Masquerade
A Good Omens fanfiction
In the Heavenly days before the rebellion, they used to hold little masked parties. These were not Masquerades as most humans know them; there was no dancing (angels not being inclined that way), and only one kind of music. It was more readily comparable to a corporate office celebration in fancy-dress with groups of singers taking turns – in arrangement by choir and selected partners – belting out the celestial tunes in the alcoves.
Their faces were also covered with white or silver masks.
It was meant to encourage mingling and cooperation between angels of different ranks.
Or, at least, that was how Gabriel impatiently explained it to a slightly confused Aziraphale when he pointed out (unpopularly) that most of the ranks could recognise one another by their gleaming fancy-dress uniforms anyway.
Mostly, the principalities just stood around looking awkward, nodding semi-sympathetically to each other and hoping the higher-ups weren't making jokes about them behind their backs.
Not any more than usual, at any rate.
Aziraphale had, under Gabriel's glower, recanted, admitted it was a stupid question – of course there was a reason for all this, how silly of him to suggest otherwise – and resumed miracling the frayed edges off the gold braiding on the side of his white uniform in preparation for the big event. He didn't like arguing with his superiors. Not to mention, he'd noticed Sandalphon cracking his knuckles, smiling rather too widely at Gabriel's displeasure, just itching for an excuse to hit a certain mouthy principality.
Strange to think that, eons later, Aziraphale would remember this Masquerade – the very last one before the rebellion, which began, somewhat unofficially, during it – in a way he recalled none of the others in particular.
Indeed, it started out the same as the others – Aziraphale had been lingering by the punchbowl, waving, unheeded, at an angel he was fairly certain was Uriel under a mask that looked more platinum than the traditional silver.
Uriel had more important things to do than wave back.
A voice beside him said something, which he'd missed.
"I'm sorry, what was it you were saying?" Aziraphale said politely, then turned.
He flushed a little when he saw the figure beside him was a remarkably beautiful red-haired seraph wearing a silver mask so dark it looked almost bullet-grey, even in the full heavenly light of the formal room.
He only knew it was a seraph by the uniform, of course; he didn't know the fellow personally.
Most seraphim, when they weren't attending something to do with God's throne room or conversing with the archangels about important matters that were no concern of a mere principality, spent a lot of time in field work, helping create things, like stars and nebulas.
You heard about them, in Aziraphale's circles, more than you ever met them. Thus why he was a smidgen star-struck (pun not intended).
"I said," the seraph repeated, "what do you think this is?" He sloshed a glass filled with a light-coloured substance that might have been a liquid – it could be swallowed without chewing, anyway. "I got it out of the punchbowl behind you."
"Oh, I heard it was distilled light with bubbling atoms."
"My guess was way off, then," said the seraph. He lifted the glass into the direct light. "And I don't see any bubbles."
"Well, neither do I, as a matter of fact," Aziraphale admitted.
"Warm, too."
"Yes, it is, rather," he agreed. "Quite tepid, I'd say."
"Principality, eh?" The seraph was eyeing his uniform with friendly curiosity.
He felt suddenly self-conscious. "Er, yes."
"What's your name?"
"I don't think we're supposed to give our names here." Aziraphale motioned up at the white mask he wore. "Part of the whole business."
A gingery brow lifted sardonically above the edges of the bullet-coloured mask. "Oh, right, because we can't possibly tell who's who without giving names."
"I don't make the rules," Aziraphale reminded him, a touch primly.
"No, you're right," he pressed on mercilessly. "It's completely impossible to recognise anyone here."
A large angel – very obviously Sandalphon wearing a thin yellow-white mask which concealed very little – passed within their vicinity.
The seraph pretended to be shocked, pressing a dramatic hand to his heart. "Oi, Sandalphon! I didn't recognise you with your mask on!"
Aziraphale couldn't help it; a snort escaped, then the dam of propriety holding back his laughter broke entirely and he was chortling so hard he nearly choked on the sip of the tepid drink he'd just brought to his lips. Drinkable light was dripping out of his nose in a very undignified fashion.
Sandalphon made a rude gesture in their direction. The principality was going to suffer for this later, since – archangel or not – there probably wasn't much Sandalphon could do to the seraph, especially as he was so seldom in office. Aziraphale was trying hard to care, to worry at least a little, but found he was having rather too much fun.
The harmonious singing in the alcoves above them petered off, and the seraph groaned.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm on the next celestial harmony shift," he sighed. "I have to find a partner and start singing before Gabriel blows a gasket."
"Oh, yes, you wouldn't want Gabriel upset with you." Aziraphale was sympathetic, nodding fervently – he knew only too well what that was like. "Or Michael – she's a real stickler for that sort of thing."
"Ugh, don't remind me." He set the glass in his hand down by the punchbowl.
"There's a group of your lot," Aziraphale added helpfully, pointing across the room to a small gaggle of seraphim. "Just there. I'll go over and fetch one for you if you want."
"No need, you'll do."
Aziraphale was now a garish red against the white of his uniform. "What? You can't be serious."
The seraph, who'd been walking in circles around the principality since he'd put down his glass, stopped and motioned towards the alcove with a tilt of his head. "Come sing with me."
"No." He shook his head. "I don't think I could." Not with the seraphim! "It's very kind of you to offer, but I'm in the Ninth Choir – that's way below your skill set." He'd only embarrass him. "It would simply never work, my dear fellow. No."
But the seraph was not willing to let his new friend go so easily. He snagged Aziraphale's plump wrist and tugged. "Oh, come on, don't give me that. All angels sing the bloody same, if you ask me."
"I don't know about that, but I–"
"Come on, in the time we've stood here arguing about it, the other seraphim will have all found partners, and I'll be stuck with Sandalphon."
"Sandalphon has a lovely voice," Aziraphale felt he simply had to say, for the sake of his conscience; Sandalphon was an archangel, after all, nothing to sneer at. He didn't add that it was also extremely nasal.
"He also steps on my feet to force me to sing higher so I'll harmonize better with him. Hurts like anything."
"The b–" He bit it back. "Bad angel."
Angelic singing partners – each pair of them – shared a standing-bench in the alcoves which fit exactly two beings stationed close together. An angel could very easily do what the seraph claimed without being noticed. Aziraphale wished it shocked him, as his exclamation might lead one to think it had. But he believed it all too readily. And after that joke they'd had at his expense, Sandalphon was probably rather miffed at the seraph.
"Have you told Gabriel?"
"Course I did – he doesn't believe me."
"I'm sorry." Aziraphale was a bleeding heart for that sort of thing. "Of course I'll sing with you."
Aziraphale couldn't help noticing a few fellow principalities gawking at him as he opened his wings and flew up into the alcove beside the red-haired seraph.
"He must be a better singer than I thought," one of them whispered loudly.
To Aziraphale's surprise, he was extremely popular up in the alcoves when he arrived. Michael and Sandalphon had quarrelled, so Michael didn't want to sing with Sandalphon, either (she wanted Gabriel, but he was with Uriel), and she tried to force the seraph to switch with her. Even a lowly principality was better than someone she was currently mad at. Besides, she'd heard Aziraphale sing before and quickly calculated that their voices would be fairly complementary.
The seraph actually bared his teeth and sort of hissed at her before nudging Aziraphale behind him, a touch possessively.
"I order you to switch with me," she snapped, ignoring his disrespect for the time being.
"Uh, no, we won't be doing that," said the seraph, pouting, arms folded across his chest. "We sing together or not at all. Isn't that right, angel?" He'd added the last bit for lack of a name to call his new friend.
"Don't sass Michael, or I'll write you up," Gabriel threatened, leaning over from his own place across the alcove. "Now get in place!"
"I promised him, Michael," Aziraphale said gently, sweetly, settling it. "I have to keep my word. It's what we do."
Michael gave a small, demure eye-bat. "Of course," she replied icily.
"She's never going to forgive me for that," Aziraphale murmured.
The seraph apologised, wincing. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble."
"Don't worry about it – I gave you my word, after all."
"If I don't hear some unbelievably sweet singing coming from back there in the next two minutes, I'll–" Gabriel began heatedly.
The seraph helped Aziraphale into place, steadying him when he accidentally wobbled getting onto the standing-bench. "Careful."
"Oh, thank you."
He waved it off and began singing.
Holy, Holy, Holy...
Aziraphale was amazed – he'd expected the seraph to be good, but he was actually better than Gabriel; he could hold his notes much longer.
He wanted to help him, not hinder or overpower that seraph's voice, so he added a lower accompaniment, on a slightly different part of the song, as if they were doing it in rounds. It wasn't the proper way – Gabriel was going to have words with him about it later, he was sure – but it sounded wonderful and it made the seraph sound even more powerfully angelic.
A few of the angels even glanced back – despite the fact that their eyes were meant to be straight ahead while they sang – to see what that beautiful sound was, straining to work out how they would add to it.
Aziraphale and his seraph friend barely noticed, they kept glancing at each other and smiling, glad as anything they'd found one another. What were the odds?
"Psst. Aziraphale." Uriel, who had finally decided to acknowledge Aziraphale's existence after that performance, waved him over.
"Excuse me," Aziraphale told the seraph, who had not heard the archangel use the principality's name, momentarily distracted by an angel who would one day be a duke of Hell called Hastur pantomiming something to him. "I'll be right back."
Aziraphale walked gingerly across the narrow white space, trying not to bump another tightly packed-in angel off the parapet while he did so – it had happened once before, and a great fuss was made and Gabriel had written him up.
"Hello, Uriel." He smiled brightly, wrapped up in his private happiness. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"Be careful, Aziraphale," Uriel warned him in a low voice. "Be very careful. Do you know who the seraph you were singing with is?"
"I didn't catch his name, rules being rules, but he seems a good fellow, if a little fiery. Keeps me on my toes, I can tell you that. But he really is extremely kind."
"He's friends with Lucifer."
"Lucifer?" Aziraphale echoed. "Not the one who's been threatening to..." He trailed off. The rumours he'd been hearing about that particular angel were unthinkable.
"That's the one."
"He can't know."
"Mark my words, he's in the thick of it." Uriel pointed over Aziraphale's shoulder. "He's signalling to one of Lucifer's favourites right now."
Heart sinking, Aziraphale felt as if someone had just pushed him off the parapet and then kicked him in the gut for good measure. His wings sagged. This was his friend – the sort of friend he'd been waiting what felt like for ever to meet. A celestial soulmate. Someone who wasn't like him, perhaps, not someone he would have picked out of a myriad, not exactly, but... Well, there was a fermentation in that seraph; Aziraphale wanted to believe it was for good.
"Just be careful," Uriel said again, platinum mask aglow and eyes flashing. "If he falls, don't let him take you down with him."
"Some of the guys are meeting outside," the seraph told him, smiling brightly. "They'll probably have something better to drink than we're being served in here."
Aziraphale was hesitant. "I really should stay, you know, for the look of the thing."
"Oh, come on," wheedled the seraph. "You've done your bit – saved me a lot of embarrassment and no mistake. Why not have some fun with the rest of us?"
Aziraphale sighed. "I don't think I'll get on with your sort of friends."
"How do you mean?" The seraph was not offended, he didn't think, but there was a new edge to his voice. His easy laughter was petering off.
"Uriel said," he began, then clamped his mouth shut, cheeks aflame.
"Oh, the archangels are talking bad about me again," sniffed the seraph. "Oh, what a big surprise. I'm shocked. Absolutely stunned."
Even Aziraphale couldn't mistake the tone. "It's all a misunderstanding, I'm sure."
"I'm not. Look, just come out with me for fifteen minutes or so – meet the guys, have a drink." His expression softened. "I owe you one."
"Well, all right." Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder, then followed his friend out a side door into a starry, windless space.
The seraph lifted a black veil lined with what might have been smatterings of stardust and stepped into a small enclosure, the principality close behind him.
A number of angels, very few of them still wearing their masks, were seated amongst the velvety matter, lounging about. Most of them were high-ranking, going by their uniform. Aziraphale didn't see a single soul he knew. And none of them looked very kind or helpful.
One of them frowned when they noticed him. "Who's this?"
"It's all right," said the seraph cheerfully. "I know him. He's fine."
"Look, I don't think he belongs here. He should leave."
"I've brought friends over before."
"Aye, but never a principality." The angel glared. "Too uptight. What if I want to lurk around in my skivvies?"
"Um, is he serious?" Aziraphale whispered anxiously, leaning close to the seraph.
"Keep your clothes on, Ramiel," he sighed, "and pass us whatever you think's drinkable."
A stained-glass bottle was passed back and forth and Aziraphale accepted a swig of something that tasted bubbly and made him feel warm when he swallowed it.
The angel the seraph called Ramiel gave him a nasty look when he wiped the bottle's lip with his sleeve before drinking from it, but a warning frown from the seraph made him back down immediately.
The other 'guys' barely noticed Aziraphale. They seemed to understand that he was solely the seraph's guest and left them both unharassed to talk and laugh together.
Eventually, they started filing out, sneaking back into the masquerade, but Aziraphale – more relaxed now – barely noticed when it was only himself and the seraph left. Uriel's warning felt like something that had happened to another person entirely. Aziraphale couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy, apart from up there in the alcoves singing earlier.
For a few precious hours – it was never going to be just fifteen minutes – everything was perfect; two friends had found each other and the world was turned not upside down but properly upright and beautiful for the first time in their existence.
Because now such an existence was shared, no longer a solitary process.
Then a tall, muscular, golden-haired angel – notably not wearing a mask or uniform – stuck his head under the veil and entered. "Oh, there you are, darling."
Aziraphale tensed. He hoped this wasn't who he thought – feared – it was.
"Hello, Lucifer!" the seraph crooned cheerily. "Was wondering where you'd gotten off to." He waved the bottle he held in Aziraphale's direction. "This is – well, I don't actually know. But he was my singing partner earlier."
Aziraphale swallowed – it felt like he was trying to swallow glass, as if shards from the bottle were in his throat, trying to force their way downward.
"Yes, I heard you both," the future devil said, smooth as oil. "You were very good."
"Thank you," said Aziraphale, politely, but with hardness in his stare.
Lucifer beamed. "You can invite him to join us, if you like."
The seraph paled slightly. "Now? We're doing that now? You didn't say anything about starting it during the masquerade."
"What better time? Everyone's together. That's why I was looking for you – we're about to start."
"Start what?" Aziraphale felt the corners of his mouth tightening. His eyes darted desperately to the seraph. "Start what?"
"We're going to see about some job conditions and career advancements," said Lucifer, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Aziraphale grabbed his friend's wrist and squeezed. "I've heard things. This isn't a good idea."
"Nonsense, I'm only going to ask a few questions – where's the harm in that?"
"Meet me inside in the next few minutes, darling – with or without your new friend." With that, Lucifer left them.
Aziraphale found he was shaking all over. If the universe had been at perfect rights a moment ago, it was so no longer. "Please don't do this."
"Come on, it's nothing – it's not like there don't need to be a few changes around here – the food hasn't been that good, for one thing."
"This could start a..." The word was coarse – before a couple weeks ago, when the rumours about Lucifer started – it had never been used before. "It could start a rebellion. A war."
The seraph pulled his wrist free. "It won't come to that."
"This could destroy everything."
"Nonsense. Come with me. It'll be something to do, at any rate."
He closed his eyes and inhaled. "I can't. I'm sorry. It's wrong. And you can't do wrong and just expect to get away with it."
"Well, I've got to – I promised Lucifer. I have to keep my word. Isn't it what we do?"
Aziraphale had an idea. He slipped a gold ring off his little finger and pressed it into the seraph's hand. "Take this. If you get into trouble, if things go terribly wrong... You'll be able to find me again." He gazed at him earnestly from behind his mask. "I will help you if I can."
He looked down at the ring, puzzled. "But nearly all principalities have a ring like this – how'm I meant...?"
"Then I'll be the only one without one, won't I?"
"Oh. Clever."
Things, of course, went very wrong.
There was a rebellion, and there was war.
And for a while, as it was starting up, Aziraphale thought he wasn't going to hear anything from his friend – sometimes he half-thought he imagined him. Uriel had mercifully never brought it up again, and with battle on the horizon, the other principalities and their respective platoons had more important things to talk about than Aziraphale's singing with a seraph at the last Masquerade.
When Gabriel summoned him, for the first time since he'd given the seraph his ring, Aziraphale momentarily panicked. Uriel might not have noticed, but Gabriel was a stickler; he'd see his bare little finger and ask. If he mistook what Aziraphale had done, he might accuse him of trying to assist the enemy.
He might consider him a traitor.
So, thinking fast, Aziraphale located another principality whose hands he thought looked enough like his own that his ring would fit him. This was one of the few angels Aziraphale shared a similar shape to; they even had similar hair colouring.
"I need a favour," he told him urgently.
Shrugging, the angel slipped off his ring and gave it to Aziraphale.
"Thank you, I'll give it right back – I just can't be seen looking forgetful in front of Gabriel."
A few moments later, the angel felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He turned to see a red-haired seraph (or at least, he thought it was probably a seraph; since it was out of uniform, some what bedraggled, and wearing mostly black and grey, he couldn't be sure) smiling hesitantly at him.
"Hello."
"I need to talk to you."
"All right." The angel blinked. "What about?"
"It's me." He pointed at the angel's bare little finger.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"From the masquerade." He looked both ways, as if afraid someone was watching him. "You said if I needed help–"
"Look, I really do believe you've got the wrong angel."
Apparently taking the angel's confusion for a blasé arrogance, he growled, "Listen. You were right. I'm in over my head. I was hoping your platoon might give me asylum."
"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about."
The seraph – if such he was, or still was – became crestfallen. Then angry. "Fine. I should have known better. So much for ineffable mercy. You're as bad as the rest of them." He took a gold ring from the folds of his garment and dropped it on the floor near the angel's feet. "I don't need you. Any of you."
"Well," said the angel. "That was strange."
Aziraphale was, at that moment, leaving Gabriel's office – he'd only been needed for something quick. His shoulder bumped against someone dressed darkly, someone he thought – from the sniffling noises he heard in passing – might have been crying and trying not to let it show.
"Do buck up!" he called back to the angel he'd bumped but hadn't properly seen. "We're sure to win." This was a difficult time for everyone.
He got no response.
In that angel's defence, he was rather broken-hearted at the time; he'd just lost his best friend.
Or he believed he had, anyway – which amounted to the same thing.
Aziraphale was surprised to find his ring unattended on the cold, white floor. Why had the seraph cast it off so causally? Didn't he understand the risk?
When he returned the borrowed ring to the angel who'd loaned it to him, he explained about the strange conversation he'd had, but no, he didn't think he could pick out this seraph from a crowd – he was bad with faces.
Misty-eyed, Aziraphale did try to locate his friend, rushing to and fro and asking everyone if they'd seen him leave and which way had he gone, hoping there was still time to explain the mix up, and even offer the needed asylum, but it came to nothing.
Touching the ring on his little finger, he whispered, brokenly, "You idiot. Why did you have to run off? Of course I would have helped you! Without a moment's hesitation."
"Was I right, darling?" Lucifer reached over and smoothed back one of his red curls.
He nodded stiffly, unable to meet Lucifer's burning eyes. "He wouldn't help me."
"If you ever try to go turncoat on me again–"
"I won't."
"You can kiss any hope of promotion goodbye after this, you do realise that?"
He swallowed and nodded again.
"And I won't find you with maps of the stars hidden on your person, plotting to run away again, will I?"
He shook his head, defeated.
"Then let's win this damned war and get it over with."
"You're making us go down the bloomin' elevator shaft?" growled a newly-named demon, scowling at the angel who pointed a sword at him threateningly.
"All of you are being cast out, by divine order."
Most of them had to be forced, though the demon who would be Hastur jumped of his own volition. Some said afterwards it was because they'd just dropped Ligur down the shaft, into the glowing boiler fires below, and he was going after him – actually screaming Ligur's former name. Mostly, though, it's agreed Hastur made the dive into the pool of burning sulphur willingly because he was just that evil – it was how he'd always been, deep down inside.
A certain red-haired demon, who'd once been a seraph, gave the angel with the sword a cool, unbothered look. "There's no need for that – I'll take the stairs."
And he sauntered away, towards the stairwell, in a vague, carefree manner.
After the war, when the final battle was over and the casting out completed, Aziraphale found an angel from his platoon crying uncontrollably.
Her sword by her side was stained an ugly dark colour from blade to hilt. Her back was against a pearly pillar spotted with red and she was bowed forward, sobbing into her kilt.
"I know," he said, and perhaps he did, for their grief was shared; he'd lost a friend as well. "I know. It's over now." Kneeling, he put his arms around her heaving shoulders and cradled her head protectively. "Shh. It's ineffable. You can't second-guess ineffability."
The Beginning:
"That one went down like a lead balloon."
Could it be? Aziraphale briefly ran the face of the serpentine demon beside him on the garden wall against the masked image – bleached with heavenly light – in his memory.
The hair colour and height were about right, and how many shades off from snaky yellow is a celestial hue of molten gold, really?
Alas, for all the seraph's jokes, it turns out a mask can conceal rather a lot.
It can hide good cheekbones, the shape of the eyes, and many other things that help distinguish a particular face...
Aziraphale's memory, not finding an exact match, dismissed the possibility and promptly moved on.
"Oh. Yes."
A/N: Reviews welcome, replies may be delayed.