if He needed us for sustenance, that would make Him like a parasite feeding off of us.”

“That is exactly what Camael said,” said Metatron softly.  “He said we should let God die.  He said we didn’t need Him.  That the archangels could do it themselves.  That we essentially already were, since God had done nothing but sit on the throne and demand supplication for centuries by that point.”

“And I suspect that is why Kabata made his bid for Hell’s throne,” said Uriel. “His knowledge of God’s vulnerability would have put him in a unique position to win the war in a way no other demon could have dreamed of.”  She sipped her tea, disgusted.  “To finish what he had set out to do in Heaven.  To finish Him off.”

“That’s why you threw him out,” said Crowley.  “Not because of what he did to me or anyone else.  Because he disagreed with you on what direction Heaven should go in.  And that was dangerous, at a time when you needed to have everyone on the same page.”

“It wasn’t hard to convince Raphael and Michael to go along with it, after what Camael did to you,” said Uriel.  “And it was easy enough to make everyone think that was the real reason.  The truth never came out even at his tribunal.”

“And you had to protect the Tyrant at any cost,” said Maltha.  “Even if it meant throwing your brother to the wolves.”

“You make us sound like monsters,” said Metatron.  “We were only fulfilling our duties.  That’s all we’ve ever done.”

“That’s all anyone’s ever done,” said Maltha.  “Our duties.”  She swirled her tea.  “And how shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?”

“What?” said Uriel.

She set her cup down and wiped her mouth with a napkin.  “Thank you for telling me this.  But I cannot help but wonder why you have been so straightforward with me.  You do realise you’ve just given me everything I need to destroy you, don’t you?”

“Just as we said,” said Metatron.  “You all saw the empty throne.  You would have wildly speculated and came to your own conclusions, and did with them what you will.  It would have gotten out of hand.”  They took a draught of tea.  “With both of our overseers of affairs on Earth gone, that just leaves us with Victoria to run Earthly affairs, someone help us.  We’re going to need all the stability and order we can get.”

“The three of you are all intelligent enough to see the importance of keeping this information confidential,” said Uriel.  “Heaven is already going to be in chaos with the loss of two archangels and the realization that demons can get into Heaven. The fear of authority is all that maintains any sense of order in creation.  Take that away, and it will all break down into chaos.  Hell, Heaven, and Earth.  Not even you would benefit from that, Maltha.  And so you’ll walk away from this table with the full intention of keeping things under control, by keeping it to yourself.”

“Is that what I’m going to?” murmured Maltha.

Uriel and Metatron looked at each other.  “Of course,” said Metatron.  

“You should know that I have a long history of not doing what people expect of me.”

Silence, except for the wind howling.

“I’ll punish those rebel angels,” Uriel threatened.  “I remember the names of every single one of those little ingrates that cheered to see my execution.  I’ll tear their pages out of the Book of Life, every one of them.  I’ll purge them from Heaven.  There’s nothing to hold me back now.  I’ll throw you out.”

This last bit was directed at Aziraphale.  And Aziraphale smiled.

“You know, Uriel,” said Aziraphale.  “I think at one point, that threat would have scared me.”

Uriel recoiled.

“Doesn’t seem like much of a punishment now,” said Maltha with a sly smile. “Doesn’t seem to matter now who is an angel and who is a demon.  Does it?”

Uriel looked at her with hatred, her one authority completely undermined.

Maltha drained her tea, then put her cup on her saucer upside-down.  “Thank you for your hospitality.”  Then, she stood and eyed the two of them up.

She was judging whether or not she could kill them both, here, over the table.  It was obvious to everyone present.

Then, her face took on a weary expression, and she sighed.  “I think you two can rest yourselves of any worries of a second strike on Heaven.  I think Mykas has had quite enough violence for several lifetimes, and I have no interest in carrying on this fight by myself.  As long as you see to it things remain peaceable on your end, I will do the same from Hell.  But I make no promises regarding the information you have disclosed to me here.”

“The information…?” said Metatron, sounding like they knew they had made one more mistake in their long line of mistakes.

“Aziraphale, Crowley,” said Maltha, pushing her chair in.  “I think we’re done here.  Let’s go.”

“Maltha,” said Metatron, standing.  “You won’t tell anyone.  We have to keep up the appearance that God is still here and directing things, or else everything will dissolve into the kind of chaos that governs Earth.  You can’t.”

Maltha turned back to look at them.  “Welcome to free will, Metatron.”

Aziraphale and Crowley joined her in replacing their heavy jackets.

“Maltha!” said Uriel, hobbling to a standing position.  “Maltha!”

“We’ll probably be seeing each other again,” said Maltha.  “It would be a lie to say I look forward to it, but I’ve got to get back to Hell for now.  Thanks to you, I have a backlog of lost cuddling time with my girlfriend to make up for, and I fully intend to make use of it.”

She wrapped a scarf around her face before stepping out into the blizzard, Crowley and Aziraphale hugging tightly to either side.

“Maltha!” said Uriel, pounding the table.  “Maltha!”

But her words were lost in the chaos of the blizzard, and the three figures disappeared into it without another backwards glance.

[biofunmy]

Why Won’t Anyone Buy the Most Famous Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas?

LAS VEGAS — On Las Vegas Boulevard, nestled between a motel and tattoo parlor, sits what may be the most famous marriage site in the world: A Little White Wedding Chapel.

Charolette Richards, the chapel’s owner and an originator of the 10-minute wedding ceremony, said she has had her hand in more than 50,000 weddings — in the drive-through window alone — since 1991. The weddings of Frank Sinatra, Judy Collins, Bruce Willis, Michael Jordan and Britney Spears rank among her more notable ceremonies.

She is 86, and, after almost seven decades as the queen of the Las Vegas wedding chapel business, Ms. Richards has put her world-famous site up for sale. Her asking price is $12 million. “I’m retiring soon,” she said, with an expression equal parts saddened and relieved.

The chapel, though, has been on the market since April. And the Las Vegas wedding industry is not the business it used to be. Despite the fact that Las Vegas wedding tourism generated an impressive estimate of $2.5 billion in economic activity last year, according to Lynn Goya, the clerk of Clark County, Nev., that number is at least a billion dollars down from the revenue generated at the industry’s height.

“We’re at about half of what we were at our peak,” Ms. Goya said. “We can’t afford to take our No. 1 status for granted.”

Ms. Goya rounds up the numbers when discussing the toll on Las Vegas’s wedding tourism industry at large, which employs more than 10,000 people. There were 74,534 marriages performed in Clark County in 2018, down 42 percent from the record in 2004: 128,238 marriages.

The sale of Las Vegas’s most iconic chapel, that pinnacle of shameless kitsch and Amour Americana, accompanied by fewer people marrying in Las Vegas, presents an obvious question: Can an industry whose hook is being stuck in the past flourish in the future?

Let’s Get Married (Again)

All you need to get married at the chapel, or anywhere in Las Vegas, is $77, a photo ID and be 18 years old. Great Depression-era legislation allowed for hasty lovers to bypass the usual blood tests and waiting periods and get married within a matter of hours.

For 68 years, 365 days a year, Ms. Richards has been the gatekeeper of an industry built on easing elopement. In fact, it was her entrepreneurial ingenuity that led to the creation of the famed one-stop-shop business model, which became the standard on the Strip.

But it’s no secret that marriage rates in the United States have dwindled significantly in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, and that shifting social values coupled with the burdens of student debt have made tying the knot for millennials unfeasible or unappealing, and sometimes both.

“I don’t know what the longevity of the wedding industry is,” said Ron Decar, 61, the owner of the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel, a three-minute walk down the boulevard. Although he was wearing his full Elvis get-up, complete with a bedazzled jumpsuit and black pompadour, his tone was gravely serious.

“March was the 20th anniversary of our being in business here in this location, doing the exact same thing we did 20 years ago,” Mr. Decar said. The chapel’s numbers and revenue, he said, have been decreasing each year for more than a decade.

At Viva Las Vegas, bells chime as you enter. A smiling face will soon inquire about your theme preference. Egyptian? Hawaiian? Harley? Camelot? Intergalactic?

Peek in on an average day and you are likely to witness Mr. Decar emerge from a vertical coffin to officiate a ceremony in a chapel flooded with fog and tombstones. Gothic is one of the most popular themes.

“How many chapels do you know that fly vampires from the ceiling?” he asked triumphantly. Viva Las Vegas performs 2,500 to 25,000 weddings a year, depending on the year, and Mr. Decar has performed half of those as Elvis, James Bond, the Grim Reaper, the Godfather “or whatever else the customer wants,” he said.

His 40,000-square-foot building is the largest free-standing chapel on the Strip. The flamboyant site, once a hotel, has been converted into a wedding complex, complete with a wig-filled costume shop, a 1950s diner for doo-wop ceremonies, and a prop room filled with artificial flowers and all the spray paints used to color them.

Viva Las Vegas is capitalizing on the current saving grace of the industry: vow-renewal ceremonies, which make up half its business.

The tourism industry markets renewal ceremonies aggressively, as yet another fun Vegas activity, and they are proving to be a sustainable way to maintain numbers at the wedding chapels. If millennials aren’t getting married, the reasoning goes, why not convince Gen Xers and their elders to simply wed again?

“People want to do something fun the second time around,” Mr. Decar said. “You know, people worry what their mom will think, but when you’re renewing, the pressure’s off. It’s all about fun.”

Jamie Richards, 58, who is an owner of Viva Las Vegas (and who is not related to Charolette Richards), said that younger and smaller venues — like the Little Neon Chapel, where wedding prices start at $49 — pose an additional threat to their own survival.

“New chapels downtown are really cutting prices and making it difficult for the established chapels,” Mr. Richards said. “A lot goes into maintaining brick and mortar, compared to, say, a cubicle.”

The ease of becoming an officiant through online sites has lowered the barrier of entry for those able to perform ceremonies. Mobile officiants, unburdened with the high costs of venue maintenance, can offer more competitive prices, pulling crowds from the classics on the Strip.

The Old Bricks and Mortar and Ball and Chain

Back at a Little White chapel, Charolette Richards inched her way across her expansive property, pointing to the many facets of her chapel: a flower shop (once, she said, the biggest flower shop in Las Vegas), a tux and gown rental department, a limousine fleet and multiple marriage sites in addition to the main altar.

Employees buzz around the grounds, juggling a constantly ringing phone with a stream of walk-ins, and solving problems as they arise — the flowers are wrong, the dresses don’t fit, the limo driver’s car broke down.

Unaffected by the chaos, Ms. Richards draws attention to her favorite touches: a mural that depicts frogs kissing, corkscrew-shaped topiaries and a plastic life-size, horse-drawn carriage. “Everything I love is love,” she said.

Her waiting room is filled with a diverse array of couples. A pair in cowboy hats sits beside a man with one leg and his wife-to-be. Across from them stands a same-sex couple next to a pair speaking Mandarin.

Ms. Richards makes her grand entrance and begins distributing her complimentary “Recipe for a Happy Marriage,” which includes “2 heaping cups of kindness,” “4 armfuls of gentleness” and “1 lifetime of togetherness.”

The tour ends at a glowing sign commemorating Blackjack Day, July 7, 2007 — that’s 7/7/07, a record-breaking day in which a Little White Chapel performed 547 wedding ceremonies.

Ms. Richards pointed to it with elation, and then sat beside her assistant, who rattled off a number of challenges to address: the sudden death of a bride, a renewal ceremony for six couples at once, the hazards of putting pearl pins in bouquets. Ms. Richards paused business matters to explain that Joe Jonas and Sophie Turner were married in this building several weeks earlier.

The Other Graceland

Dee Dee Duffy, 55, is the owner of Graceland Wedding Chapel, a two-minute drive down the road. She assured a visitor: “We do not do zombie weddings here.”

Rod Musum, 52, the chapel’s vice president, said his chapel is the originator of the Elvis-themed wedding. “We have one of the more quaint, picturesque chapels on the strip,” he said. “We know what our niche is and what we’re good at.”

Their chapel is marked by blue and white gates, exact replicas of the ones outside Graceland. They too are navigating through a lull in the business, but their numbers remain steady.

The bread and butter of the company is a seven-minute Elvis-themed ceremony, which may seem dated. But Ms. Duffy and Mr. Musum attribute their survival of the wedding drought to a personalized approach.

“We never treat couples like numbers,” Ms. Duffy said.

Witness a wedding or 10 there on any given day and you may be surprised to the point of tears by the sincerity of the quickie ceremonies, even in this most saccharine environment.

The Graceland team said that overcoming the quickie stereotype is their greatest challenge. Industry professionals agree that widening global perceptions of Vegas weddings will prove essential in the quest to capture younger markets.

Ms. Duffy and Mr. Musum would like you to know that their weddings are sincere, and that impulsivity contributes to only a fraction of the business.

“Every single day, someone walks in and asks if ‘The Hangover’ was filmed here,” Mr. Musum said. “It’s just not realistic. The business isn’t 24 hours anymore. The graveyard shift ended in 2006, so we rarely get people stumbling in intoxicated, asking to get married.”

“Frankly, it’s illegal to issue a license or marry someone if they’re drunk, otherwise it would be void in a court of law,” said Ms. Goya, the county clerk. “It’s our job to ensure both parties are capable of signing what will likely be the most important legal contract of their lifetime.”

Daniel Vallance, 44, is the director of operations at the Little Church of the West. “We’re a venue that has bookings into 2023,” he said.

The humble structure, modeled after a 19th-century church in an old mining town, was built in 1942 and is thought to be the oldest standing structure on the Strip. The floorboards creaked beneath Mr. Vallance’s feet as he explained the elements of the steady growth of his business, an enviable anomaly in a difficult time.

“People getting married are in their 30s now, which means they have more financial leeway,” Mr. Vallance said. “They don’t want to spend 50 bucks to get married by a fat drunk Elvis. They want something more elegant, and that’s the approach we take and have taken for 76 years.”

Tucked behind vintage candelabras in Little Church of the West are hidden cameras for live-streaming, the mark of a business that has managed to preserve its traditional appeal while adapting to modern demands.

Aside from incorporating cutting-edge technology (Mr. Vallance said he is already looking into virtual reality), the Little Church of the West has made strides to better cater to international couples. The simple act of making its website available in different languages has helped a lot.

“You want to know what the future of the wedding business is?” Mr. Vallance said. “Listen to the brides and be receptive to what they want.”

Venues like the Chapel of the Flowers, the Thunderbird and Paradise Chapel are undergoing major aesthetic renovations. They face the challenge of conveying modernity while maintaining the vintage Vegas feel.

“We want people to know that we’re changing with the times and responding to the new customer,” Ms. Goya said. “The industry is now working together instead of against each other, because we have an opportunity to redefine a global brand.”

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