Note:

Based on a headcanon that has already been adapted into plenty of fics and comics, but I wanted to give a try to my own version of it.

I would like to point out that the circumstances of the destruction of the library are still debated today and that there is not unanimous support for the hypothesis that it would result from the conflict between Caesar and Pompey. Even though I am a big ancient history nerd, I don't want this story to arouse any kind of conflict about the veracity of the facts it's based upon.

Please note that English is not my first language and that I am deeply sorry for all the mistakes that may remain.

Chapter 1:

The place of the cure of the soul

The place of the cure of the soul.

Aziraphale could not have found more correct words to define the spiritual grandeur of this building. His fingers run along the engraving and his ring scratches the corner of the shelf. Around, only the faint chirp of the birds dozing in the gardens, the crystalline flow of the fountain and the rustling of the forsaken papyruses which catch the breeze of the late evening. These scrolls abandoned by the last visitors that are just waiting to be opened again so to share their words, to spread their ink in the veins of the reader. These sacred texts which persist through both faithful and apocryphal copies, which invite to converse, to reflect, to progress. This unique legacy of the findings and discoveries of scholars providing the basis for the education of their successors. Pages and pages of calculations and theories to fill ignorance. Warm poems and catchy songs to erase torments and warm up injured hearts. Indeed. What could be better than a library to heal one's soul from all its sorrows.

Today, Aziraphale enbarks upon his second month as the head librarian of the great Library of Alexandria. As far as he can remember, and God knows it goes back a long time, he has never enjoyed working so much (and has never really worked). For him, wandering between the columns and getting lost in this labyrinth made of shelves is not the chore that some of his predecessors have described: much more than a real pleasure, it is a vocation. At times of low visits, which are becoming increasingly rare, he likes to dig for new manuscripts and lock himself in his office to discover them, study them, sometimes make copies when the paper is deteriorated and despite the army of scribes at his disposal.

Some claim that he does not have the temper to be a librarian worthy of the name, but his most fervent defenders constantly evoke his passion for reading which, according to them, is more than enough to make him fit for the task. No one else could perpetuate the desire of the Ptolemies to make this library a real institution, a collection of all arts and sciences. Aziraphale's thirst for knowledge is so deep and intense that he strives to establish an aggressive policy of purchasing books in order to extend the library collections to all the subjects known to date. He would not hesitate to reach into his own pocket to finance some allegedly impossible purchases. As soon as the name of a new author appears, Zira hastens to dispatch royal agents to collect the texts according to an extremely precise procedure or to write copies as faithful as possible. When public book sales are organized, he goes there in person and often leaves with nearly all of the goods. He also has no qualms about doing a few miracles to recover documents that are particularly difficult to obtain, which has already earned him a call to order to work in favor of interests seen as "too futile" by his superiors. "Futile". Certainly, he could have refrained from snapping his fingers to restore these Homeric poems destroyed during a shipwreck. The library already had them, after all. But Homeric poems… impossible to let them sink.

Despite the undisputed role of his dear library in the sharing of knowledge, Aziraphale cannot help but feel a constant fear regarding the rival institution established in Pergamum. Since it appeared, scholars in Alexandria have been plagued by counterfeiters' organizations who are trying by all means to sell their fake copies. The kind of apocryphal writings that Aziraphale vowed never to enter the walls of the library while he remains its head librarian. He has exhausted his eyes on these so-called poems so often, studying the usual lexicon, comparing the copies by dozens to assess their authenticity... to finally return them to their owners with the risk of having made a misjudgement and indirectly offer the precious texts to their rivals from Pergamum. It is high time, moreover, to conduct a campaign of seduction of scientists in order to prevent them from continuing to flee to Pergamum. Not all of them have the calibre of the famous Aristophanes of Byzantium who refused to settle in Pergamum despite multiple invitations from Eumenes II! And anyway, that damned library will never have the stature of that of Alexandria. Never. Aziraphale is ready to do anything to prevent it. Whispering in Ptolemy V's ear that it would be wise to ban the export of papyrus to Pergamum was just a small miracle among many others.

Aziraphale steps down from the ladder and places it back against the column. He dusts his white toga and lets out a frustrated sigh when seeing a thin cloud of particles rise in front of him. Wasn't he clear enough about the cleaning and the accumulation of dust on the shelves? He should have a quick word with Nephi about all that. Again. He sneaks a peek in the meeting room which has already regurgitated the fifteen or so philosophers who had settled there for the day. He sometimes likes to distract and listen to them through the walls, too shy to dare impose his presence and his ignorance on these great geniuses whose writings he dissects and savours. Blessed are these men freed from the burdens of everyday life, exempt from taxes, with free room, board and laundry so that they can devote all of their time to intellectual stimulation. Aziraphale crosses the reading room with a light, almost perky step, making sure that the last consulted scrolls have been put back in their place and not left upon the tables or the couches like too many young visitors like to do. He greets his late colleagues with discreet wavins or simple nods, his cheeks turning to pink in front of this respect which is granted to him a little more every day because of his growing reputation. Ten years ago, he was just a simple stranger meandering between the shelves and taking advantage of the setting sun to appreciate the calm of the galleries. Today, he is the almost undisputed lord of this place. He walks the promenade overlooking the conference room and the refectory to finally reach his office, his lair, his home. This place cut off from the world in which he hides the documents on which he intends to work personally without delegating the task to anyone. How many manuscripts did he steal from the shelves on the ground floor after dark? How many texts has he stuffed under his toga? Oh, he doesn't keep them forever, just long enough to make personal copies - or unofficial copies that he returns in place of the originals. God wouldn't hold it against him, would she? She would understand... she would most certainly understand... After all, if these are really "futile" concerns, his little maneuvers will not cause great ills...

"Mister the head librarian, what a pleasure to meet you at last!"

The angel jumps and lets out a little shout. This slightly hoarse and nasal voice... this mocking intonation, this sarcasm oozing from each word... Aziraphale would recognize them among a thousand.

"Crawly! Crowley! What are you doing here?" he exclaims, raising a hand to his chest to feign outrage. "How dare you defile this temple with your… dirty… buskins!"

"Oh, you tell me, angel."

The demon leans against the doorframe, a mocking smile floating on his face. Cursed be that jeering and insolent expression that he dares to wear whenever he catches his old friend unaware! Aziraphale can easily imagine his golden eyes twinkling behind the opacity of his glasses. It's been such a long time that he hasn't had the pleasure of observing them… after all, apart from the charming specificity of these eyes, isn't it unpleasant to talk to an interlocutor whose gaze cannot be followed?

"Oh, please, don't tell me that you smoothed the way for the Romans? Are you responsible for this dreadful war?"

"The current political intrigues are a little too complex for my taste."

"They can only result from the work of a harmful creature."

"That's what I thought. Gabriel must have sticked his oar in this affair."

The ginger tilts his head to the side and his thin lips stretch into a mysterious smile. Aziraphale may well appreciate this arrogant idiot after all the adventures they went through together, he begins to understand that the presence of his comrade in the vicinity is always prophetic of bad omens. Fortunately, his manuscripts are safe.

"So?" he continues, trying in vain to put up a front, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. "Why were you looking for me? Some sin to confess?"

"I was simply struck by the sudden impulse to take a short cruise to come and sow chaos in this city that everyone adores."

"Out of the question! I will not let you…!"

Crowley gives him an oblique look behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. Has he ever really been behind a single crime since the creation of the world? Aziraphale's blunders caused far more misfortune than his own deliberate misdeeds.

"To be completely honest, I just wanted to get closer to the epicenter of the action to make sure the situation didn't escalate."

"It didn't wait for you to escalate, my dear!"

"Then why don't you intervene? A small angelic miracle could save many lives."

Aziraphale's jaw drops several times, his lips pursing slightly without a word escaping from his throat. Is this a trap? Yet another mockery? Crowley must have been made aware of the admonitions expressed against his poor little angel. Does he dare think that he can take advantage of this to put the city to fire and the sword?

"Well... it's all part of the Great Plan. I would never dare to interfere with the Almighty's goals, but you, on the other hand…"

"And all the manuscripts that should have ended up at the bottom of the sea? They weren't part of the Plan, right?"

Crowley sneers at the confused pout Aziraphale displays. The poor blond has always been unable to take important decisions. A weakness that makes him absolutely adorable.

"Anyway, a bunch of soldiers stopped me when I reached the port", Crowley continues, walking around the office to then slump into his friend's chair. "I was rather surprised when they asked me to bring you all the books on board. I didn't know that you changed your career path to theft?"

"Oh, Crowley, come on!" the angel protests, clapping his hands. "It's not theft! It's for the common good, for posterity!"

"Seize someone's property without considering returning it?" Crowley responds, throwing his long legs over the desk and ignoring the indignant exclamation of his friend. "What do you call that if not theft?"

"It's not... it's not exactly theft. In fact, we make copies of the seized texts which we then give to the owners."

"The initial version is therefore stolen."

"Well…"

"No, no tirade on the legitimacy of your intentions, please. Just send your damn scribes to the port and collect the paperwork."

A fleeting smile flashes on Aziraphale's lips at the idea of introducing new documents into his collections. Fortune has not smiled much upon him recently: too many duplicates, too few new authors or unpublished works.

"What kind of documents did you bring?" he asks in a soft voice to conceal - unsuccessfully - his excitement.

"Do you really think I bothered to read them?"

"A little culture doesn't hurt anyone. Besides, you should tr-…"

"I was too busy pissing off fishermen and soldiers. And the fishes. And the ducks."

Aziraphale fidgets for a moment before he rushes out of his office and hails the scribes still at the ready to dispatch them to the port. Blessed be this wonderful decree authorizing to seize the books of the mooring ships!

"While we're at it, I want to congratulate you for becoming the new librarian", Crowley sighs, standing up, ready to go now that his mission is accomplished. "I think... well, you... yeah. It's nice."

"Oh, Crowley…"

Aziraphale shakes his head, his eyes half closed as the compliment rings in his ears. He would be lying if he claimed he hadn't thought of Crowley since their last encounter one year earlier, during the Senate meeting which summoned Caesar to surrender his power. Crowley may not be an angel, but he has used more than one occasion to show his kindness and let the true color of his soul shine through. If Aziraphale knows full well that they are doomed to remain enemies by their nature, he cannot help but feel some affection for this poor demon who looks nothing like his fellows. Basically, he's a nice boy. And Aziraphale always knew it, whether Crowley tried to deny it or not.

"Thank you", he whispers, his cheeks pink with emotion. "It's very touching of you."

"Stop it right now."

"I have to say that I didn't expect you t-…"

"I think I'm going to burn a ship."

"Not before you entrusted its books to me!"

Crowley cracks a grimace and turns away, taking the way out with his ridiculous swaying gait. Aziraphale watches him go, his eyes sparkling with unparalleled joy. He cannot say what pleased him most: Crowley coming to Alexandria, the prospect of finding unpublished manuscripts, or these brief congratulations?

He gently shakes his shoulders to regain his senses and comes back behind his desk while knowing full well that he will be unable to focus on anything after this unexpected meeting. If only Crowley was interested in culture, Aziraphale would be happy to invite him for a walk in the meanders of the library. He who loves plants so much could have enjoyed a nap in the garden.

Thanks for reading!

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