Hey everyone,

Thank you to those of you who had favorited and followed, I appreciate you so much! This has definitely been one of the harder stories I've ever tried to write but it's also been one of the most enjoyable so I'm grateful for those of you who are reading :)

I hope you...

Enjoy!


Crowley didn't exactly make it back to London. He made it to the Bentley, but as he knocked his head against the steering wheel in an attempt to clear his mind, he realized how incredibly tired he was. Sluggish. A short nap couldn't hurt. He closed his eyes, intending to sleep off some of the hangover, the heartbreak, and the fear making him miserable. As he drifted off, he tried not to imagine angelic blue eyes watching over him.

A raucous peel of shared, drunken laughter cut through the night. Crowley shot back against the seat, blinking owlishly as he glanced around the full parking lot. Thin strains of a guitar and a rhythmic drum echoed as the door opened and closed. It was far darker than he remembered it being when he had closed his eyes and while his headache had mostly eased, a masochistic thought nudged him toward the surely loud, intoxicating bar. "No point in driving back in the dark then," Crowley muttered. Pushing into a stretch, he unfolded out of the car.

The bar was packed to bursting. The only place not filled was the short, raised stage against the back wall where a band – whose speakers were turned up far higher than necessary – played a cover of "In a Big Country". Every infinitesimal sound in the place seemed to be competing to be heard. It was chaotic and messy, and Crowley's headache came screaming back with a vengeance. There was no way he was leaving.

Eying the bar, he found a seat and snapped his fingers. A man abruptly stood and grabbed his drink. The woman he had been sitting with confusedly looked to the bartender before grabbing her own drink and following. She called after him, but the name was lost to the bassline. Crowley slid into the seat before the bartender – the same man from the night before – could step away. The man's confuddled attention cleared as it settled on his new customer, and Crowley took the advantage, "Talisker."

The bearded man furrowed his brow – a deep scar that ran along his right eyebrow puckered, surely the remnant of an ancient brawl – and tipped his head to the side as he obviously worked to place Crowley. His expressive face shifted into a far more welcoming grimace when he gruffly said, "Y're in 'ere yestaday."

Crowley inclined his head, "And I'd prefer the same to drink."

Flicking his finger between them in a loose request for patience, the bartender turned and snatched a bottle off the back wall without looking. Setting it on the sticky wooden counter, he reached below the bar and produced a heavy glass. As he poured the first drink, he conversationally said, "Good ta see ya' didn't drown." Friendly concern colored his tone.

Crowley scoffed and picked up the drink. Taking a long drag, he bought time as his heart constricted at the continuing reminder of what wasn't there. Still, when he looked up, all he had managed to control was his expression, as he muttered, "Thanks." He tipped the glass, but his attention was on the mirror behind the bar.

The man leaned forward with a knowing gaze, and hesitantly asked, "Ya' gonna try it again tanight?"

Clearly Crowley's first impression had been right, this man had been doing this for far too long. His heartbreaking knowledge of the human condition had been honed over many years and for all his supernatural heritage, Crowley clearly couldn't hide as well as he used to. I've been on Earth too long, he sighed. Recognizing the potential danger of his predicament, Crowley hopelessly tried to control his tone as he said, "Maybe. You wouldn't know either way." He was both annoyed and impressed by the man's intuition.

The bartender surveyed the guests before dropping a towel, that he seemingly pulled out of nowhere, on the counter and leaning in. There was a sincerity in his tone when he asked, "Need to talk?"

Crowley's warring impression of his skills slipped into annoyance, and he snapped his fingers. Taking a sip on the whisky, he said with a sour smirk, "Feel like you're a bit busy." A loud shout and a glass shattering at the end of the long bar demanded the intruding attention. "Shit," the bartender swore as he snapped the towel up and hurried toward the early sounds of a fight. Crowley downed his glass. Pouring another double, he turned to watch.

It was a comically bad fight. Neither combatant could land a punch – their opponent was either too dexterous or the aggressor too sloppy – but they kept swinging anyway. Crowley chuckled. As they traded nonexistent blows, a small circle formed, encouraging the violence, and keeping the only sober adult from stopping them. Agilely ducking a blow, the shorter man thumped his hands on his friend's shoulders and tried to knee him in the stomach before they both slipped. The crowd howled their disappointment but pulled the fighters up by their shirts and shoved them together. A punch went wide. Another spun the thrower into the crowd. The only blow that hit sent a woman's glass into the wall where it exploded in a shower of beer and glass. The blows fell faster as the fight dragged on, coming incrementally closer to landing before the bartender finally pushed through the thronging crowd. He yanked the closest man back and threw himself between them with his arms thrown up. Both combatants held up their hands in placation. As quickly as it started, tempers cooled. The crowd melted away and the pair turned back to the band, but the nervous energy of their subsequent close conversation revealed their own uncertainty at what had caused the scuffle.

Crowley turned, his smirk falling as he caught his reflection in the dirty mirror. Even through ages of grime, he could see the state of his corporation. His hair was mussed out of its stylish messiness, flat on one side where he had clearly slept on it. There were smudges across his cheek and neck, surely from sleeping in the dirt. His jacket was wrinkled and stained, one of the lapels turned up a bit higher than it should be. His miracled clothes, pulled from raw atoms and nearly unable to be ruffled, were betraying him. Seemed appropriate. The Bentley'll probably be yellow by the time I finally step outside. The thought sent a dagger through him. Back to drowning, he retorted. Snorting, he downed his drink and resisted the urge to drive everyone out so he could drink to oblivion in bles…demonic quiet. In any case, the noise was a better distraction than anything else. He poured another drink and turned back to his distraction.

For the next few hours, inexplicable phenomena that had nothing to do with alcohol manifested in the tiny bar. Bottles combusted when no one was standing near, but no glass was found on the floor. The bassist's strings kept disappearing at inopportune times only to reappear when the song ended. A man spending too much time aggressively talking to a woman trying to get away from him knocked his head against a table and passed out cold in a pile of conveniently placed vomit. The small inexplicable events lasted until the human-y decisions became worse than anything Crowley could contrive and by the time he finished the second bottle, he was back to focusing on the sharp pain in his chest. He slumped on the bar and tipped the empty bottle toward the bartender who had been watching him with surreptitious judgment.

The man rolled his eyes, but finished the drink he was serving and stepped over anyway. With a furtive smile, he confidently said, "Don't have any more of 'em."

Crowley crinkled his nose and flippantly said, "Why don't you check again?"

Turning back, the man tipped his head in confusion as he saw the multiple bottles on the shelf. Shrugging, he grabbed one down and begrudgingly set it in front of Crowley but didn't let go. When he had Crowley's attention, he tentatively said, "Don't think ya' should have anymore. Sure ya' wan' it?"

"Stop asking me that." Crowley sniped, snatching the bottle from him. Pouring a drink, he finally asked, "Why do you keep askin' it?"

The man winced, "Ya' look terrible, and I don't feel like dealin' with the polis."

Grumbling, Crowley snapped his fingers and the man stepped away from him without another word. He wouldn't say anything for the rest of the night. Neither would anyone else for that matter. The demon dropped his head into his hands. It had only been two days. How had it only been two days?

His mind started to wander, slipping through memories as the alcohol did its best to both numb and dredge up his worst memories. It landed on a pond with ducks and outlandish outfits. The last time it had felt like an ending. The holy water. Only, as much as his inebriated self wanted to deny it, this was worse. This felt final. Then they had been standing by the water, he had talked about ducks and Aziraphale had said they weren't friends, but it had been so - he sighed internally - superficial. This time he had spoken honestly without a hint of deflection. He had told Aziraphale everything. And the rejection had still come.

Crowley looked down at his glass and admitted, This is worse.

In the growing strains of another power ballad, the alcohol induced truth was that it felt like a part of him had been torn asunder. Like he had been left to find his way in a world wholly unfamiliar and terrifying.

Like the first time, that traitorously honest voice intoned and then added, but…you know…far worse.

At least the last time he had others around him. He had taken a swan dive into a pit of boiling sulfur but when he crawled out of that festering crater other former angels were dealing with the same thing. They had never talked about it, but there was something to be said for silently suffering together.

"Price of askin' a question." Crowley huffed as his own voice rang through his ears, tell me you said no? The silence after that had cut deeper than the breaking of his connection to Her and the pain flared anew as he saw the war on Aziraphale's face as plainly as he had seen it in the bookshop. In that moment, Crowley realized there hadn't been anything he could've said. He'd lost before he had started talking. Everything, his damnable awareness quipped, you lost everything before you started talking. Forgoing the cup, he finished the third bottle before the song's third verse. Just to add insult to deep injury, he instinctively muttered, "Why'd you do it, Angel?" Snarling at his own nature, he reached across the bar, and snapped his fingers. Absentmindedly tapping the glass in time with the music, he waited for more help to arrive.


It had been a long time since Aziraphale had been in Heaven willingly. Discorporation, notices from Gabriel, legal questions about divine intervention, none of it had been without handwringing and every time he had expected to be uncomfortable. He was the only permanent angel on Earth after all. But now he was the Supreme Archangel of Heaven, he couldn't afford the anxiety the stark white glow caused. He had to stride through the halls like he belonged. It was the only way to garner any credibility. He needed to be seen as one of them with a different set of knowledge, he couldn't be wholly different, to do so would end his endeavor before it started, and he had no choice but to succeed. He had to make a difference here.

After the first wrong turn into a, thankfully, empty room, Aziraphale flexed his fists and turned around. He was just a bit rusty.

After the second and third wrong turns, one into a room where a few principalities were talking about their next rotation on Earth, Aziraphale clenched his teeth shut into a smile. He had to get used to it again. Heaven had rooms and hallways, cupboards, and storage like every human building he had ever been in, but none of them had the familiar indicators of a layout. Instead of solid walls, he had to look for the slight shimmer of a hallway for the only indication that a room full of angels might be just beyond the threshold that he wouldn't see until he walked beyond it. He couldn't keep doing that. He needed to relearn Heaven and quickly. He couldn't bumble through anymore.

Looking around to make sure he was alone, Aziraphale slowed to a stop. He just needed to get the scriveners' offices. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and prayed for guidance. As he opened his eyes, a feeling of calm washed over him, and he corrected his course. It wasn't far, just down a few floors and around another corner – a blink of a motion that seemed to take little more than a thought – that was blessedly less populated. In fact, there was no movement at all. It was an empty expanse of slightly shimmering golden light. A flash of doubt cut through his confidence and his steps stuttered, should I be down here? It was so quiet, and he had to squash the urge to slip through the halls as silently as possible. You can be anywhere you want now, Angel, Crowley's comforting voice buoyed his own reassurance, if anyone can provide the information I need, it will be the Heavenly scribes.

Aziraphale stepped into the first office he saw. It was an open, spartan room with no ceiling or any other furniture, making the desk in the center look like a toy and the sandy, mop-headed angel bowed over it a mere figurine. The scrivener was engrossed in the file on his desk and, not wanting to frighten him, Aziraphale cleared his throat. As the angel's bright brown eyes snapped up, the new archangel kindly said, "Hello."

The angel's eyes widened into small saucers as he shrank back into his shoulders a moment before he exclaimed, "Supreme Archangel!" He jumped out of his chair, knocking it back, but as it tumbled against the marble, it didn't make a sound. It just clanged silently against the floor. A mistake simply erased. The slim angel didn't seem to notice as he bowed deeply.

Aziraphale cringed. He hurried forward, his arms outstretched with every intention of helping, as he said in annoyance, "Please don't do that." The angel straightened in compliance but kept his gaze on the floor. When Aziraphale stepped close enough to touch, he shrank back. In surprise, Aziraphale stilled and clasped his hands before him, trying to look less intimidating.

An awkward silence stretched between the pair before Aziraphale cleared his throat again and gently said, "I have a request for you…" He trailed off and looked at the scrivener expectantly, hoping the angel would fill in the name for him.

"Of…of course, Supreme Archangel." The scrivener said, scurrying behind his desk and quickly righting the chair before looking up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale internally sighed but smiled kindly and encouraged an answer with a more pointed follow-up question, "Do you have a name?"

The put-upon scrivener's eyes bulged somehow wider, and his instinctively curious gaze quickly dropped to his hands, as he stuttered, "Of course, Archangel Aziraphale. I'm Nakir." He nodded his gaze up to Aziraphale with hooded eyes before he hurriedly said, "What do you need me to find?"

A bit put off by his discomfort, Aziraphale gently said, "You don't have to be so nervous around me, Nakir. I'm asking for help" He gestured enthusiastically at the desk and fresh-faced angel before him, "Help only you can give, I would assume."

It didn't have the intended effect. Nakir dropped his gaze and muttered, "What do you need me to do, Supreme Archangel?"

Aziraphale recoiled at the deference but didn't know how to push past it. Table it for another day then, he conceded. He cleared his throat, "I would like everything you have on Armageddon and an event called the Second Coming."

Nakir nodded. He closed his eyes and muttered a few things, too quiet to make out but as he pulled his hand down toward the desk an exceedingly large stack of folders thudded between them. For a moment, the angelic facsimiles of paper shifted under their weight like their human counterparts would have only they didn't fall, they simply stopped moving in a neat stack.

Aziraphale's eyes widened. He leaned passed the pile to Nakir, "Are you sure this is all necessary?"

The slight angel suddenly looked more nervous, and he leaned only far enough to still be half hidden behind the same papers, as he explained, "You said everything to do with those two events, Supreme Archangel."

"I did." Aziraphale said. Blowing out a slow breath, he quipped, "Are you sure this is everything?" It would have gotten a chuckle from Crowley, but the scrivener across from him simply closed his eyes.

Nakir's pupils moved under the lids as he flicked his fingers like he was flipping through a book. His hands stopped and his brown gaze met Aziraphale's as he nodded, "I'm sure that's everything."

Aziraphale frowned at the literalness but didn't comment. It wouldn't change anything. Instead, he conversationally said with a smile, "Looks like I have some reading to do then." Aziraphale tried to scoop up the folders. They stretched past his head in a very conspicuous way. He set them down. Snapping his fingers, the files organized into two neat totes – larger on the inside – it wouldn't do to answer too many questions on the way back to his…office. Do I have an office? Must do, he answered his own question. Lifting both bags, Aziraphale inclined his head toward Nakir, "Thank you for your help."

Nakir dipped his head into a low bow as he muttered to the floor, "It was my pleasure, Archangel Aziraphale."

I'll have to deal with that later, Aziraphale assured himself before hurrying off. It was a jarring juxtaposition to the reception he received from the upper level angels. Still, Aziraphale knew angels had their own personalities, and perhaps Nakir was shyer than the others. He had met plenty of introverted humans having run a bookshop, and from that experience he knew he just needed something superficial to begin a conversation. Even with that knowledge the uncomfortable deference stuck in his mind. Nagged at him. Aziraphale knew he didn't deserve any kind of high regard from anyone, especially other angels. That should only be reserved for Her. It must just be his nature, Aziraphale reassured himself as he slipped into his office.

Well, as he slipped into an open room, and he had every intention of shutting the door behind him.

Relieved to have some isolated space, Aziraphale surveyed the empty room. His heart sank. It was all so bland. There was no character here. And no demons either, he quipped only to shake the thought away. It was all very un-angelic. Dropping the bags, he snapped his fingers. A desk that looked like the one from his bookshop appeared in the infinitely open space.

The relatively light wood stood out in stark contrast to the white around him, but it made him truly smile for the first time since...he trailed off in his mind, it wasn't worth thinking about, not yet. Choking back tears, he focused on the desk. It was nice to have something familiar. Sinking into the chair, he stilled. Shifted and stilled. And then shifted again. It took him a handful of times to find a comfortable position. Just nerves then, he assured. Unconsciously settling again, he reached for a familiar drawer only to find no pens in it. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a beautiful fountain pen materialized. He dropped it in the drawer only to draw it back out.

He frowned at the callowness, but swore, I'll get used to it.

Pulling one of the bags before him, he shuffled the first set of folders out. Each of the Armageddon folders was labeled with a yearly range that stretched from the Garden. Almost as if the last six thousand years had been building to it. Many of the early reports he recognized were his, a few were from Michael, Uriel, and even a smattering from Gabriel. Most were stories he knew well because he had seen them in part or in whole: The Tower of Babel. The Great Flood. Sodom and Gomorrah. The First Tempting - that had been his. He had fudged a few of those details after he realized that the snake he had spent time talking to was actually the demon who had tempted Adam and Eve. It didn't change the outcome. But there were others by angels he didn't know or had only heard of: stories of plagues, misunderstandings, and territorial squabbles that killed many but barely survived in the human record.

He had every intention of skimming them all until a report from Michael caught his attention. It was about wrestling Jacob. It had been something Aziraphale had only heard of in passing, but as he read the account, what stood out was her discomfort with what she had done. Even in an official report, she noted that a single blow would have resolved the issue easily. Aziraphale wasn't sure if she had been referenced Jacob or Esau, but it struck him as a particularly insubordinate statement. It was only then that he realized there was a character to the reports. Apparently, I wasn't the only one to editorialize.

Sighing heavily, Aziraphale looked at the stack. He would need to read most, if not all of them. There were tens of thousands of reports. He had always known others were acting on Earth, but until now he had never quite seen the expanse of their activities. He glanced down at the other bag. Summoning another table and a stack of paper, Aziraphale settled in to work. He had told Crowley he was going to fix this, which meant he needed to start at the beginning.

Shuffling the folders onto the miracled table, Aziraphale reached for the first file. It was on the creation of Eden – Saraqael and an angel whose name had been struck through with rather heavy lines, Ioath, had seemingly worked on Eden together. Noting the oddity, Aziraphale continued to read. It was a dry, yet rather confusing report, as the pair described the creation of each creature without actually naming the creatures, leaving it to be a long list of all things great and small, full of claws and teeth and fur. By about the half-way point, Aziraphale caught himself naming the creatures he thought they were talking about.

There was little else he could glean from it.

He picked up another report, this one on the creation of Eden's walls. In this one, the names of three of the sculptors – Cassiel, Boel, and Ruhiel – had been scratched out while the fourth, Elyon, was still cleanly documented. Aziraphale carefully wrote down the names and read through the detailed descriptions of forming the marble and molding it to be what was needed.

Reports on the creation of the sands around Eden; explanations on convincing water's nature to be willing to evaporate and form clouds and rain; even short compilations on the nature of a particular tree contained the names of scratched out angels. By the time Aziraphale put down his pen, he had quite a list. He had barely broken the surface of the files, but he had finished Eden's creation and as he looked at the names, it didn't take a particularly clever angel to follow the clues.

They were Fallen. Left in the annals of Heaven as they had been all those ages ago. Some names rang a bell deep in his memory, angels he had known in another time and place, but others he had no idea. His heart broke for all their mistakes. In a moment of weakness, he scanned the names, looking for one in particular. He knew Crowley didn't know his angelic name, few demons did, but it didn't stop him from reasoning through the reports the names had been attached to and trying to narrow them down. He got to the end of the list before he dropped his glasses on the desk. He was wasting his time; Crowley had never shared or didn't remember enough of his life as an angel for Aziraphale to figure it out. It was the equivalent of throwing a dart at a hidden board.

Aziraphale pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

He grabbed another file off the stack. At the top of the page was the quick title of Cain and Abel. Aziraphale had been with Enos, Seth's son, when he had heard about what happened to his cousin. It jogged a memory. After he had heard about what happened, Aziraphale had stayed away from Crawly for a time because he had assumed the demon had been the one to tempt Cain into murdering his brother. It wasn't until later that Aziraphale found out Crawly had been in Nod when Cain arrived there. He hadn't ever met him. But the report revealed something else entirely. Apparently, an angel, Thote, had been in the fields. His writing was some of the most academic Aziraphale had read:

The human, Cain, son of Adam, was angered by the favor shown by Her for the sacrifice of his brother, Abel. In an attempt to rectify urges he described as anger and hatred, Cain lured Abel into the fields where he proceeded to bludgeon him to his demise with a rock. It was a curious display of what the humans have started describing as emotions. These can vary in intensity depending on the cause. Acute impacts tend to lead to transient emotions – colloquially, fleeting feelings – while consistency tends to lead to deeper feelings. Love, like that of Hers, is considered to be one of these deeper feelings.

After succumbing to these feelings, Cain fled in shame.

Aziraphale gently set down the file and made a note of it even as his mind turned. An angel had watched the first true act of evil on Earth and had done nothing about it. Cain had hit Abel multiple times, any one of them could have been stopped. Aziraphale leaned back in his chair. He remembered what it had been like in the beginning, it had been a learning curve being on Earth that early in creation, but a small part of him couldn't help but wonder why Thote didn't try. Instead, the report read like a study of humans as if they were another creature in the Garden. A sinking feeling twisted his soul, but he reached for another file anyway. A knock echoed through the room.

Unexplained panic shocked him back to the present and Aziraphale miracled everything away. Including the desk. Only to realize how odd it seemed that he was standing in the middle of an empty room. Don't think any of them would notice if you stood on your head balancing tea on your foot, Angel, they'd still just keep talking, Crowley's creeping voice caught him off guard. Although it was too late to do anything about it as a blonde angel, he didn't recognize, entered the room.

Their voice was deferential but not nearly as frightened as Nakir's when they said with a small bow, "The Metatron has requested a meeting, Supreme Archangel."

"Now?" Aziraphale said, crossing his arms behind his back as he tried to look more at ease than he felt.

"Yes, Your Grace." The angel straightened and met Aziraphale's gaze. Their eyes were a striking hazel green.

Aziraphale clapped his hands together – to buy a moment or snap out of his musings – and said with a chipper tone, "I supposed I should follow you then…" He trailed off, stretching his hand before him in invitation.

The angel's sharp features scrunched in confusion at the unspoken question.

"Why does no one give their name?" Aziraphale muttered before he raised his voice in exasperation, "What's your name?"

"Oh." The angel said, a bit taken aback, "Diniel."

"Nice to meet you, Diniel." Aziraphale said, lifting his hand toward the door, "Lead on."

Without another word Diniel followed Aziraphale's suggestion and strode out of the room. Aziraphale let out a heavy breath, slumping for only a moment before he rolled his eyes to the ceiling and trailed after the messenger.


Crowley, slumped over the bar and nursing a rising sickness from the fifth bottle, was also trying, and failing, to bite back the tears that had been trying to escape since he had walked out of the bookshop. He was a mess and it was all very un-demonic. Crowley knew that. But he was exhausted. And so, so angry. It all swirled into a whirlpool. It felt like his soul was being pulled in a thousand different directions, but inextricably locked on one horrific path. It was paralyzing and yet demanded action to relieve, and that paradoxical realization ripped and tore at him in a way no amount of numbing could relieve. It felt like he was sinking back into that burning sulfur. Like he was being reduced to the most basic components of himself and none of them held up to the scrutiny of his new world. He knew very little, but to his essence, he knew he missed his angel.

He missed having a partner.

He missed having someone to talk to.

He missed having a purpose.

Ignoring his corporation's need to vomit, Crowley downed what was left in the bottle and forced it to stay down. Only the long-standing patrons were still around him when the last of the pain dulled enough for him to sleep. He pillowed his head in his hands and closed his eyes. His head spun, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as his soul. A few hours, that was all he deserved. Just a few hours free from his eddying mind.


Michael crinkled her nose at the dust that kicked up with every box they moved in the massive underground storage vault at the Vatican. Physical labor was never one of her favorite corporeal activities, but they could only perform minor miracles in the archives because early in its construction, the pope had insisted on Heavenly charms that would limit the impact of any miracle performed. It was an attempt to hamper demonic incursions but now it just made finding the multiple holy items stored here frustratingly difficult.

And she and Uriel had been told not to use other angels so, once again, the jobs that should fall to the lesser were being done by them. It was humiliating. Still, neither could say no to the Metatron, which left them digging through the catacombs looking for items whose facsimiles could just of easily been created in Heaven.

Michael dropped another box with slightly less care than she had the last one, and called across the room, "Find anything yet?"

Uriel picked up a finely crafted amulet and studied it with narrowed eyes before tossing it over her shoulder, "No. Still looking." Yanking the lid off a wooden crate and riffling through the packed straw, Uriel continued, "Are you sure there're some artifacts down here? Most of this just looks human." She threw another lid across the space and stuck her hand into the carefully packed crate.

The snap of wood preempted Michael's response, "The scrivener said they would be down here. I think we just need to keep looking." As they dug through the box, their hand struck against something heavy and metal. In actually touching it, the holy energy shot a shock through her arm. Snapping her hand back, Michael called, "I think I might have found something." Digging through the packing, she freed a large spear tip. Plucking straw off the edge she reverently turned the weapon over in her hands. For a moment, she forgot herself, and whispered, "It's beautiful."

This close to an angelic presence, what had been a simple spear head - forged in the Roman style, all leafy curves and sharp points - had changed into something that befit killing a Prince of Heaven. The iron had morphed into a shined silver but where Jesus's blood had touched the metal it had turned a soft gold with light etching that emphasized the sacrifice. In any other case, this would be a worthless weapon, too soft to be used on the battlefield, but it was imbued with a holy power that rivaled the flaming sword that Michael herself carried.

Her voice was awed when she showed Uriel, "I never realized the power these had." Her fingers daintily held the weapon as she looked up excitedly, "Do you recognize it?"

"The spear that killed Jesus." Uriel's reverence matched Michael's as she inclined her head instinctively. She looked around the space with a determined gaze, "There are more in here. I can feel them now."

Michael's voice was mystified when they agreed, "You're right, there are." Snapping her fingers, a small, localized miracle fixed the boxes sitting at her feet. Tucking the Spear into her jacket, she pulled open another box with gusto. Uriel followed her lead.


And that's all I have for right now. For those of you who are reading it, I hope you like it so far. Also, for a fun little addition, listen to "In a Big Country", I didn't realize it until after I picked the song, but the lyrics really do work. Or I'm just stuck in my Good Omens obsession and everything seems to fit - who knows really haha

Feel free to let me know what you thought in the reviews!

I hope you all have a wonderful day/night and stay creative!

-Lily