A/N: "Good Omens", its characters, and affiliates are property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I'm using them without permission and I'm not making a profit. I pray they don't sue me.
Warnings: Um. None? You get to interpret the ending any way you want! Woo! Also, you'll probably have to read this a few times to get it, just because I went for symbolism. But the symbolism is painstakingly blatant. You'll be able to figure out who everybody is, I promise.
You know, this idea is odd. I got it (as I am wont to do lately) during yet another AP English lecture. Yay for psychologists guiding discussions on literature. The idea is odd. And pointless. Whee.
God is. God sits in meditative position, gazing into an hourglass. Every grain within is gray, a glorious variant of dullness. They shimmer, convulse, change with every passing second, trembling as they make their slow journey away from the top bulb of the hourglass and God's bright face. There is no sand in the bottom bulb. There is never sand in the bottom bulb. The top bulb has not been empty for a very long time. At least, not by human standards.
God watches each grain not as it falls from the top bulb but as it interacts with its neighbors. God watches calmly as they change, some slowly and some with startling speed, lightening nearly to pure white or darkening toward black. The darkest disturb the grains around them, but those grains of sand closest to whiteness vibrate the most violently. And God observes, not unkindly, not unaffectionately. The hourglass hums, and God hears it. God sits in meditative position, periodically glancing into the empty bottom bulb.
There had been one time, a time of peace and utter newness, when an inquisitive, promising youth had asked God where all of the sand went. God had told him, and he had been confused, and he asked why. God paused a moment, then, and answered him. The angel laughed, and God laughed too.
There had been one time when God had nearly turned the hourglass over. The brink of war, the thrill of battle. The small voice, the small hand of a child brought all of it to a screeching halt. God loves him, had loved him even before then.
Now, God takes one hand and rests it over the mouth of a jar by his side. Much like the hourglass, the jar is transparent and houses marbles, every last one some shade of blue. There are sky blue marbles, navy blue marbles, and some the closest to pure white that blue can be. There is a small hole at the bottom of the jar, too small for any of the marbles to escape. There is one marble for every angel in existence. They are translucent and beautiful.
At God's other side, and under God's other hand, is a far different jar. The glass is smoked, the mouth is wide enough to fit a hand, and it is full of small, red pebbles. These pebbles are jagged, crooked, pocked, and darken from the color of poppies down to almost black. The jar stands ominously silent, but there are no cracks in the glass. No pebbles jettison out to cut God's hand. Instead, they sit, patiently, and bear witness to the changing of the sand inside the hourglass.
The white noise of humming sand is shattered by the sound of rock on glass. God looks down and a small, bloody pebble topples from the hole in the bottom of the jar of blue marbles. The marbles clink, alarmed and disturbed, but soon settle into a new pattern, a different hierarchy. Some jealously darken toward black, while others desperately lighten. God holds the pebble between gentle fingers and passes it into the other jar.
God keeps an eye on the hourglass as the shift is made. There is no visible change, but the air gives a frustrated shudder about the straining glass. A disc by God's feet vibrates enough to make a sound above the hum. This disc is no larger than the iris of God's eye, but it is vibrant and beautiful. It is half poppy red, half sky blue, and where the colors meet is a living, twisting, turbulent violet that acts as a seal. God cannot touch one side without affecting the other. The disc is pocked, uneven, but polished nonetheless. It is a precious rarity, one of an exceedingly small number. The disc rests with the few like it in the center of a wooden game board.
God looks at the board as if seeing it for the first time, and moves a violet-blue marble into a new divot in the wood. The pebbles on the other side vibrate, and one rolls into a new spot. God smiles at the speed, and surveys the board. The game is not unlike chess, not unlike checkers, not unlike backgammon, not unlike mahjongg, not unlike solitaire. Not unlike war, but not war. Pieces are not taken; God cannot Collect $200; there is no race to the finish line. Both parties will reach the end soon enough. But every once in a while, God will nudge a marble, a pebble will tremble, and the disc will emerge. And, though little red pebbles stab blue marbles on their way out of the jar by God's side, these little neutralities rest softly and comfortably in God's hand. In God's hand only. The discs are pressed in with one another, but tentatively. Their imperfections catch on one another. God would never dream of trying to put a disc into one of the jars.
This game is ancient, aged enough that every blue-violet marble, every red-gray pebble has touched every divot in the wood. The purest and brightest marble is only tainted minutely at its center and sits closest to God. This is not often brought into play, and no pebbles ever dare venture near it. The darkest pebbles stand arrogantly farthest away, and are only slightly more mobile. They are the bishops, the white marble is the queen, and God is the king. God makes one move at a time.
It is God's turn. God looks into the top bulb of the hourglass, watching sand writhe and change, chameleon grains twitching and humming. God listens to them, knows every one even as they disappear into the emptiness below. Knows every one as they reappear on the top, pale gray and alterable, all. There is only an instant, a tiny flash of pure brightness before the adulteration of the world, and in that space God does not know them at all.
God is. And so are they, the grains of sand in the hourglass and what each grain represents. There are no names on the sand, no names on the marbles, no names on the pebbles, no names on the discs. But God knows every one, effortlessly knows and loves them all. God does not profess to understand them, but is rather more amused by what is incomprehensible. God had never planned on the discs, but there they are, the anomalies, the oddities. The serendipitous mistakes.
God looks into the top bulb of the hourglass, watching grains of sand rub against one another, break apart and return, create glorious friction and lighten or darken with no knowledge of their audience. God mildly nudges a marble into a new position and smiles. There is heat, and the marble melts enough to touch the pebble. There is heat, and the two fuse. God weighs the warm, new little disc, measuring it in the dip of one soft palm, and looks through the translucent, violet center at the hourglass.
Aziraphale finds himself staring at the door to Crowley's apartment. The instinctual, shocking urge to see the demon was nearly overwhelming when it first hit him, but now he is a bit unsure as to why the need to be in Crowley's presence had been so pressing. Aziraphale is about to walk away when Crowley comes up from behind him.
"Angel?"
The angel makes a strangled, surprised noise, and turns to smile at Crowley. "Hello, Crowley. I was..." Aziraphale trails off, and does not meet the opaque sunglasses covering Crowley's eyes.
Crowley shrugs at him. "Doesn't matter. Tonight was going to be boring anyway. Come on in." Crowley opens the door with one hand and holds up a bottle of wine with the other. "I was out getting this. Didn't know I'd have company."
Aziraphale smiles, chiding himself for ever being ill-at-ease around the demon. "I'd hate to intrude..." Crowley cuts him off with a wave of his hand. And so, under Crowley's arm, Aziraphale enters the apartment. Crowley shuts the door behind them.
Warnings: Um. None? You get to interpret the ending any way you want! Woo! Also, you'll probably have to read this a few times to get it, just because I went for symbolism. But the symbolism is painstakingly blatant. You'll be able to figure out who everybody is, I promise.
You know, this idea is odd. I got it (as I am wont to do lately) during yet another AP English lecture. Yay for psychologists guiding discussions on literature. The idea is odd. And pointless. Whee.
God is. God sits in meditative position, gazing into an hourglass. Every grain within is gray, a glorious variant of dullness. They shimmer, convulse, change with every passing second, trembling as they make their slow journey away from the top bulb of the hourglass and God's bright face. There is no sand in the bottom bulb. There is never sand in the bottom bulb. The top bulb has not been empty for a very long time. At least, not by human standards.
God watches each grain not as it falls from the top bulb but as it interacts with its neighbors. God watches calmly as they change, some slowly and some with startling speed, lightening nearly to pure white or darkening toward black. The darkest disturb the grains around them, but those grains of sand closest to whiteness vibrate the most violently. And God observes, not unkindly, not unaffectionately. The hourglass hums, and God hears it. God sits in meditative position, periodically glancing into the empty bottom bulb.
There had been one time, a time of peace and utter newness, when an inquisitive, promising youth had asked God where all of the sand went. God had told him, and he had been confused, and he asked why. God paused a moment, then, and answered him. The angel laughed, and God laughed too.
There had been one time when God had nearly turned the hourglass over. The brink of war, the thrill of battle. The small voice, the small hand of a child brought all of it to a screeching halt. God loves him, had loved him even before then.
Now, God takes one hand and rests it over the mouth of a jar by his side. Much like the hourglass, the jar is transparent and houses marbles, every last one some shade of blue. There are sky blue marbles, navy blue marbles, and some the closest to pure white that blue can be. There is a small hole at the bottom of the jar, too small for any of the marbles to escape. There is one marble for every angel in existence. They are translucent and beautiful.
At God's other side, and under God's other hand, is a far different jar. The glass is smoked, the mouth is wide enough to fit a hand, and it is full of small, red pebbles. These pebbles are jagged, crooked, pocked, and darken from the color of poppies down to almost black. The jar stands ominously silent, but there are no cracks in the glass. No pebbles jettison out to cut God's hand. Instead, they sit, patiently, and bear witness to the changing of the sand inside the hourglass.
The white noise of humming sand is shattered by the sound of rock on glass. God looks down and a small, bloody pebble topples from the hole in the bottom of the jar of blue marbles. The marbles clink, alarmed and disturbed, but soon settle into a new pattern, a different hierarchy. Some jealously darken toward black, while others desperately lighten. God holds the pebble between gentle fingers and passes it into the other jar.
God keeps an eye on the hourglass as the shift is made. There is no visible change, but the air gives a frustrated shudder about the straining glass. A disc by God's feet vibrates enough to make a sound above the hum. This disc is no larger than the iris of God's eye, but it is vibrant and beautiful. It is half poppy red, half sky blue, and where the colors meet is a living, twisting, turbulent violet that acts as a seal. God cannot touch one side without affecting the other. The disc is pocked, uneven, but polished nonetheless. It is a precious rarity, one of an exceedingly small number. The disc rests with the few like it in the center of a wooden game board.
God looks at the board as if seeing it for the first time, and moves a violet-blue marble into a new divot in the wood. The pebbles on the other side vibrate, and one rolls into a new spot. God smiles at the speed, and surveys the board. The game is not unlike chess, not unlike checkers, not unlike backgammon, not unlike mahjongg, not unlike solitaire. Not unlike war, but not war. Pieces are not taken; God cannot Collect $200; there is no race to the finish line. Both parties will reach the end soon enough. But every once in a while, God will nudge a marble, a pebble will tremble, and the disc will emerge. And, though little red pebbles stab blue marbles on their way out of the jar by God's side, these little neutralities rest softly and comfortably in God's hand. In God's hand only. The discs are pressed in with one another, but tentatively. Their imperfections catch on one another. God would never dream of trying to put a disc into one of the jars.
This game is ancient, aged enough that every blue-violet marble, every red-gray pebble has touched every divot in the wood. The purest and brightest marble is only tainted minutely at its center and sits closest to God. This is not often brought into play, and no pebbles ever dare venture near it. The darkest pebbles stand arrogantly farthest away, and are only slightly more mobile. They are the bishops, the white marble is the queen, and God is the king. God makes one move at a time.
It is God's turn. God looks into the top bulb of the hourglass, watching sand writhe and change, chameleon grains twitching and humming. God listens to them, knows every one even as they disappear into the emptiness below. Knows every one as they reappear on the top, pale gray and alterable, all. There is only an instant, a tiny flash of pure brightness before the adulteration of the world, and in that space God does not know them at all.
God is. And so are they, the grains of sand in the hourglass and what each grain represents. There are no names on the sand, no names on the marbles, no names on the pebbles, no names on the discs. But God knows every one, effortlessly knows and loves them all. God does not profess to understand them, but is rather more amused by what is incomprehensible. God had never planned on the discs, but there they are, the anomalies, the oddities. The serendipitous mistakes.
God looks into the top bulb of the hourglass, watching grains of sand rub against one another, break apart and return, create glorious friction and lighten or darken with no knowledge of their audience. God mildly nudges a marble into a new position and smiles. There is heat, and the marble melts enough to touch the pebble. There is heat, and the two fuse. God weighs the warm, new little disc, measuring it in the dip of one soft palm, and looks through the translucent, violet center at the hourglass.
Aziraphale finds himself staring at the door to Crowley's apartment. The instinctual, shocking urge to see the demon was nearly overwhelming when it first hit him, but now he is a bit unsure as to why the need to be in Crowley's presence had been so pressing. Aziraphale is about to walk away when Crowley comes up from behind him.
"Angel?"
The angel makes a strangled, surprised noise, and turns to smile at Crowley. "Hello, Crowley. I was..." Aziraphale trails off, and does not meet the opaque sunglasses covering Crowley's eyes.
Crowley shrugs at him. "Doesn't matter. Tonight was going to be boring anyway. Come on in." Crowley opens the door with one hand and holds up a bottle of wine with the other. "I was out getting this. Didn't know I'd have company."
Aziraphale smiles, chiding himself for ever being ill-at-ease around the demon. "I'd hate to intrude..." Crowley cuts him off with a wave of his hand. And so, under Crowley's arm, Aziraphale enters the apartment. Crowley shuts the door behind them.