(no subject)

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Date: May 13, 2000
Setting: Manor Grounds
Status: Public (Writing Challenge Thread)
Summary: Remembrance of Things Past

Crowley had gotten into the habit of taking walks around the Manor when he was bored and Aziraphale was working. Some part of him resented the time the angel spent with paper and ink, telephones and accounts, but most of him realized that it was good for him. Aziraphale liked to be busy and useful; it made him happy which made Crowley happy, so he let it be and walked instead.

Since April showers were clinging stubbornly to May, he stayed inside, exploring the parts of the lower floors that he'd never seen, or at least he thought he'd never seen. Turning a dark corner, however, he promptly discovered he was wrong. This place looked familiar, smelled familiar. It was the part of the building that hadn't been destroyed in the fire two decades prior and it put Crowley in mind of a dark night and a baby in his arms. Stopping, he looked around. This was the corridor where he'd come all those years ago, bringing the infant antichrist to what he thought would be their doom.

He thought back to that night, remembering his panic and feelings of helplessness, the frantic plans and fleeting hopes spinning through his mind. He'd thought of Aziraphale then as he drove through the dark. The angel had been the first and only person he'd considered going to for help. He hadn't met John yet. The man would have only been in his mid-twenties. Odd to imagine that, really, him looking younger than Crowley. Crowley wondered vaguely if they'd have even had a friendship if he'd met the cocky young man back then, before deciding probably not.

Finding a door and pushing it open, the demon discovered that it did lead where he expected it to. On the other side was the small, neglected courtyard where he'd parked the Bentley and that man with taste in clothes like Aziraphale's had told him that he'd left his lights on and that they'd already started in room three. He smiled faintly, amused at how one small mistake can change the course of the world. The rain was beating on the garbage cans, a syncopated metallic rhythm and he went out into it, letting the cold water fall on him, spattering his sunglasses, soaking his suit and damping his hair. He wasn't in snake form and the air wasn't as fresh and clean and flower scented as it had been then, but it reminded him of the Garden, as so many things did. That was another instance where a chance occurrence changed the path of the world.

If they hadn't had that somewhat friendly conversation in the rain, where would they be now? Probably not friends and definitely not lovers. Crowley would have spent six millennia alone. It was a sobering thought. He tried to imagine not having all those times when he was lonely or bored or tired or distraught and ended up spending time with the angel. Between the challenge of tempting him to something, lots of alcohol, and intelligent, dryly humourous, and somewhat snarky conversation, he'd always felt better afterward. Except for the occasional hangover. What would his life be like without that? Probably a lot more demonic, he decided. And not nearly as interesting.

Not immune to the irony that his life had been just as unpredictable as any human's, Crowley stepped back inside, leaving the past behind. Dripping on the carpet and squelching as he walked, the demon moved back towards the populated end of the Manor, hoping to run into Aziraphale or John, Ellie, Gabriel, Adam, Belial, or anyone really. He was ready to make some new memories now.

Comments

[dontcallmegabby.livejournal.com]

He recognized himself, though it bore little real resemblance, the figure etched out in pale swaths of robe and wing, adorned with fine details of gold. Gabriel did not doubt that his stained glass likeness shimmered, liquid fire, when the sun's full radiance lit the chapel; but now, in the early hours, it gave off a soft, muted glow, cold and pale and distant like the light of the stars, stark in the night.

He always recognized himself, with the same constant surety that birds could pick out the same patterns of migration across changing seasons: instinct, more than anything, for though the styles changed, the stories changed, it took nothing more than the maker's passing thought to stamp his identity out in art: this, this is the Messenger of God.

Of course, sometimes the scene would betray him even without his surety; the
Annunciation adorned this panel, his glowing form tempered by the sweet, simple lines of the virgin Mary. There were those mortals, no doubt, who could recite the tale even better than he, how the Messenger had descended from Heaven to tell the virgin of her conception. But then, he had very different reasons for remembering that moment, and even as he stood in the manor's chapel gazing at the frame like some idealized photograph of his own memories, one detail stood out to him: Mary's eyes.

She had been barely more than a child, especially by the reckoning of one who had existed for centuries before and would go on even after her trials had ended. Barely more than a child, and yet even the archangel had found much to admire in those eyes. Soft and sweet, as gemstones cradled in silk, they had flickered with fear at his arrival. This he was used to; his duty was one mostly of ceremony, and faithful and nonbelievers alike gaped when he came to them, not in Earthly body, but in his true form, eyes aglow, wings outstretched. Never in wrath, never in judgement, and yet mortals always feared their first glimpse of that which lay beyond their understanding.

But he had spoken her name in soft tones, one hand outstreched, and watched the range of emotion that flickered in dark eyes as he talked of the blessings the Lord had chosen to bestow upon her; of the virgin birth, which would shift the very foundation of human belief for ages after.

The girl had had no way to perceive the eternal scope of his words, and yet she had had grown braver with each phrase, her gentle trembling subsiding as awe began to take the place of fear in her visage. He had smiled at her, sensing her confusion in that first shivering silence, and the first hints of guilt had crept upon him as she cautiously questioned him: he knew what she would go through should she accept. Still, it was not the angel, was nothing outside her own heart that would make the decision for her. This was a matter between her and her God; and Gabriel was, as ever, simply the Messenger.

When she had raised her eyes to his once more, it was with shuddering conviction, and he had known that she trembled then not with fear, but with something that she perhaps could not even fully grasp, and he had smiled once more. So young, so pretty, and she was about to change the course of history with little concern for the consequences to herself.

Whenever, after this historic meeting, Gabriel reflected on faith, he had no image in mind of momentus struggles or suffering, nor of the shimmering songs of lauding seraphim in the highest reaches of eternity: all he remembered were Mary's eyes, shining, in that moment.

"Be it according to His word."

According to His word.

[ineffable-angel.livejournal.com]

Aziraphale was working at his desk, contentedly humming a hymn as he was wont to do, when he finished a task and decided to begin organizing the Lost and Found, which had a constant and damning feed from the resident kleptomaniac.

A dusty ring, a set of keys, a bicycle lock, various pens, a very glittery hair decoration (Belial's, Aziraphale decided, and made a note to return it himself), and a top hat. He was struck, soundly, by the last, and picked it up.

Many years ago (and how time flies when you're immortal), Aziraphale had been a magician. It had come about in a sort of roundabout way, really; the angel had come across a poor man who claimed he had a gift, and ended up paying him to teach him lessons. Aziraphale learned quickly and well, and wasn't above using miracles to help things along. It must have been unnerving to Crowley to find the angel pulling flowers and bunny rabbits and everything out of top hats.

(The demon didn't speak to him for a week after finding a very vibrantly-coloured bouquet of flowers poking out of his sleeve. The pollen made him sneeze, and the yellow dust stuck to his clothes.)

Aziraphale began performing, on the side. He hadn't meant for it to be anything - it certainly wasn't a moneymaking venture. It was simply interesting. He began attending the stages, the great shows of famous and brilliant magicians.

He had nearly forgotten about it; truth be told. When the bookshop began to need more time, even only to keep the cataloguing up-to-date, Aziraphale slowed, and eventually stopped. Once in a very long while he produced a set of rings, linked and free and all inbetween, for a young child, as silly entertainment. The enthusiasm had worn off after top hats were a century out of date. No easy material to work with anymore, everything was lights and technology and simple briliance.

And then came Warlock's party. A mistake, since Warlock was simply not the boy he thought he was, but it had been such fun, a stretch and exercise of his skills again.

Aziraphale smiled, and tucked the worn, velvety hat back into the Lost and Found. He added a secret, red satin ribbon on the inside, so that it was a proper top hat and not a newer piece. It couldn't hurt. The angel left the box alone, making a note to find out if any magic or hobby shops were present in Lower Tadfield.

After all, there was one magic trick he knew but had never tried - the magic handcuffs.

I'm conveniently setting this right before my AWOLness so I can have an IC reason for Des leaving

[entropyoptimism.livejournal.com]

Destruction was playing chess with himself. It wasn't that difficult. At first he just moved the pieces at random - the beginning wasn't important, it was the end game that was interesting. He liked to map out the paths left to each piece - how many moves? What choices did they have? How many sides to the coin? And occasionally, when he had worked a piece into a position where it had no moves, he wondered if it would break. If that pawn would move backwards, the knight and the bishop in a straight line, the castle turn corners. And the queen - the queen who can go anywhere on the board - would she take that final step? Would she leave the eight-square battlefield and strike out into the tabletop wilderness, with nought but the knowledge of the choices she left in her wake?

Or would she bow down and be defeated, only to start the game anew, to go through the cycle again?

It was at times like these he thought of his brother. Not often, because Destruction inevitably looked to the future, but sometimes he wondered if Dream would have followed in his footsteps. If his timing had been a little different, if he'd explained more - could Morpheus understand? Could he have seen the moves ahead of him as something other than the check mate, and stepped off the board?

He fancied the Dream Lord did understand, right at the end. When he looked his sister in the eye, he surely knew that the choice he had made was not inevitable, that Destiny's paths branched even for him, that he had been given a choice. Destruction had shown him a choice, hadn't he? Once, twice, three times he had flipped the coin, and three times Morpheus had come down Heads, Duty, rules, the status quo. At the college with the Corinthian, when he'd tried to warn him. At the Family Meeting, when he'd announced his intention to leave.

And when Dream had tracked him down, near the end, with Delirium - had sought Destruction, although he knew the consequences that had brought his son - did he know? Did he already know, then, how badly he needed change? He must have known, or why would he have come after Destruction, whose realm was change itself: real change, not Delirium's helterskelter change that ended up right where it started... no, that wasn't fair. Del had had change enough, when she lost Delight and became Delirium.

He had enjoyed seeing her after all these years. He wouldn't have to reassume his duties just to visit her. And he needed a change - hah! He'd been cooped up in here for too long.

Abruptly, Destruction stood from his chair, the chessboard tumbling from his lap - in a single rapid-blur movement he reached down and grabbed the black Queen out of thin air, into which the rest of the board disappeared before it touched the floor. He went to the cupboard and took down the pool and his sword, placing them in the middle of the polkadotted handkerchief that Dream had given him - although it had been black, then - and looked at them for a long moment.

The sword made him think of Uriel. Uriel, who he'd liked and pitied from the start, from the Start in fact. Uriel, who was now a brother to one of Destruction's oldest friends (old, yet still lower in the mortality chain than Destruction). A kindred spirit of a sort, and someone who by rights belonged to Delirium, yet his work was all of Destruction's realm - how many screaming angels he'd seen in his time, Uriel standing over them with a painful expression as they slid into the Pit...

He wrapped up the kerchief, manifested a stick to hang it on and walked down to the grounds, musing. So Michael was a demon. Well, well, well. Destruction had seen him on many a battlefield (well, One in particular) and knew that Hell had gained a powerful knight. He'd always thought it was Humanity blowing themselves up that he'd quite his job to avoid, yet the supernatural war was sliding and overtaking, and...

Here was the gate. Open and close - you have to leave places properly, don't you. Destruction realised he'd been squeezing the chess piece in his hand tightly - he unrolled his palm and found the Black Queen crumbled to dust, and smiled at the irony, and then faded out, leaving the Cheshire-cat grin as a final blessing upon the manor for a few seconds more, before it too became mist.

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

Uriel looked at Chirpy, who was flying happily in circles under the shining sun. She always watched over him whenever she let him fly outside; Huginn and Muninn were always around, after all. They definitely would try to harm her pet should they get a chance to do so.

It was strange, being responsible for another being like that. Once her baby was born, her life would definitely change entirely – a child would certainly mean more responsibility than a bird. She was not used to such things – after all, sometimes she was unable to take care of even herself.

She remembered the times before the Fall. Back then, she had been hardly aware of her own existence. The only thing that had mattered to her had been the Presence, the warm, ever-shining flame she had held on the palm of her hand, her sole purpose of existence. There had been no threat to it, yet she had guarded it, because there had been nothing else she could have done. She had thought, and therefore she may have been, but she had only thought of the Presence, and thus she had only been through it. All in all, she had not existed, not in the way the word was usually interpreted.

Then, however, had come the Fall. The painful, horrible Fall, all those angels Falling – a whole third of the Host! – and suddenly, she had been all too aware of her own existence. For somebody had to be feeling all that pain, and with a sudden startle she had realized that it was her, that there was a being that was her. It had been impossible to ignore that fact when every fibre of her being had been screaming in pain. And there had been no Presence, either – for the first time ever since she'd been created had she had to acknowledge that something actually existed beyond that bright flame and the glory of the Lord.

It had been a painful experience in every meaning of the word.

It had returned, of course. Although slighty different from what it had been, the Presence had still been just as strong as always. There might have been a chance for her to slip back into her peaceful lack of awareness. However, she had failed to do so. Once she had become fully aware of herself and the world around her, she had found them impossible to ignore again in favour of simply guarding the Presence.

Still, she had done her best to cling to the only thing that had been familiar to her. Although the Presence was no more her whole existence, it had definitely been the sole thing that had defined her. Since somebody held the Presence, she had figured, that somebody had to exist, and that somebody had been her.

The more it had hurt when the next angel had Fallen.

From the Falls, a vicious cycle had begun. Whenever she lost the feeling of Presence, she clung even tighter to it when it returned, which naturally made the eventual new loss even more painful. In Presence she had been somewhat able to ignore herself and any possible needs and desires she might have had otherwise – when she had Presence, why should she yearn for anything else? However, whenever she was temporarily cut from it, she'd had to accept that she was something else than just a vessel, that she was something else than even just the Angel of Presence. There had been no Presence, but there had been her – and there had been pain.

As she sank deeper and deeper with every new Fall, the pain had slowly become even more important. While she had guarded her appearance, not wanting to let any of that pain to show to the world outside, she'd been unable to keep the pain from tearing at her from the inside. And, slowly, she had figured that she deserved the pain, somehow. For why else would her loving God have allowed her to be in pain when all she had done was following His orders?

[bipolar-uriel.livejournal.com]

And, finally, she had taken the final step. Well, steps. First there had been the Falling angel with an unholy knife, leading to her first attempt at taking her own life. And then... Then there had been her knives: only a replacement for her sword, at first, when she no more could bear to look at it, but later also something more. Something to use in her depression, to remind herself of everything she had done, of the fact that she still existed even beyond the psychic pain – even it was only in another kind of pain.

She had no idea when the mania had stepped into the picture. It didn't matter much, anyway. Manic episodes were a way for her to let out her feelings, which she usually was afraid to unleash. However, as far as she was concerned, they were merely a side-effect of her depression. It had been there first, ever since the first Fall, and even if she could, by some miracle, get rid of her manic phases some day, she had no doubt she would still be depressed from time to time. It had been pain and emptiness that had truly brought her into existence for the first time, and she had no doubt that they would also mark the end of her existence some day.

Not yet, thought. Not just yet.

She had a child to raise first.

[demon-mictain.livejournal.com]

Mictain lazily twisted a strand of hair in his fingers. Beautiful, red hair. Not the bloody red of the streak in his own hair, but a lovely, warm, coppery red.

Warm and lovely. Just like Raphael.

Thinking back, he couldn't tell exactly when his infatuation with Raphael had first started. Most probably it had been a gradual thing, his respect for the skill and power of a fellow archangel and a brilliant healer growing into appreciation of the gentle beauty and pure heart. There was no particular date he could tell, but he could indeed be sure it had been more than two millennia now.

He remembered it very well, the night of the first Christmas. The whole Host had gathered to witness the miracle of God becoming Man. And while in his memory there were the praises of the angels, the neverending choir lauding Him, one face in particular rose into his mind's eye from the glowing Host, one voice was particularly sweet.

Raphael had been so lovely then, eyes shining like purest emeralds with all the stars reflected in them, his soft hair like a waterfall of fire, his oh-so-lovely voice echoing in poor Michael's ears. Of course the other angels had been beautiful too, their nature wouldn't have allowed for anything else, but Raphael... He had been the sweetest, the purest of them all. Michael had seen him, and he had seen the Child, and for a moment he had been unable to tell which one was more lovely.

At that moment, he had known he was in love.

Of course, he hadn't been able to hide it forever. Sometime around the downfall of Rome Uriel had come to him, commenting on the fact that he had been watching Raphael more than any other angels. When he'd tried to deny it, the other archangel had just grinned and said that it'd been obvious for quite some time already.

Perhaps it hadn't been as obvious as Uriel had claimed, since nobody else hadn't known -- not until that unfortunate day in Manor, when Raphael had noticed the little figures on the Christmas tree. Then again, Uriel was the only one who spent most of his spare time watching what others did. And, most probably, he had also been the one who'd known him best.

Well, neither of those was true anymore. Uriel had enough worries with his own life, and Mictain certainly wasn't about to give him another thought.

Making sure no other demonic being was seeing -- not that any of them would have dared to see anything inappropriate -- he brushed the lock of hair over his lips. Then he carefully tied it onto a thin leather cord and secured this "necklace" around his neck, hiding it beneath his T-shirt. A brief smirk curled his lips, baring sharp fangs before softening to a momentary smile.

It had taken two millennia and a Fall, but at last Raphael was close to him.

[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

The room was small and sparsely furnished--probably a nun's cell at some point in the Manor's past--which suited him just fine; he didn't need that much space, and he'd never have been comfortable in a posh suite like the one downstairs that Crowley and Aziraphale shared.

The size might have been more of a problem if anyone else had been living in the same space, but the one person he'd really have liked to share it with would have agreed with him about the decor, John thought.

He ground his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table, and shut his eyes as he settled back against the headboard, nursing another migraine.

Kit. He could see her plain as day (raven black hair, deep green eyes, snow white skin...Miss Ireland,) standing in that ridiculously overblown red room, wrinkling up her nose, puzzled and amused at the explosion of velvet and satin and gilt. And by Crowley, he thought with a soft chuckle; oh, she'd have liked Crowley very much. And she'd have seen right through him in a heartbeat, too. "So you're a demon, are you? Not a lawyer too, I hope? Aye, well, good. We'll get on fine then."

She'd have liked the nice hardwood furniture though, maybe. Not one for excess, Kit, nor did she grow so attached to things that she couldn't give them up when they stopped being good for her, up to and including her own family. But she was a practical lady and appreciated quality and durability, the kinds of things that would last for generations and be expensive antiques one day; not because they were fancy, but just because they were still there. More than he did, in fact.

Roots and heirlooms and all the things that went with them were a bit of a sore spot with him. John could trace his bloodline all the way back to prehistoric Mesopotamia, if he cared to do so, and it seemed there had been very few generations that didn't contain at least one certified, dyed-in-the-wool, mad bastard like himself--though not all of them had been his direct ancestors.

It was astounding, really, that the family name had been carried on to present day. What woman in her right mind would want it, or if born to it, wouldn't try to change it at the first opportunity? (Lady Johanna didn't count, she'd been no more in her right mind than any of her male relatives.)

To those in the know, the name Constantine--or at least the particular branch he belonged to--was synonymous with the Black Arts, thievery, treachery, dereliction, and yes, murder. John's own hands were not clean on that count either, though by some standards of justice it could scarcely be called murder to put down the serial-killing psycho who'd done for your own father. (Who had been an unconscionable bastard and a murderer in his own right, inadvertantly killing his wife with the botched abortion that had also killed John's twin but left him alive.)

It was a name steeped in ugliness, soaked right down to the marrow, and it could only be a good thing for this tired world when it came to its end. Gemma might have inherited the bad blood, but with any luck it would be diluted and lose its potency without the name there to invoke it. Same with Tefe, who at any rate had another, cleaner, and he hoped stronger heritage to counter any Constantinian taint he might have passed along.

So, Kit...she was far and away safer and better left in Belfast, well away from Tadfield Manor and from him. He hoped he hadn't pulled some idiot stunt while he'd been there, tracked her down, hurt her again or worse, tried at this very late date to patch things up.

The possibility, however slim, that they had somehow miraculously made things right and he couldn't remember now was just a little more than what he could bear, so he refused to entertain it.

It was an old train of thought, this. He wasn't sure he could pin down when and where he'd had it before, but a line kept replaying itself in his head, and he knew it had to be one he'd used as a litany to comfort himself at moments like this in the past.

It's no failure to be the last Constantine, 'cos now no one else has to be.

What it was, though...was lonely.