Interregnum: Azariah
Anthony vanished in a blink. Azariah staggered back, collapsing onto the landing at the bottom of the stairs as his heels caught its edge. The impact of his body hitting the floor and the wall behind did nothing to jar him out of this nightmare. Surely, any moment now he would wake, and Anthony would be there to pet his head and tell him it had all been a bad dream. Surely. But the longer Azariah sat there, staring numbly at the spot where Anthony had disappeared, the more the dread of reality set in. The dam of paralytic shock that had held him frozen gave way, releasing the flood of emotions behind it, and a sob ripped through Azariah's body. More than sadness, more than grief, more than heartbreak, it consumed his entire being with wracking spasms of lamentation beyond his control. The tears seemed to scorch his skin as they forced their way between his tight-shut lashes, under and between the fingers covering his face, to run dripping from his chin.
How long this went on Azariah did not know. All-consumed by the storm inside him, he barely noticed the pressure of a paw on his leg. Tug had crept down the stairs, and now tentatively approached Azariah. Delicately placing one paw at first, he squirmed his way between Azariah's hunched-up legs and arms, to curl in the space between them, pressed against legs and stomach. Azariah felt the soft warmth settle upon him, and with a couple of gasping breaths, managed to open his eyes. They were red and sore, and his vision was bleary, but he could see Tug's wide green eyes looking up at him. The cat raised a paw and placed it on Azariah's belly.
"Oh Tug," Azariah choked out, scooping the cat into his arms, holding him tight against his chest, "what are we going to do?" With a tremendous effort, Azariah managed to get to his feet. Slowly he trailed up the stairs, each step feeling weighted down like Marley's chains. When he reached the bedroom, Azariah shivered. It was dark and cold, but he could not face the task of warming the house. Not bothering to change, Azariah pulled back the covers and fell into bed. Even with Tug curled up with him, he was cold. The bed would warm eventually, but… no. The control for the electric blanket was on Anthony's side of the bed. Azariah turned over to lie on his side facing the door, and buried his face in Tug's fur. He would rather be cold. Fortunately for Azariah, his extended bout of weeping had exhausted both body and mind, and it was not long before a blessedly dreamless sleep took him.
When he woke, it was to the insistent buzzing of the phone in his trouser pocket. Groggily Azariah fished it out. He registered vaguely that it was late the next morning, that he had several missed calls, and that a text message had just flashed up on the lockscreen from Sandra.
Hey thought u were opening today, ur coat & stuff r still here, u ok?
Azariah groaned and tapped out a reply:
Unwell not sure when I'll be back
He dropped the phone onto his nightstand even as Sandra's answer came in,
K let me kno if u need anything xx
Azariah had already closed his eyes and gone back to sleep. Day and night came and went again, with scarcely a movement. When Azariah shifted position, Tug shifted with him, and together they slept away the hours. Every so often the phone on the nightstand buzzed, but if he was awake to hear it, Azariah ignored its summons. The next morning a different sound penetrated his consciousness, and he opened his eyes. It was the chime of Tug's automatic feeder, followed by the sound of kibbles being dispensed. Normally the caused the cat to immediately sprint across the cottage, if he wasn't already standing impatiently by the feeder, but he remained curled up inside Azariah's arm, pressed to his chest.
"Tug," Azariah muttered hoarsely, "breakfast." The cat did not move, but started purring. The rumble penetrated Azariah's ribs and sent its vibrations though his body, and he stroked Tug's back. "Go on, it's ok." Still Tug did not move, but the purring increased in volume, and Azariah felt the cat's paws beginning to stretch out their pads and make biscuits against his body. "Don't be silly, you need to eat." The faintest impression of claws against Azariah's chest made it absolutely clear that Tug was going nowhere. He sighed, supposing that he would have to face the world eventually. "Alright, you win. I'll get up if you do." Azariah threw back the covers and sat up. His head pounded and swam, and he suddenly became aware of feeling chilled to the bone, roaring with thirst, hungry as a wolf, and of a desperate need to use the bathroom.
"Oof." Azariah carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and sucked air through his teeth as his feet touched the cold floor. Bracing himself, he stood, and Tug hopped down from the bed with a mrow of encouragement. Shivering, Azariah stumbled out of the bedroom. He paused just outside and opened the door of the airing cupboard, leaning in to put his hand on the holding tank within. Ice cold. Right, the fire had been out for nearly three days now. "Okay," Azariah muttered, looking down at the cat, "You go do your business and I'll do mine." With a mow! of agreement, Tug trotted down the stairs to find his litterbox, and Azariah made his way into the bathroom.
They reunited in the kitchen shortly thereafter, Azariah now wrapped in a thick, fluffy dressing gown with pyjamas underneath, and Tug crunching at the kibbles in his overflowing feeder.
"Silly cat," Azariah murmured, bending down to scratch Tug's ears, receiving a flick of the tail in return. Azariah went to the sink and filled a large glass with water, gulping it down before immediately filling it again. The second glass drained, the world came into sharper focus. First task was to get the fire going, and Azariah went through the motions automatically, until a blaze had established itself and begun to breathe its warmth into the room. He'd already turned on the cottage's few radiators, so it wouldn't be long now until heat and hot water were restored. Then Azariah began to think of food, and made his way over to the fridge, where surely there must be something left over to nibble on.
But when he opened the door, he found the shelves and drawers packed. Of course. Anthony had just done the shopping. Azariah stared at the contents of the fridge for a moment, then shut the door without taking anything out. Instead he put on the kettle, and went over to the cupboard where Tug's treats were kept. As expected, there was a fresh packet of sardines there, with one tin missing. Trying not the thing about the ritual Anthony had established of hand feeding the little fishes to the cat, Azariah pulled out a tin and dumped its contents onto a plate, which he set down beside Tug on the kitchen floor. Immediately the cat switched enthusiastically over from the kibble, and Azariah's lips twitched. He retrieved a mug and a teabag, at which point the kettle whistled. While his tea was steeping, Azariah resigned himself to the fact that he really must do something about feeding himself now. He rummaged through the fridge, ignoring the ingredients for the dinner Anthony had been going to make, and pulled out a few things at random.
A few minutes later Azariah retired to the living room, where he placed on the end table next to the sofa a steaming mug of tea, another large glass of water, and a plate covered in cheese, crackers, olives, cornichons, and the last few pieces of several packets of cured meats. Not exactly a meal, but better than nothing, and costing very little effort. The fire was doing its best, but the room was still chilly, so Azariah pulled a couple of blankets from the basket and burrowed under them. He switched of the television and searched for something he could use to occupy his brain without making it do any work, and landed on old seasons of Bake Off. Scrunching down on the sofa so he could balance the plate on his stomach, Azariah began to eat.
Hours later, after watching several years of Paul Hollywood talking over Mary Berry, Azariah lay on the couch under his blankets, head propped up by two small pillows. What an oaf, he thought; how dare he treat her like tha… and to mental remonstrances of the "king of bread", Azariah drifted back to sleep. He awoke briefly to a room dark except the smouldering remains of the fire and the glow of the tv asking accusingly if he was still watching. He could hear his phone buzzing against the wood of the nightstand upstairs, but ignored it. From somewhere, Tug leapt onto the couch and curled up behind Azariah's knees. He closed his eyes.
When he woke again, it was morning, and someone was knocking loudly on his front door. Certain he knew who it was, Azariah shouted from his position on the couch,
"Go away, Anthony!"
"Uhh, Mister Feld!" An entirely different and much younger voice than expected replied through the door, "It's just your eggs!" Right. Of course. Thankful the child outside couldn't see his flaming face, Azariah called back in his best attempt at a cheerful tone.
"Thank you, Joseph! Just leave them, please." There was a rattle as a bag was hung on the door handle, and then the sound of retreating feet. Azariah sat up slowly, rubbing his face. Rising, he stoked up the fire, then went to retrieve the eggs. Deciding their arrival was a sign, he made tea and toast and fried up some of the eggs to go on his bread. It was the most substantial thing he'd eaten in days now, and brought his brain grinding back into gear. After making a second cup of tea, Azariah returned to the sofa, where he sat upright this time, and began to contemplate what on earth he was going to do.
Until now, he'd managed to block out the events of that night, but now they replayed in his mind as if in slow motion. Anthony's agonized confession, his insistence that what he was saying was true, his desperate pleas for Azariah to believe him. His own astonishment, anger, and disbelief at what he was being told, juxtaposed with the irrefutable facts of what he had experienced: he had been transported from the library to his home in an instant, there was no denying that; he had seen Anthony disappear in front of his eyes, he had seen him mend the book. The book. Azariah glanced over to the corner of the room where the tree had stood at Christmas, and now the black-bound book lay on the floor against a shelf where Anthony had tossed it. Why hadn't he noticed it til now?
Azariah got up and retrieved the book, turning it over to look at the spine as he returned to the couch. Demon's Guide to Angelic Beings Who Walk the Earth. It was a good thing he'd already reached his seat, for this caused Azariah to sit down hard. A coincidence, surely. An oddity. Maybe Anthony had planted it. But then why would he have tried to hide that he'd damaged it? Azariah opened the back cover, to see that there was indeed a London Library barcode and charge out sheet in it. Not likely to have been planted, then. He inspected the book all over, and it looked perfectly new up close, no sign at all of the massive damage it had suffered right in front of him. Fingers trembling slightly, Azariah opened the front cover, and began to thumb through the pages.
There it was. Aziraphale. Principality. Angel of the Eastern Gate. Azariah's eyes slid over the text to the illustration on the facing page, and the beath caught in his throat. It was like looking into a mirror. Minus the robes and flaming sword of course, but the angel depicted there had his face. How? He tore his gaze from the picture back to the text on the preceding page, to read the description of the angel Aziraphale.
Appearance: Fair hair. Suspishus Ears. Plump hands. Repulsively soft. Can genrully be found wearing various shades of loathsome beige. Occasional spectacles.
Stationed: Land of the Angles, Hemispheres of the West & North
Residunce: Angelic Embassy X also known as AZ Fell & Co, 105 Whickber Street, London.
Known Earthly Occupations: Guard of Eden, Music Tyooter, White Knight, Garden Deziner, Bishop, Bookseller
Weaponry: Flaming Sord.
On sighting: AVVOID
A wily opponent, this demon smiter must be warily approached Report any interactions to the demon Crowley.
Report any interactions to the demon Crowley. Crowley. Azariah shut the book on his finger and lay his head back against the sofa, breathing deeply as he stared at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate. My name is Azariah, not Aziraphale, he repeated over and over in his head, my name is Azariah, I am a librarian, not an angel. Angels aren't real. I'm an ordinary human and so were my parents, and their names were— their names were—
But he couldn't remember. In a sudden surge of anger, Azariah stood and threw the book back down. A sharp pain lanced through his head and he grimaced, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. When it passed, he hurried up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he turned the shower on full. Azariah pulled off his clothes and stepped into the steaming water, thrusting his head under the spray. He washed his hair, nails digging hard at his scalp, and brushed his teeth, the minty sensations sharp in his sinuses. He scrubbed his whole body hard, as if he could wash away what he'd seen in the book. He sat on the tiled shower floor for a long time, letting the hot water run over him, and try as he might failing to bring up any memories beyond the last couple of years. Trauma, he thought desperately; I must have been completely traumatized by that night. All that talk of lost memories has made me block out my own.
Just before the water ran cold, Azariah hauled himself upright and turned the water off. Exiting the shower, he towelled off and pulled the fluffy dressing gown back on, thinking that it was time for a change of clothes, even if it were just into more pyjamas. He went back into the bedroom and looked at his phone for the first time since he'd sent that text to Sandra. It had blown up with notifications, some work emails and news alerts but also texts, mostly from Sandra. Azariah pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to have to find a way to explain and apologize to her. Thumbing through the rest of the notifications, there was nothing from Anthony. Why did he feel a surge of disappointment?
Tossing the phone onto the bed, Azariah started to look for a change of clothes. Rather than going right for the drawer where his pyjamas lived, he opened the closet, thinking that perhaps something would strike him with the inspiration to put on real clothes. A pang went through his chest as, next to the neat row of hangers holding how own trousers, shirts, and jumpers, he saw the motley collection of mostly-black things Anthony had hung there. Somehow he was everywhere in the cottage, and Azariah's eyes welled. His heart ached for want of the strange, golden-eyed man who had crashed into his life; no matter the turmoil he was going through now, there was no denying that he missed Anthony terribly.
Blinking back the tears, Azariah glanced upwards, and something caught his eye. On the top shelf of the closet, there was a box, pushed back a bit from the edge. He recalled seeing it before, every day in fact, for as long as he could remember. But it was as if he'd never really looked at it before, and there was something strange and unrecognisable about it. Where had it come from? Azariah didn't remember putting it there. But he remembered it being there before Anthony had started staying here, and he couldn't remember him saying anything about it either. It was like neither of them had really seen it. But now it seemed to call out to Azariah, and he stood on his toes to hook his fingers onto the edges of the box and pull it down.
It was a large sort of shirt box, but taller and heavier than shirts would imply. Azariah set it down on the bed and took off the lid. The first thing he saw was a pair of boots: honey coloured leather with a dark brown suede upper, and a low black heel. He lifted them out, admiring their perfect condition and shine, then looked back to the box. Within seemed to be a full suit of clothes. A pair of neatly pressed beige trousers. A button up shirt of palest blue, with old fashioned cuffs. Next was a long jacket of a lighter, sandy colour, which Azariah shook out by the shoulders to get a good look at it. As he studied the garment, he realized that it was exactly the same pattern as Anthony's favourite jacket.
Disconcerted, he laid the jacket aside. Beneath it were several objects, sitting on top of a waistcoat. A pair of cufflinks, to go with the shirt. A fob watch and chain, which felt warm and oddly familiar in Azariah's hand. A tartan bow tie— the same tartan as Anthony's scarf. A small golden ring. From its size Azariah immediately knew it was a pinky ring, and out of curiosity slid it on. It fitted perfectly. Thoroughly unnerved now, his fingers trembled as he picked up the waistcoat. This was the most dilapidated item in the box, clearly having seen many years of use, with its light-brown faded almost to white around the buttons, hem, and path where the watch-chain would hang The sense of strange familiarity was stronger than ever. Azariah examined the garment closely, and as his eyes travelled up the neckline, they came upon something that made his heart stop. There at the back of the neck was a sewn-in muslin label. The ink upon it was faded with time, but he could still make out the letters, inscribed in a familiar, scrolling script:
A. Z. Fell