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not-a-space-alien · 8 years ago

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Falling Hazard, Part 11: Feast (Reprise)

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“Lord Maltha wishes your presence now.”

Whatever Maltha had done had worked; Crowley’s arm was completely better by the time Mammon summoned them down to dinner as promised. He was glad to leave the clinic behind once again.

They ran into no trouble on the way down this time. Mammon led them back into the ninth circle, through the antechamber, and into one of the entrances to the right of the throne room.

They emerged into an exquisite banquet hall, with a soaring vaulted ceiling, carved pillars, and an enormous, ornate wooden table with dozens of seats. Maltha was at the far end, seated at the head of the table. Noah was in the seat next to her; he looked to be sitting on a stack of phone books.

“Thank you for joining us,” said Maltha. “Please sit.”

The heavy chairs scraped on the stone floor as Aziraphale and Crowley took the seats closest to her. Mammon circled around to stand behind Maltha. Angelo remained standing, looking around unsurely.

“Please sit, Angelo. You are my guest as well.”

He did so.

“Maltha,” said Aziraphale. “Thank you very much for healing Crowley.”

“I take it you are doing better?” said Maltha.

“Yes,” said Crowley. “Thank you.”

They occupied only a small portion of the table. It was almost comical, to have only five people at a banquet in accommodations clearly made for much larger capacity. The huge room seemed inordinately quiet and hollow with just them, and so far the table only held empty platters and unused silverware.

“Um,” said Aziraphale, “will anyone else be joining us?”

“Perhaps eventually,” she answered vaguely.

Crowley looked around, gesturing to the table. “You aren’t going to invite any of your court?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Maltha mildly.

They sat there in the spooky semidarkness for a few moments, light from the burning torches casting strange, angular shadows across the room.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Maltha, now that we’re here, we’d like to talk to you about some things. You haven’t answered us very well in your correspondences by mail.”

Maltha held up one finger. The door behind her creaked open amidst a clatter of dishes. “It’s impolite to talk business during dinner.”

And so it went. A team of demons laden with trays of gourmet food appeared, dishing it out, serving wine, talking in hushed voices. When everything was laid out, they stood at attention at the wall.

Maltha took a fork and a knife in each hand, beginning the meal with the roast of some unknown animal in the center. “So, Aziraphale, Crowley, I heard you went on vacation recently. Tell me about it.”

They were forced to make small talk as though nothing were out of the ordinary. They told her about the trip they had taken around Europe and the Middle East. She did not seem fazed in the slightest when they told her they had witnessed the destruction of Temple Mount, and continued to chew while nodding as though hearing a good bit of gossip.

Maltha seemed genuinely interested in their story—not a big surprise given wandering had been her activity of choice upon first coming to love the Earth—and Noah seemed positively enthralled. Crowley thought maybe Noah had grown a bit bored down here, with Maltha doing all the work to keep him safe and things running smoothly.

“Maltha?” said Aziraphale. “May I ask where Beth is?”

This, and only this, was enough to make Maltha pause in the entire meal. She put her utensils down. “She is…unavailable.”

“Maltha,” Crowley reiterated. “Where is Beth?”

“Maltha, we’re friends,” said Aziraphale. “Please tell us what’s going on. It’s rather uncharitable of you to keep us in the dark.”

Maltha tapped her spoon on her dish. “I just wanted…just once to have a meal with you two again. To maybe have another feast like that one we all had together. The moment I got word that Satan had died and events were in motion, I knew I had missed the opportunity to spend time with you as equals on Earth like I wanted to. I thought we could have a nice meal without the stress of the impending apocalypse, or Heaven or Hell. Just us. But I can see you’re impatient. So let’s move on, then.”

She snapped at the wait staff, who busied themselves with removing their half-eaten meals immediately. The table was clear in under a minute, leaving only a wine glass at Maltha’s direction.

Maltha pulled Noah’s chair out for him and said, “Noah, why don’t you run off to bed a bit early today?”

“Aww,” said Noah. “But you’re going to talk about something really important.”

“And you’ll be filled in on the details later,” said Maltha, hauling him up so she could plant a kiss on his forehead. “Why don’t you see if the chef will give you a biscuit before you head out, hm?”

She set Noah down, and he scampered off. Maltha motioned to one of the attendants nearby. “See to it he gets to bed, will you?”

The servant disappeared after Noah, and the door boomed shut. A few servants hung back by the wall, rushing to finish the cleanup.

Maltha downed the rest of the wine in her glass, then set the empty goblet on the table. She focused on Aziraphale and Crowley, as though about to say something very important. “I’m going to be honest with you two, I have no idea how to raise a child. I have found myself filling many roles in my life. Healer. Warrior. Leader. And now I find myself in one few demons ever do: Parent.”

“Maltha,” said Angelo, who had barely made a peep throughout the meal. “If you are going to say something very private, would you like me to leave?”

“No,” said Maltha. “I think you deserve to hear this, too, Angelo. Please stay here.”

Angelo looked uncomfortable, as though he were sitting in a building he was not entirely sure was not on fire.

“When I agreed to take Noah down, I confess I didn’t think about the responsibility it would be to not only help him rule, but to raise him as well. The truth is that Beth was doing most of the heavy lifting raising Noah while I kept Hell in line. Noah is somewhere between demon, human, and angel, and I knew in my heart I would do an insufficient job alone, because I could not raise him to truly understand how to be human the way Adam is, which has been key to his success. If he were simply a demon like the rest of us, if he belonged solely to Hell, well…”

“We’d just have another Satan,” said Crowley.

Maltha nodded. “I want Noah to grow up to be different. I want Noah to grow up and be a merciful ruler, unlike his father. Which is why I do not want him to know what is going to happen tonight. I want to create a world in which he will not have to be as ruthless as I am.”

That did not bode well, Aziraphale thought. Not at all.

“Beth had a terrible, burdensome past she kept hidden. She used to have a child. It was a bit younger than Noah when it died, along with Beth’s previous partner.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“Beth’s life has been filled more pain than even I can imagine. And yet she always kept going. Nothing seemed to slow her down. Nothing destroyed her will to keep going, nothing overcame her resilience. But not even a human like her could fight against Heaven.”

“Heaven has done something?” said Aziraphale.

“They saw fit to stamp out such a spirit,” snarled Maltha. Then, with a wave of her hand: “So if you want to know where she is so badly, why don’t you ask your archangel friends?”

A piece of celestial parchment with Gabriel’s seal on it materialised onto the table in front of Aziraphale. He unrolled it to see that it read:

To the archdemon Maltha,

Yes, I’ve taken her. She is the deepest part of Heaven. You will have to destroy creation itself to get her back. Come at us with everything you’ve got.

-The Archangel Gabriel

“Wh-what?” said Aziraphale. “What is this?”

“The last time I saw Beth, she had gone out for a walk in the eighth circle with an escort of warriors. A few hours later, we found the bodies of her escort destroyed, and Beth was nowhere to be found. The next day, I received this letter from Gabriel.”

Aziraphale turned the letter over and over. The seal seemed real. It was Gabriel’s handwriting. “But Heaven can’t harm humans!” said Aziraphale. “It couldn’t have been Gabriel. Azrael is the only angel allowed to take humans into Heaven. Gabriel wouldn’t do that.”

“Let’s see just how far that obstinacy of yours will you carry you through the evening, Aziraphale,” said Maltha testily. ��Apparently the story is that someone, somewhere prayed a prayer of mercy over Beth, and someone in Heaven found that enough pretence for a ‘rescue’ from ‘punishment’ in Hell, despite the fact that she was in Hell willingly.”

Aziraphale’s blood turned to ice. A prayer of mercy. It couldn’t have been the one he had prayed over their feast in his shop after destroying Agares.

…could it?

“I have never seen such a blatant attempt to antagonise me,” said Maltha. “Gabriel did this because he assumed I would become so enraged that I would start the war with Heaven. Those fools were so desperate to start the war that they struck right below the belt at me—the one in control of the antichrist, the only one in any position to conceivably start the war, even though it was an unconscionable violation of Heaven’s rules for treatment of humans.”

Something in the room trilled, and a small sphinx leapt up onto the table, ears flicking, roving around for leftovers.

“And there’s Toby,” said Maltha. “Hello, Toby.”

The sphinx tucked its paws under its body and loafed around on the table.

Maltha continued, “Heaven could not have done this on their own, though. Michael is the only angel who could lead an expedition that deep into Hell. Someone in Hell betrayed me and brought Beth up to where a party from Heaven could reach her.”

“Lord Maltha,” Mammon interjected. “On that topic, it might be a good time to bring in the rebel that I captured earlier.”

“Oh, good,” said Maltha. “You found their hideout like I asked earlier?”

“Yes.”

“And who did you capture?”

“One of the leaders.”

“Okay, bring them in, please.”

Mammon turned and lumbered off. Maltha closed her eyes and crossed her fingers. “Please be Jezebel please be Jezebel please be Jezebel please be anyone but—”

Duke Hastur’s voice could be heard echoing down the hall, angrily demanding release. Maltha groaned softly.

“Not him,” moaned Crowley. “Why is it always him, in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Mammon reappeared with her unhappy charge. His thrashing and cursing startled Toby, who skittered to the edge of the table to seek safety by Maltha. Maltha stroked the sphinx’s flank as Hastur was forced to his knees.

“Duke Hastur,” said Maltha, “welcome.”

Hastur managed to spit into her face.

An electrified, deadly silence fell over the room. The imps were all frozen as though Hastur had just activated a bomb.

Maltha paused for a moment before wiping her cheek with her hand. “I think I shall need more wine to deal with this.”

Three different servants rushed over to fill her glass.

“You would desecrate our master’s banquet hall by inviting traitors and angels into it!” Hastur shouted. “You are no queen of mine.”

Maltha had been occupied with taking great gulps of wine as he spoke, and she did not stop until she reached the bottom of her glass. She set it back down, where it was refilled instantly. She looked at Hastur, mentally turning him over and over in her head, as though he were an interesting insect.

“Duke Hastur,” she said, a toothy smile spreading across her face. “Do you remember the last time we spoke directly? Back before I took the throne?”

Hastur’s sneer did not disappear.

“Wasn’t it in Crowley’s flat?” Maltha snapped her fingers. “That was it. Crowley was asleep.”

“When was Hastur in my flat while I was asleep?” Crowley broke in, alarmed.

“And do you remember what I told you? Wasn’t it that if you bothered Aziraphale or Crowley again, you’d regret it?”

Hastur’s scowl deepened.

“And didn’t you carry Crowley down to Hell for torture with your own hands?”

“He deserved it,” spat Hastur. “He deserved it and more, and so do you.”

“Duke Hastur was among the group that tried to threaten your guests on the way down,” said Mammon.

“I suppose I should have guessed it would be you,” said Maltha. “Okay, Hastur. I have an ultimatum for you. I want you to apologise to Crowley.”

“Apologise?” said Duke Hastur incredulously. “As though we’re human children?”

Maltha downed the rest of her wine. “Very well, Hastur, I wanted to give you the chance to make amends because Crowley will be deciding your punishment, but if you’d rather be belligerent it makes no difference to me.”

Hastur’s gaze burned into Crowley angrily. The lesser demon slunk into his seat. “Wh-what, me?”

“I thought it would be fair, considering everything Hastur has done out of hatred for you.”

Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it again. He shook his head.

“He won’t do it,” Hastur laughed. “Because he’s a little bitch.”

“Hastur,” said Maltha in a cautionary tone.

“He’s Heaven’s little bitch who’s not good at anything but taking an angel’s cock and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone fucks him over again. When you’re expelled from Hell I’m sure whoever takes the throne next will use him as a little fuck toy, and he’ll probably like it.”

Crowley grew redder and redder. Aziraphale sputtered indignantly, but could find nothing to say. Maltha slammed her empty wine glass on the table.

“Hastur,” she said. “How…exactly…can I impress upon you the danger you’re in right now? My patience with you is running thin.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your patience. You’re weak. You stupid whore, you don’t even know how to interrogate prisoners properly.”

Maltha leaned back in her seat and threw her hand out over the armrest. Her staff materialised and dropped into her palm, and she tapped it on the floor. “It’s very unlucky for you that Crowley could not be convinced to pass judgement on you, because that means it falls to me, and you could probably guess which of the two of us is more forgiving. If you think my biggest flaw is that I’m too merciful, I can think of one excellent opportunity to start remedying that, and its name is Duke Hastur.”

The tip of her staff began to glow, black smoke wisping off it. Hastur fell silent.

“Suddenly he does not have such a foul mouth. Maybe if you’re done spouting off insults and slurs we can have an actual conversation. Now, you and Jezebel have been putting in all this effort to try and remove me and Noah from Hell’s throne. I want to ask you why. Please tell me, Hastur, what exactly do you not like about me? What’s wrong with how I’m running Hell?”

Hastur glared at her from the floor, hands tugging at his bonds. “You’ve gotten rid of all the torture.”

“And?”

“And that’s supposed to be the point of Hell! What’s the point if there’s no torture?”

“I got rid of the torture at Noah’s explicit direction. It distressed him very much. And you know, I find it very interesting that out of all the changes I’ve made, the one about torture has drawn the most dissatisfaction. But only from the higher-ups. The imps and lesser demons all seem to like it very much.”

“The imps haven’t lost any limbs in a while,” Hastur scoffed. “What kind of demon lord doesn’t even torture their underlings? Satan wouldn’t have been so easy on them.”

“I find it noteworthy that the imps in the ninth layer have actually made efforts to alert me to threats to my safety, which is something I understand they never did for Satan.”

Hastur cast his stormy glare on the imps lurking at the periphery of the room, and they scuttled out of sight.

Maltha tapped her staff. “Okay, so you don’t like the lack of torture.”

“Lots of demon don’t.”

“I never said they did. What else is there, Hastur? What have I done to displease you so much?”

Hastur sulkily searched around for a moment. “You lock your enemies in the dungeon until you think you can trust them instead of torturing them. You’ve got most of the other archdemons locked up, including Beelzebub. And now you’ve got me tied up like some imp.”

Maltha put her head on a fist. “Honestly, Hastur, you’re obsessed with the fact that I don’t torture people, and then you complain that I’m mistreating my prisoners.”

“Well, it’s different when it’s the higher-ups! It’s one thing to lock up some imp, but quite another to hold a prince of Hell captive!”

“You seem absolutely obsessed with the treatment of imps, Hastur. Has it never occurred to you that imps have just as much individual character as you do?”

“What are you on about?” said Hastur. “No imp has ever done anything important!”

Toby hissed.

“An imp killed the archdemon Agares,” said Maltha, half-amused.

Hastur’s face contorted into anger. “That doesn’t count!”

“Of course it doesn’t. How silly of me.”

“This is what I’m talking about!” shouted Hastur. “It has to be that human woman! She’s got your thinking all strange-like! You didn’t used to go on about nonsense like imps being people!”

“I have learned,” said Maltha. “It’s something you could stand to do every once in a while, Hastur. All right, let’s try this a different way. You were loyal to Satan, correct?”

“Yes,” said Hastur. “None of you can say the same. Our Lord Satan—”

“A simple yes would have sufficed,” said Maltha with a wave of her hand. “Now, the son of Satan is the next logical ruler, correct?”

“Yes, not you!”

“If we think very, very hard, we might be able to think of a reason why Satan’s twelve-year-old son with no experience in Hell at all would need someone to help him.”

“You’re not helping him!” said Hastur. “You’re manipulating him! By now he should be bathing in the blood of his enemies!”

“All the changes I’ve made to Hell have been explicitly at Noah’s direction,” said Maltha. “This is his doing.”

“Never!” said Hastur. “Not my master’s son! Anyone of Satan’s blood is noble and fearsome and—”

“Maltha,” interjected Mammon, who seemed to have made a command decision that the present conversation was going nowhere. “I brought Duke Hastur out because when I captured him, I learned something about what happened to Beth.”

Maltha’s feathers flared out and her pupils contracted.

Hastur’s expression took on a noticeable change, and he said, with mounting unease, “Untrue. I had nothing to do with the fate of that lowly human.”

Toby hissed. Maltha’s claws slowly raked the wooden table.

“Isn’t it interesting,” said Maltha, “that someone who would willingly become of the consort of an archdemon would be deemed a pure and good enough soul to be granted entry to the Heavenly Kingdom?”

“Isn’t that what all humans want?” said Hastur. “To go to Heaven?”

“Which would require someone in Hell to bring her up high enough so that Heaven’s agents could reach her. It’s almost like somebody pulled some strings to move her about on purpose. To anger me.”

“Well, I wish I had thought of it, but it wasn’t me.”

Toby flattened his ears and hissed.

“It was you!” Maltha thundered. “You sold me out to Heaven!”

“You needed to be taught a lesson!” Hastur raged. “The ruler of Hell can’t be soft and preoccupied with things like love! You’d let Heaven trample all over us! You’re weak! Soft!”

Maltha’s face contorted into the most frightening expression of anger anyone in the room had ever seen. “Soft? Soft? You don’t get to call me that like it’s an insult after what you did to Beth.”

Maltha stood. The fear on Hastur’s face indicated he knew he had finally crossed a line past which he could not return.

“You despicable, vile creature.” Maltha’s staff threw off tongues of black flame as she crossed the room. “You irredeemable, absolute piece of garbage. You’re lower than any imp.”

“L-lord Maltha,” said Hastur as Maltha reached him and put her staff on his shoulder. “I beg you to be merciful.”

“Sorry, but I can’t give you any mercy, because that would make me soft.”

Maltha wound up and swung her staff like a baseball bat, hitting Hastur’s head with an audible crack. The force was so great that Hastur’s head detached from his body, flapping over and thunking onto the ground with enough momentum that his body sprawled out several feet away.

Maltha stood there over his body, shaking with anger, breaths like growls.

Aziraphale, Crowley, and Angelo looked at each other, eyes wide.

Maltha took a moment to compose herself, her face returning to a blank mask. Her staff disappeared with a wave of her hand, and she snapped at an imp against the wall. “Dispose of this.”

They fearfully acknowledged her order and dragged Hastur’s body and head out of the room. Maltha strolled back to her seat, hiding her face in one hand.

“Are you all right?” said Crowley.

“I guess that answers that question,” Maltha laughed. “I was wondering how Gabriel got ahold of her.”

A cigar materialised onto the table, and Maltha took it and lit it up. Nobody dared tell her Hell was a no-smoking zone.

Smoke trailed from the cigar as Maltha took a drag, as though trying to calm herself.

“Now, then,” she finally said. “Duke Hastur is dead, and we can move on to more important things.” She gestured to the parchment still laid out on the table. “I received that letter from Gabriel the day before the Temple was destroyed. I wrote him back and told him no war that destroys Creation would proceed under my command, even if remaining peaceful was at great personal expense to me. I told him I would not destroy the Earth. Ever.” She took another drag of the cigar and exhaled a lungful of smoke. “The next day the Temple fell and—surprise!—the war was on anyway, without my consent.”

An imp came up and whispered something into her ear.

“Oh, yes, good,” said Maltha. “Go get that special drink from the kitchen, would you?”

The servant scampered off. Maltha returned her attention to the table, stubbing her cigar out with a sigh, as though she had not gotten to enjoy it enough.

“You were going to let Heaven just get away with what they did?” said Crowley.

“Sitting around doing nothing during all this chaos doesn’t seem very you,” said Aziraphale.

The servant returned with a jug and began to pour something into Maltha’s goblet. The liquid was dusty white, and it seemed to glow faintly.

“Thank you, Yulera,” said Maltha.

The servant retreated to the wall, still holding the jug and watching the conversation with interest.

Maltha examined her goblet, then picked a feather off the rim. “Oh, I’m not doing nothing,” she said. “I have, in fact, formed a pact with a group that has promised to help me get Beth back. Apparently, Beth was taken into Heaven without actually dying. Which means she is not technically dead, and still has a corporeal form that can be removed from Heaven with her consent.”

She lifted the goblet and took a sip. An expression of intense disgust overcame her features, but instead of setting it back on the table, she turned the cup bottoms-up and gulped it down.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” said Crowley.

“This is the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted,” said Maltha. “How much of this do I have to drink?”

“I was told the whole jug, lord,” said the imp.

She scowled and held her cup out for a refill. They watched in confusion as she audibly gagged, but forced herself to keep drinking.

“But back to the pact,” Aziraphale prompted. “With whom was it, exactly?”

Maltha tipped her glass to get the dregs at the bottom. When she removed the goblet, there was a corner of a feather sticking out of her snaggle-toothed grin. “A faction from within Heaven itself.”

“What is she doing?”

Abraxas idly played with her sword and answered, “She was having dinner with Aziraphale and Crowley and that other angel, what’s-his-face, wasn’t she?”

“She knows we’re all out here waiting, right?” said Paula. “That we’re on a bit of a timetable here?”

“I think she’s telling them what’s going on,” said Abraxas. “It’d be important for Angelo to know, at the very least. It’s a good thing he’s here. It’ll make things go a lot easier when Michael comes down.”

“Yeah, if Michael doesn’t try to kill the poor guy again,” said Paula. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the crack in the door to see into the dining hall. “They’re all still in there. Is she trying to recruit Aziraphale? I thought she had given up on that idea. And it’s a bit late now, innit?”

“Crowley might want to go.”

“Crowley just got his arm melted off in Heaven. I don’t think he’ll be eager to go back there without a very strong motivation.”

A servant approached the pair with a crystal goblet and tried to hand it to Abraxas. “Hm?” said Abraxas. “What’s this?”

“It’s the...” the servant said, struggling to find the right words.

Abraxas turned to him fully now. “Oh! It’s that? It’s the liquid version of the angel dust spell?”

The servant nodded. Abraxas took the goblet from him. “Great!” She held it up to the light, the liquid glowing faintly with bits specks of light. “Ooooh, neat.”

She raised the goblet to her lips. An expression of intense disgust overcame her features. “Ew,” she said. “This tastes like I’m eating hair. How much do I have to drink?”

“I was told to make sure you drink the entire glass,” the servant said.

Abraxas grimaced, then continued trying to choke down the distasteful concoction.

“Geez,” said Paula. “If a little guy like you has to drink a whole glass, how much does Maltha have to drink?”

They eventually lost track of how many glasses of that hated drink Maltha consumed. She was pounding down whatever was in that jug with as much as vigor as she normally took alcohol, except every sip was accompanied by a heave and a gag. It obviously took a great deal of willpower to force it down her throat, and yet she kept going as though her life depended on it.

“You’re saying a group from Heaven has allied with you?” Aziraphale pressed.

Maltha put her hand on her mouth, closing her eyes. She swallowed. “Yulera, how much is left?”

“We have two more jars in the kitchen.”

“How much is left that I have to drink?”

The servant peered into the jug. “Looks to be about two glasses, lord.”

“Excellent,” she huffed.

“Maltha,” said Aziraphale. “Focus. Please. There’s a group in Heaven that’s broken away?”

“And quite a large one, too,” said Maltha.

“And they allied with a demon? What you are saying basically amounts to a second rebellion, Maltha. That many angels helping you go against Heaven.”

Maltha peered at him from over her goblet.

“Maltha?”

“Let me ask you a question,” said Maltha. She took another sip. “That day that Crowley’s field agent counterparts all showed up in your shop and pledged loyalty to you—did it never occur to you that your angelic neighbours might have done something similar if given the opportunity?”

Aziraphale stared at her.

“When Victoria raged about how unfair Michael’s fate was, when she cried because she was so scared for him—did you think she was the only one? When Kyleth warned you to stay away from Gabriel because she considered him dangerous—did you think others did not see that? When Olivia said she was so fed up with Heaven’s bullshite she would be willing to openly disobey—did you think you were the only angel capable of actually doing so?”

“The pact you made with them,” said Crowley. “Their end of the bargain would be to help you get Beth out of Heaven. And your end of the bargain would be—”

“To help them rebel!” Maltha crowed, throwing her hands up in the air giddily. “A good old-fashioned rebellion, a coup, the likes of which Creation has not seen since good old Lucifer himself rose up and decided he should be in charge instead.”

Aziraphale slammed his hands on the table stormily. “Are you mad? That’ll never work. Have you forgotten how the last rebellion ended? It resulted in the creation of an entire race of wretched fallen angels and Hell! Imagine what is going to happen this time!”

A giggle vibrated in Maltha’s throat. “What’s going to happen this time is we’re going to win, Aziraphale. Because the last time, who was the one to overpower the leader of the rebel angels and cast them into Hell?”

“M-Michael…” said Angelo.

“Michael can still be deployed to defeat you,” said Aziraphale. “He hasn’t fallen yet. It’s not going to happen.”

Maltha pointed to Angelo, curling her finger, inviting him.

“He is going to fall,” warbled Angelo. “They sealed his sentence this morning.”

“What!” exclaimed Aziraphale.

“No way,” said Crowley. “No way. Raphael had such a flimsy case. You’re telling me that worked?”

“It was never about Raphael’s case,” said Maltha. “Raphael was only using that as a smokescreen to hide the fact that he had consulted with me.”

Aziraphale processed this for a moment. “Raphael…consulted with you?”

“Yes. I had the chance to diagnose Michael from our time together in your bookshop, Aziraphale.”

“..Diagnose? Is he sick?”

“…Honestly, Aziraphale.” Maltha distastefully drank more from her goblet. “Yes. His aura was a broken, jagged mess. His connection to Heaven and the pull to his duty is destroying him. Did you think he was right as rain as he was driven mad by hunger to kill in your bookshop?”

“Well, n-no, not really,” said Aziraphale. “It obviously caused him a great deal of distress, but that’s just who he is.”

Maltha sipped again. “Yes. It is, in fact, who he is. Michael was designed from the very beginning to be the Sword of Heaven. He was designed for it, and part of that role was his crucial part to play in the apocalypse. And when it kept getting pushed back and pushed back, he began to deteriorate. He was never meant to survive the war. He was intended to be a bomb that would ignite to destroy Hell.”

Aziraphale stood. “That’s not true. I refuse to believe that.”

Maltha took Toby’s shoulders and stood him up, using his little paw to wave at Aziraphale. He let out a faint mrrow, but did not hiss.

Disgruntled, Aziraphale reseated himself, disquiet growing.

“Raphael shared this information with me when he came down,” said Maltha. “Together, the two of us were able to work out a diagnosis. The only two options for Michael seemed to be either to become a mindless killing machine and be consumed by the war, or decay in peacetime and fade away. But we laid plans for a third option.”

“Falling,” said Crowley.

Maltha held her goblet out for a refill, then continued to drink. When she set her glass down, she said, “Do you know what actually happens when an angel falls?”

“You’re removed from the Book of Life,” said Crowley quietly. “And permanently cast out from Heaven.”

“Your old identity is erased,” said Maltha. “You are reborn. Without the baggage of whatever your angelic role was in Heaven. You become divorced from your intended purpose. When Michael is cast out of Heaven, his fate will be re-written. He does not have to participate in the apocalypse. He can continue living, and be freed from his bloodlust. He will become someone entirely new, someone who is not bound to Heaven and what was making him sick and warping him.”

“And conveniently be put under your command,” said Aziraphale darkly.

Maltha grinned. “Now imagine that. Maltha and the archangel Michael, against Heaven together. Isn’t that just such a pretty image you could paint a picture of it? You feared Michael, when he fell, would destroy the Earth, but his anger will be let loose back on Heaven, not on Earth.”

“Michael isn’t going to be so quick to turn on Heaven, even after he’s cast out,” said Aziraphale. “He values loyalty. He won’t listen to you.”

Maltha waved her hand on the table, and an enormous stack of papers appeared. “But he will,” she said, “because I will be giving him the opportunity to do something he has wanted to do for a very long time.”

They peered over at the papers, shuffling through them. They were all forms, partially filled out, all stamped with DENIED.

“What are these?”

“All 6,000 of Michael’s yearly requests for re-assignment on Earth.”

They both looked up at her in amazement. “The other archangels have kept it very well hidden exactly how much they abuse Michael,” she said. “They never let him out of Heaven. Every instance Michael has left has been against their wishes, and he has been punished for it every time. Even though they’re the same rank, should have the same power—Michael was never given any control, not even over himself. He would without fail try to protest that they’re the same rank, and the other archangels would find ways to manipulate him anyway, regardless of what he wants. I think Raphael is the only one who ever argued that he should be allowed to do missions on Earth like he wanted to. Michael is an attack dog, and they never hesitated to pull that leash when he got out of hand.”

Angelo suddenly stood, looking very red. “Who told you this? How did you find this out?”

Maltha looked the little angel over knowingly. “Some of Michael’s most loyal warriors are here with me. They know what is happening.”

“Vincent…” said Angelo.

Maltha nodded. “Vincent was the first warrior to break away, but others followed soon enough. As news began to spread that Gabriel was the one who had destroyed the Temple, the rebellion grew with it. The ranks of angels here with me in Hell ready to turn against Heaven include field agents, principalities and warriors who want to save the Earth, along with angels from among Michael’s ranks who were on board with Raphael’s plan to save him. Michael will be met by a company of his closest friends and allies as soon as he falls, arriving in Hell an honoured guest.”

It all made sense now. Raphael’s rabid insistence on Michael falling despite that Michael was the brother who Raphael loved the most. Raphael was prioritising Michael’s personal well-being over his function as a weapon. He could never admit that for fear of being thrown out himself as a traitor, because Heaven couldn’t afford to lose him if they were to win the war.

Which might explain why Gabriel was so desperate to start to the war that he would order angels to destroy the Temple. If Michael was dying, it was now or never. But instead of relenting and putting Michael back on the front lines, Raphael had dug his heels in and fought even harder to get Michael out of Heaven and away from the war that would kill him. Against the unified forces of Uriel, Gabriel, and Metatron, who were willing to sacrifice Michael.

Which would also explain why Victoria reversed positions so suddenly. She fought to defend Michael in both cases. All Raphael would have to do would be to take her aside and share that Michael would die unless he fell, knowing she would take his side but keep his motivation a secret. Learning that Michael would only survive if he fell would be enough to make Victoria do a one-eighty if she was also putting Michael’s well-being first.

Which, given her tearful visit over smashed teacups with Aziraphale, she definitely was.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale. “Fine. Michael is going to Fall, and it’ll save his life, and he’ll be on Hell’s side. That doesn’t—”

“Sides,” said Maltha. “You’re still thinking in terms of sides.” She slammed her hand on the table. “There are no sides anymore, Aziraphale. You can cling to the idea that Heaven is your side all you want, but if you look deep down inside yourself, I think you’ll realise you’ve been on your own side all along, working for your own self-interest, and everything else was just to dress it up to make yourself feel better. Good vs Evil. God’s will. Ineffability. None of it means anything to you, unless it’s convenient for it to do so.”

Her words cut him inside. He was angry. He gestured wildly. “Okay, fine! But what exactly are you going to do? The war is your only option for getting back at Heaven, and you’ve made it quite clear you don’t want to destroy Earth!”

And here Maltha’s face broke into a smile that showed a mouthful of canine teeth. “Why, we are going to go into Heaven using the angel dust spell and punish the archangels directly, of course.”

Aziraphale sat in stunned silence.

“They think themselves safe in their fortress. A demon, no matter how powerful, cannot conduct an assault on Heaven directly, and so would need to go through the Earth to get to them, through the war. Or so was their logic. And they wanted to watch me rampage from a safe distance, while others bore their suffering for them, as the natural order has always been. No more.”

“But the angel dust spell would never work for something like that!” said Aziraphale. “When Crowley used it, it rubbed off at the slightest provocation! You could never take part in combat with that on! This will never work! This is suicide, Maltha!”

Maltha listened with her eyes on the ceiling. “Aziraphale. Please give me some credit. We have been making modifications to the angel dust spell. You used the version Agares had—which would have never worked for her for her purposes. While Raphael worked in Heaven, we’ve been busy down here doing intensive testing with angel feathers. And we’ve made a new version of the spell.”

Maltha pushed her goblet towards them. Aziraphale and Crowley peered into it, to see…

Bits of feathery down floating in it.

“You’ve made an ingestible version,” said Crowley.

“Our experiments so far show this version takes about half an hour to kick in, but it provides the same protection,” said Maltha. “And the effects last a few hours.”

She took the goblet and drained it, then held it out for a refill.

“That’s all, lord,” said the servant.

“Thank somebody,” said Maltha. “Then I think we’re ready.”

“You can’t do this, Maltha,” said Aziraphale. “You can’t storm Heaven.”

“Aziraphale,” said Maltha, “I am only going to explain this to you one time. There are currently three threats to the Earth’s continued survival. And their names are—” She held up a finger. “Gabriel.” Another finger. “Uriel.” A third finger. “And Metatron.” She closed her fist. “Raphael has no strong opinions about the war. Victoria just wants Michael to be safe. And Azrael does not care about anything going on in Heaven. If we eliminate those three, the Earth will be safe—forever. No war, ever. And you find yourself suddenly morally opposed to the idea of eliminating those who would do the Earth harm—why? Because you did not think of it yourself?”

“You think you can just walk into Heaven and destroy half its archangels?”

“What exactly is stopping us?”

“Heaven needs those three to function. If you kill them, it will throw Heaven into the kind of chaos Hell is in. That Earth is in.”

“Then so be it,” said Maltha.

“So be it?” said Aziraphale. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Let her do it.”

Aziraphale turned to look at who had spoken. It was Crowley.

“You!” said Aziraphale, aghast. “I-I-! Let her do it?”

Crowley’s gaze fell to the table, away from him.

Aziraphale, enraged, looked from Crowley to Angelo for support, but the other angel wouldn’t meet his eyes either. Seething, in inner turmoil, he tried, “God won’t let you. You’ll be killed. This can only end in disaster.”

“God has not found it appropriate to intervene on any of our behalves for millennia!” Maltha raged. “He has not seen fit to stop us up to this point! Why should He take action now? I’m sure not even this will prompt Him to deign to acknowledge me!” Maltha threw her goblet, and it shattered on the floor. “He thinks He is so far above us, too good to take care of us, we’ll make Him notice!”

The tone in Maltha’s voice and her action startled Toby, who bolted from her lap and streaked out the door. Aziraphale’s heart was beating in his throat. “You’ll be killed. All of you. Or something worse, something worse than falling that hasn’t been invented yet. You think—you think you can do something like this? What gives you the right? The nerve. The arrogance.”

Maltha was staring at him now. “Aziraphale….did you know? That is exactly what He said to me.”

Aziraphale stopped, unease growing in his stomach. “He…?”

“’The arrogance.’ He said that exact phrase to me, right before He cast me out of Heaven.”

Aziraphale flushed red. Crowley was staring at his lap.

“I-I have half a mind to go up to Heaven and tell them you’re coming!” Aziraphale burst out.

Maltha leaned her head onto her fist. “There it is. The reason why I didn’t tell you what was happening down here in Hell.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tried to form words, but nothing came.

“This is the problem, Aziraphale. You’re very intelligent. But you do not think. You act on impulse. And you worry about the consequences later, when it’s too late to take anything back.”

Impulse. Listening to Crowley talk about the Earth had been enough to convince him to save it. Trying to push Shadwell out of the circle, then madly body-hopping to try and get back down to Earth regardless of the consequences. Stabbing an archdemon through the chest after being told not to. Making a deal for asylum without consulting Crowley first. And what he had just done in his anger, in his fear.

Maltha continued, “And that is precisely why I waited until you were here, where you couldn’t go running off to Heaven on a whim, to tell you what was going to happen, because it was of paramount importance this plot be kept under wraps until it was ready to be deployed.”

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands, regaining his seat.

The door creaked open. A demon with red hair slunk into the room. “’Scuse me,” she said.

“You!” Aziraphale shouted, his chair scraping back as he leapt up. “You little bitch! I told you not to give the angel dust spell to anyone! And you gave it to the one person you knew would make use of it to harm Heaven!”

Abraxas shrank back. The door pushed open further, this time by an angry hand, and Paula appeared, moving herself in front of Abraxas. “You focking arsehole,” said Paula. “I gave the spell to Maltha. Not her.”

Aziraphale looked back and forth between the two of them.

“You thought this was Hell’s plan?” said Paula. “You think we were tricked by demons into betraying Heaven? This is our doing. We initiated it. We decided to rebel. We just needed someone powerful enough to take on the archangels to help us.”

“You’re a traitor.”

“Come on, Aziraphale,” said Paula. “You know this has to happen. Maybe you haven’t come to terms with it yet and just need some time, but you know deep down this was a long time coming.”

A third figure muscled them both out of the way, and a warrior stuck his head into the room. “Lord Maltha,” he said, “what Abraxas was trying to say was that Michael could fall at any moment, and time is beginning to run out. You need to get into your armor and prepare to move out.”

“Right,” said Maltha. She stood and began to make her way across the room. “So what’ll it be, Aziraphale?”

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I won’t allow it.”

She clucked her tongue. “I was afraid of that. Then it can’t be helped; you’ll have to stay here until we’re finished.”

“You’re going to keep us prisoner here?”

“I’m glad you caught on so fast. Mammon, please escort Aziraphale to a holding cell.”

“You’re going to keep us here by force?” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Maltha, this is—this is not how you treat your friends!”

Mammon’s snout bumped Aziraphale’s back, and he whirled around, looking indignant. “Don’t you touch me!”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m still a heavenly soldier,” said Aziraphale, reaching his hand into the aether and grasping the hilt of his sword. “And you will not—”

The second the blade became visible, Maltha practically teleported to close the distance between them, smacking the weapon out of his hand with such force that it flew across the room. Her enormous clawed hand gripped his wrist tightly, drawing five small streams of blood.

“You will not, Aziraphale,” said Maltha, a throaty, whispered threat. “Do not even think of it. All the pieces in this chess game have been arranged precisely. It will not all topple down because of the ignorant indignation of a principality offended because I hurt his feelings.”

“This is about more than my feelings, Maltha.”

“You will have an eternity to see what I’m doing, Aziraphale, once the Earth is safe.”

Mammon herded Aziraphale towards the exit. Maltha came back to the table, where Angelo and Crowley were still sitting fearfully.

She put one hand on the backs of each of their chairs. “Crowley,” she said, more gently, “I would like you to stay here as well. We’re going to put up wards, and Mammon is going to come back down here to hold the ninth layer while we’re all gone. You’ll be safe.”

Shakily, without a further word, Crowley stood and followed Mammon.

“And Angelo,” began Maltha.

“You’re just going to use him,” Angelo wept. “That’s all anyone ever does. I won’t let you.”

“Angelo,” said Maltha, softer now. “I’m not going to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. Part of the entire point of these angels’ rebellion is they thought he deserved better. They would not let me, even if I wanted to force him. But you know him better than any of us. What do you think he’ll want to do with his newfound freedom?”

Angelo looked down. “Rebel,” he said.

“Would you like to come up with us? Would you like to see him?”

He nodded miserably.

“Then come on.”

Meanwhile Aziraphale had been forced into the antechamber, and when he came out he saw them, the rebel angels. All decked out in shining armor, weapons ready, some with half-plucked wings. He was shocked to recognise most of them. His principality neighbours. The group of fourteen angels Michael had chosen to accompany him in Aziraphale’s shop. Some of Camael’s, now Victoria’s, soldiers. Almost all of the powers under Michael. Olivia and Kyleth were right at the front; Kyleth gave him a sheepish wave when he came out.

“Traitors!” he shouted. “All of you! God will smite you! Think about what you’re doing!”

Kyleth put her hand down.

As soon as Maltha came into the room, Vincent stepped forwards and said, “Lord Maltha, we’ve brought your armor. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes,” said Maltha.

She held out her arms and let a warrior strap on her breast plate. Another knelt to fasten greaves onto her legs.

“Look at yourselves,” said Aziraphale. “Helping a demon prepare for battle.”

“Now I see why you didn’t fall in the first rebellion, Aziraphale,” said Maltha, still holding her arms out, not looking at him. “I had always wondered. You see the injustice, and you question, and you want it to be better. But you’d rather be comfortable. And it’s easier to say they’re traitors than to admit you should be standing where they are.”

Aziraphale said nothing, watching as they fastened hinged armored plates to her wings.

“Mammon,” said Maltha. “Please take him into the holding cell in the Northeast wing. I don’t think Aziraphale wants to watch any more.”

“Yes, lord.”

Whether he had finally been shamed into silence, or he was just tired of yelling, Aziraphale kept quiet as he was led out.

An angel came over with her helmet. “He’ll come around,” he said.

“I hope he will,” she said, rubbing her finger along the helm of the helmet. “And I just hope he will forgive me. Nobody from Heaven ever has much forgiveness in them.”

An angel came over with the final piece, the blackened crown Satan had worn for millennia. “Would you like to wear the crown, lord?”

Maltha looked from the helmet to the crown.

“No,” she finally answered, accepting the helmet. “I’m not doing this as Maltha Queen of Hell. I’m doing this as Miriam, the royally pissed off archangel who never does as she’s told, back for another rebellion against the Heavenly Kingdom.”

Her armored wings swept behind her like a cape as she turned to lead the way out of the ninth circle of Hell.

The ceremony for casting an angel out of Heaven took place in an impressive golden room, the architecture of which was centred around a podium upon which sat one of the most important holy artefacts in existence: The Book of Life, a volume so huge and complex that any human looking at it could barely comprehend it.

Aziraphale would be far more than weak-kneed if he had ever seen it. He never had, and he was lucky for that, because the only circumstances under which he would have laid eyes upon it would be if he were to be cast out of Heaven.

In another universe, maybe, in another timeline. But not in this one.

It was not Aziraphale, but Michael sitting the judgement seat in this time and place. And Uriel stood opposite him, at the podium behind the book. Gabriel, Raphael, Victoria, and Metatron were seated behind her in a half-moon shape at their seats at the bench. Azrael’s seat was empty, because Azrael was quite rude and always ignored his summons, but he had already given them what they needed to proceed without him.

“I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me,” said Uriel, throwing her hands up. “I can’t pass judgement on someone who isn’t even aware of what’s going on.”

“Raphael,” said Metatron, “Please remove some of the drugs you have given Michael so that he can actually witness the proceedings.”

“Michael may become violent if I do that.”

“He is restrained with binding sigils. Not even he can break those.”

Raphael hopped down from the dais, approaching the pit below to put a hand on Michael’s head. Michael looked up at him with dull eyes.

His eyes began to widen as he realised where he was.

“I’m so sorry, brother,” said Raphael.

“Raphael,” said Michael, voice hoarse. “You said you were going to help me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Raphael.”

“I’ll meet you down there,” Raphael whispered to him, and put a small kiss on top of his head. Michael watched, the confusion in his eyes turning to desperation.

Raphael regained his place next to Uriel.

“Raphael,” said Michael. “You can’t save me?”

“This will save you,” said Raphael.

Michael’s eyes flew across the line of archangels, none of whom looked very happy. Victoria was in full-blown tears already.

“Uriel,” Michael said. “Please don’t.”

“We shall begin now,” said Uriel. “This meeting of archangels in the Judgement Hall of God convenes regarding the fate of the archangel Michael.”

“Uriel, wait.” Michael tried to stand on wobbly legs, but what remained of the sedatives held him back, and the holy guardians in the room gently pushed him back into a kneeling position. “This is just to scare me, right? To get me to listen to you like you’ve always done? This isn’t real, right?”

“This proclamation has been agreed upon by the archangels Uriel, Metatron, Gabriel, Raphael, Victoria, and Azrael: that we are united against our seventh member, the archangel Michael, and declare that his crimes are too numerous and too heinous to be allowed to stand.”

“N-no!” cried Michael. “I said I was sorry. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you say. Uriel, I’ll cut my hair.”

“Therefore,” continued Uriel, absolutely stone-faced, “Heaven decrees the archangel Michael belongs in the company of the beasts of the Pit, and not with our Heavenly Father.”

“Gabriel,” said Michael, tears streaming down his cheeks, “you can take my body back. I’ll give it to you. I won’t see Angelo anymore. I’ll stay in Heaven by the throne room where I’m supposed to be. I’ll stay right there.”

“It’s far too late for that,” said Gabriel. “This wouldn’t have happened if you had just done what you were told from the beginning. You bring shame to your station, and to all of us, you damnable creature.”

Michael’s gaze swung to Metatron. “I’ll do what you say,” he sobbed. “Please don’t cast me out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Metatron, I won’t question the ineffable plan anymore. I’ll kill every demon I see. I will.”

The Metatron refused to meet his eyes. “What use are you now?”

Victoria had her hands on her face to try and hide her tears, but her racking body gave it away.

Uriel lifted her hands above the Book of Life, and it glowed faintly, flipping open of its own accord, thousands of pages whirring too fast for the eye to see, until it slammed open to Michael’s page.

“I’ll be good,” Michael warbled. “I’ll obey. Don’t cast me out. Please.”

Uriel took the corner of the page. “This is the end,” she said, voice more quiet. “We are truly on our own path now. You will never step foot in Heaven again, Michael.”

She tore the page out. Michael flinched as though the action caused him pain.

“And I want to be clear that I have no sympathy for you whatsoever,” said Uriel. “Those who would defy their fate deserve exactly this. You all may share some sentimentality about this, but I would rather see Creation shatter and every deviant angel be cast into the Pit than see any of this foolishness that has wrecked the Ineffable Plan continue.”

Uriel held the page up, that thread of creation that dictated Michael’s entire being. The page upon which his destiny as the Sword of Heaven was written. Michael’s wet eyes followed it desperately.

“Burn,” Raphael said quietly. “Be free.”

“And you’ll burn with the rest of them,” said Uriel.

A tongue of flame appeared at the bottom of the page, racing up it.

“On this,” said Uriel, “the sunset of God’s creation.”

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic

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