In the quiet heart of Soho, amidst the timeless rhythm of London streets, lived an angel that despite the celestial nature of his being, carried his life as a human. Mr. Azira Fell had forgotten he was an angel. His real name, his past, his angelical memories—all was wiped clean.
In the bustling heart of Mayfair, amidst the eternal chaos of London's streets, resided a demon who, despite his infernal origins, embraced life as a mere mortal. Mr. Anthony J. Crowley had forgotten he was a demon. His true name, his dark past, his infernal memories—all had been erased from his consciousness.
CHAPTER 1 THE TRIAL
The Metatron had appointed Aziraphale to work as the Supreme Archangel for three main reasons. Aziraphale was powerful, easy to manipulate, and it was safest to keep him at a distance from the demon Crowley. As the ancient strategist Sun Tzu once advised, 'Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer.'
Before making that decision, he had pondered and explored other options, such as the outright destruction of Aziraphale—an option that had proven impossible. In the Metatron's mind, his reasoning made perfect sense. If he could manipulate the powerful, commanding, and resolute Aziraphale into submission, he would gain a potent ally for the impending war.
He had meticulously reviewed Aziraphale's reports, but they depicted a principality that wasn't the real Aziraphale. The true Aziraphale was a gentle, kind-hearted idealist with intelligence that matched that of an average human. He was someone who simply didn't know how to follow orders.
If the Almighty still punished rebellious angels with a fall from grace, Aziraphale would have descended into Hell's ranks by now. But the truth remained hidden—God had been absent for millennia, a secret concealed from both Heaven and Hell. If the angels knew they couldn't fall anymore, there might be more cases like Gabriel and Aziraphale. Unsupervised celestial and infernal beings tended to have their own ideas, and they were dangerous.
Within the celestial halls of Heaven, where the divine bureaucracy thrived, a trial was set to unfold. Aziraphale's trial, like the previous one, was shrouded in secrecy. There was no need for the lower-ranking angels to be privy to a change in the chain of command.
As the archangels gathered in a solemn circle around Aziraphale, the air grew tense with anticipation. Learning from their past experience with Gabriel, they had taken precautions and securely bound him to a chair.
The Metatron had genuinely believed that Aziraphale possessed great power, full control of his angelic abilities, and the ability to perform a 25 Lazarus miracle. However, reality had proved otherwise. In the end, Aziraphale's first act in this new role was to set up a suggestion box, ridiculous.
In the center of the semicircle formed by the archangels, the Metatron, the scribe of God and the voice of the Almighty, stood flanked by Saraqael and Sandalfon on his right and Michael and Uriel on his left.
"Aziraphale, Supreme Archangel, you have refused to exercise your celestial authority and you are henceforth removed from office." Uriel declared, echoing Michael's words from Gabriel's trial.
"Wait," Michael interjected, "Shax is supposed to be here too."
Even the Metatron couldn't deny Crowley's involvement in the adverted Armageddon. The serpent had once been a prince of Heaven, and the Metatron suspected that Crowley would try to thwart the 'Second Coming.' Action needed to be taken against him as well. He could not escape the gnawing fear that festered in the depths of his mind, the power, the cunning, the danger, all came from the demon Crowley; the wily serpent that doomed humanity with his curiosity.
The click of heels against the pristine white marble floors heralded the arrival of Shax, the newly appointed Grand Duchess of Hell. She was adorned in a tailored red skirt suit that accentuated her figure perfectly. Her attire radiated an air of confidence.
"I'm here to represent the Dark Council," she announced with a smile that revealed a row of menacing, pointed shark teeth.
"We know," Saraqael remarked nonchalantly, causing Shax to growl in response.
The Metatron cleared his throat, it was all he needed to regain the assembly's attention. "For centuries, the celestial realm had adhered to its predetermined path, the Great Plan, which dictates the destiny of angels and demons alike," he declared with a commanding voice. "But recent events had disrupted the harmonious symphony of Heaven and Hell. And we all know whose fault that is—Aziraphale and Crowley."
These two were flawed. Imperfect. Unpredictable. Undesirable in the divine order.
"I demand them as gifts for Satan, our master," Shax declared with a hungry gleam in her eye, her pointy teeth bared.
"The trial is to determine their fate," Uriel stated firmly. "We reserve the right to determine their punishment."
"But Crowley isn't even here!" Aziraphale whimpered lamely.
With a thought, the Metatron silenced the former Principality by gagging him. Aziraphale, the most human-like angel he has ever had the disgrace to meet, seeking human pleasure and not following orders; he despised him.
The Metatron raised his hand, "Let the proceedings begin."
Saraqael unfolded a document, and began to list the charges. "Aziraphale openly states that he pretends to stop the 'Second Coming'; he's been cooperating with the enemy, the demon known as Crowley…" the celestial court listened intently to the charges against the duo. Treason, defiance, and meddling in the affairs of mortals were among the accusations.
"Destroy them," Shax insisted once the list was complete.
"We tried," Sandalfon replied.
The Metatron cast a stern gaze at them to command their silence. "Their punishment will be severe and drastic. Their memories of their times as angel and demon will be erased," The Metatron started his verdict. When Shax mumbled something, the Metatron silenced her with a glare. "They will live as humans, unaware of their supernatural essence."
Uriel appeared confused by this decision, his brow furrowed. "But they will enjoy it; they are natives!"
The Metatron smiled at the simplicity of Uriel's thoughts. "The 'Second Coming' will be upon us in fifteen years," and then both Aziraphale and Crowley will be destroyed alongside the world they hold dear. "They will live as mortals, no miracles or hexes to make their lives easy." This simple arrangement, along with careful manipulation of the memories of the few who knew of the pair's supernatural essence. "They will be blissfully unaware of Heaven and Hell's existence, locked away in their earthly tedious routines."
Michael made a gagging face, disgusted by the prospect of living as a human. Uriel nodded, finally understanding the gravity of the situation. That was the reaction the Metatron expected.
Saraqael took out her celestial phone, a transparent device reflecting the radiant white lights of Heaven. "Then Aziraphale is just a bookkeeper in his bookshop in Soho?"
The Metatron nodded approvingly. "Begin the memory wipe now."
Aziraphale struggled futilely in his chair. As Saraqael's finger touched the flat surface of the phone Aziraphale body went limp. The Metatron smiled. As long as Aziraphale remained engrossed in the worldly pleasures he had come to cherish, he would not interfere in the affairs of Heaven.
"Your Highness, Grand Duchess Shax, do you give your permission for us to cleanse Crowley's memories?" the Metatron asked, directing his gaze at the demon.
"He can take the flat, but we won't keep paying for him," Shax stated. "Give him a job or something."
Saraqael looked at the Metatron, awaiting his decision. "Fine, he could be... an astronomy professor," the Metatron declared, recalling the punishment he had devised for the angel that fell, who once held a deep fascination with the stars. The thought of something that would made the demon suffer even without knowing why, his snake eyes, not seeing the stars ever again, the ultimate punishment.
With a swipe of Saraqael's finger, the demon's memories were also wiped clean.
"They don't know each other, do they?" Shax asked for confirmation.
"No," Saraqael replied.
"Good," Shax grinned, baring both rows of sharp teeth this time.
The Metatron couldn't help but agree; it was indeed good.
In the quiet heart of Soho, amidst the timeless rhythm of London streets, lived an angel that despite the celestial nature of his being, carried his life as a human. Mr. Azira Fell had forgotten he was an angel. His real name, his past, his angelical memories—all was wiped clean.
Mr. Fell, as he was known, was a man of quiet habits and impeccable taste. His life revolved around his dusty bookshop, a treasure trove filled with rare tomes and antiquities. The shop had been his inheritance from his grandfather, and like his predecessor, Aziraphale chose to live in the cozy flat above the bookshop. Here, among the pages of ancient books, he found solace.
Despite owning one of the most extensive privately-owned collections of books of predictions, Wilde first editions and the complete set of the Infamous Bibles, rivalling the likes of Andrew Carnegie and Biltmore House, Aziraphale barely earned enough to make ends meet. He stubbornly refused to part with any of his cherished treasures. Fortunately, he had inherited not only the bookshop but also several neighbouring properties, which provided a substantial income in rent, considering his rather expensive tastes.
Mr. Azira Fell was a man of refined sensibilities, evident in his choice of attire. He dressed in a classic style, donning jackets, vests, and bow ties that required the utmost care in hand washing. A gold pocket watch and a neatly folded handkerchief were his constant companions, a testament to his attention to detail. He indulged himself with visits to some of London's finest restaurants, regardless of the exorbitant prices. And he couldn't resist the occasional short journey to acquire a new literary treasure.
He was unmarried, and could use his money in whichever he pleased. With a keen eye for detail, he meticulously managed his finances, relying on his trusty outdated and slow, computer, which was still ideal for the small businessman. Aziraphale's scrupulous record-keeping had attracted the scrutiny of tax authorities on no fewer than five occasions.
He read, wrote, listened to his classical music, and occasionally he ate out at the best restaurants of London. One could think he had everything he wanted, and he had it.
Though he often portrayed a warm smile and endeavoured to do good whenever he could, beneath the calm and content surface of his existence lay a profound loneliness. Mr. Fell had never experienced the joys of love, nor had love ever found its way to him. There lingered within him a vague memory of a stolen kiss, but he couldn't discern the recipient's identity, leading him to conclude it was a passage from one of his cherished novels—a memory that belonged to someone else.
In the midst of this melancholic existence, Aziraphale had developed a peculiar routine. He had grown to detest the customers who ventured into his quaint bookshop, seeing them as unwelcome intrusions into his solitary haven. In an ironic twist, he seemed to make every effort to scare them away.
He would greet them with an air of indifference, his warm smile replaced by a stoic expression. If asked for assistance, he'd offer a curt reply, often steering them toward the more obscure and inaccessible sections of the shop. The most daring customers who dared to inquire about the prices of his cherished tomes were met with a disdainful, eye-popping quote, designed to make them reconsider their literary ambitions Mr. Fell had mastered the art of customer dissuasion.
But the most tormenting aspect of his life was Azira couldn't sleep. His heart ached with an indescribable longing. It was as if he were searching for a piece of himself or someone that had been lost to time, a yearning he couldn't quell no matter how many books he read.
Each night, he randomly selected a book, retreating to the dimly lit room above the bookshop. There, he sought solace in the act of reading, attempting to distract his restless mind. And when, at last, Mr. Fell's weary eyes drifted closed, the shadows brought with them a sad sight— the golden, slanted eyes that watched him with a sorrowful gaze. These eyes were the key to the enigma that consumed him, the memories that slipped through his grasp, and an inexplicable ache he couldn't define. It wasn't a nightmare; it was a mystery—a puzzle begging to be solved, tugging at the very corners of his soul.
He knew he had forgotten something crucial, something that had once defined his very existence. But what was it? And why did those eyes visit him every night?
As he drifted further into the depths of forgetfulness, Mr. Fell couldn't escape the nagging suspicion that there was more to this life, more to himself, than he could comprehend.
In the bustling heart of Mayfair, amidst the eternal chaos of London's streets, resided a demon who, despite his infernal origins, faced life as a mere mortal. Mr. Anthony J. Crowley had forgotten he was a demon. His true name, his dark past, his infernal memories—all had been erased from his consciousness.
Professor Anthony J. Crowley, known for his biting wit and sarcastic demeanor, was a man who walked a fine line between anger and optimism. At fifty, he still dressed impeccably, his attire reflecting the swagger that was a hallmark of his identity. His sleek, ginger hair showed no signs of grey, and he maintained a physique that defied his age. This well-preserved appearance added to his self-perceived image of a fearsome villain.
Living alone in a flat that exuded style, Crowley seemed to have it all. It was the quintessential bachelor pad: spacious, white, elegantly furnished with priceless masterpieces, and with a designer's touch that gave it an unlived-in appearance that only comes from scrupulous cleanliness and order. The bed was always perfectly made, the fridge consistently stocked with gourmet food that he rarely consumed. Instead, he preferred to drown his sorrows in alcohol, as if trying to fill a void left by a love he couldn't remember. To this end, he kept a meticulously curated selection of the finest wines and a well-stocked arsenal of liqueurs.
The lounge area boasted a massive television, a sleek white leather sofa, a video player, a laserdisc player, and a square matte black sound system. Crowley took pride in his collection of soul discs, considering them his personal trophies. He also possessed a refined selection of horror novels, though they remained largely untouched. While he owned a computer, it served as little more than a decorative piece, a symbol of his modernity, with sporadic use limited to checking stock market updates.
The only things in the apartment that brought him some sort of enjoyment were the houseplants. Towering and verdant, they stood as a testament to his ability to nurture something other than alcohol. Their shiny, healthy leaves reflected the only sense of order he had ever embraced.
As much as he enjoyed the comfort and style of his flat, Crowley couldn't shake the feeling that it was not truly his home. The memories that occasionally brushed against the edges of his consciousness hinted at a life beyond these four walls—a life that he had forgotten, but one that continued to elude him. There was a pervasive sense of displacement, a nagging sensation that something vital was missing from his existence.
Beyond the walls of his meticulously designed flat, Crowley worked as an associate professor in the department of Physics and Astronomy at University College London (UCL). He delivered lectures three days a week and reluctantly provided doctoral tutoring on the other two. However, students who dared to choose him as a tutor were scarce. Among the astronomy department, he was the most feared figure, known for his relentless pursuit of perfection and a penchant for merciless corrections. His trademark phrase, "Learn better," echoed through the hallowed halls as he passed by, striking terror into the hearts of aspiring astronomers.
Crowley's approach to teaching was unique, to say the least. He was always willing to explain concepts to his students, but he demanded nothing less than excellence. His exams were renowned for their level of difficulty, and failing one of his tests meant more than just a bad grade—it could jeopardize a student's entire academic career. The fear of Crowley, more than the fear of any deity, hung heavy in the lecture hall. His position at the university was not born of necessity but rather served as a distraction from the solitude that engulfed him.
One of the defining aspects of his threatening appearance was his perpetually hidden eyes, concealed behind dark sunglasses. He had a rare sensitivity to light and was mostly color-blind, confined to a world of blue and yellow for what felt like centuries. Wearing sunglasses, even when unnecessary, served as a precaution to shield the world from his monstrous, deformed pupils. Anthony couldn't help but ponder why he was different from everyone else.
Despite his intimidating exterior, Crowley had a soft spot for his vintage Bentley. Anthony would run his fingers over the steering wheel, feeling a connection to it that he couldn't explain. The sleek, black vehicle was his pride and joy, a symbol of both his love for the open road and his disdain for inefficiency. He meticulously maintained the car, treating it with a tenderness that he rarely displayed toward anything else. The purr of the engine, the feel of the leather seats, and the rush of wind through open windows were his solace in a world that often left him feeling adrift.
From all outward appearances, Professor Anthony J. Crowley seemed content, possessing everything his heart could desire. Yet, beneath the surface, he grappled with a profound emptiness.
Anthony was never hungry; food held little allure. Instead he drank, too much, as he was painfully aware of the loneliness that loomed over him.
Love had never graced his life, nor had he ever truly loved anyone. Despite this, the faintest echoes of love seemed to haunt his memories, he always blamed the romantic comedies he watched for planting foreign memories in his mind. Still, the ache persisted—the emptiness that gnawed at his heart each night as he sought answers in the darkness.
Crowley's nights were plagued by a sense of emptiness that alcohol could never fill, but once alcohol lulled his mind to sleep, he found solace in a pair of kind and loving blue eyes that watched over him in the dark. These eyes were a gift, fuelling the fragile optimism that at some point he would come out on top; that the universe would look after him and everything would be better.
Thoughts?