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spnfanficpond · 4 years ago

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Pond Diving - Queen-of-deans-booty

Welcome to today’s Pond Diving Spotlight! We hope that you enjoy this little insight to our members and perhaps even find some useful tips for your own writing. Happy reading!

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“Don’t Be Koi About It” - All About You

Name: Jordan

Age: 23

Location: Arizona, USA

URL: @queen-of-deans-booty

Why did you choose your URL: Honestly, Dean is the first person I liked on SPN and his ass is so tight and I believe all women are queens so that’s why.

What inspired you to become a writer: I remember reading a book in middle school about vampires, and it’s the first book I remember reading that made me feel all sorts of emotions that books never used to do for me before then. It amazed me to feel these things from a book, and I realized that I wanted to do that for other people someday, thus, is why I became a writer.

How long have you been writing: Gosh, since 8th grade. Might have been a little bit before that, but I remember in 8th grade writing a full book at 20k words, which if I might say, is impressive for a thirteen-year-old.

What do you do when you are not writing i.e. Job/Hobbies etc? I actually am a security guard at a chemical plant. There is some down time to this job, and I try to spend it writing. I even gush to my boss about the stories I write and where I post, and he is all for supporting me about it. When I am not working or writing, then I am either watching Criminal Minds, Manifest, and movies while in my room. With this COVID thing going on right now, I barely leave my house as it is xD

How long have you been in the SPN Fandom? Since season 11 was on TV. It was actually after season 11 had ended and before season 12 had started, so in that four-month span, I managed to watch 11 seasons.

Are you in any other fandoms and do you write for them? Yes! I am in the Marvel and Criminal Minds fandom! I used to be in The Vampire Diaries fandom, but I lost my passion for it so I knew my writing was suffering, so I stopped it. I am doing series rewrites for all three of my fandoms along with one-shots and drabbles!

Do you do any writing outside of fanfiction? If so, tell us about it? Yes, I try to. I took a NaNoWriMo class in college that made me write my first real book, so that is exciting. I also took fiction classes that made me write poems and short stories. I do want to get into writing more original fiction, but right now, I am focusing more on fanfiction.

Favorite published author: I love Riley Sager, B.A. Paris, James Patterson, Ruth Ware, and there are specific books I adore, but they aren’t from the authors I mentioned. I tend to like books rather than authors.

Have you ever read a book that made an impact on your life? Which one and why?: Vampire Kisses by Ellen Schreiber. That's the book that I mentioned about inspiring me to write, and I dedicate my love for writing to her.

Favorite genre of fanfic (smut, angst, fluff, crack, rpf, etc): I really enjoy reading fluff, but I enjoy writing angst because I feel I can have a lot more emotions and feels when I write angst.

Favorite piece of your own writing: My SPN series rewrite. I am currently planning season 7, and I am in the process of releasing season 6. I have gotten so many good reviews of it, and that fuels my passion for it.

Most underrated fic you have written: I can’t think of any at the top of my head. I tend not to look back on my own writing too much. I’ll have an overwhelming need to rewrite it and fix it up, and I don’t need that right now xD

Story of yours that you’d most like to see turned into a movie/tv show: Is it bad to say my series rewrite? It’s already a show, but I’d like to see my version of the show. If I can’t pick that, then my original fiction novel that I wrote that has over 70k words. That would be pretty cool.

Favorite Tumblr Writer(s): @impala-dreamer, @torn-and-frayed, @crispychrissy, @kittenofdoomage, @acreativelydifferentlove, @saxxxology, and there are others, but those are some of the people that come to mind.

Favorite fic from another writer: Can I mention a few? Rock, Paper, Scissors by @impala-dreamer, The Curious Incident of Episode 14x09 by @luci-in-trenchcoats, On the Road by @notnaturalanahi, Cherry Surprise by @crispychrissy, A Change of Scenery by @cass-trash, and On the Case Files (Criminal Minds fandom) by @hotchnerfuckmeup.

Favorite character to write: For Supernatural, it’ll have to be Dean Winchester. For Marvel, it’ll have to be either Loki or Bucky. For Criminal Minds, it’ll have to be Spencer Reid

Favorite Pairing to write: I only write reader-inserts so the characters don’t really matter as long as it’s x reader.

Least favorite character to write (and why): For Supernatural, it’s Crowley. I don’t know why, but I can never seem to get him right. He’s more sadistic and hardcore sometimes and I just can’t get that right.

Do you have anyone you consider a mentor? I don’t really have anyone right now. It used to be my teachers/professors, but I graduated and I don’t see them anymore.

Do you have any aspirations involving your writing? I want to be a published author. That’s all I want. I want to see my books on the shelves, and I’d also love to be a fiction editor! I can’t do anything right now because of COVID, but hopefully one day!

How many work-in-progress stories do you have: More than I can count right now. Like seriously, I probably have over 100. I have a bunch of bingo cards that I have ideas for, but I have so many that they all just pile on. There will come a time when I get through all of them, but I don’t know when.

What are you currently working on? Right now? Some requests and my spn series rewrite.

“Pond Diving” - All About The Writing

What/who has had the biggest influence on your writing? Like I mentioned above, it’s Ellen Schreiber. She is the one person that made me want to become a writer. Also, all my followers on all of my blogs. They are the truest influencers because they are what gives me passion for my writing.

Best writing advice you've been given: Write as if you’re the only audience. I’ve learned that if you don’t like what you’re writing about, then your audience will certainly see it. You can’t please everyone, so please yourself. There will always be someone who loves your writing for what it is, so don’t go changing it to please others.

Biggest obstacle you’ve faced in your writing: Trying to pace myself. I’ve heard of people spending two or three days (or even longer) on a fic. It’s either all or nothing with me. I either spend two or three hours on a fic and complete it right there and then, or I don’t write it at all. Pacing is an issue for me, and I am always trying to spend longer on a fic. I guess I just type really fast, I don’t know.

What aspects of writing do you find difficult when you write fanfiction? I find that trying to keep the character as canon as possible is most difficult. While it’s not always super hard, it does have its moments. All fanfiction are AUs, so it’s okay to change the characters to make them your own. While I don’t think one should make them the complete opposite if they are wanting to stay within canon, I do believe it’s okay to change a few things around.

Is there anything you want to write but are afraid to (and why): I want to write ships. Now that I think about it, I’m not quite sure why I don’t write them. Maybe it’s time that I start.

What inspires/motivates you to write: Feedback!!! Reader’s don’t always see it, but every piece of feedback I get makes me want to write. I do better knowing there are actual people out there that are looking forward to what I write. I do better knowing that real people are reading them and judging it. I do my best knowing that there is an audience. If I don’t get feedback, then that motivation just goes away.

How do you deal with self doubt: I’m not so sure I always do. There is always a voice in the back of my mind telling me that my stories are complete and utter shit, and I shouldn’t bother writing anything. It’s why I take a step back from writing so often. When I first started my blog, I came out with fics every single day. I was always writing new stories. Now, I may get a story out per week. Maybe two per week. I know when it’s time to take a break for a few days because it gives that voice time to calm down. My best advice for someone dealing with self doubt is to just take a break. Separate yourself from the thing that your mind is telling you that you suck at. Take care of you before jumping back into it. Trust me, it helps.

How do you deal with writer's block: Kind of the same thing as I mentioned above. I have suffered from writer’s block a lot more than in my earlier years. Sometimes, I just don’t have the motivation or the passion to write, and I just get so mad at myself for not doing it. One of the things that help me is writing down my ideas. Yeah, I get ideas that float in my head about stories I’d like to write, but actually writing them down makes them concrete. Then, I am able to make notes and side notes and notes of my notes about what I’d like to happen, and before I know it, I’m writing it.

Do you plan/outline your story before you start: ALWAYS! Always, always, always plan your writing, especially if you’re doing a series. It’s good to know what is going on in your story. You don’t always have to follow it to the exact detail (you’re allowed to make changes as you go), but having a plan makes it easier to get through your story. You’re able to look back at it and remind yourself why you're writing that exact scene or if something needs to be added or taken away from it. If you have a plan, then you’re less likely to lose that passion since you know what’s going to happen. You’re able to see the finish line well before you start.

Do you have any weird writing habits: This may be weird, but I like to listen to Got U On by Darci feat. Nessly, Highest in the Room by Travis Scott, some music by Juice WRLD, and other loud rap songs. Don’t ask me why, but I find the music soothing when I write. Those rap songs sound the same to me, and their voices just drown out so I’m just listening to the music. There are other kinds of music I listen to like piano instrumentals and rain/thunder sounds, but it’s really any song I can tune out.

Have you ever received hateful comments on your fic and how do you deal with it? I don’t want to sound arrogant or snobby, but I can honestly say I’ve never received one hateful comment on anything I’ve written (knock on wood xD). I’ve only received good things about my stories, and I think it has something to do with how much good energy I am putting into the world. I believe in karma, and I tend to be nice to everyone regardless of who they are, and I think it comes back to the kind of comments I receive. However, I always think about what I’d do or say if I’ve ever gotten a hate comment. I wouldn’t encourage them to send more hate, but I wouldn’t apologize either. I write the stories I write because it makes me happy. If they don’t like it, they can go somewhere else. Though, I know those hate comments can get to some people, and here is what I have to say about that: remind yourself of when you actually wrote the fic. If you were truly happy about it, then it shouldn’t matter what that person says. You love it, and that’s all that matters.

Conversely: what’s been some of your favorite feedback on your fanfic? I have to pick a favorite? XD I have an album in my phone of screenshots I took of my favorite comments left by my followers. I’ve been compared to John Green, there have been comments that thank me for giving them an escape from their realities, people have told me they want to write just like me someday, people have told me that my work has made them smile and get chills, that my stories are the highlight of their week, and a bunch of other stuff. I am just shocked that there are people out there who think this. It means so much to me, and I get tears when I read them because this is literally my dream. I can’t thank my followers enough for the comments they leave, and this is exactly why it’s so important to leave feedback.

If you could give one piece of advice to a new and/or struggling writer, what would it be? Write for you. I can’t stress this enough. I’ve mentioned it before, and I’m going to mention it again. If you’re not happy, it will show through your writing. Your audience will see it based on how you word things and your flow of ideas. On another note, please brush up on your grammar. I can’t tell you how many times I read such an interesting summary, and noticed the story was full of grammatical mistakes. It made me not want to read it anymore. I’m sure it was a great story, but I didn’t want to put myself through that just to read it.

#pond diving #spnfanficpond

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foolishlovers · 12 days ago

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spent my day writing 3.5k for my christmas office au

#yes crowley is working in a publishing house #no this is not another self insert [coughs] or is ittttt (let’s ignore my job shall we)#only one more chapter left to write so i’m thinking of posting the first one soon?#it’s nice to work on smth short and sweet hehe #foolish writes #christmas office au #good omens fanfic #(i still need a title ughhhhh)

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solarmorrigan · 4 years ago

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rules. it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (or so) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought to the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

Would you believe I completed this in the first week of January and then forgot to post it? True facts. I am aware it is now May, but I’m gonna post it anyway because why the fuck not. No time of year is a bad time to show yourself some appreciation

I was tagged by @midrashic, whose writing is a joy, always such a smooth and insightful read, and who has kindly tagged me in many of these memes in the last year, which always makes my day. I actually did a lot of writing in 2020, but posted very little of it. Much of it was in bits and pieces, or I was too shy to post it, or I was too tired/busy/etc. to edit it and throw it up (so hey, maybe expect to see more shit from me this year, I’ve got a bit of a backlog)

So first: honorable mention to my NaNoWriMo fic, written for Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter, which is operating under the working title of “The Life in Your Years.” I wrote 58,000 words in less than a month and I was quite proud of that, and would like to polish it up and post it this year, but since I can’t link it or show anyone here, we’re not going to count it as part of the list. Instead, we have:

Agents of Death [James Bond - 00Q] Life after death wasn’t quite what Bond had expected.

Not that he could altogether recall what he had expected. He was fairly certain, though, that he would have expected the afterlife to include light and peace – or perhaps darkness and pain. Maybe he thought he would have faded to nothingness after dying.

He didn’t expect to have a day job, was the short of it.

This was the fic I wrote for the 2019/2020 00Q Reverse Big Bang. It took a lot of energy and stressed me the hell out and somehow ended up as one big slow burn fic, despite the fact I regularly profess distaste for slow burn, but I’m kind of pleased with this one anyway. I really did enjoy playing with Bond’s character and letting him bounce off of Q a bit, and the worldbuilding was fun to do

In the Details [James Bond - 00Q] Bond's housekeeper begins to notice some changes around the house

This was one of my favorite things written for last year’s 007 Fest. I had a lot of fun writing it, probably because it mostly combines domesticity and outsider POV, which are two of my favorite tropes. I was also glad that people really seemed to like the housekeeper character I made up! It’s been a long time since I’ve put much effort into an OC, so that was nice

“Bond has never fallen in love like this.” [James Bond - 00Q] Bond has never fallen in love like this

It has always been all at once, a cinder block to the sternum, never this steady drip of feelings that comes with every damned picture Q texts to him

This was probably actually my definite favorite thing written for 007 Fest last year. It was just meant to be a silly headcanon post at first and turned into something longer but that I actually really love. I just... I really love portraying people falling for the little details of a person, bit by bit, and that’s all this is, really. I keep meaning to edit it and put it on Ao3, though it’s not all that long, so maybe I’ll get around to that soon [spoiler from the May 2021: I did not]

That one headcanon about Aziraphale being knowledgeable about gardening [Good Omens - Ineffable Husbands] Okay, yes, the fanon that Aziraphale was a terrible gardener and that it drove Crowley up the wall and he had to go out and fix the grounds so “Brother Francis” didn’t get fired is amusing, but I feel like we’re missing out on an opportunity here

I was so glad (if startled) that this became one of my most popular posts. Part of the reason I kind of drifted away from the GO fandom was that I was so tired of seeing all the one-sided and apparently unrequited affection and effort that would come from Crowley, as if Aziraphale never did a damned thing to encourage or maintain their friendship. The fact that this one--a thought I had about Aziraphale making an effort to learn about Crowley’s interests--took off was very nice!

The Height of Amusement [Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Abery] ...is about 5'7"

(In which the world has, on average, gotten taller since the 1800s, and this causes minor inconveniences.)

This is probably the weirdest fandom and absolutely the weirdest pairing I’ve ever been into. I try not to think too hard about it. The thing is, these books kind of reminded me to have fun with my writing, and that’s all I did while writing fic for this fandom. This particular piece isn’t my favorite out of what I’ve written, but I did just really enjoy being silly with it (and it’s one of the few I’ve actually published), so on the list it goes

I’m gonna tag some people now because, I repeat, no time of year is a bad time to show your appreciation. Go dig through your stuff from last year and find the happy. (If you already did this, I’m sorry, just ignore me. If I didn’t tag you and you want to do this, go for it): @spiritofcamelot, @soufflegirl91, @christinefromsherwood, @azure7539arts, uhh... maybe I shouldn’t have done this at 1 AM, I can’t think of anyone else I’m sorry THIS IS WHY IT TAKES ME SO LONG TO DO THESE THINGS

#long post #blah blah text blah #about meme

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roseskiesandbutterflies · 3 years ago

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Le Démon Déchu - Chapter 2: Réponses Et Plus De Questions

Summary: The summary is kind of long so please check a previous part or my masterlist if you want to read it.

Warning(s): threat, swearing

Word Count: 6.8k+

Inspiration: Do You Know What Eternity Is? by Elderly_Worm on AO3, Great Omens (The Big One) by falsepremise on AO3, Pray For Us, Icarus series by Atalan on AO3, Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm on AO3, wasteland, baby by john1513 on AO3, Not of Us by ShesAKillerQueen98 on AO3, How to Win a Lifetime Achievement Award for Services to Television (and how not to) by GaryOldman on AO3, Doctor Who (don’t ask) and, of course, Good Omens itself

A/N: Okay I took a bit of a hiatus from writing literally anything for about five months so sorry about that but I’m back now!! That’s the main thing. Also, I’ve left high school now which is very exciting! That does mean I’ll have so much more time to write and I’m definitely going to try and use this summer to establish some kind of routine for writing so that when I start college, I won’t get too overwhelmed with both my studies and with updating my fics. That’s the plan anyway so don’t hold me to that lmao. With any luck, now I’ve actually said that it’ll have to happen. (I wrote that part of this note back in May when it was the start of the summer. It is currently September and I’m just about to finally publish this chapter and I assure you, I am cringing at my own optimism.) Sorry this took so long to post. This chapter has been in the works since May (yes, I know I’m terrible) but I actually got a lot more writing done in that time that what you just see in this chapter. All will be revealed soon. I just promise that I have been productive. Once you’ve read this chapter, you have my blessing to translate the title of this fic. Hopefully it will make sense.

I just wanted to point out something about the playlist I linked in the previous chapter. I am well aware that there are some rather problematic people in it, namely Sia. I want you all to know that I don’t support her in any way (I don’t like her at all I think she’s a complete ableist twat). Her songs are only on there because of how well they fit with the story (a lot of this will become clearer as the story goes on).

I also wanted to point out that I know that if angels do exist, then their true forms probably wouldn’t look anything like humans. I’m well aware of that, I’m not an idiot, I don’t know if any of you remember when people started googling ‘angel true form’ and some people got scared lmao. The point is, we’ve all seen the pictures. But for the purpose of this story, and honestly just to make it easier for me to describe what the characters are doing, we’re going to have to pretend that they did look like humans. Can I claim creative license with this one? Maybe it got lost in translation because there is probably no way someone could describe how an angel truly looks in any human language? I don’t know, just roll with it.I know that this chapter had so much exposition and explanation in it but I can promise you two things. One, there is still much to be revealed. Two, I promise this isn’t just bad writing on my part. Just trust that I needed to put this all in this early on.

And how is everyone doing after the season 2 announcement? I mean, at the time of writing this specific part of my notes, it only got announced about an hour ago lmao. I’m very fucking excited, oh my god. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I found out I can’t lie. Catch me trying to finish this before it comes out in case things occur which means I have to change things in this story. I can’t be arsed for that. Oh well. Hopefully it’ll read like those Sherlock fics that people wrote in between series 2 and series 3 if that doesn’t happen.

Taglist: @briarrose26

Ask or comment to be on my taglist! Let me know if it’s for a specific fandom(s) or series. Full list is in my bio.

Hermit (upright) + Five of Wands (upright)

Conflict. Reflection. Resurfacing memories.

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Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other.

We know who our enemies are. We know.

– Richard Siken (Detail of the Fire)

************

“Fuck.”

The angel and demon exchanged glances of what could only be described as thinly veiled panic, while the woman in front of them just looked annoyed at the most.

“They couldn’t wait five minutes, could they?” she muttered, pinching at the bridge of her nose in frustration before standing up again, “Look, just stay down here, I’m gonna go sort this out. With any luck they won’t have actually realised you’re here too.”

“Wait, how do you know they’re here for you?” Crowley asked, suddenly curious as to what business Eloise might have with Heaven.

“Just a gut feeling,” she said before making her way to the spiral staircase behind them, muttering to herself, “If they were here for you, I feel like they would have at least used the front door.”

The other two waited until she’d run upstairs before exchanging a quick glance, an unspoken word, and following her up.

Meanwhile, Eloise was hovering outside a room at the end of the corridor which she could only assume was the bedroom. She was strangely hesitant, not out of fear of them, simply out of fear of the unknown. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in that room for millennia, and something told her that this wasn’t going to be a friendly chat. She took a deep breath, even though she technically didn’t need it, letting a wave of faux confidence wash over her, and stepped inside. Don’t crumble now. You’ve come too far to crumble now.

“Ah, Mariel, long time no see,” Gabriel smiled coldly, brushing the dust off his white suit. Flanked by two other angels, he stood in the wreckage of the bedroom without even acknowledging the damage they must have caused when they crashed in. Beside him were Beelzebub and Hastur, who both looked as though they had been dragged kicking and screaming to come here. Beelzebub in particular kept shooting metaphorical daggers at Gabriel, who remained perfectly oblivious. The entire ceiling had caved in from the impact of their crash, the setting sun painting the doorway where Eloise stood in a pale gold and casting a dark shadow over the others.

She’d grimaced at the use of her old name; it was too unfamiliar, too ancient. Mariel was the name of a long-dead version of herself. Once upon a time, she’d embraced it, but that was once upon a time. Once upon a time long gone.

“Almost like I’ve been avoiding you on purpose,” she muttered, leaning against the doorway as she stared intrusively at each person in the room, observing, assessing. She silently revelled in the blatant discomfort in each of their faces.

“No need to be so rude,” Gabriel said, doing anything to avoid her eyes, his previous confident façade now shattered.

Eloise stared at him in disbelief, “What exactly were you expecting? A fucking welcome party? I haven’t seen any of you in over six thousand years and you just crash through the roof of my house, unannounced and uninvited, so yeah, forgive me for being a little irritated.” She couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty. She’d barely been in Aziraphale’s bookshop for fifteen minutes and she was already pretending she owned it.

She watched smugly as he squirmed under her gaze, desperately looking to the others to say something in response. A moment or two passed before Beelzebub’s head suddenly snapped up in confusion, “Are you alone?”

Shit. She’d hoped that they wouldn’t have noticed the presence of the two who were definitely not downstairs like she’d asked. She swallowed, trying not to let any kind of emotion show on her face, trying not to give the game up that quickly, “Yeah, I live on my own.” She watched the whole group of them squint in concentration, trying to sense any other beings in the house. She sighed, changing the subject before they could comment on it any further, “Look, what do you want? I don’t have all day so if you could make it quick then that would be much appreciated.”

Gabriel looked back at her, his suave exterior unfortunately making a return, “Hey, we just wanted to check up on you, see how you’re doing-”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she snapped. She pushed herself off from the doorway, stalking towards the others, “You have had six thousand years to ‘check up on me’, don’t pretend you’ve only started to care now.”

She was met with only silence as Gabriel and Beelzebub glanced at each other awkwardly, looking very much like chastised children. Suddenly the latter groaned and cried, “You can’t just leave Hell!”

“Oh, here we go,” Eloise muttered, rolling her eyes, bored already.

“You can’t! You Fell from Heaven, so you go to Hell, there isn’t a third option!”

“Well, apparently there is,” she shrugged.

“No there isn’t!” they argued, face screwed up like a petulant child.

“Then what do you call this then?” she asked, unfolding her wings for the second time that day. She studied their reactions closely, scrutinising coal-black eyes piercing through their very souls. She was searching for any hint of shock, of recognition, of anything that could clue her in as to what was going on in their heads at that moment. All she could find, however, was pure, unadulterated confusion. Which was annoying when her wings were supposed to be an answer to their unasked questions.

Gabriel stumbled over his words, “Good Lord, how did you even-”

Eloise cut him off curtly, no longer having the patience to listen to his incoherent mumbles. She instead turned to Beelzebub who at least had the decency to look a little more composed, “That would be what you could sense then. I’ve got both Heaven and Hell in me, that’s a lot of energy to pick up on.” She stared right through them, daring them to say anything else.

“Must be,” they replied slowly, though they didn’t look at all convinced.

Gabriel held up a hand, his eyes darting about as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing, “No hold on, how did you even manage that?”

“I left Hell,” Eloise said simply, “Why should I have black wings? I’m not some demon who ran away from everything. I left. Permanently. I looked Hell in the eye and walked away. You know what? Fuck it, I looked Satan in the eyes and walked away.”

“You what?” he stuttered.

“Yeah, you heard me. You have a problem with me leaving Hell then go on! Take that up with the bloody devil,” she said, staring them down, daring them to retaliate. She smirked when she was met with pure, uncomfortable silence, “Except you won’t, will you? Because you don’t actually give two fucks about me. Just like I said, if you did then you would have chased me up a long time ago. Quite frankly, I think you must have been glad to have me out of your hair,” she sighed, half sad, half amused when they couldn’t even meet her eye. She paused for a moment, wondering how far she could push this, before asking, “You know what I think is really going on here? I think the pair of you are feeling a bit bruised after the absolute shitshow that was Armageddon last year, which, by the way, fucking hilarious. I think your egos are feeling a little sore after a literal child stopped you from ending the world, so you’re thinking ‘hmm, what would be an easy win so that we don’t feel like total shit? Oh yeah, what about that demon who ran away all that time ago? That should be easy to sort out.’. Well, love to disappoint, but you’re not getting me that easily, especially when not a single one of us actually wants me back, and Sandalphon, take one more step further I swear I will dropkick you back to Heaven,” she snapped, glaring at the angel who had been menacingly inching closer while she had been talking. He reluctantly stepped back alongside Gabriel, looking a little more than miffed that his plan hadn’t worked out. “You really want me back? Get your bosses to talk to me because I don’t actually see why it’s any of your business. No middle men. Just God, Satan and me. I’ll see what they have to say about all this. Questions?” she asked, tone snapping from one extreme to another, almost as if she had just been possessed.

Gabriel stared at her, mouth gaping like a fish, “You can’t just boss us around like that.”

“What? Like how you bossed us around all those years?” she replied without missing a beat, real rage, real danger seeping into her voice now, “I think we’re done here.”

“But-”

“I said, I think we’re done here,” she said, leaving no room for arguments. She gestured to the sorry excuse for a room around them, “Now, if you wouldn’t mind cleaning this up.”

“Why can’t you do it? You can miracle things too,” Gabriel said, desperate for any kind of leverage over Eloise.

“You’re right, I could, but I didn’t make this mess, and I personally believe that you should face the consequences of your actions, Gabriel,” she said pointedly, watching as he visibly gulped. In a matter of seconds, the room was restored to its original state and Eloise was left alone in the room, no indicators that she was ever with any other people remaining.

She sighed and all but collapsed into a chair that may or may not have existed a few moments ago, confident façade shattered completely. She breathed heavily in exhaustion, as if she’d just run a marathon; she supposed she had just run a mental one. Her emotions were bugging her to no end. It was strange. She wasn’t scared, per se. There was very little that Gabriel or Beelzebub could do to her that would frighten her anymore. She tried her best to compose herself, writing off the tsunami inside her mind as just plain old adrenaline, before calling out, “You can come in now. I know you guys are outside, it’s okay, you can come in.”

Crowley and Aziraphale walked into the room, one looking considerably more sheepish than the other. Aziraphale perched awkwardly on the freshly reconstructed bed, “We’re sorry–”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, we’re not.”

Eloise and Crowley exchanged a glance, amused looks on both of their faces while Aziraphale simply looked distressed. Eloise turned back to him and smiled sympathetically, “I told you, it’s fine. I would have done the same,” she admitted, looking away before collecting herself once again, “So, I’m guessing you have a lot of questions–”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Crowley muttered as he took a seat beside Aziraphale, although it was a very loose definition of ‘taking a seat’.

Aziraphale glared at him while Eloise just sighed and reluctantly said, “I think it might be better if I just show you.”

Crowley cocked his head in confusion, “Show us what?”

She brought her chair closer to the edge of the bed and put out her hands, “Take my hands. Brace yourselves.”

Mariel was standing before a crowd of angels, dozens upon dozens of disgusted faces staring right at her. She couldn’t quite remember getting there. She had been in the pitch-dark holding cell and the next thing she knew, she was here. Blinding white light surrounded them, harshly illuminating her vulnerabilities before all of Heaven. She tried her best to keep her chin up even though she absolutely hated the fact that they could see the bruises from when she had been arrested that were now blooming on her face. She frowned as she noticed the lack of measures preventing her from escaping. All that was keeping her there was Gabriel’s presence at her side, cold violet eyes pointedly ignoring her. He really was an arrogant bastard for assuming that she wouldn’t even try to make a run for it. Just because he was right this one time, it didn’t mean that he shouldn’t have come prepared. Mariel sighed and looked up at the angels staring down at her. Michael was sat higher than everyone in the centre of the crowd, face void of all emotion as she said, “The Principality Mariel. You’re on trial today for betraying the will of the Almighty, rebelling against all that is good and light in the universe...”

Mariel blocked the rest of her pretentious speech out as she droned on about all the awful things she’d supposedly done to deserve this. It was all lies anyway. She knew the real reason she was here. There were a few things that stood out to her despite it all, things that nearly made her laugh. She’d known that they’d needed to conjure up some reasons for condemning her, but this was just ridiculous. Gabriel really had gone to extraordinary yet desperate lengths to slander her in her final moments in this Someone-forsaken place. She was surprised that the angels gathered to watch her downfall believed a word of this. She tried her best not to resent them, though. It wasn’t like they had anything better to believe in. Especially considering the amused smirk that had crept its way onto her face.

She returns to reality just in time to hear Michael ask, “What do you have to say to defend yourself?”

“I’ve done nothing I need to defend,” she said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

“Don’t make this worse for yourself than it already is,” Gabriel muttered dangerously from where he stood beside her.

Mariel turned to look at him in disbelief. “How the fuck could this get any worse, Gabriel?” she hissed, fury flaring up in her eyes.

He just looked back at her condescendingly, “Do you really need me to answer that?”

She pointedly refused to reply, turning back to face Michael, determined to ignore him.

The next part goes past in a blur for Mariel. Michael speaks again, though she doesn’t listen. Then suddenly there are shouts of anger, screams of rage, coming from the gathered crowd. They spit with venom as they hurl insults at her. She doesn’t hear a word. It’s as though her head is under water, completely submerged in the stone cold anger that seeps through her body, and suddenly Mariel is drowning in the realisation that this is really happening, oh God this is really happening.

Why? Why is this happening to me? You listening, God? Look me in the eye and tell me why this is happening.

She doesn’t get an answer, and though she wasn’t expecting one, it still hurts. Because she knows that she’ll never get an answer from Her again now.

Eventually she feels a tug on her arm from where Gabriel has been standing, dragging her away from the crowd and out her of current state of mind. She could feel her senses coming back to her as she stumbled backwards, but everything was crashing down on her too quickly, too harshly. She did her best to shove the rising panic as deep down insider her as she could. There was no way she would let anyone here see her in that state. She couldn’t let them think they’d won.

She didn’t even realise she had reached the edge of the ground she was standing on, the edge of Heaven itself, Gabriel no longer grabbing her arm. She nearly found herself peering over the edge, but stopped herself before she could lean too far. It may have helped her in the past but now was not the time to give in to her curiosity. And she didn’t trust Gabriel to not push her the moment he had the chance. She turned her head to glare fiercely at him, piercing holes in his very soul. She could slowly feel her anxiety being replaced by cool rage as she found herself saying, “Any institution that tries to silence anyone who opposes them is inherently corrupt.” She stared knowingly at his discomfort as he forced himself to face her. He knew what she meant by that. He knew.

He took a second to compose himself before practically scoffing in her face, “Don’t preach at me.”

Mariel cocked her head as she studied him. She watched as his eyes subconsciously flicked back to the crowd, to the other Archangels. He blatantly wanted nothing more than to re-join his fellow angels, the only beings who understood why he was doing what he was doing, or were at least supposed to understand anyway. Somehow she doubted they were all as cold-hearted and self-absorbed as the angel in front of her. She considered him for a moment before saying simply, “Your quest for power will kill you in the end.”

He furrowed his brows in somewhat amused confusion, “Is that a threat?”

“No. It’s the truth,” she blinked at him before leaning in and murmuring in his ear, “It will be your downfall.”

“The only one who’s going to Fall around here is you,” he said dangerously. Mariel leaned back and watched the lethal glimmer in his eye wither and die under the intensity of her gaze.

She just smiled. “We’ll see.” She let herself look at him for a moment longer before blinking away the tears and cautiously taking a small step backwards. She could feel where the ground ended beneath her feet and was sure not to step any further. She took one last look of the place she once called home, embracing how it felt for the last time though she knew she wouldn’t miss it.

She closed her eyes for a moment and fell back.

Mariel was Falling. That bit she knew, but much more than that? Everything was happening too fast for her to notice. And yet, it was as if she was existing in slow-motion. She worried for a moment that this was, in fact, her fate; doomed to remain in a perpetual state of limbo, of Falling, for all eternity. The only thing telling her otherwise was the view of Heaven above her, which she realised only too late was slowly shrinking into nothing. Mariel found herself reaching her own arms out, grasping for Heaven. They were opposite ends of a magnet being roughly pulled away from each other by an invisible force.

You hear that God? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? And don’t you dare tell me it’s all part of your plan because right now, the only thing I want is to be back where I should be and I can’t even have that.

She pulled herself out of her mind and back into reality; she’d have plenty of time in Hell to yell at a God who’d never listen, let alone answer. She only just started to register her surroundings, the fact that she was actually Falling, who knows how far and for how long, tumbling through the air at an unimaginable speed, plummeting towards a place that could be anything from seconds to hours away. The deafening wind that screamed in her ears, drowning out the screams which may have been coming from her mouth or her mind, who was she to say? Air whipped around her body, icier and more painful than any words that could ever be uttered by the angels above her. It wasn’t until she could no longer see any hint of Heaven on the horizon that she started to feel the tears finally fall, trickling down her face and floating slightly due to the force of the Fall.

Then suddenly it came. She felt it in the very tips of her wings first, a strange tingling sensation, as though hundreds and then thousands of pins were skirting the edges of her corporeal being. It spread over the rest of her wings, and then her body, at a faster pace than she could keep track of until her whole being felt as though it was burning. The pain grew, and it grew, and it grew, and she didn’t think she could physically take any more pain when she looked up in horror at her own freshly blackened wings. Her beautiful, holy wings which had once been the softest, purest white, were now stained with evil and ash. For the first time since she started Falling, however long ago that might have been, she let out a choked sob that racked through her whole body and through the ever-changing air around her. Nobody heard her cries. Nobody heard her screams as the searing pain in her chest grew stronger. She couldn’t even begin to work out whether it was physical or emotional but it was there and it burned a hole, a gaping wound, through her soul, leaving a scar fated to never heal and to forever haunt her-

Eloise was crying. She’d tried so hard to prevent the steady streams that were now running down her cheeks, but that was a memory that she’d never wanted to relive. She looked upwards for a moment, trying to regain control of her emotions and her breathing, before peeling her hands away from the two sat in front of her. She roughly wiped the tears from her face, and suddenly the only thing telling you she had been crying were the bloodshot eyes that Crowley tried to ignore as he said bluntly, “I’m still confused.”

“Crowley, give her a minute,” Aziraphale chastised him, furrowing his brows at the demon before he turned back to Eloise with kind eyes and a kinder heart, “Are you alright, my dear?”

She nodded without much hesitation, “I’m fine, it’s okay.” She certainly wasn’t fine, nor was it okay, but the last thing she wanted was to have to deal with her feelings in front of two people she was trying her best not to scare off. She looked back at Crowley, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

He looked at her in understanding, for if anyone knew her thought process in that moment, it was him. “Right, so you Fell and became a demon. Then what?”

“Well, you know what Hell’s like,” she started, looking pointedly at Crowley. She waited for him to nod before continuing, “Not my scene at all. I just point-blank refused to do anything they asked of me. Naturally they didn’t like that much. Eventually I was called in to see Satan about it. I remember thinking, ‘well, that’s that then. Terrible knowing you all.’, because I didn’t think I was going to survive that. Turns out he was just annoyed that I was being a bloody nuisance to everyone else, but he was too amused to really do anything about it, so he basically just told me to piss off. Leave Hell, don’t come back, and I won’t tell anyone where you’ve gone or that you’re even alive. Not exactly a deal I could refuse, so I left, came to Earth, been here ever since. I think everyone just assumed he’d killed me,” she shrugged as if she hadn’t just destroyed the whole idea of eternal damnation with just a few sentences. She smiled to herself as they gaped at her for a moment, though she doubted they realised they were doing it.

Crowley somehow managed to gather his senses quick enough to hold up a hand and say, “Wait, but when you were talking to Gabriel and Beelzebub and that lot, you said they had six thousand years to check up on you. Why would you say that if they thought you were dead?” He narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn’t altogether quite sure why he seemed to be so keen on finding any gaps in her story, but he needed to be able to trust that she was telling the truth. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Yes, and they didn’t exactly seem surprised to see you alive.”

Eloise grinned. You two are gonna be fun, I can tell. “You’re both very observant, I have to give you credit for that.” She paused in thought for a second before starting carefully, “You see, the trouble with me is that I’m not really one for keeping a low profile. I’m too noisy, so to speak, and I don’t even realise it most of the time. This demon I hadn’t exactly been the nicest to back in Hell saw me in Babylon, gosh, it must have been eighteen thirty something BC? Anyways, he ratted me out to Beelzebub who must have told Gabriel all about it. I had about a decade of this bloody demon trying to discorporate me just to see if it would force me to go back to Hell, then one day he just stopped, and I never saw him again. Beelzebub probably told him to piss off.”

They were both quiet again for a little while. Eloise didn’t even think to say anything. It might be a rare occasion, but she did know when to keep her mouth shut when it mattered. She could see the cogs turning in their heads as if it was projected in the air above them. Eventually Crowley murmured, “I didn’t even know you could do that, you know, leave.”

She shook her head with a strange kind of sympathy that came from recognising an experience you had far too long ago, “Neither did I. It stills shocks me sometimes if I think about it too much.”

A few seconds passed before Crowley cleared his throat abruptly and said, “They called you Mariel. I thought you said your name was Eloise.”

She hesitated before answering. She knew exactly what he was doing, she’d been doing it for the whole of their conversation thus far, but just because she tended to bury her emotions, it didn’t mean that she liked it when others did it. She decided to ignore the hypocrisy of that thought, how ironic, she thought to herself, and instead explained, “It is. Mariel was my angel name. You know how it is,” she looked pointedly at Crowley again, hoping that Aziraphale would be able to put the pieces together. She didn’t actually know how much he knew about what it was like to Fall and become a demon.

“Oh, so is Eloise your demon name?” Aziraphale asked politely.

“No,” she said curtly, instantly feeling guilty when she saw the hurt that flashed over Aziraphale’s face. She grimaced and explained in a gentler tone, “I chose it for myself when I came to Earth. Hell tried to change my name after I Fell but I just refused.” She studied him for a second, watching his eyes dart about, before saying, “You want to ask something, I can tell. What is it?”

He looked a little startled at being caught out, momentarily glancing at Crowley for support, probably subconsciously, Eloise noted with a smile. “I, well, I couldn’t help but notice that you mentioned Armageddon. Back when you were speaking with, um, well, you know. H-how did you know about that?”

“I might have been there.” The words rushed out of her mouth in a much less casual manner than what she’d been aiming for, coming out in a sort of jumbled heap that took Crowley and Aziraphale a moment to decipher.

Crowley, the poor sod, could only think to lean forward and ask a simple, “You what?”

She jumped to defend herself, wanting to avoid the onslaught of questions if she could, “Not actually at the airbase, but I was in the area. I was living in Tadfield at the time.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, although the hint of a smirk on his face told her it was more in amusement than suspicion, “How did you know it was at the airbase?”

Eloise couldn’t help but chuckle to herself because of course, they’d notice her choice of words, “I knew Adam and his mates. I ran an ice cream shop, would you believe it. He came and told me all about it the day after,” she smiled fondly before suddenly coming alive with excitement, “That’s actually how I found out about you two. That’s why I’m here. Because I thought I was the only one trying to stop the world ending, but apparently I wasn’t. I had to see for myself.”

A moment passed before Aziraphale asked quietly, “You were trying to stop it?”

Eloise, not noticing the newly subdued atmosphere, launched herself into a painfully over-enthusiastic explanation, “Yeah, it was quite clever really, if I do say so myself. I made sure Adam was swapped with the American baby in the hopes that he would have a human enough upbringing to perhaps change things. Seems to have worked,” she shrugged, before finally taking in the two shocked faces that were staring back at her. Her brows furrowed and her face fell as she asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You switched the babies?” Crowley asked blankly, although it came out as more of a statement than a question.

Her face screwed up as she tried to work out how best to explain herself. “Well, I say switched, it was more of a ‘made sure the demon dropping the antichrist off went to the wrong delivery room’ kind of thing. Feel sorry for the poor sod who had to deal with that but needs must.”

Crowley blinked at her and said bluntly, “I was the poor sod who had to deal with that.”

Eloise looked at him for a moment as about five different jigsaw pieces finally clicked in her head, before she threw her head back in realisation, “Oh shit, so you were. I knew your name sounded familiar.”

“You bastard, we spent six years raising the wrong child because of you!” he exclaimed, wagging his finger at her and jumping off of the bed at one point before Aziraphale tugged him back down. Eloise didn’t know whether to laugh or run for her life, for the menace in his words was betrayed by the disbelieving laugh in his voice.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” she asked, only just processing what he’d just said, and she couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips at his dramatic antics. She knew not to push it when Aziraphale just lifted a finger and pursed his lips with the look of someone who’d rather never bring up said event again.

“Oh bloody heaven, I can’t believe this,” Crowley shook his head, chuckling to himself. Although part of him resented it, he couldn’t help but look at Eloise differently now as they laughed like little kids together. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed so much more like them now, so much more human. Or maybe it was the fact that she had been trying to stop the apocalypse and all the implications that came with the fact. Suddenly he just wanted to know more about her, but he quickly silenced that thought. One thing at a time.

She raised her shoulders with a confused look on her face, giggling as she said, “Sorry? Well, I didn’t know, did I?”

They locked eyes for a moment before bursting into laughter again at the sheer absurdity of it all, leaving Aziraphale slightly bewildered and more than slightly exasperated at the pair. It took them a few moments to finally calm down but once they did, Crowley sobered his tone of voice as he asked, “Right, back to what happened before we came in. Anything we need to keep an eye out for?”

Though he didn’t say it, Eloise could see the unasked question in his eyes. Are we safe? She smiled softly, “Nah, you two’ll be fine. Basically I told them if they want to talk to me, then they need to get their bosses involved, and somehow I highly doubt God and Satan are gonna pop down for a friendly chat any time soon. Even then, you two should be fine. I don’t think any of that lot clocked on that you were here.”

Crowley nodded in understanding, and it didn’t escape Eloise’s attention how the remaining dregs of tension visibly dissipated from both of their bodies. Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other for a moment, the relief palpable from the pair of them. Eloise averted her eyes, giving them the privacy that they didn’t necessarily need but probably did want. She allowed herself a moment to ponder their relationship. They were very in tune with each other, very in sync, that much was obvious. Are they in love? The question sounded ridiculous the moment she thought it. Of course they are, look at them. She’d seen that look time and time again over the millennia. Although when she thought about the way they looked at each other further, that lead to another question. Do they know? The hint of yearning in their eyes was subtle but it was there. No, absolutely not. They’re too comfortable with each other. They’re a unit, that much she could tell. A unit that might not want to be disturbed.

Oh dear.

She looked back up at them hesitantly, unsure of what to say for the first time that evening. Eventually she said, “I’d better go. I think I’ve outstayed my welcome.”

Crowley frowned. Hadn’t she said she’d been travelling for a while? “You got somewhere to stay?”

Eloise paused. She’d definitely not been expecting that response. “Not yet. There is a flat I was going to rent but the people haven’t moved out yet because of the lockdown and it seems rude to miracle them away. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Stay here,” Crowley said almost instantly, then pulled a face of confusion at how quickly he replied, “I mean, only if you want to.”

Eloise blinked at that. Surely, they wouldn’t want her there? What reason could they possibly have to want her there? “Wait, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Crowley just shrugged, “It’s not a problem. What are your options anyway? No hotels are open, and you can’t stay with anyone.”

“Only if you’re sure,” she murmured, still wary for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She glanced at Aziraphale for confirmation; it was his bookshop after all.

He nodded firmly, “Of course. I’ve been told the sofa is remarkably comfy,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, to which she grinned broadly.

A short while and a few miracles later, the sofa downstairs had become a makeshift bed that was significantly larger and softer than it had remembered it being. Eloise was currently settled on it; all it had taken was ten minutes for her to completely crash out. Aziraphale and Crowley had left her in peace with a chuckle, heading up to the bedroom they shared (that wasn’t out of choice, mind you. Simply because there was only one bedroom in the bookshop. No other reason.) One slightly confused item of furniture aside, all seemed to be well in the bookshop.

Upstairs in the bedroom, an angel and a demon were sitting in the same bed. Neither of them had thought to turn off the lights, so they were sat in thick silence in the bedroom. Aziraphale didn’t usually come up to bed, not as used to sleeping as Crowley was, instead opting to read the night away downstairs. However this seemed impolite considering their new guest, so he’d come up with Crowley. And while Crowley was mulling this over he finally stumbled upon why he felt so uneasy.

Aziraphale hadn’t brought a book up with him.

As bizarre a concern as that may seem, Crowley could always trust Aziraphale to bring a book up to bed with him on the rare occasion he came up at night. That was one of the things he lo- liked about him. Liked. He looked at Aziraphale curiously, noting the slight frown on his face as he stared into space. How deep in his head must he have been to forget a book? “You alright, angel?” he asked as softly as he could so as to not startle him.

He looked at Crowley with wide eyes that darted away almost instantly as he started to play with his hands in his lap, “Yes, my dear, I’m fine. I just realised something, is all.”

Crowley cocked his head in interest, “Oh really? What was it?”

He was silent for a little while before saying in a voice no louder than a whisper, “I think I was there when she Fell.”

Crowley felt his eyebrows raise in shock, looking away for a second to try and compose himself. “Right. Well, that’s a thing.”

“Quite.”

He furrowed his brows as he tried to make sense of what this meant now, “And was she telling the truth? Did all that actually happen?”

“Yes. I remember it perfectly well. Clear as day,” he managed to choke out with a forced smile before going back to his routine fidgeting.

Crowley laid a gentle hand on top of Aziraphale’s, stopping what he was doing and getting him to actually look him in the eye for longer than a second. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I am quite well. Don’t fret,” he said, and despite Crowley’s concern, he couldn’t pretend that the smile on Aziraphale’s face wasn’t genuine, however small it may have been.

He reluctantly let it go, changing the subject quickly, “You alright with her staying here? I know it just sort of happened.”

The smile on his face only grew, much to Crowley’s surprise, “It’s alright. After all, wasn’t it you who said we’re on our own side now? I think she’s the first person we’ve met who might understand what that means.”

Crowley tried not to think too much about the fact that Aziraphale had actually listened to him when he’d said that, let alone remembered it, instead opting for a casual, “Yeah, I suppose so. Right, I’m gonna get some sleep. I, um, yeah,” he stammered out awkwardly, cursing his brain for not thinking of literally any other decent response.

Aziraphale simply smiled fondly at him, “Indeed. Goodnight, my dear.”

*************

Hello my love,

At the time of writing this, I do not know what the future holds. For me it’s an uncertain, unstoppable force, and it’s not one I think I can fend off for much longer. I’ve tried, please believe that I’ve tried. I’ve tried for your sake to prevent the inevitable. But it’s coming. I can feel it. It won’t be long now, I don’t think.

If you’re reading this, it means I was right, and I have Fallen. I know you’re probably confused and scared and that there is a biting anger bubbling inside you. I wish I could tell you why this is happening. I wish I could tell you that this is all a huge misunderstanding that will be resolved soon.

I wish I could tell you I love you one more time.

But I can’t. There are many things I can’t do now, and it’ll do me no good to dwell on this any longer than I have to. To survive we must focus on what we can do, and that’s exactly what I’m asking you to do.

If I know myself as well as I think I do, there are many things I would have liked to have said to you upon our final farewell, but didn’t because I wanted to make sure you were alright. Don’t feel guilty about this, my love. Think of it as my last debt to you being repaid.

I have a plan. Well, it’s more of an idea, and it might not work. And it’s because of this that I shan’t tell you exactly what it is. It seems cruel to allow you to hope for something that might never come into fruition. But please put your faith in me, and in our love, for we will prevail. One way or another.

I hope that you didn’t wait to read this letter because you were scared of its contents, though I’m sure this isn’t the case. You were always brave. It was always something I loved about you. Your quiet, beautiful, roaring courage in the face of such turmoil and anguish. You always had the courage to be kind and to love with all your being, even when everything was against you. No one would have blamed you if you had turned cold and bitter, and yet you chose not to. I admire you for it every day. My idea, should it work, will require us both to be incredibly brave. But more on that another day. It’s that bravery and that strength that you will need to rely on now. That, and the thought of me. Though I may not physically be with you, but I hope that my love’s own soul is enough.

I won’t sign off this letter, because this is not where our story ends. There is much left to be written. And I need you to remember that each day we are parted. Until the next time, my love.

#good omens #good omens headcanon #good omens fic #good omens imagine #crowley #crowley headcanon #crowley imagine #Aziraphale #aziraphale imagine #aziraphale headcanon #Ineffable Husbands

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architectuul · 4 years ago

Text

Demolitions

for Czechoslovakia’s architectures between 1960s–1980s is a controversial subject. The public may still regard it negatively, owing to a lack of information or an adverse experience with the country’s regime before the Velvet Revolution.

Omnipol Building by Zdeněk Kuna, Zdeněk Stupka, Milan Valenta, Josef Zdražil, Ladislav Vrátník (1974–1979) | Photo © Kamil Warta, National Gallery Prague

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Erosion of Transgas (2020) by NGP/Loom on the Moon

Helena Doudová, the curator of the exhibition NO DEMOLITIONS! Forms of Brutalism in Prague, presents Brutalism buildings in Prague that prominently enter the urban scene. The nearly two hundred and fifty original architectural plans, photographs and models come mostly from the Architecture Collection of the National Gallery Prague. The examples of the most progressive architecture works feature the Kotva Department Store, the former Central Telecommunications Building at Žižkov (marked for demolition), the former Federal Assembly, Hotel Intercontinental and Barrandov Bridge and the recently demolished Transgas complex.

“No Demolitions!” is a quite straightforward title for an exhibition. What is happening in Prague and the Czech Republic, that led you to organize this exhibition and choose this title?

With the exhibition we intended to highlight the values of late modern and brutalist architecture in Prague that becomes either demolished or refurbished beyond the point of recognition. Some of the buildings ceased to exist throughout the one year since we started working on the topic. We intended to show that the buildings by the architects like Karel Prager, Karel Filsak, the husband-and-wife team Machoninovi and Šrámkovi have built edifices, which are comparable with the most prestigious architecture production of the former Western Europe and the US.

Center of Home Design by Věra Machoninová, Vladimír Machonin (1971–1981) | | Photo © Kamil Wartha, National Gallery Prague

The Trade Fair Palace is an exclusive choice for an architectural exhibition; why did you choose this location?

It is a building with strong symbolic meaning, a real jewel of functionalist architecture but at the same time it is difficult to present an exhibition due to technical parameters as light because paper plans and photography are very sensitive to it. The gallery floor plan worked quite well in a sequence, so the exhibition concept fit quite well. Ondřej Císler created vitrines with colored large plans and prints from the architecture collection of the National Gallery in Prague. Plans are contrasted with the photography of the deteriorated state of the buildings by Olja Triaška Stefanović.

In many countries of the former East Bloc, protecting Late Modern architecture creates a specific challenge, as these buildings are widely associated with the negative perception of the political era they were created in. This can very easily lead to iconoclastic gestures, as we have seen in the case of Skopje 2014. What can art history, museology and the wider profession do against this phenomenon?

The negative public opinion toward these buildings is a cluster of multiple problems. One general problem not only in the Central or Eastern Europe is the poor long term maintenance, which makes the buildings appear even more brutal than intended in the architecture design. As the exhibition shows, the architects were thinking of the public space around these buildings, inserted artworks and parks, as a number of designs show.

Secondly, the political associations are difficult, but also controversial to me. I very much think that the socialist state invested into large public buildings before 1989 and did provide socially accessible culture programs, sports, etc. So to me the brutalist buildings are valuable and authentic through their aim to belong to the community but also undercover propaganda. One can’t change people's memories or their experience with communism, but it’s not the fault of buildings that were ironically planned in the golden sixties in the time of the political détente in Czechoslovakia.

The exhibition | Photo © Katarína Hudačinová, the National Gallery Prague

In comparison, no large public building in Prague has been built since 30 years, what shows the shift of the capital flow with privatization. Nowadays, the real estate investors misuse the negative public opinion to demolish high quality buildings to acquire lucrative plots in the city centre for private investment. In many cases it would have been possible to reuse the brutalist buildings at a lower expense, like for example the Embassy of CZ in Berlin.

The National Gallery seems to be a prestigious place for the exhibition about the architecture of an era that is widely disputed and is also a strong institutional statement; how are Czech academics and professionals reacting to the events around the architecture of the 1960s, 1970s, 1980s?

I very much believe in the power of the exhibition as a tool for mediation and education, but also bringing up controversial or uncomfortable topics. That is the position the National Gallery has. Its architecture collection is centred around post-1945 architecture so it is logical to present it in an innovative perspective. Brutalism has received international acclaim in architecture history since 2010s, so we have had many academic discussions, but to me it is important to bring the phenomenon to the public. It is interesting that the expression is the same in former East and West, the only difference is that in the former West the buildings like the MET Breuer are celebrated, while in the former East these buildings are admired by the professionals and despised by the wide public.

In most of our countries we see the profession and the public speaking out to protect some of these buildings, in Hungary this happened by the proposed demolition of Zoltán Gulyás’ Chemolimpx office building in the early 2010s, and more recently when the government announced the demolition of Csaba Virág’s soc-hi-tech Electric Power Distribution Center. There are similar stories in Czechia and Poland - how do you explain the public being so involved in these cases?

Yes, there is an entire movement of active architecture historians, architects and interested public. David Crowley, the head of arts department of the NCAD in Dublin, is a great observer of these shifts, which demonstrate a renewal of the consciousness for public sphere and public spaces in general. So far the protests have been unsuccessful in confrontation with the investment pressures, a culmination point was the demolition of the Transgas building, public protests accompanied the demolition of Hotel Praha, and eventually rescued railway station in Havířov. Crowley says this a unique trait in Central Europe as he has not seen such engagement in the UK or Ireland. In Germany, the heritage protection of post-war buildings is really advanced by now, but there are not such strong public initiatives to me...

Transgas Complex by Ivo Loos, Jindřich Malátek, Václav Aulický, Jiří Eisenreich, Jiří Kozák, Jan Fišer (1966–1978) | Photo © Kamil Wartha, National Gallery Prague

Why did you choose brutalism as a specific style to sum up these buildings? Strictly speaking, the term is quite well defined and confined to a specific group of mostly British and American buildings, what is brutalism in your definition?

The usual association is béton brut, with the main inspiration of Le Corbusier. At the same time, I took at hand Rayner Banham, who speaks about three criteria, in short – the figure, the revealed construction and authenticity of material, which would better comply with the notion of brutalism in variety. Also brutalism has been changing from the expression of the Smithson's Hunstanton school, to let's say Paul Rudolph. In such way brutalism became an international expression with multiple specifics.

Hotel Intercontinental by Karel Filsak, Karel Bubeníček, Jiří Louda, Jaroslav Švec a kol. (1968–1974) | Photo © Kamil Wartha, National Gallery Prague

The notion of brutalism has been a subject of a dispute in the curatorial team with Petr Vorlík, Klára Brůhová (CTU Prague) and Radomíra Sedláková (NG Prague). We assumed the Czech architecture was influenced by brutalism, to a smaller or larger extent depending on every architect. Architecture of late modernism in Czech shows finer handling of material such as glass, mosaics, of wooden cladding, a variety of bright colours, that do not particularly express the notion of brutalism associated with rough concrete. The houses do in a way respect the scale of the surrounding city, are most often broken down in a composition of smaller volumes, reference bay windows of surrounding houses, etc.

PZO Centrotex Building – Václav Hilský, Otakar Jurenka (1972–1978) | Photo © Kamil Wartha, National Gallery Prague

At the same time the label brutalism is in public drawn to all kinds of buildings, which have with little or nothing to do with late modernism, actually, are clad in stone. So as architecture historians we strived to differentiate and raise public awareness on the topic.

Is there a specific Czech brutalism? Are there any national or regional characteristics in this era?

This is not an easy question. Brutalism was a global and a local phenomenon. Interestingly, in the Czechoslovak architecture we see magazines that iconic brutalist buildings were published, like La Tourette, or the architecture by Stirling in the 1960s and 1970s. So the information iron curtain was more semi-penetrable in terms of architecture knowledge and expression, like Ákos Moravánszky says. The regional specifics construction processes, the quality and variability of materials, which was lower in the former Eastern block, and also the public opinion which incorrectly associates the buildings with state socialism.

We are talking about the architectural production of an era that produced an incredible amount of buildings. How is it possible to create a canon for such a recent past and what do you think about the monumental protection regarding these buildings? What should be protected and how? Can you also name a few example, interesting buildings (and interiors) from Czechia?

A unique example is the already heritage protected Kotva Department Store by architect's team Věra and Vladimír Machoninovi.

Kotva department store in Prague. | Photo © Olja Triaška Stefanović

The former Federal Assembly is another iconic example of a daring construction originally intended for bridges. It encloses the former classical modernist stock exchange building and complements the ensemble anew. Interiors have unfortunately been refurbished and only very few items are present in the museums.

Former Federal Assembly Building Prague. | Photo © Olja Triaška Stefanović

A unique example is the Czech embassy in Berlin with intact interiors. A contested interior reconstruction is currently Hotel Thermal by Machoninovi in Karlovy Vary. At least five outstanding buildings have been demolished in Prague, countless have been refurbished. Only two above-named brutalist buildings are heritage protected, other like Hotel Intercontinental by Filsak, or Centrotex by Hiský, Motokov by Kuna should become protected as unique works of art and architecture.

___

Interview by Dániel Kovács and first published in Epiteszforum.

Photo © Jan Faukner

Helena Doudová is curator of the Architecture Collection of the National Gallery Prague. She gained curatorial and museum experience as research and curatorial fellow of the International Museum Program in the German Museum of Books and Writing in Leipzig in collaboration with the University of Erfurt and the German Federal Cultural Foundation 2016/2017, as a Robert Bosch Fellow at Architecture Museum of the TU Munich – Pinakothek der Moderne (2011–2012) and as an intern in the German Architecture Centre DAZ in Berlin (2013–2014). She initiated and curated NO DEMOLITIONS! Forms of Brutalism in Prague, Baugruppe ist super!, Image Factories: Infographics 1920-1945: Fritz Kahn, Otto Neurath. She is a PhD candidate at the Institute of Art History of the University of Zurich. She was awarded DAAD research scholarship and Aktion Österreich scholarship.

***

NO DEMOLITIONS! Forms of Brutalism in Prague

From 6.3.2020 to 22.11.2020 at the Trade Fair Palace – 3rd floor Dukelských hrdinů 47, 170 00 Praha 7 Map

Curator: Helena Doudová Collaborating experts / co-curators: Klára Brůhová (FA CTU in Prague), Radomíra Sedláková (NGP), Petr Vorlík (FA CTU in Prague)

#interview

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fight-surrender · 5 years ago

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6 Sentence Sunday!

I should make a fancy header. If I knew how to make fancy headers I totally would.

My dear friends, @f-ing-ruthless-baz @ninemagicks @sourcherrymagiks @nunzibelle @annabellelux @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @sharkmartini thanks so much for the tags, the world is such an excellent place because y’all are in it. Despite all the other shit that’s going on, y’all (and frankly this whole fandom) are all bright shiny sparks of fantasticness. Yep, that’s not a word, but fuck it.

I didn’t have the bandwidth to work on Howlin’ this week, but inspiration struck this morning, so I bring you-- not just 6 sentences, but a whole ficlet. It’s totally unbeta’d so the grammar is bollocks and it probably has weirdness that @carryonsimoncarryonbaz would normally fix, but I decided, once again, fuckit, I’ll just post in the hopes that it brings somebody a smile. I hope, or maybe a weird cringe, but hopefully it’s better than bad.

Love in the Time of Quarantine (A Snowbaz Quarantine Ficlet ~800 words)

Simon:

The air around me feels insulting. It’s taunting me. Like one wrong breath and I can cause the demise of hundreds. That doesn’t even make sense, but this whole thing is getting to me. The Mage is pretty sure the virus can’t penetrate the wards around Watford, but he’s not certain. The families, old and young are demanding their children come home, to quarantine there.

I’m not sure where that leaves me.

I could go to Penny’s, but I’m afraid her mum will throw me out in the street after a few days. Especially with a full house. I’d rather not risk it.

I’ve committed to feeling sorry for myself, sitting in my bed while Baz bustles around, packing his trunks. Maybe I’ll just stow away in the kitchen and ride it out here. Nobody will notice. Plenty of canned goods, no scones though. I wonder what the toilet paper situation is.

I sigh and lean my head back, tapping it on the headboard. There’s a spider on the ceiling minding his own business. He can be my friend; I’ll call him Wilson.

Merlin, I’m already losing it.

“Snow,” Baz says, pulling me back to reality.

“What.”

“You should come to Hampshire.”

I turn my head and wrinkle my brows at him, “What?” “Why?”

Baz clears his throat and folds his arms, looking at me like he’s being perfectly reasonable, “Do you have anywhere else to go?”

“Well, no but—”

He walks over and sits next to me on my bed, with this weird look on his face. For a disorienting moment, my brain struggles to categorize Baz’s expression. I can’t help it; I end up sneering at him when I realize he’s being kind. What the hell is happening right now?

I recoil, “You’re suggesting I go home with you?”

“Yes.”

“To quarantine?”

“Yes.”

“With your family?”

Baz closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, like he’s reaching within to summon his last shred of patience. I glance up at Wilson to see if he’s morphed into some kind of monster, because clearly this is all a hallucination.

“Simon,”

Why did he call me Simon? Why did that make my heart flip in my chest. I look at his face, it’s wrong. The angles are all muted, soft. His eyes so grey. His lips so full. He has nice lips. I feel my face heating up.

“Look,” Baz says, his eyes locked on mine. Is he putting me in a thrall? I should look away. (I don’t look away.) (Crowley, his eyes are so pretty.) “We’re in the middle of an unprecedented global event. Every day is weird and different and there is bad news around every corner.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” I say, “Thank you for that ray of sunshine, Baz.”

“Shut up, Snow, let me get this out.”

My eyes widen as I struggle to process yet another new expression on Baz’s face. He looks pained. And pinkish-grey. Is he blushing?

“In light of this whole Apocalypse thing—"

“This isn’t the Apocalypse, Baz.” I shove his shoulder. I believe this is the weirdest moment I’ve ever experienced. If it’s a hallucination or dream, I’ve decided to just roll with it.

“Toilet paper has become a status symbol,” Baz replies. “These could very well be the end times.”

Baz closes his eyes, turning his head away slightly and the words come in a rush, “Working with you—setting up this truce—I did it partially to get you to help me find my mum’s killer, but also kind of for selfish reasons.” He pauses, inhales, “I don’t want to fight you anymore Simon. I never did. “

I know my mouth is hanging open, I can’t help it. I should say something, but I can’t find words right now. Baz just looks so—vulnerable. What I really want to do is touch him, my fingers are itching with it. I need to make contact. To smooth his hair from his face. To wrap my arms around him. I’d say these thoughts were random and unbidden, but I know they’re not. I’ve thought them before.

Baz presses on, eyes closed, like he’s saying a mantra. “I like you Snow. Romantically. For a long time. I know you don’t like me, I don’t know what I’d do if you did. But I just wanted to clear the air, so maybe we could at least be friends. Until the end of the world, or whatever—,” He tapers off.

I look at Baz, with his perfect face, his perfect hair, his perfect mouth, he’s biting his lip. He looks delicious. I decide to stop thinking. I lean forward to place my hand on his jaw, turning his head my way. His uncertain thundercloud eyes meet mine. My lips meet his. Then he’s on top of me and I feel like a circuit’s been completed. I bury my hands in his hair, and he kisses me like he’s finally coming up for air. I kiss him back like I’ve finally found the answer.

I feel so happy, which is ludicrous, but this is so good. Merlin, I’m kissing a boy. I’m kissing Baz.

I’m going to Hampshire to quarantine with Baz’s family who hates me. And with Baz, who apparently doesn’t.

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

My anxiety is buzzing as I get ready to publish this, so I can’t think straight, plus everyone’s been tagged, so apologies if I miss you or if you’ve been tagged. @adamarks @theflyingpeach @captain-aralias @carryonsimoncarryonbaz @messofthejess @warriorbeeofthesea @vkelleyart @flintandfuss @krisrix

#6 sentence sunday #carry on #ficlet #my ficlet #snowbaz #snowbaz fanfiction #simon snow #baz pitch #this is totally unbetad

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nostalgiaispeace · 4 years ago

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2142.

Do you have any fascination with the macabre? Examples? i guess i have.

Do you actually think skeletons are scary? no

The Addams Family or The Munsters? Why? neither

Do you watch any late-night horror hosts? (Like Svengoolie or Elvira) no

Do you enjoy old horror/monster movies, or just enjoy making fun of them? i like them

What monster movie is your favorite? godzilla

Have you ever seen the Rocky Horror Show live? If so, was the event held at midnight? not live.

Have you ever made fake blood at home? no

Which TV version of Sabrina The Teenage Witch do you prefer? Why? (^^The Melissa Joan Hart one VS. Chilling Adventures of Sabrina) neither

Do you ever watch the original Bewitched TV series? Which Darrin did you like best? no

Did you like the Bewitched movie with Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell? i don’t remember

Have you ever seen The Witches of Eastwick? Did you like it? i saw the show and i remember liking it.

Is Hocus Pocus really a good movie, or a bit overrated? i don’t think i’ve ever seen the whole movie.

If you’ve seen The Craft, who was your favorite character and why? no

Do you think a remake of it would be interesting? Or do you think it worked best in the nineties? idk

What witch-themed movie/show is your favorite, anyhow? harry potter :)

Do you like The Nightmare Before Christmas? sure

Do you count it as a Halloween movie and a Christmas movie? christmas movie

Do you like Jack or Sally better? sally

What other Tim Burton works do you enjoy, if any? i can’t think of any

Are there any ‘dark’ or 'spooky’ films you recommend? sure

Are any horror/suspense films actually scary to you? Which ones? not really

Are there any songs that put you in a spooky mood? no

Just for fun – what would your personal hell look like? lol

What supernatural/paranormal themed TV show is your favorite, if any? supernatural

If you’ve watched Supernatural, did you like Crowley? i did

On Supernatural, do you like the angels or demons better? demons

Did you have to read The Crucible for school? yeah

Would you like to visit Salem, Massachusetts? sure

Would you like to visit the Winchester Mystery House? sure

What about Alcatraz? sure

Do you think it would be fun to stay at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast, even though the 'hauntings’ are so obviously faked? yes

On that matter…do you think Lizzie actually did it? idk

Have you ever purchased anything from an occult or New Age shop? What? i think so

Do you ever watch paranormal investigation shows even just to make fun of them? yes lol

Did you know Samhain is NOT pronounced Sam-hayn? (It’s pronounced Sow-wenn.) nope

Do you know any Pagans/Wiccans? no

Did you ever think that Wiccans worship the devil? (We do not. There is no such thing as the devil in Wicca, the devil is a Christian concept.) no

Do you know any Satanists? yes

Have you ever read The Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth? no

Are there any animals that scare you? well yeah

Would you ever keep a tarantula as a pet? no thanks

Do you wear mostly black? yeah

What do you think are some of the scariest things that happened in reality? shit i’m not gonna share

Are there any urban legends in your area? What are they? idk

Do porcelain dolls unnerve you? no

Does your imagination get away from you if you’re alone after dark? yes

Do you find dead trees beautiful? sure

Have you ever been inside of an abandoned building? no

What mythical creature do you think you’d like for a pet? none

Is the light of the full moon eerie or peaceful? it’s nice

Have you ever actually believed in monsters? (Like as a kid) as a kid i did

Any recurring nightmares? Care to share? no

What myths/legends do you find most interesting? idk

Have you ever watched The Twilight Zone? Night Gallery? Alfred Hitchcock Presents? If you’ve watched all three, which is your favorite? no

Do you like the look of gothic mansions? sure

Do you own any books from Llewellyn Worldwide publishing company? idk

Did you ever go through a goth phase? sure

#me #survey

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ships-n-giggles · 5 years ago

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Futile Souls: Good Omens Platonic Crowley/Reader

Summary: He saves you. And you chase him through several lifetimes trying to thank him. Platonic, no romance, written because Crowley loves kids

____

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing (and publishing!) reader-insert fanfiction, and I got inspiration from a chapter of Little Pet Shop of Horrors, a Good Omen’s AU regarding Crowley sneaking kids onto the Ark (if the author would message me so I can credit, I would appreciate it!) and other reincarnation stories. These are all based on meetings he has with Aziraphale throughout history, and taking into context the problems that went on during this. This is not a condemnation of certain cultures, religions or peoples, but rather an observation of how it could have affected kids.

If anyone thinks the level of effort Crowley goes to in protecting kids is not accurate with the book or show, that that’s up to you. This is a personal view of what I think Crowley would do in situations where innocent kids will get hurt or killed. I also used the closest thing I could think of to the original names of Jesus and others, though I’m certain I may have inaccuracies. If there are any experts who can point them out for me, I’d appreciate knowing my mixups, though I don’t think I’ll be editing. (ie, no beta read, we die like men)

Also please note that I’m not doing romantic shipping because I personally view Crowley and Aziraphale as agender, asexual beings in reference to what Neil Gaiman has come out to say about them, being a demon and an angel and all. If you like romantic shipping, please write your own or support other readers!

I don’t own Good Omens, because if I did there would be real dinosaurs and I would be living in a castle by the sea, so don’t sue please.

The first time, it was raining very hard.

Your father remarked that such a mighty rain in the desert was surely a promise from above that there would be more fertile lands. More water for barely, wheat, to bake bread and brew beer. You wish you knew what your mother would have thought of it all. But she had been dead seven years, and your father had already married a third time. And your stepmother did not bother to tell you anything. More often than not, she pretended you were not there.

“It’s raining too much.” Your friends remarked, the third day in. “We should ask if we can get on that big boat out beyond the village.”

The local madman, your father called him.

A ship of great proportions, but with no sail or rudder. It seemed less a boat and more of a glorified tub to float in the ocean….except the sea was miles and miles away and would not hasten to him, surely. But there had been remarkable things. A week ago, he let out a great shout for all of the beasts and creatures of the world to come unto him. And they had. Two by two, pair by pair. You saw animals you had no name for. Great big cats with stripes that barely licked their chops in your direction, even as you ducked behind your father, but rather padded along patiently towards the ship. Animals bigger than a house, with a tail at both ends! Even mice were scampering to join the ferry.

The rain drowns the crops, and starts billowing over into your house. Your stepmother, irritated, pregnant, and tired of the soggy state of things, chases you out while your father snores in their bed.

“Hurry! Look!” The children shout at you to join them on top of a big rock. The water is flowing more heavily now, and covers your feet and make your sandals heavy. “It’s the ocean!”

Sure enough, it is the ocean. The adults scoff that it was just the nearby river, but strange fish splash out from it. It looks too big to be a river. And too muddy.

The stranger comes.

“Come.” He hushes you all, a group of twelve children, who are curious at his red hair and yellow eyes. You give a last glance at your house. Your stepmother will not mind if you are gone long. And father will not notice. And this stranger is not like the other adults who are impatient and sometimes lash out when a child is too noisy. He hangs back from view, and watches things as they happen. “Hurry up. There’s not much time left.”

The water around the ark is up to your waist, though it only comes to the stranger’s knees as you wade to the base of the boat. Shem has pulled up the gangplank. He shouts angrily at the people of the village, for shunning their God. For sin. For the corruption of their existence.

The stranger casts one frustrated look of desperation to the skies, grabs a plank and pops it open. You’re all in awe and surprise. The planks are made of tough oak, and the stranger didn’t even use a hammer.

“Get in, you lot. Quick, quick, before we’re noticed.”

But you are all very afraid now. The rain comes down harder, the wind whipping it as you all hold your clothes together tightly, cowering in the coming storm. You jump at the sound of crackling thunder, and look up as lightning bursts in the sky.

You know that much more than the ocean has come to greet you.

So you lead the way, and climb aboard.

The other children, hesitantly at first, follow. And finally the stranger climbs in, putting the plank back where it was and banging the nails back in the other way with his own fist.

All thirteen of you huddle together in the dark hull, and begin to hear things. First it was just heavy rushes of water, splashing the ship. Then it gives a great lurch, and you can feel it floating. There is noise and commotion outside, hearing men slosh around and yelling instructions to slow the flow. Then you hear them urging the others to climb the rooftops of their homes. Then the screaming.

The stranger lets the children cling to him as the storm rages outside. You are right under his arm, hugging his waist and trembling. You all were the children who were awake. But there were many other children in the village. And some had not even been born.

You think you hear your father crying out to the heavens before it is swallowed up by a wave of water and let out a gasp. Without hesitation, the stranger moves one of his hands to your head, soothing you. Your father rarely touched you save to express his frustration or to move you aside.

You wonder if this was a man sent by God.

Peeking up, the stranger’s gaze is intently on a shadow in the hull of the ship, what would lead to the animal pens above. It is tense, fearful, waiting. Hoping. Wishing that you all are not caught.

A long time ago, a black snake slipped into your house and scared your first stepmother to bits, and was chased out by your father. It occurs to you that his eyes are precisely that same kind.

The storm rages, and you are all lulled to sleep.

“Here. Look outside.”

All of you have been wafting in and out of sleep, anxious waiting in the dark, and eating whatever the stranger procures when he briefly departs into the darkness to find some food. It is very little, a couple of raw vegetables or a loaf of bread to share, washed down with fresh water. And you have no idea how long you all have been afloat. Sometimes the rocking of the ship makes you sick. Sometimes it just makes you tired.

When the stranger beckons you all to the plank you had crawled in from, you realize the ship is very, very still.

He pops it open, and there is an amazing sight outside.

A bridge in the sky, with every beautiful color you have ever known and some you have only heard about. A bright white bird with a laurel in its toes soars across the sky, and the sun is shining. There is a lot of water still. And a lot of mud. But it is receding.

“That’s a promise.” The stranger says. “That this won’t happen again.”

But clearly he does not trust this sign from God.

The stranger is careful. He waits until the animals disperse and waits even longer for Shem and his family to set forth with their wives, children and livestock, to claim what is left. When there is nothing but fresh new silence, he leads you all along. “The sun won’t set on you here.” He says as he takes you to the edge of a new sea. His long arm points to a mountain far, far away. “Keep walking. When you reach that mountain, you’ll find a new home. Don’t tell them where you came from. Don’t let them know how you got here.” He looks down and you gaze up at him. “And for hell’s sake don’t let this be the end of you.”

You want to ask him to come along, but the other children have begun to walk, and….after a long wait, you hurry to catch up.

The twelve of you never forget his face. But you had no name to recall him by. So the others begin to forget him for real.

Canaan is fertile, fine land. Shem and his family must have roamed elsewhere. But there are good people here, surprised to find so many lost children wandering around. The high priest of Canaan divines that this was the work of God that you came here, and one by one, you are interred into new homes. You do not form real familial relations with your foster family at first. But a shy cousin is taken with you, and in time, you make your own.

You used to remember the stranger with the other lost children. But soon they stop talking about it. And when you ask, they frown, and tell you they were born here.

Your last breath is drawn upon the birth of your second child. When you see the black cloak your heart leaps with joy…the stranger has come back.

But you feel very cold to realize this is another stranger.

“Yes.” He agrees. “Very much a stranger.”

Your mother in law is wailing alongside the baby, but your body is cold and lifeless. There is grief in the air, but the question has been hanging on for some time now. “Who is he?” You ask. “What is his name?”

“You are dead. You will never see him again.”

“I could.” You said in a small voice. “I might. The sun is reborn every day. The moon waxes and wanes. I could come back too.”

“Would you? Would you relive this life? To know his name?”

“…I didn’t even say thank you. I wouldn’t have lived this long if he hadn’t.”

There is a long silence, and you see the world shrouded in darkness…pinpricked with dying lights that flash brightly before fading away. “Exactly this way. Every time.” Death agrees. “You will be born in time to see him. You will marry and have two children. And you will live only thirty two years before you start all over again.” The promise sounds like a dark omen, as if you should be afraid of such an arrangement. “Until you can express your gratitude, that will be your cycle.”

“That is enough for me.” You whisper, and feel your face and name become less familiar. “Until I can say thank you.”

You do not close your eyes. You don’t have the form to do so anymore.

_______

The next time, it is in Palestine. Galilee.

Your father and stepmother are worrying again, over the state of Roman affairs. It should have mattered less to them, being Jews, but their king in Rome had a lot to say about Jews being Jewish. Even as she soothes your future sibling, resting in her tummy, your stepmother says a lot of prayers, urging God to avert the Roman gaze away from you when you go out to play.

Most Roman legionaries don’t care about the multitude of children that run amok in the streets, and you and your friends play with hoops, ball games, and sometimes draw in the dirt or with charcoal on the walls. Sometimes they chuckle and remark on their own children in Rome, being minded by their mothers, sisters, and wives. You wonder why they don’t stay in Rome with their families like they should, but when you think on it, staring at them, they bark in Latin and make you run.

Your friend is a neighbor, who sings brightly. She is singing a hymn about Abraham in the yard, weaving alone, when you hear her stop and her mother screams. Your father tries to keep you from looking, but you climb to your bed in the loft and peer out.

A legionnaire is wiping the blood off his gladius, and your friend is dead, stabbed in the throat and bleeding heavily into the street. Her mother is wailing and screaming in horror, bent over her body and her tears flowing into the street. The legionnaire scolds her for letting her daughter be so crass in public and gives her a hard kick.

Your father grabs a cudgel from the wall. Your stepmother sees and grows pale, shutting the door behind him and fastening it shut.

Many other fathers do the same, and the riot that breaks out is so loud that you have to cover your ears and hide in the pantry with the door locked. You scream when the walls crumble in the kitchen, and your stepmother praying for mercy when a someone cuts her off. The door is forced open and you’re dragged out.

You choke at the sight of a street, wrecked from the fighting, with more Jews lying in pieces and Romans gathering up the inhabitants and shoving them along. They’re taking you to the coliseum.

Some Jews who worship openly, or even privately, get dragged in there and never come out. Your father used to say it was because the Romans wanted to look strong, and thus they put charges on people who had no power and punished them for their innocence. It occurs to you that among the beat up rioters, weeping mothers, and confused elderly, you are the only child in the group. You’re all forced into a dark, dry holding cell, packed together like jars of dried fish. An old woman sees you and hurries to sit you on her lap to prevent you from being crushed by the crowd.

And you’re all forced to wait.

You’re asleep when you’re forced awake by the sound of snarling. Something big. Something hungry.

The cell is half empty when you awaken. The old woman is shivering with fright. You are too. Then, a whisper passes through, and the woman urges you to move to a shadowed corner of the cell. “Come, come quickly.” The urge you, and as you are pushed forth, you see a small opening where a few bricks are removed. It’s too big for the rest, but you squeeze through with a few helpful pushes from the others, and land in the hot sand outside.

A man shaded under black linen with vibrant red hair and yellow eyes is waiting on the other side.

“Go. Run.” He urges, grabbing you by the wrist. Pulled along, the two of you race out of sight, even as cheers erupt from the coliseum. He pushes you up a ladder and over rooftops, and finally through a small door in the walls of the city. He squints into the distance, and sees a group moving forward. “C’mon, it’s not too late.” He points. “That there is a group following a man named Yeshua. That man will keep you safe from harm.” He squares you by the shoulders, bending over to look at you deep in the eye. “Do not let this place be your end. Now run.”

Something inside you tells you that you ought to wait, to say something else. But he gives you a good shove and you start running. By the time you catch up enough to look back, there is no more sight of your rescuer. He has vanished into a dot on the horizon, with the walls of Galilee behind him.

You push forward to find this man the others reverently call the son of God.

At first you hide behind the crowds when he stops by an oasis to drink. He speaks very gently to everyone, yet loud enough for the others in the back to hear as he speaks. You find yourself listening very intently, until he sees you hiding in the crowd and smiles softly.

He looks after you until a husband and wife come forward, admitting they had lost their baby and wished to take you in as their own. They have heard Yeshua’s message. They live by it. You cannot remember a family that loved you more, except perhaps the parents you have lost. You are married in another city to a friend of theirs. He is solemn and quiet, but he has soft hands and a sweet smile he keeps just for you.

After you are married, you grieve to find Yeshua has been murdered.

But when you and your husband make the pilgrimage to his tomb to pay your respects, your eyes are awash in tears to see him standing before you at the inn, smiling softly, with puncture wounds on his wrists. “My child.” He says gently, and you embrace. He has not forgotten you after all this time.

When you return home to give birth to your firstborn, they tell you he has returned to Heaven. He was here long enough to at least say goodbye. When you become pregnant a second time, you feel as though you are watching your life trickle away like grains of sand in an hourglass.

Yellow eyes. Red hair.

You don’t know his name but you want to find him.

You ask all over the town, hobbling even as the weight of your child bears down on you. But the last that was ever seen, even in Galilee, was of that man watching when they put Yeshua to the cross. Still you search, until your husband bodily carries you to an inn in the next town over. You heave and choke on your breath in a spare room at the hostel.

Regret tinges your last moments.

_____

Again you are born. This time as a slave in Rome.

Your mother cooks for Domitus Britannicus Hesperodus. A wealthy Senator with the ear of the Emperor, married twice. Your mother could not say no to him when he forced her to lay with him, and in time you were born. He didn’t seem to care that you were his flesh and blood, and neither did his children who ordered you around, mimicking their patriarch.

You think it extraordinary how slaves can get in trouble so often. As a child you often hung close to your mother, helping her bake bread and grill fish by the hot stove. But you hear stories of slaves who break furniture and pottery, dawdle on their errands, or speak impertinently to the master. You hear this from the children, who warn you that if you act out of line they will run right to your master and tell him to whip you soundly. Maybe you would even lose a hand. There is already one servant missing a hand when he deigned to steal your master’s bread, who clumsily hauls wood for the fireplaces and stokes the hearth.

When you are asked to serve the table, you realize it is the masters who decide if a slave is impertinent, clumsy, spiteful or lazy.

You don’t remember doing anything wrong. You serve the dishes, pour the wine, and remember what your mother says about keeping your eyes to the ground and staying quiet. The master has several friends over, senators dining lazily and debating philosophy. When your gaze is drawn up to a dove cooing in the window, you miss the first call for wine. The second call is a shattering cup that nearly hits you.

“Lazy!” Your master rears up like a lion about to pounce. You’re terrified as he grabs you by the arm. “Are you deaf? Now the cup is broken!” He piles on the blame and pulls back his hand. And in your panic you bite down on his arm.

You hear him yowl as you run away, dropping the wine jar and spilling it all over the floor as you make haste for the garden. You near trample his youngest son, who bawls when he drops his toy into the pond. You squash the flowers in the yard before leaping up to grab the edge of the wall, scrambling to get over and feeling the breeze of a whip at your heel as you climb up and over…making a run into the night. Late night revelers whoop as you run, and a few prostitutes cheer and make inappropriate gestures as you dart through them, running as your pursuers pour from the house and start to make chase.

Domitus has gotten astride his chariot, yelling at the street-goers to get out of his way as he rumbles down the street, catching up.

“Oi! You!”

You scream as you are grabbed and pulled into a narrow alley, vanishing from sight. A hand claps over your mouth and shushes you. “Hush, shshshsh,” The stranger quiets you like a hissing snake, putting a finger to his mouth. “Keep your mouth shut and you might get away.”

His hair is short, curled, and as bright red as burnished copper. You cannot see his eyes for the dark spectacles on his face, but he has dark, dyed toga, and a golden laurel around his head. He looks around and gestures you to follow. “This way, be quick about it.” The idea of your master in his chariot with a cracking whip demolishes any idea of mistrust and you cling to his toga as you follow him along.

You hasten to a different district, where there are more Germans, Greeks, and Britons mulling about than Romans. He speaks in an unfamiliar language to a group of men in wool cloaks, who eye you very curiously. You hide behind the stranger, but he eventually pulls you aside.

“Right. Stay calm now.” He says quietly. “My friends over here are going to a different place called Gaul. You ever been there?” You shake your head. “Speak any Gaulish at all?” Again, you shake your head, and he tuts. “Pity. But you’ll get the hang of it. Ol’ Tiberius here speaks Latin, he’ll teach you.” He jerks his head at a very big fellow with a strange pewter knot that looks like a snake on his cloak. “Now, I want you to go with them and get as far away from here as you can. Your old master’s gotten himself all worked up, and it’s not worth your life if he catches you, believe me.”

You must have looked afraid because he strokes your head and pulls something from his pocket. A gold coin so old it has since lost all of its features. “Here. If you’re worried about them, you can hop off anytime you like and buy yourself a trade. Keep that close and don’t lose it.” He drops it in your hand and closes it shut.

“But you’ve got a lot more life to live than anyone else here, so keep going.”

It’s enough encouragement to nod your head and to climb into a wagon with the Gauls. But as it begins to rattle off, you realize something and stand up, shouting over the edge.

“Wait!” You yell. “What’s your name?!”

But the stranger only waves and turns back into the crowd, swallowed up by a sea of strangers.

You find your new husband in Gaul by the time you arrive. He’s big and burly and laughs out loud, but cradles you like a little bird and awes over your smaller feet and hands. You learn Gaulish, and learn to enjoy the quiet of the moors and the flowers of the new land. You like the village you come to make your home, and cry when your firstborn child enters this world.

Your second child dies, and you sob to see its corpse exit you as you leave this world.

_______

You had an idyllic childhood the next time. Right until you turned thirteen.

With every pound on the door, you wince, unable to eat the meal your nurse has put before you. The household knights look impressive with their armor, tunics and swords, but they shiver as the Red Knight demands your submission outside the castle.

The Red Knight had learned of you after the death of his fifth bride…another fine young lady of another castle. He rode up to your home, demanded your father show himself, and when he did he challenged him to a duel for your hand and killed him before he could accept or object. With his many squires, fellow renegades and cutthroats making camp around the castle, bullying the locals, you had sensibly shut the gates and barred all entry. There was enough food to last a short siege, what you hoped would be a short one anyway as you wrote a letter to the Kingdom of Essex and the Knights of the Table Round. The letter was put on a hawk to be delivered, and shot down before it could reach the castle.

With no more hawks, and food growing short, the Red Knight laughed that he would starve you out sooner or later.

You pick at your pottage and fish and feel very cold at the idea of marrying him. He had eyes for every young maiden in the area, and no sooner did he wed them did he condemn them to sad, lonely deaths in their bedrooms….chained to the wall some said.

“No one can stand against the Red Knight and live.” One of your knights shuddered at the thought. “He will have us, one way or another.” And with no way of requesting a champion it seemed that would be the end of you.

The Black Knight strolled into the village by surprise, and outdid several of the Red Knight’s squires when they tried to beat him out of his armor. You feared he was just another thug until he made a request at the gate, the Red Knight begrudgingly with him.

“Hello!” He shouts, until you appear at the parapet. “Are you the lady of Willshire Castle?”

“I am.” You call back.

“Right.” He gives a short bow. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex, come to represent you in a duel of arms against the Red Knight of Barborough.”

“This time my lady-“ The Red Knight interrupts. “-you will give your solemn vow. To whomever achieves victory over the other, you will dedicate your hand in marriage. Do you swear before God to do this?”

The Black Knight’s expression is impossible to see, but he looks at the Red Knight with what you can guess is a look of exasperation as he throws up his hands in annoyance at the suggestion. “Er. Yeah. Marriage.” He agrees half-heartedly.

You have nothing to lose. Your household knights and servants will be slaughtered wholesale if you do not accept. And no one else has stood up the Red Knight before. “I vow before God and this community.” You swear. “That to the victor of this duel I will dedicate my hand in holy matrimony.”

The Black Knight wriggles in place uncomfortably. And you’re confused. Wasn’t that what he was here for?

The Red Knight draws his sword and bows dramatically. “I shall dedicate his death to you my love!” He swears viciously, making your blood run cold. “And when I win we will be wed at once! You! Squire!” He barks at one of his cronies. “Go and fetch a priest if we’ve still got one, this won’t take long!”

And to the shock and awe of all…it really doesn’t.

The mystery knight struggles to remove his sword from the Red Knight’s back, his opponent’s face still frozen in shock at the rapid end to the duel. By some form of magic, or curse, it was as if the Red Knight’s sword had turned to butter, slipping from his hands, and leaving the Black Knight free to give him a quick thrust to the chest. Finally the Black Knight wrenches the sword from the armor, groaning at the mess. “Urgh.” He fishes out a black handkerchief and wipes it off, sheathing it.

You suppose a promise is a promise, and order the gates to be opened.

Escorted by the household knights, who eye him with suspicion, you are suddenly very self conscious. Your father had plans for you to marry at a better age. Thirteen he said, was far too young to wed. You were still too delicate for marriage, to immature. Was this knight no better than the last?

The squire rushes back with a priest, who yells in shock at the sight of the infamous knight now dead, the prize delivering itself to his enemy. “Y-you! You’re some kind of demon!”

“You’ve got that right.” The Black Knight declared, hopping astride his horse and bringing it around. “I am the Black Knight of Wessex. Lord of the Darklands that will never be claimed!” His horse swung its mane, and he moved to dodge it. “And to meet with me is to meet…your Death!”

You’re scared as he offers you his hand. A promise is a promise. Your word before God and all others.

But you feel safe as you are pulled onto the horse, the knight nearly missing the priest as he speeds away from the castle, racing down the road. You hold on as the horse jounces the both of you until it slows, and you stop for the night.

“Here.” He helps you down, and starts a fire, sitting on a log to take a drink from a wineskin. “Take a rest, we’ll camp for the night before we ride to Wessex.” He passes you the wine, and moreover, shares a hunk of ham, cheese and bread from his saddlebag. You expect him to take what he has won as the Red Knight would, but instead he grumbles over the tent and the fire and struggles out of his armor to rest.

His hair is the devil’s own red, and his eyes are like a viper, yellow and serpentine. But he does not do anything to you without asking, and even then it is only to offer you something to eat, something to drink, and a warm blanket to rest in.

“Don’t you want to marry me?” You asked on the ride to Wessex. It’s very foggy, and the sun is barely making headway through the clouds.

“What am I going to do married?” He asks, a little irritable. He does not seem to like riding by horse, especially in plate armor. “Besides, you’re just a little girl. Don’t have time to babysit little girls, I’ve got fear to ferment and trouble to start elsewhere.”

When you ask why he bothered to help, he claimed there was a fly buzzing in his armor and he couldn’t hear you. He gives you no reason as to why he would bother until a castle comes into view farther away and he helps you off. “See that castle?” He points. “That’s the eastern hold of King Arthur. Rules these parts.” He lifts up his visor to squint. “There’s a knight of the Table Round that lives there, friend of mine. Ask for Sir Aziraphale and he’ll give you a hand.”

“Why?”

“He’s a knight of King Arthur, that’s what he does.” He says, as if it were obvious.

“Who should I say sent me?” You ask.

It looks like he doesn’t want to answer. “You already know. The Black Knight.”

“But what is your name?”

He turns his horse around, and you think you are going to be parting with an answer.

“Crowley.”

And that is how you learn his name, muttered under his breath and with a visor muffling his words before he takes off into the fog, disappearing quickly.

You end up having to wait for Sir Aziraphale, and accept the hospitality of another knight. That knight watches over you from the time you are thirteen to the time you are thirty two….only later he does so as your husband. He leaves to fight the war against King Arthur’s bastard son and never returns.

Your firstborn sobs at your bedside as your second child, both now fatherless, is brought into this world. You want to comfort him but can’t find the strength or the words. And when your breath fails you, you grieve to have left your children orphans in this world.

___

Time marches on. When the plague claims your home, you are forced to leave it after the doctors set it ablaze to prevent the spread of disease. You were supposed to be a part of the conflagration, but you are slippery and snuck out the back window when they thought they had locked you in.

London is an enormous cesspool of rich and poor, with more rats than citizens, and enough hidey-holes and spaces to make do in if you were crafty enough. You’re one of an army of pickpockets, and often you flatter passersby asking for directions sweetly while your hands craftily nick them of their belongings. You privately dream of an apprenticeship somewhere, with a sound roof and a master who was even tempered and would overlook an urchin such as yourself. But you don’t have that kind of wealth. None of the working class really do.

So you fill your pockets with coppers and stolen bread and the occasional raisin pie if you employ the aid of a few friends to badger the baker.

You attempted to pick the wrong pocket one afternoon and got caught.

“Let go!” You cried, wrist snatched by a tall gentlemen with dark hose, a velvet doublet and long red curls. He gives a frown down his long nose and dark spectacles and pulls you along. “Well don’t go pretending you didn’t earn it. You’re a pickpocket, own up to it.” He chides, leading you along. You protest noisily, but his grip does not threaten to snap your arm, but is rather firm and insistent, like when your father caught you sneaking apples from the orchard and urged you to come with him to apologize to the neighbor.

He takes you to a huge theater which stops your shouting if only to look up in amazement. It’s the Globe Theater, of all places. A place you would never be allowed and which you only dreamed of entering to see the plays and maybe even catch the good Queen Bess when she came to pay respects to the great playwright-

“Oi William!”

The gentlemen looses his grip and moves it quickly to your shoulder. The theater is empty, but there is a clear rehearsal on stage, people in flowy robes bickering over the lines while a painted backdrop of a misty forest is being lowered into place. “Sir Crowley-“ He looks a bit harried, and shockingly normal for a man people claimed had God’s inspiration for his great work. “-come to see the rehearsal? We’re still not near ready yet-“

“Oh I understand that.” Sir Crowley responds. “But I just remembered you were looking for a proper person to play the role of Pan, and I think I found them.”

Your jaw drops.

Shakespeare looks you over with insightful gaze and checks your look. “Hmm…whimsically impish even. Do you speak very well?”

“That’s just practice is all.” Sir Crowley insists. “Besides you really don’t have much time before the play is due do you?”

“No I suppose not. Giles!” He shouts, summoning a tired looking assistant. “Get this child washed up and into costume. We’ll go over the lines at once!”

“B-b-but I’ve never b-been on stage before!” You stammer, and Sir Crowley laughs. “Don’t fret. Just say the lines and play your bit. The more you act the more the audience likes it. This is one of the funny ones.”

It occurs to you that you should say thank you. But instead you are whisked off, and Sir Crowley is only ever mentioned in conversation thereafter.

You love the stage. When you dance on as the goat footed Pan and gleefully cause mischief, the audience laughs out loud and cheers when you give your final bow. You love the stage later when you’re old enough to play the dramas. And you love the actor you shared the stage with many, many times, before he carries you off to his family home to make you his wife.

The two of you still watch the plays that come, even after William’s star fades. Your child enjoys it. But when you find out you’re pregnant again, you have a terrible dream.

“I didn’t say thank you.” You sob into your beloved’s arms, feeling full of regret and sorrows. “I should have thanked him.”

In nine months, it will be his turn to cry into your arms. But you will not be alive to hold him.

_________

You were engaged for four months before your betrothed met the guillotine.

You were young, but you were an aristocrat. Engagements at eleven were very normal, and it had been the case for your mother. They assumed that a choice marriage to a duke would fix the issue of safety as their lives were threatened, angry letters from the townsfolk threatening their lives if they did not surrender their wealth and grain to the Republic of France.

Your husband-to-be was thirty and swaggered out to fight them. He instead was betrayed by his men, arrested and executed.

Your parents avoided the spectacle of the guillotine. The duke had been an embodiment of the hated aristocracy and was a symbol to be crushed, over and over with many other dukes and even the king.

But sitting in the Bastille, dressed in white and trying to pray in silence, your prayers were constantly interrupted by the swing of the blade. You would not die today, nor tomorrow. But soon. Your guard promised you that whenever he brought food and water.

In the fortress you heard the sobs and cries of others, older, and younger than you. They said the Dauphin of France was caged here with his siblings, his own mother separated from him. Perhaps a baby boy was too little to execute via guillotine, but you were tall enough and had a pretty, snowy neck, as the executioner told you.

A new guard arrived without food. And strange glasses.

“Put this on. Quick.” He tossed you a parcel. Pulling it apart, it was a peasant dress and bonnet, and he turned from you to permit you some privacy and to peer out through the bars of the door. From under his hat, you see a flash of red hair. “Hurry it up, we haven’t got long.”

You’re nervous, but you change clothes, and fumble with the bonnet. When he notices, he fixes it, tying it securely under your chin and tucking the sparse hairs in. “Alright. This way.”

He slinks through the halls of the fortress like a snake, holding you back when the soldiers march past. Finally, he arrives at a dead end. You fear this is all a trap when he pulls a lever hidden in the candelabra on the wall and reveals a secret door. The passage is full of children in peasant clothes, but with soft hands that suggest they were just like you.

“Hurry. In you go.”

There are thirteen of you when he closes the wall. A small boy whimpers and you pull him to you to comfort him, removing his hat to pet his golden curls. His blue eyes remind you of a portrait in Versailles….the Dauphin?

You all gasp when the guard arrives with another, but the voice that comes from his companion is as British as his own. Unlike the first, this one is decidedly more nervous and softer, adjusting his hat constantly to cover his silvery hair. “The dummies will fool them I’m sure of it.” The second one says quickly, shushing and ushering you all down the dark stairs. “As realistic as I could make them.”

“Sure you won’t get in trouble?” Your hero replies wryly, and there must be a private joke.

“Shush. Not in front of the children.”

The secret stairway exits to the canal, and you wobble as you exit onto a boat. The foppish guard smiles at his charges and sails off in one. But your guard is very solemn as he instructs you all to sit down and be quiet. The sound of the execution above is distant, but you can tell when it happens because a roar erupts every time the blade falls down.

“Don’t listen to it.” He tells you, catching your gaze. “Understand? Don’t try to remember it.” He paddles the oars, keeping an eye out for guards. “You will be shocked how easy it is not to remember.”

You know his name. But it escapes you nonetheless, as if it were someone else’s memory. It occurs to you that you should say something when a loud shout comes from above and the sound of gunfire rains down.

It either a miracle that none of you are shot, or the fact that the boat was forcefully overturned to catch the bullets and dump you all into the Seine. By the time you flop to shore with the others, shivering and wet, the guards are befuddled and without weapons, and your two rescuers are gone.

You have to lie to the husband you meet when you flee to the Pyrenees, even though he begs to know your heritage…and you teach him how to bake cake and watch as he grows more jolly and plump every year. But you have bad dreams more often than not. The joyous welcome of your first child and your own bakery does not stop them. Your husband wakes you with a gentle hand and cradles you to calm you down.

But when you die on the birthing bed, you know deep inside you have failed again.

______

When your life starts again, you are sure you are going to die at only seven years old.

Influenza was hell for the poor. Your father worked for fourteen hours a day at the linen factory, and your mother washed laundry and kept mind of you and the skinny apartment you all shared in the smoggy district of London. Most times you ate sausages that never really tasted like pork or beef, and the sooty boys that sweep chimneys say that sometimes they have to mix in rats or cats when there isn’t enough to fill a sausage. You aren’t sure if that’s what makes you sick.

But you cough weakly as your mother carries you on her back, going from doctor to doctor, asking for help. With not enough to even cover the medicine, all of them close the door in her face. She is brought to tears as she hurries, carrying you along. You wish your father was here. But he was chained to that factory, stuck doing terrible labors all day and likely did not know you were sick yet.

It is very dark when your mother gives up at last, sobbing and holding onto you as she sits on a stoop in front of an empty house. The three of you barely had enough pence to pay rent and buy food. The paltry few coins your mother had for a doctor would not cover the costs. It wouldn’t even cover a funeral.

“Up. Come on.”

You think the person in front of you is death itself, all dark, mysterious and impatiently beckoning you. When you realize he is talking to your mother, and that she is answering, you have a hazy wondering if it wasn’t your time yet. She’s speaking too fast for you to understand, with your head all awhirl with the fever, and he answer simply enough and opens a door to a carriage.

Its very dark inside and you fall asleep.

You feel better by the time you wake up, in a softer bed, with a warm stove lit and the smell of brewed tea leaves. A gentle looking nurse is reading at the foot of your bed and brightens to see you wake up. “There you are dearie. Come now, let’s take your medicine and have a bite to eat, there’s a pet.”

You go through the motions, swallowing down the bitter syrup, but eating a soup far better than your mother can afford, with fresh, soft bread and washing it down with warm milk. Your memory catches up and your hurry to ask what happened.

“Master Crowley instructed us to keep an eye on you.” The nurse simpers. “He’s been talking with some friends and fixed up a nice living arrangement for you, isn’t that lovely?”

When you feel better, you are allowed to ask for him. But when they ask for Crowley to come, he delivers some excuse and apologizes through a letter instead.

“But…” You whimper to the nurse who delivers the message. “I have to. I have to say thank you.”

“Oh there, there-“ She hushes, gathering you in her arms. She is so soft and pillowy, you sink right into the embrace. “-don’t fret. You’ll see him again one day, you just wait and see.”

You do just that. You wait. You ask as often as you can. You study at the hospital and become a nurse and you wait. When the nurse tries for the last time to find him, she learns he has disappeared quite entirely, and you break down into tears.

The years are softened with a change in the environment. You fall in love. And better yet, your husband can love you back. You save him when he is stricken with a putrefied leg wound, and he saves you when your regrets haunt you in your sleep. There is a full bottle of valerian in your dresser to smother your dreams, but they are so intense that it only muffles them like a pillow trying to drown them out.

This was the briefest yet. Your dreams cry out, and your little boy toddles from his room to comfort you when you cry. Why? Why can’t you just tell him?

The depression hits later in life, though your husband bravely tries to keep your spirits up. “I hope you live happy.” You tell him on the birthing bed for your second son. “No regrets.”

“No regrets.” He promises. Of course he doesn’t know.

You do.

_______

When your turn comes again, you think yourself as far less child and more of an adult. At fifteen you were a lot more educated than your younger siblings, though your stepmother protested that you were too young to get involved in the war effort. But you are determinedly single-minded, and in time you are recruited as a spy for the British Government. You supposed that with the state of the war, they were willing to take all sorts of risks.

You looked innocent enough. A young lady, going to classes and attending school was a pretense to go to libraries and smuggle out valuable books. You worked in tandem with the fellow spies, decoding what you can of German wanted lists. Many of them were listed to be destroyed, per the Fuhrer’s intent to eradicate all literature that spat in the face of his dictatorship, but many more were to be stolen for their value. Your proudest moment was when you swapped the Book of Saint Columba from the British Archive…switching it for a well-made fake.

That moment nearly killed you.

The bible was mingled in your book bag, and you made a beeline for your designated safehouse. A group of spies pretending to be your family were waiting, and the book would be hidden until the war ended for its own safety.

When you saw a pair of men stalking you from a corner, you sought to lose then in the broken rubble of the streets. You did not see the second pair, who cornered you with a gun. “Hands up.” One said sharply, his German accent thick and cold. You swallow hard and obey. “Walk.”

You are marched through dark streets, sometimes encouraged along when you realize you are returning to the safehouse. You try to disguise your terror as everyone there is lined up against the wall of the backyard, hands on their heads. “These people, they are familiar to you?”

You shake your head a little too quickly, and a bullet is put through your fake brother. He crumples to the ground, and the gun is moved onto the next. “No? Are you sure?” They shoot your fake mother, and she gasps, clinging to life and bleeding against the wall. But another round of shots and she too falls dead. “Come, come my dear, all you have to do is tell us where the books are.”

One by one you shake your head. Soon there are no more spies against the wall and the gun is up against your chin. You can feel it’s still hot, burning a mark right above your throat. “Last chance kilenes madchen-“ The gunman asks patiently. “-I don’t have to shoot you. I can do far worse things.”

Close your eyes and think of England. It was a joke that had been passed along by your friends when you were little and had to do things you didn’t want to. Taking cod liver oil to prevent the measles, eating your carrots even though you hated carrots, or enduring the dull lectures of history from your dreary teacher. Your mother used to say it when you complained of some unappealing task.

Close your eyes and think of England.

You do just that, and await a gunshot to the brain or being dragged off and defiled as all the nightmare stories from Germany say they do. You close your eyes and think of your real family, your real home.

You are very patient until you realize nothing has happened.

When you open your eyes, a dapper man in black sunglasses is standing around a bunch of unconscious Nazis, wiping off his hands. “You really, really, really ought to be less conspicuous next time.” He scolded. “If word got out that silly bible got into Nazi hands, I can think of someone who might smite you for losing it.”

You panic briefly, scrambling for your bag. But you sigh in relief. The Book of Columba is still there.

“Alright. Bomb’s gonna drop in about five minutes, it’ll take care of this mess.” He gestures you to follow. “Come along, I’ve got another place you can drop that off.”

The shelter he takes her to is full of English children, much younger than you. You’re a little offended when he calls you “little girl” and laughs when you defend you were fifteen, as if that changed anything. But when the bombs started falling, making the ground shake, he gives a reassuring half-hug to a few of the kids before leading you all outside after it subsides.

The safehouse is a bookstore. Hide a tree in a forest indeed.

“Oh! Oh you’ve saved it!” The book clerk is clearly thrilled when you uncover the sacred bible, running his hands over the protective cover. “Bless you dear, you’ve done a real miracle tonight.”

“She’s done? I suppose taking out half a dozen Nazi spies is just a doddle!” The dapper stranger snaps.

“Crowley I didn’t mean that kind of miracle-“ The bookkeeper hushes him. “-come inside quick. I’ll alert the authorities.”

You all sit inside the shop while he accesses a machine hidden behind a shelf, tapping out a message in Morse code. Crowley sits in a chair, lounging and drinking heavily from a bottle of wine and scowls when you look at him too long. It’s time to say it.

But when you try to, he stands up and hushes you. “None of that. It’s been a long night.” He polishes off the bottle and saunters out. “Take care of this one for me, will you angel?”

The door closes and you start crying. There is no time for the clerk to ask what’s wrong before you run out to try and catch him. Circling the block, shouting his name. Knowing you still might have a chance.

There is no answer.

The war eventually ends, and your service to British Intelligence turns into a simple desk job. Sometimes you pass by that old bookshop, remembering that night, remembering how close you were to saying thank you. You have a medal of commendation, congratulating you, and they even let you keep the identical copy of Columba’s book. You meet a man much like you, except his regrets were made on the battlefield, with friends he’d failed to bring back home with him, and people he thought hadn’t needed to die at all. And in a grief that can be explained, it helps you along with the grief that has no name, buried deep within you.

When you are pregnant a second time, you take the copy of the bible to the bookshop. You scribble a note on the cover, but leave no name. The person it is left for after all, may have another name the next time. But urgency tells you that next time might be the last. You’re seven months pregnant, and the clock is ticking down.

You don’t let the bookkeeper see you as you leave it in the mailbox, wrapped in brown paper. Tell him to wait next time. You leave within the book. Tell him I haven’t said thank you yet.

When you feel your water break, you say goodbye to your confused husband and son. You don’t fight it as your second child forces his way into this world. You accept the void and close your eyes…impatient for what you already know is to come.

One more time.

____

At the eve of New Years for 1970, you try to get in trouble.

You’re only thirteen. Your mother dismisses it as rebelliousness and grounds you to your room. But when you find yourself wandering around town after dark, she gets concerned when you can’t give a reason why you’re looking for trouble. You describe it as a deep urge, a built in response. You know something will happen if you’re in danger. You just don’t know what it is.

She puts you through therapy, and the psychiatrist is very understanding.

“More supernatural than cognitive.” She says, writing it down after you’ve talked of your recent lapse. You had run away from home and were doing runs around Soho, scarcely avoiding traffic. “Something that can’t be explained.” She puts her hand on yours and smiles. “But we need to try and slow it down. Make it safe. Your mother loves you and doesn’t want you to get hurt.”

She doesn’t mention your father since you’re not sure he has an opinion about you at all. He’s been gone since before you were born, but you can’t help but view him as a mere facilitation of your existence. He has no real importance. He’s only there to make sure you go through the motions by existing.

Your psychiatrist offers some sleep aids to try and urge an early bedtime rather than running off into the night. Most times it works. But when you turn sixteen, you spit it into the toilet instead and sneak out.

And you can feel something different in the air. It’s almost electric. The lights in Soho are somehow brighter, the cars are faster, and the streets are more empty than usual. Something is trying to happen.

So you encourage it, and try stepping out into the busy street.

Every part of you sings with relief when someone pulls you back.

“Idiot.”

The arm is secure on your shoulders, making sure you’re secure as the car that almost hit you honks angrily and speeds off. But the rest of the world seems to be waiting on its heels for what is to happen next. You have to make sure it’s still what you’re waiting for.

Red hair. Dark glasses.

“Thank you.”

___________

Crowley didn’t freeze time. But it stopped anyway.

At his feet, the girl. She wasn’t run over, but as soon as she said those two words, it was as if she had her strings cut from an invisible puppeteer, and now laid as cold and dead as she would have been if he had not reached out.

“Our arrangement has been concluded.”

It is far more frightening than the Archangels or Satan. It is Death, in his black, withered cloak, a wizened skull staring back at the demon while the world ceased to move.

“What arrangement?” Crowley is barely able to say through a dry mouth. This is worse than the worse omen, and moreover it was completely unexpected. Aziraphale had shown him that peculiar book today…he had seen the message. He didn’t understand.

“Not you. The child.” Death’s back shudders and eight shadows stand behind them. Crowley has to squint to see them, but they all look very familiar. A teen spy. A pickpocket from London, a Jew from Galilee. All of them.

Leading up to the scared, wide eyed child from the Flood.

“They said they would return to this life until they could express their gratitude. Their cycle would not end until they had done so.” Death’s voice sounds very pleased, as if having seen a good crop come to fruition. “They would have thirty-two years to live, and a chance to say it when you inevitably stepped in to aid them. If they failed, they would die upon the birth of their second child and start over.”

“Why? Why would you agree to this?” Crowley sweats heavily. For over 5000 years, a single soul was put through the wringer of existence, forced to relive the same dangers. “Since when do you play games with little girl’s souls like this?”

“I am patient.” Death replies. “I come for all souls eventually. And she knew she would see you again. Deep down.”

One of the shadows looks up and seems to recognize him. A tiny wave from a small hand, before Death stretches his wings and the shades evaporate.

“This is wrong.” Crowley states. “She’s a child. She shouldn’t die this way.”

“This is her choice. And now it is over.”

Your shade stands before Death and whispers something.

“Make it quick.” Death replies. “I am patient. But not for long.”

You are little more than vapor, with no real form. Sometimes it shifts into what you once were, but it’s hazy and only retains the shapes most familiar to you. Crowley before you looks grief-stricken. You can sympathize why. He has just met Death, but found himself beset with regret that it was not himself that was being taken away.

“No tears.” You whisper. “I knew I would meet you again someday.”

“Not like this.” Crowley croaks back. “Not when you’re just a girl.”

“I’m old too you know.” You remind him. “I lived a lot.”

“Those don’t count. You don’t even remember.”

“I remember you helped me.” You tell him. “And if I only got to thank you once for all the times you helped me, then I can let go of this world for the next one.”

“Where will you go?”

There’s a pause, and Death’s wings shift with impatience.

“Where we can meet again.”

______

The accident almost gets Crowley in trouble, time restarting with a dead girl at his feet. He escapes, barely, and Aziraphale holds a private memorial in his bookshop with the fake bible and candles. Crowley doesn’t want to drink or do much of anything. So he relies on the angel for the silent assurance. This was the last time.

Her mother would mourn and grieve terribly. But she would not have to put another mother through that kind of grief again.

“It does say something about humanity.” Aziraphale notes, rereading the passage you had written in another life. “They have longer memories than we give them credit for. Even Death can’t stop that.”

It’s not much of a comfort.

Crowley takes the Bentley and drives. And drives. He stops when the road does, at the end of the country where it meets the sea. “It could’ve ended right then and there.” He remembers when the sea came for the children, when Noah closed the Ark. Tearing open the hull just to save a handful of innocent kids. “But I got involved.”

Tiny hands holding onto him like a lifeline, and nothing he could do but pat their head.

He looks up at the stars he has made. Some had passed on, faded away. Their light would shine on Earth for thousands of years, but they had long since gone.

A different light glimmered, a bright yellow. Still so small, but defiantly glimmering in the sky.

Crowley holds his hand up.

“Alpha Centauri.” He removes his glasses. His eyes peer beyond the ozone, beyond the vacuum of space where a star has forgone Heaven and Hell and begun turning serenely. Unbelievable. She even got the color of his eyes right. “Fine.” He smiles, a half chuckle. “One of these days. See you there.”

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