go_exchange | Happy Holidays, cassie-oh! Part 1 (Reply)

The Harvest of Uruk
Summary: Harvest season in Uruk, the greatest city in the world. When the fields are cut bare, the river runs swift, and even the gods themselves die. When a priest summons Crawley, she finds not the usual bargaining and lust for power, but something deeper, more twisted, and utterly inescapable. Cut off from her angel, surrounded by enemies, Crawley endures unspeakable pain and fear; can Aziraphale find her before she, too, becomes part of the harvest?

Rating: Mature

Tags: Ineffable Husbands, Historical fic, Mesopotamia, Angst, Whump, Hurt/Comfort (with extra hurt) Crowley is named Crawley, She/Her pronouns for Crowley, Genderfluid Crowley, Summoning, Bickering, Hurt Crowley, Torture (non-graphic), Blood, Whipping, Stoning, Stabbing, Branding, Non-binary OC, Misogynistic language, Misgendering/Deadnaming, Cult Behavior, Emotional Manipulation, Protective Aziraphale, BAMF Aziraphale, Just going full Determinator Aziraphale, Scared Crowley, Asshole Gabriel, Dreams, Nightmares, Hunting, Near drowning, Choking, Head injuries, Arrows, Non-consensual kissing and touching, Really badly hurt Crowley, Singing, Comfort, Encouragement, Dreamwalking, Implied ritual drug use, Referenced child abandonment, Serious physical assault, Outsider POV, True Form Aziraphale, Cosmic Horror Aziraphale, Demonic sacrifice, Despair, Apparent Character Death, But they're fine, Villain death, But they are not fine and that's awesome, True Form Crowley, Angry Crowley, Grieving Crowley, Protective Crowley, Reunion, Happy Ending, Hand Holding, Sleepy Cuddles, Aziraphale Loves Crowley, Crowley Loves Aziraphale, First Kiss, Implied First Time, Happy Ending, A little bittersweet

Mod note: This fic is longer than most - we've measured it at 107 000+ words! So you can best enjoy it, we've broken it into 4 posts over 2 days. And we do think you'll enjoy it.

Author’s note: This fic contains many references to Sumerian mythology (particularly of Inana/Ishtar), and quotes from ancient works. I’ve tried to provide links throughout, but where there is none, most can be found here. I’ve made alterations somewhat freely to fit the story. Helpful visuals can be found here. Finally, this fic does not include non-con, but there are scenes with female-presenting characters being harassed, insulted, threatened, or grabbed; it also does not include graphic violence, but there is a good deal of blood and descriptions of pain with words like “impaled” and “burning.”

Chapter 1: The Demon Trap

Crawley slowly opened her eyes, trying to make sense of the room around her. For a moment, she thought she’d gone blind, but no—it was just dark. Chthonic sort of darkness, underground somehow. She should have felt right at home.

She didn’t.

Blinking and shaking her head, Crawley managed to sit up and look around. The walls were almost too dim to make out, but so flat and straight that they could only be man-made. The room was broad enough, but felt cramped, perhaps from the low ceiling. Everything smelled of earth and clay, a hint of holiness, a layer of blood. The flickering blue flames of the oil lamps cast more shadow than light, shadow that all but concealed the figures around her, light that reflected strangely off their swords…

Oh.

She tried to stand up, but a sudden jerk pulled her to the floor again, hauling her down by her neck like an invisible rope. Pinning her there.

Something had been carved into the clay ceiling above, too distant and dim to make out clearly. But as her eyes adjusted, she could see that the pattern formed a circle.

A summoning circle.

Oh, fuck.

Two Hours Earlier

Crawley crouched in the shadows, back pressed against the solid wall woven of reeds, face buried in the soft sheepskin wrap she wore. Arms wrapped around her legs, making herself as small as possible. Breath held in order to hear better.

The wind rustling through reeds. The quiet ripple of the river. The soft squish of approaching feet navigating the saturated ground. Getting closer.

She pulled herself even smaller, twining her arms around her head to try and conceal the bright red hair—

“Demon!” A voice pierced the silence. “I found her! Demon!”

Her head snapped up to find a child standing at the corner of the reed-bundle house, clutching a hardened reed as if it were a spear. Three more followed just behind.

Shrieking, Crawley leapt to her feet, taking off in a run to the far side of the island. It didn’t take long; the floating reed-and-mud platform was only a little larger than the house that stood atop it. Solid ground ended abruptly in a sharp drop to the dark water below.

The demon took a running jump off the end, landing neatly on the next platform—neat except for a splash of mud clear up to her knees, and for the entire artificial island shifting under her weight. But the four demon hunters wouldn’t be deterred long, nor would the group approaching from the other side.

With barely a moment’s hesitation, she started running again, leaping across another narrow channel, then another, and another.

Too late, she realized she was being herded. She rounded a house to find the next platform—the largest, more stable than the smaller ones, holding the village’s guest house—was too far to jump, and the hunters, now doubled in number again, were approaching from both sides, weapons pointed at her.

Fortunately, one of the villagers had left a long, flat boat in easy reach. One nudge with her foot sent the far end skimming across the water until it pointed directly at the guest house. She dashed across, the wooden boat listing wildly with each step, and sprang from the prow with a splash and a rather ominous crack she didn’t pause to investigate.

Sounds of disappointment and cries of “she’s getting away” followed her as she scrambled around the long reed building, though she wasn’t quite ready to declare victory. After all, the channel on the other side was even greater, twice as wide as she could jump.

Crawley darted back and forth, trying to find an escape route, but all too soon three boats appeared not far downriver, making their way towards her. Each awkwardly steered by one of the largest children and carrying two more, reed weapons in hand. Four more appeared upstream, rounding the platform from the other side.

“Not good, not good, not good,” she muttered, tugging at the firmly-woven sides of the guest house, hoping for an idea.

A long hollow cane clattered to the ground beside her.

“Oi! Don’t throw those on the boat!”

“But I almost hit her!”

“Almost knocked us over. Just wait, she’s not going to—”

Crawley kicked the hardened reed up, catching it easily, and with a wave of thanks charged forward and vaulted herself across the river to the bank on the other side.

She misjudged slightly, crashing into solid land hip-first and tumbled through the mud, finally coming to rest with a splash in the ankle-deep water of the irrigated barley field.

“Wonderful.” Crawley managed to get to her feet, staggering dizzily. “Now I just gotta… gotta…”

“Gotcha!” A boy of no more than eleven summers burst out of the tall green barley and jabbed her in the ribs with the handle of a hoe. “You’re vanquished, demon!”

“Ahhh!” Crawley screamed as loudly and dramatically as possible, clutching the hoe between her arm and body. “I am slain! Slain!!” She managed a few uneven steps back before crashing once more into the water. “Oh, the pain! The blood! How could all my wonderful evil come to such an end? I’m fading… fading…”

“Crawley, what on Earth are you doing?”

She squinted up at the silhouette blocking the sun, a pale face with short curly hair and a disapproving frown. “Hey, Angel. Can’t talk now, I’m busy dying.”

“I see.” He glared at the now-weaponless demon slayer. “If you’re here, that must mean you cleared the outer fields to your father’s satisfaction?”

“I…” The child visibly wilted. “Igottagetback.” With a patter of bare feet, he disappeared into the barley, leaving the hoe impaled in the demon.

When they were alone, Aziraphale sighed in that disappointed way he had. “You said you were here to make trouble. I assumed that meant… summoning a plague of locusts or… antagonizing some sort of feud. Something actually evil. Not… not…”

“Get her!”

The boats had reached the shore, and over a dozen small bodies charged, flinging themselves at Crawley. Soon she was locked in a desperate battle that mostly involved rolling in the mud and tickling every set of ribs she could get her hands on while the children poked and grabbed and tickled back.

“Can someone please explain what is going on?” Aziraphale demanded with the last of his patience. Twenty pairs of eyes obediently snapped up, and the children quickly scrambled into a line.

“Demon,” said one of the older boys, about nine summers old. “We hafta rid the village of her evil inference.”

“Inf… influence?” Aziraphale suggested.

“Yeah, that. Or she’ll c’rupt us all.”

“I see.” Aziraphale folded his hands. “And precisely what evil has she worked since we arrived?”

“She made us stay up way past our bedtime,” one said promptly.

“She made me forget to clean my teeth.”

“She drank all the beer at dinner. My father said you’re s’posed to share.”

“She broke my mother’s boat.”

“That boat is fine,” Crawley said, casting a quick miracle.

“And she made us all skip our chores today, when we’re s’posed to be helping get ready for the harvest,” the first speaker concluded. “So you see. Her reign of terror must end.”

“Very well. You’ve killed her,” Aziraphale said as brightly as possible. “Well done. Now we can all return to our lives.”

The children looked unconvinced. “Demons c’n come back from the dead, y’know,” pointed out a girl only six summers old. “Keep comin’ back an’ doin’ their evil forever.So after you kill ’em, you gotta exercise ’em.”

“Oh? And how does one do that?”

“You pull off ’er arms’n’legs,” she explained brightly. “An’ burn ’em in a big fire.”

“And then you take the ashes,” put in another, “and sprinkle ’em ’round the fields. That tells other demons t’stay away!”

“Where did you even hear such a thing?” Aziraphale asked, glaring down at Crawley. She just shrugged and smiled innocently.

“My father heard it from a priest in th’city,” the little girl said, and everyone else nodded their approval of such an acclaimed source of information.

“Th’priests know all ’bout demons,” the first boy continued. “They bring evil an’ storms an’ disease an’ they make you over boil th’ stew so all the vegebles are squishy.”

“So y’gotta kill ’em all,” one finished, hopping from foot to foot. “An’ an’ send the spirit to, um, to the goddess, um…”

“Inananana,” the little girl decided.

Aziraphale’s mouth pinched shut like he’d eaten something bitter, but when he crouched down to the children’s level, he was smiling broadly. “Well. Look at all you’ve accomplished. You’ve all done a wonderful job of driving the Tempter from your homes. I’m quite impressed at your drive and ingenuity. But in the end, it is not the demons that bring evil. Disease and storms happen to us all, and as for the rest… you must decide for yourselves to do good. That is your choice to make, and no one can take that from you.” Reluctant mumbles of agreement. “So now that the demon is vanquished, what will you do?”

The children looked at each other, or at their feet shuffling in the mud, sun-browned shoulders hunched in defeat. “Chores?” a few of them piped up with less enthusiasm than Crawley had ever heard in a human voice.

“Jolly good!” Aziraphale beamed at them all. “You have chosen the path of righteousness, which will never fail to lead you to a satisfactory end. Now. I shall finish… disposing of this creature, while you all return to work.”

This received another reluctant groan, but as Aziraphale moved through the crowd giving each child a warm hand clasp, their faces brightened and each ran off eagerly to join their parents in the fields.

It was only when he released the smallest child’s hand that Crawley realized there was more to it than simple motivation—the little girl was left holding an enormous qullupu, sticky date jam dripping from the tightly wrapped pastry.

“Are you—are you bribing them into good behavior?” demanded Crawley as the last of the children vanished into the barley with a splash and a giggle. “That’s cheating!”

“What? No. Of course not.” Aziraphale offered a hand and pulled Crawley to her feet, disappointed frown never wavering. “They made a wise and mature decision for which they were duly rewarded, as a reminder that one good act will beget another without fail—”

“Uh-huh.” Crawley glared at her own suspiciously pastry-free hand, then brushed off her knee-length black sheepskin wrap, mud vanishing with each flick. “I’m sure they picked up on all that nuance.”

“I have faith in the deftness of their clever minds,” the angel said piously.

“I’m sure you do.” Crawley ran a hand over her hair. The braids had come unpinned and now hung well past her shoulders, rapidly unweaving into thick, frizzy tresses. A quick miracle only seemed to tangle them more. Well, never mind. “I still have a jar of that beer left. You want some?”

“Look at this mess,” Aziraphale said, dragging a comb through Crawley’s hair. “How did you manage to get it so bad in just a few hours?”

“Dunno,” the demon sulked, hand drifting again towards the jar of beer that was just out of reach in the last sliver of shade beside the guest house. “Just sort of happens.”

“Just happens,” he scoffed, pushing her hand back down. “At least your dress stayed on this time,” he added, glaring at the unsecured fabric standing impossibly against her back. As soon as he’d mentioned it, the miracle maintained by the demon’s subconscious broke, and the soft black leather, outside still covered with tufts of wool, began to slide apart. Aziraphale caught it, pulling it tight, and miracled up a small bone-carved straight pin, jabbing it through the holes in the leather until the dress hung properly from her shoulder. “There. Try not to lose it again.”

Crawley’s hand reached up, feeling the pin, and he half-expected her to turn it black or ocher-red to match the rest of her ensemble. Maybe turn the little wings he’d put on the end into something more snake-related. But instead she just shrugged. “Don’t do it on purpose.”

“You absolutely could have fooled me.” Aziraphale pulled the comb through her hair again. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted this… this…” He paused to pick gently through a particularly complex tangle, then wriggled his fingers into her hair, searching for any others. “And what happened to your headscarf?”

“Nnnnnh.” She shrugged, keeping her head still as he scratched gently around her scalp. “It got in the way so… I threw it in the river.”

“In the river. You know it’s meant to help keep your hair clean.”

“I guess.”

“I should cut it all off and save us both a great deal of trouble.” With one last tug, the final knot came apart. Aziraphale put aside the comb and ran his fingers through Crawley’s soft waves. It really was lovely hair, and she did take good care of it most days, better than most humans could. It was only when running around with the village children that she seemed to lose all sense of propriety. “I really don’t understand,” he said, voice softening. “If you’re going to act like a child, why not simply make yourself look like one while you play?”

“This is just who I am today.” Crawley slid her own fingers through her hair and started sectioning it, separating and arranging it more neatly than Aziraphale ever could. “Sides. Wouldn’t be a very effective Tempter like that, would I?”

“You’re hardly effective now.” Aziraphale slid over to kneel beside the jar of beer, smoothing his white robes—unchanged since Eden—and selecting a thin reed to slide into the drink. It had settled into layers, as always, sediment at the bottom and bitter liquid at the top. But in between, only accessible with a carefully positioned straw, lay the sweet honey-colored brew, utterly refreshing in the intolerable heat of mid-day.

After more than six centuries on Earth, Crawley still seemed unable to settle on a preferred form. Even angels who never came to Earth rarely changed their human guise, or asked to be addressed in a different way. But Crawley… one day, she was a woman. The next, they were a child of indeterminate gender, then an enormous serpent, followed by a normal sized serpent, then he would be a man, and the day after that—without changing body or clothing in any way—she would ask to be referred to as a woman again.

Aziraphale did his best to keep up, but it made him dizzy sometimes. The changes made no sense with reference to where they were staying, what they were trying to do, who they were interacting with—no matter how he tried there was no logic behind it. And of course, if he ever asked, Crawley simply shrugged and said this is who I am today.

It was utterly incomprehensible.

He took another long drink and sighed. There was no point in getting worked up about it, though, was there? Crawley was never happy unless she was making a scene; at least this was a relatively harmless way to do so.

Just now, she was gazing longingly at the beer as her fingers moved busily towards the end of the first braid. Something about the look in her golden eyes made the last of his frustration melt away.

“Here,” he said, letting his straw slide to the bottom of the jar. “Let me do that while you drink.”

“Really?” Crawley perked up with that broad, lovely grin.

“Of course. You’ve been running around all day, you need it more than I.”

She scrambled over eagerly, dipping her own narrow reed in to suck up as much as possible before he changed his mind. Angels and demons didn’t need to eat or drink, per se, but doing so helped them recover more quickly from injury or exhaustion, and of course it was always refreshing on a hot day.

Awkwardly, Aziraphale slid behind Crawley and picked at her long hair, trying to make the same sort of neat divisions she always did. “Is two more braids sufficient? I really can’t do any of those more complicated styles you like.”

“Mmm-hmmm.” Despite the way she sprawled on the ground, she sat perfectly still with her back straight so that he could more easily see what he was doing. The wrap was pinned securely over her left shoulder, but the right was left bare. As he worked, tiny black scales prickled into view across it like freckles, and under the mud her feet were almost completely covered. A sign of happiness, he thought, sliding his fingers from root to tip. Happiness, or at least contentedness. “Y’know, Angel, they’re not hard to learn. Just gotta practice. Why don’t you grow your hair out?”

Aziraphale’s hadn’t grown a fingerswidth in all the time he’d been on Earth. The idea of growing it out made him uncomfortable, in ways he couldn’t explain. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to fuss with it every day.”

“Well. As long as we’re traveling together, I could do yours. Often as you like.”

For just a moment, he could almost feel Crawley’s long, clever fingers sliding through his hair, scratching at his scalp, gently creating one of her elaborate constructions of braids and curls. He had no desire to walk around like that, and yet, somehow, it was incredibly tempting.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said fondly, watching more scales appear as he worked, resisting the urge to brush his hand across them. It was so powerful his fingers itched for it.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.” Crawley shifted her legs and got back to drinking, apparently completely unaware of his distress.

Somehow, that made it immensely worse.

He never should have put himself in this position. Should have walked away the moment the demon appeared beside him on the wall, muttering forbidden thoughts and smiling at everything Aziraphale said. It was obviously some sort of trap, though he hadn’t been able to imagine what the goal might be. He should have trusted his instincts, rejected the conversation, returned to Heaven and reported… something.

But it had been so very long since he’d had company on the wall, so long since he’d had someone to talk to, to laugh with. So long since anyone had even suggested he was doing a satisfactory job.

Then the rain had started, and he’d offered to shield the being next to him. What could be more natural?

And when it stopped, Crawley had pointedly not thanked him—demons don’t say ‘thank you,’ not ever—but offered to groom his wings. It would have been rude to say no…

And that’s when the trap had sprung.

Sitting in the Garden at sunset, talking in hushed voices of all the wonders they’d seen on Earth, watching the stars come out, all the while those warm fingers glided through his feathers, soothing itches he could never reach, pressing his coverts into neat shape, sending waves of pleasure through him until he could hardly sit still, until he was utterly mesmerized by the rhythm of it…

He’d thought, again and again, of the two humans, how they would sit with their arms or legs pressed together, how their hands would meet, their mouths, or every part of them. Companionship far more intimate than any angel had ever known.

That was what he was being tempted into.

He’d waited for it, waited to feel the hands slide around his stomach, waited to be pulled back into the demon’s embrace. He didn’t think he would fight it. Didn’t think he wanted to.

Instead, Crawley had diligently groomed his wings until every feather gleamed in the moonlight, then said goodbye with a final grin and melted back into a serpent, vanishing into the forest. Leaving Aziraphale alone, flustered, and very confused.

Aziraphale had spent the next six hundred years trying to forget that evening. Trying not to think about it every time he saw the stars. Trying to push aside the loneliness that rose up in him now and then, an ache he could never describe or even fully understand. Throwing himself into his work, immersing himself in the lives of his human charges. Fleeing every time he saw a head of red hair or a too-black robe in a crowd.

Until his last performance review.

Gabriel had smiled politely as he explained that Aziraphale’s record was adequate, but that Heaven required more than that of their field agents, that they needed someone who could be exemplary, even extraordinary. That if Aziraphale was incapable of performing at that level, perhaps it was time to step aside and let someone else take up the position.

Of course, Aziraphale had been willing to submit if necessary, he would never dream of questioning an Archangel’s judgment—but surely, surely Gabriel could see the value of giving him one more chance? One last opportunity to prove he could rise to the task? To show he could go above and beyond all expectation by thwarting the twisted plans of Hell’s cleverest, most devious agent, a demon so cunning, with schemes so complex, no other angel had come close to stopping them—the Serpent of Eden?

Impressed at his initiative, Gabriel had agreed. But now, months later, Aziraphale was beginning to think he’d rather oversold things.

He’d returned to the land between the rivers just as the annual flood began to recede, and by the start of the planting season had located Crawley at a festival of Ishtar in Nineveh. Making a scene, as always, red hair streaming in all directions, woven with flowers and golden stars. In the midst of the procession, surrounded by priests and priestesses, holy guards and sacred prostitutes, and other denizens of the temple. Dancing with them in celebration of the return of the goddess and her consort from the underworld. Those golden eyes had lit up, picking him out of the crowd before he could even think of concealing himself, and next thing he knew the demon had taken his arm, dragging him off to try a dozen delicacies.

Later, sharing a jar of beer and listening to the temple musicians, Aziraphale had explained the entire plan. That he’d come to be a force for good, countering all of Crawley’s wicked deeds and ensuring those he tried to corrupt found their way back to the right path. He’d been hesitant, but when in doubt, honesty was generally the best policy.

The demon had shrugged, smiled, and said he was welcome to “tag along.”

It didn’t take Aziraphale long to realize he’d miscalculated.

The next morning, they’d started on their way, following the course of the northern river down to the east. As the barley and legumes blossomed, turning the floodplain green with life, they made their way from Nineveh to Eridu, stopping at every city in between to eat the food, drink the ale, join the celebrations. Sometimes Crawley would pretend to be an old friend of the king or high priest, tricking the palaces and temples into providing all manner of lavish gifts during their stay; other times the demon wandered through the fields, talking to peasants, teaching young men to gamble and young women to flirt (and, just as often, the other way around).

In between, Crawley climbed trees, swam in oases, listened to bards tell their stories, snuck into competitions of strength or skill, carved rude pictures into mudbrick walls—in short, everything except grand evil temptations.

For six months, day after day, Aziraphale followed, wondering if he should give up, wondering if there might be some other demon to thwart, wondering if he should return to Heaven and admit defeat, wondering if Crawley was doing this on purpose—

And then Crawley would smile and give him a piece of fruit, or a flower, or play a song on a pipe carved from reeds, or tell a story that made his sides ache from laughter, and Aziraphale would feel that warmth he’d felt in Eden again, that longing, that need to reach out… and resolve to continue just a little longer.

“There.” Aziraphale released the last braid, letting it tumble down the demon’s back. His own didn’t lay nearly as straight as the first, but they held.

She scooped them up with a sweep of her hands, flashing him another smile over her bare shoulder. “Looks like you’re getting the hang of this,” she said, inspecting them quickly before twisting them into a knot, miracling up a long, narrow pin of brilliant bronze, worked into the shape of a snake and speared her hair firmly in place. “Better get a drink while you can, I’m about to finish this.”

Feeling oddly pleased, Aziraphale settled on the other side of the jar, retrieving his straw. There was far less beer inside, but the middle layer was still refreshing and sweet. They took a few long drinks in companionable silence.

“Where are you headed next?” Aziraphale asked eventually. “Further upriver?” Eridu had marked the end of the river’s course, and they’d spent a few weeks exploring the gulf before starting their way back through the marshy delta, now following the southern river.

Crawley rolled the thin reed straw between her fingers. “Thought we might stay here til the end of the harvest. Just a few more days.”

“Longer than that, if you keep distracting half their workforce. Or were you planning to actually help?”

“I’m keeping up morale. S’a huge help.” But she didn’t smile as she said it. “After that… next city should be Uruk, right? Biggest city in the world.”

“That does sound interesting. Do you think they have a harvest festival?”

“Sorta. Nh. Their, uh, god of the fields goes down to the underworld while everything dies in the heat. So. More a month of mourning in the streets.”

“I see. Perhaps we should skip that.”

“But still,” Crawley said more quickly. “The city itself. The wall is supposed to be taller than any trees, and the temples rise to the sky on mountains built by humans. And I hear they dug the canals right through the city, and during the summer flood everyone fishes from their doorsteps and uses boats to go down to the market. Now that’s something I want to see.”

“I’m certain that’s all wild exaggeration,” Aziraphale pointed out. “And wouldn’t that make it difficult to mourn in the streets?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She fell back with a thump, laying on the reed-woven platform, staring up into the unbroken blue sky. “Never mind then.”

Aziraphale sighed, releasing his straw and sitting back to watch the river drift by. The summer flood. Not quite a full year since Gabriel sent him down. The Archangel could summon him back at any time, and what did he have to show for his efforts? He hadn’t thwarted anything more wicked than an impertinent nap on the temple steps.

He imagined himself standing in front of his review board. Ah, yes, I learned several very important characteristics of demons. They groom their wings almost every day, they enjoy very loud music, and they like sweet foods but will never ask for them. The trick is to order too many for yourself and accidentally leave a few in easy reach…

They would never allow him to set foot on Earth again.

“You know,” Aziraphale said slowly, trying to keep his tone bright. “There’s likely to be something worth seeing in Uruk, even if it isn’t streets full of boats and artificial mountains. It’s only two, maybe three days upriver. If we leave as soon as the harvest ends, I’m sure we can arrive in time for the flood.”

“Yeah?” Crawley turned her head, peeking around the jar of beer.

“Yes. But… but you have to promise me you’ll do something worth thwarting.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” he stood up, pacing anxiously across the reeds. “You could… you could set fire to the docks, perhaps?”

“That’s really not my scene.” She turned back to the sky. “You know it isn’t.”

“Well, yes, I suppose. You could… you could tempt someone else into setting the fire? And then I can talk them out of it. Or, no…” That would merely be adequate, wouldn’t it? “Something more. Ah. I’m sure there’s… there’s some way you could disrupt the… the religious observances?”

“Mmmmh. It’s supposed to be somber so… maybe I can try to talk some people into livening things up.” She didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

“I doubt Heaven would even notice the difference.”

“See if I can get some of the priests really drunk? Or get some kids to let the sacrificial animals escape?”

“Good lord, Crawley, think like a demon for once! Get some people to—to rob the palace, or… no,” he found himself smiling. “Get the farmers and peasants to revolt!”

“Excuse me?”

Aziraphale probably should have noticed the edge to her voice, but he was too busy following the idea. “Yes, that would be perfect. I’m sure they must have some—some grievances you can work with, social inequalities and so on. They always get a bit recalcitrant around the harvest, yes?”

“Yeah. Because they’re overworked.”

“Good, that’s a perfect starting point. See what else they’re upset about. There was a famine just a few years ago, they’re probably still grumbling about that. Why, I’m sure some of the older folks will have complaints going back to the previous ruler. Get everyone… really riled up and then, at the height of the ceremonies, they can—”

“What? Overthrow the king? Stage a bloody revolution against the priests? With what weapons? The soldiers have bronze swords and axes, all anyone else has is mud and reeds! Their spears are sharp sticks!”

He turned back to find Crawley glaring angrily, but Aziraphale just puffed up his chest and stood firm. “Obviously, it doesn’t need to come to that. I’ll… I will intervene and negotiate a peace.”

“Oh, yeah, just step between an army and an angry mob and talk everyone down? Don’t be such an idiot.”

“I am an angel. I radiate peace, and calm, and—and soothing energy!”

Do you?” Crawley rolled to her feet. “Because the way I ssee it, everywhere you go, you jusst pissssss people off!” When she bared her teeth, her mouth looked wider than normal, her fangs more pointed.

“There’s no need for such language. Look, once it’s finished, everything will go back to normal, better than normal, as I’ll have addressed their concerns, and everyone can have a—a proper harvest feast with none of this ridiculous mourning.”

“For fuck’sss sssake, Aziraphale!” A patch of scales broke out on one side of her face. “You’re going to get people killed!”

He clenched his fists at his sides. “Well there’s no need for you to be so precious about it! Which one of us is supposed to be bringing chaos to this land?” Crawley hissed at him, but it was too late for Aziraphale to stop now. “I’m only asking this because you can’t ever act like a proper demon!”

“What do you want me to do? Blight their cropsss and let the village ssssstarve? Call up a sssstorm that tearssss their homesss apart? Rip a family to shredssss and drink their blood, because that’ssss what demonsss do!”

The face before him looked more serpentine than human now, smoldering with a fury he’d never seen before. Strange, inhuman, capable of all manner of evil, like something out of mankind’s nightmares. A proper demon.

Aziraphale realized, with a cold twist in his stomach, that he didn’t like this at all.

“Crawley—”

“No! Ssssshut up! I am sssssick and tired of your sssssanctimonioussss bullsssshit!” The demon spun and stormed back into the guest house. “You want to ruin human livessss? Have at it. I’m taking my thingssss and I’m leaving. Don’t even think of following me!”

“No, wait—”

“Fuck off!” The reed mat slapped down over the door with utter finality.

Crawley stood just inside the guest house, a long narrow structure of woven reeds shaped something like an upside-down boat. Enough space for a large family to sleep stretched out on the floor, though at the moment it was just the two of them, sleeping mats side by side. In the middle, the night’s fire had been reduced to a few warm coals, ready to be stoked back into flames if needed, but with the doors on either end covered, it was hot as a kiln in the middle of the day.

She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself enough to revert to her usual shape as she gathered her few belongings. A basket woven with an interesting pattern of light and dark fibers. A few little clay tokens, including one of a snake she’d made herself. Jewelry, scented oils, some kohl and other cosmetics, and a hide bag to carry it all in.

All her time on Earth really hadn’t amounted to much.

The moment her eyes shifted back to their normal yellow state, they started to tear up. Crawley scrubbed at them angrily, cursing the smoke, though the coals were hardly even glowing.

“Guess that’s it,” she grumbled to the empty hut. No one who would care if she left, no one would even notice. Maybe she should steal a boat or something. Stealing was proper demonic activity, wasn’t it?

Her foot flashed out, kicking the sleeping mat she’d used, flipping it over onto Aziraphale’s. Why? We were having a good time. Why did you have to ruin it?

She wasn’t certain who she was angry at. Crawley rubbed her arms, trying to ignore the chill, trying to ignore the hissing, screaming voice in her head, telling her what a fool she was, telling her she always ruined everything.

One more deep breath.

“Alright. Goodbye, Angel,” she muttered to his pile of things, then turned towards the door at the far end of the guest house. If she left while he was still sulking, they’d never have to talk to each other again. That was best, right?

Right?

Shivering, she stepped forward, breath coming out in a puff of mist.

No.

She held out her arm, watching her hand twitch and shake in the cold, crystals of ice gathering along the hairs of her arm. All down her clothes, clinging to the tufts of wool, little balls of snow seemed to condense right out of the air. Frost spiraled out from her feet, forming patterns across the muddy floor, coiling around her like a serpent. Like a circle.

A summoning circle.

“Nonononono.” Crawley’s voice echoed strangely in her ears, unable to escape into the frozen air. “Angel!”

Beside her, the coals burst into towering blue flames, tall enough to devour the entire guest house, crackling and roaring, howling with laughter.

“Aziraphale!”

The frost completed its pattern and everything began to ripple, hot and cold, as the flames twisted and descended on her where she stood.

“Help—!”

The weight of the world struck her head, and everything went black.

“Crawley?” Aziraphale gathered his courage and shifted the heavy woven mat. “Before you go, I think we…”

There was no one there.

Of course. He’d wasted his time dithering as always, and now she was gone. Not even a chance to say a proper goodbye or…

Why was her bag still here?

He pushed his way in, coughing at the unexpectedly muggy air, heavy with an odd scent like that around the hot springs in the north. The fire blazed in the center of the room, making the heat intolerable.

“Crawley, what happened in here?”

No answer.

The black hide bag had spilled its contents across the floor in wild disarray, utterly unlike the demon. The jar of scented oil had shattered, the strings of beads split and rolled away in every direction. The little clay snake she’d been so proud of was broken into three pieces.

And the reed floor was burned. Perfectly straight lines and curves of charcoal, as if drawn with a stick, forming a pattern that looked almost familiar…

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale ran to the far side of the guest house, hoping it was a trick, hoping he was mistaken, knowing that he wasn’t. He pulled the reed mat back so sharply it tore off entirely. “Crawley!”

But there was nothing beyond but the back of the artificial island, and the barley-lined river stretching on and on to the sea.

Chapter 2: Separation

Crawley had been summoned a few times before, but never quite like this. Her head didn’t just ache, it felt like it had been split with an axe. Her limbs were cold and sore, almost too stiff to move, and her stomach lurched when she moved too quickly. She was usually a bit disoriented, but never before had she felt so jumbled up she could barely remember her name.

The invisible rope around her neck was entirely new, as was the circle on the ceiling, well out of her reach. The humans were getting more clever.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark slowly. Three guards, with glinting bronze weapons. Two more men, talking in the corner, both wearing… possibly priest robes? A ladder in one corner, leading to a square cut hole in the ceiling. A city, then, where most people spent the hottest parts of the day on the roof of their mud brick house, instead of in reed bundle huts in the middle of…

The thought slipped away, and she worried it might have been important.

Where was she again?

Right. Summoning circle. Priests. Restrained, but the exit was in easy reach. No light from the hole, so… was it night? Had it been night? She didn’t think so. Had she been asleep that long, or was the hole simply covered? Well, anything the humans could move, so could she, and there didn’t seem to be any other way out. Onto the roof, then into her serpent form. Serpent form was surprisingly good at climbing, and people tended to keep their distance. Drop down to the street, make her way to the river, try to work out where she was and…

Hang on, had she forgotten something?

Restrained. Yes. That first.

Standing hadn’t worked, so instead she carefully sat up, folding her legs under her to look as in-control as possible. The pain in her head briefly became so sharp she wanted to retch but… there, it was passing. That was something.

Unfortunately, her poorly-wrapped dress was slowly unraveling, already far too loose around her body. The miracles that kept it snug without being restrictive had vanished, and now it hung from the pin, like any human’s garb, the lower edges sliding apart to expose her thigh. As long as she was restrained, she could only perform miracles with her summoners’ permission. And thanks to whatever they’d set up, she couldn’t even stand to wind the sheepskin back around herself properly.

She scratched at her neck, but there was nothing there. It felt like a leash or bridle, a tight leather strap around her neck anchored to the floor. She slid her hands about the floor, hoping to find something tying the spell to the ground, but no. There was nothing actually solid, nothing physical keeping her here; but if she tried to stand or even lean any further from where she sat, she would feel it tighten around her, jerking her back into place.

Shit. There had to be some way to get out of this. She had to get back to her angel and…

Aziraphale! She’d been traveling with Aziraphale! And…

Oh…

The memory of the fight brought the pain in her head back in full force. Well. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about rescue or any of that nonsense. On her own, same as ever.

Footsteps. The priests were approaching, as well as one of the guards. Crawley tried to shake away the last of the headache. A few tugs got the dress into something resembling the right shape. Sloppy, but it would have to do. She folded her hands in her lap and held her head high, smiling despite another flash of pain.

It was all just another form of temptation, really. Hear what they wanted. Offer all that and more if they released her. Get the fuck out the second they did. Easy.

“Looks like you went through a lot of trouble to get me here,” she said, watching with a coy confidence as one of the priests bent by the strange blue flames from the lamp. He was holding something, jewelry perhaps? Some humans tried to appease the demons they abducted with gifts. They knew their captive was unhappy, and dangerous. “Tell me what it is you want.”

The second priest—tall, muscular, dark eyes glittering—crouched in front of her, studying her in the strange light. “This one looks almost human.”

“I suppose some of them must,” the other said, not looking up. “Balance and all that. Last year’s was disgusting.”

The priest reached out to Crawley, fingers gently tilting her chin up. “Just look at that.”

“My time is very valuable,” she said, trying to sound imperious. “Make your request quickly.”

“Oh, would you like to know what I want?” His other hand slid up her leg, further parting the wrap. “I want to know if the rest of you is—”

Crawley jerked her head back, then snapped forward, biting his fingers until she tasted blood. The priest crumpled, clutching them and shouting in pain. “Yeah, try that again, you fucking creep!” She glared up at the guards who quickly surrounded her. “All of you bastards, stand the fuck back. Don’t even touch me, I’ll—”

A fist slammed into her face and Crawley dropped to the floor, the world around her shifting, cracking, pieces all out of order. What body was she in? Why was it dark? Where was her angel?

“See, this is why we don’t play with them before the ritual.” A hand grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her harder into the ground.

Oh, Satan, who was it this time? The demon grabbed her wing, twisting it, preparing to break the delicate bones—

No, no, she didn’t have her wings out, her clothes. The priest jerked the sheepskin, peeling it away from her back to bare her right shoulder blade, shoved a piece of burning metal into her.

Crawley screamed, struggling, trying to slither away—no crawl, digging into the clay with talons…fingers…

“Hold that arm still,” the priest snapped. “This won’t work if it’s not clear.”

Someone grabbed her right wrist, but Crawley pulled it back, trying to get her hand under her body. So the guard stomped on her elbow, setting her whole arm on fire, then hauled it out again. Kneeled on her so she couldn’t pull free.

“What are you doing?” she finally managed. “What are you doing, you psychotic—”

The hot metal pressed against her again, this time into the highest part of her bicep. First a burn of hot metal, then something else, something that shot like lightning through her soul. She didn’t know if she screamed this time, but when her senses returned she was crying uncontrollably.

“Much better.” The priest and guard released her, but all Crawley could do was squirm on the ground at their feet. “That should hold her until we’re ready to begin. Mattaki, let me see your hand.”

“That bitch! She nearly bit my finger off! Filthy rat.”

She felt the jolt of the foot hitting her stomach, but the pain was lost among every other hurt.

“I have told you not to be deceived by their appearance. But I suppose you had to learn the hard way. Now come along, before she bites your leg off.”

“Yes, Sabium,” the other said, and Crawley was dimly aware of the shapes retreating towards the ladder.

She managed to move her left hand, groping numbly across her arm until she found the mark burned into her body. When her fingers brushed it, her stomach started to heave uncontrollably, but she thought she could make out the shape. A circle and inside, a flower? No…

“…too much to prepare. The harvest starts tomorrow.”

It was the eight-pointed star of Ishtar.

Aziraphale turned over the jar, beer cascading out to soak into the reeds or flow into the river beside him. When the last drops had been shaken out, he scooped up some fresh water and planted the jar on the ground beside him.

Next. A circle. He grabbed one of the straws they’d been using and tried to scrape one into the mud around the jar, but the flimsy reed wasn’t thick enough. The thick weave of the artificial island refused to give way, and eventually the straw snapped in half.

“Blast!” Aziraphale threw the pieces as far as he could and clutched at his forehead, trying to think. He needed—he needed something to draw with. Charcoal, perhaps. The fire inside the guest house should have enough.

He pulled the reed mat aside and peered in. The blaze had settled down to that of a regular cooking fire, but still far too large. It burnt steadily despite having no fuel.

No, he couldn’t use that.

Instead, Aziraphale dug through the hide bag he’d carried out, the little bundle of Crawley’s things, hoping for something he could use. The jars of kohl, ocher and malachite pastes were too small for the circle he needed, but perhaps he could paint one by mixing all three…

“Master angel!” someone called, and his head snapped up. Some of the villagers boating back across the river. It was the hottest part of the day, when work would pause for a meal and a rest. A few families or couples might return to their homes for privacy, but most of the village would gather in the shade of the date palms along the river’s edge.

He stared uncomprehendingly at the smiling, waving faces. “Where has your wife gone?” another said, and the rest laughed. “Don’t tell me the children scared her off.”

“If she’s napping inside, she won’t want to be alone,” teased one of the women.

Alone? No, she wouldn’t want to be alone. Crawley had tried to hide it, but it hadn’t taken Aziraphale long to realize the demon had nightmares frequently. Thrashing and whimpering, muttering words he couldn’t understand, but which sounded very much like begging. He would wake Crawley when this happened, pretending he hadn’t noticed anything and simply needed to ask a question or get help with some minor task.

In the city of Kish, Aziraphale had stepped out for only a moment to admire the glow of fires on the roof tops, and returned to find her—them, at the time—in a nightmare too deep to be woken from. After calling their name over and over only to see the sobbing and begging grow worse, Aziraphale had done the only thing he could think of: lay down beside Crawley and pull them into his arms, rubbing their back and whispering soothing reassurances. The demon calmed down quickly, pressing close to his body.

Of course, Aziraphale had woken them soon after and, ashamed at himself for the presumption, explained what had happened. Crawley, hugging their knees to their chest and staring into a dark corner, had confessed the nightmares came when they didn’t feel safe.

The next night, Aziraphale had placed his sleeping mat next to Crawley’s, and met the demon’s golden eyes evenly as he told them to sleep well. It was awkward at first, but within a month, Crawley was falling asleep in his arms more often than not, and there hadn’t been any nightmares since.

She would have them now, assuming something worse hadn’t already happened.

As the boats continued across the river, Aziraphale dug into the bag again, finding two of Crawley’s favorite strings of beads. One was broken, but the other—carnelian alternating with rough black pumice—was still intact. With shaking fingers, he spread it into a neat circle on the ground and placed the jar of water in the middle.

He carefully removed all beads from the other except for the largest, a smoothly polished ball of obsidian. It took three tries, but Aziraphale knotted the string so that when he held one broken end, the obsidian rested evenly at the other without falling off.

Concentrating only on Crawley’s face, Aziraphale dropped the pieces of the clay serpent into the jar, snapping his fingers to add a dash of power. Then he closed his eyes, whispering the demon’s name over and over, and let the bead dangle from his fingers over the water. It spun, twisted, then began to trace slow, lazy circles through the air.

Finally, a distinct, sharp tug. It lasted for only a heartbeat, but his eyes flew open, turning instinctively in that direction.

Upstream, and slightly north.

Uruk.

“I’m coming, Crawley,” he said, shoving everything back into the bag. He looped it over his shoulder, tucked the jar under one arm and dashed after the villagers, leaving a trail of ripples across the surface of the river, and jumped into the rearmost boat just as it reached the family’s hut.

Four pairs of eyes turned to him in shock.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said in his politest tones, “but I’m afraid I need to take your boat. Immediately.”

Crawley knelt on the floor, trying once more to make sense of her surroundings. Her arm still hurt—the two burns were blistering badly—but her head seemed to be clearing, at least.

One thing at a time.

Clay floor. Not baked, but very compressed. She could dig her fingers in, but when she tried to pull some up, she just cracked her fingernails. Four oil lamps, probably cardinal points. She’d tried laying down and reaching with her feet, but they were just slightly too far. The flames were getting low, so they would likely burn out soon. Which would be helpful if the summoning circle was on the ground and not the ceiling.

Having a clay ceiling was strange. No sign of timbers or reed bundles for rafters, but the walls looked like they had been lined with thick limestone. So no chance of trying to burrow out, and with the ladder withdrawn there was nowhere else to go.

She’d heard them shift something heavy across the opening, too, leaving the room even darker than it had been.

So… she was trapped. Powerless and unable to change forms. Utterly at the mercy of a bunch of deranged humans, all of them needing a hand bitten off, and one for whom she would happily remove a few other appendages.

If only she had a weapon. If only she had something.

If only Aziraphale were here.

Stop that, she scolded herself. He’s not coming. It’s just a waste of time to think about…

Waking up from a dream of being torn apart for the entertainment of other demons, to find an angel asking for a midnight astronomy lesson, completely failing to hide his concern.

Wandering through the roughest parts of the world’s cities, his hand tightly holding hers to keep her from getting into trouble, while glaring at every human who looked like they might bring trouble of their own.

Drifting off to sleep in her enemy’s arms, knowing that it was the one place her so-called allies would never reach her.

If he was here now, he’d offer her an arm or a wing, not because she needed it, certainly not, but because of some stupid compulsion to protect everyone around him. He’d want to cheer her up, but whatever he tried to say would fall utterly flat, and yet she still wouldn’t be able to help smiling. Then they’d start planning their escape. And it would work. She could do anything, so long as Aziraphale was there, too.

But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t be, ever again. So get used to the bloody idea.

First thing was to break the circle. She couldn’t do anything while she was still restrained, not unless her human masters willed it. But smudge one line and extinguish one lamp and the rest should fall apart on its own.

Crawley went over what she had. Dress. Fastener. Hair pin. Two cracked fingernails.

She pulled out the hair pin, letting the three braids tumble down her back, and looked up at the summoning circle again.

More than one circle. She could still hardly see it, but at least three circles, one inside the next, interlocked with other shapes and twisting lines. As long as she broke any line, it should be sufficient.

She closed her eyes and threw the pin directly up…

Her arm twitched at the last minute, blistering pain shooting from shoulder to elbow. The pin dropped to the ground beside her. When Crawley leaned over to pick it up, she could still feel the invisible pull around her neck.

Alright. Left hand this time. She squinted at what seemed to be the intersection of several points—or, possibly, she was just seeing things—and threw it again. The sharp piece of metal twisted in the air and dropped back down towards her face. Crawley dodged it easily, but it struck the floor somewhere behind her.

“Shit.” She wriggled, turning around until she spotted it. The hairpin had landed out of reach, and the point of it had buried deep into the clay. When she lay down, Crawley could stretch one foot out and just grasp it with her toes, but she couldn’t hold it well enough to pull it free. Just as she was striking it with her heel to see if that helped, she heard something above.

Voices, echoing. An argument, perhaps? She closed her eyes and held her breath, trying to catch even a few words.

“…ritual…?”

“…demands…”

“…disgusting…insult…our goddess…”

The response to that was too low for her to hear, but the anger seemed to creep down from the roof above and fill the room like floodwaters.

“Guards!” a voice shouted, and that was clear enough; followed by a lot of footsteps approaching, and then departing.

“That can’t be good,” Crawley muttered, giving up on the hair pin. She might have the rest of the night to figure this out. Or she might have mere minutes.

The bone pin slid easily out through the holes bored into the sheepskin, releasing it to tumble all around her. She rolled the pin between her fingers, feeling the little wings carved in the end, the simple lines running down the side. Aziraphale was rarely flashy, but the things he created had their own sort of beauty.

She pressed it to her lips as she looked again at the dim ceiling, took a deep breath, and flung the pin as hard as she could, ignoring the flare of pain. It struck, sank into the mud… and stayed there, slid perfectly between two lines without breaking either.

“For fuck’s ssssssake.” Crawley reached for it, but the invisible bond still kept her from standing, and her hand fell far short. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Back to the floor, sitting with legs crossed, eyes blinking rapidly, wet from… dust or something. “Ridiculous, fucking ridiculous.”

That was it. Nothing left but to sit here, wait for the creeps to return for whatever it was they needed for that ritual. Probably demon blood, tossed into a fire to enhance some magic or other. They’d only need a few drops, but they seemed the type to slit a throat and get a whole bowl full. And probably the younger one would want to drag things out first.

So torture, discorporation, then back to Hell, where she’d get to explain what happened to Hastur and Ligur and whichever of their friends they wanted to bring along. Reports were a very public affair. So were punishments.

Easily captured. Failed to intimidate her captors. Failed to negotiate her freedom. Failed to escape. Utterly pathetic failure of a demon.

If she was lucky, they’d just string her up for a month or two, let the assembled demons beat her, tear at her, whatever they wanted. If she was unlucky… Ligur had been loudly wondering what happened when you broke all the bones in someone’s body. And Hastur, well, he was almost as fond of biting as the Hellhounds.

And if Beelzebub found out, or worse, Lucifer…

She slapped her face, hard enough to sting. “Stop it. Just. Focus.”

With the pin stuck in the ceiling, all she had left was the sheepskin, heaped around her.

Carefully, bit by bit, she shifted her weight, lifting herself as high as the invisible leash would let her go, pulling the unraveled dress out from under her. All twisted together like a rope, it was heavy. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to hold it with her right arm still stiff and stinging from the burns.

One more twist for good measure and she swung the hide wildly over her head. It unraveled and collapsed on top of her, but not before she felt something snag. Crawley quickly pushed the sheepskin aside and squinted up.

“Aha! Got you!” The pin had been knocked against the ceiling. Not quite flat, but at enough of an angle that it cut through one of the lines. She couldn’t feel any difference in the restraints that held her, but the air shifted, a hot, dry scent as the magic strained.

Now she just needed to disrupt the lamps.

Squinting at the one ahead of her, she rolled the sheepskin into a heavy ball. Only going to get one chance. Crawley aimed as carefully as she could and threw—

The hide landed on the lamp with a fwump, extinguishing the dim flame. The other three lights immediately shifted to a bright, warm orange glow.

“Yes!” She grinned towards the corner where the exit was hidden. “Now comes the fun part.” It only took a second to gather her scattered items, wind the sheepskin back around herself, and get into position. The priests and guards had been able to stand in the room, but Crawley was especially tall and had to keep her head ducked as she moved. At least she should be able to pull herself up through the exit easily, ladder or no.

The hole was covered by a reed mat, and probably something beyond that, perhaps a large flat paving stone. She pressed her hands against it and pushed.

And pushed.

“Fuck.” She slammed both fists as hard as she could, but it hardly even wiggled. Something heavier than a paving stone, then, an extra weight or a bar across it to keep things in place. Well, that probably meant they weren’t still hanging around. Almost a pity; she’d hoped for a chance to throw a few of them off the roof before she left.

“Fine. I’ll just slip away and everyone gets off easy. Just don’t try and follow me.” She closed her eyes and shifted into her largest, most powerful serpent form.

Nothing happened.

Crawley glared at the fingers that stubbornly refused to melt away. “Oh, don’t do this…”

Next she tried her regular serpent form. Masculine form. The extra tall form she used for emergencies. The very tiny one that allowed her to crawl through cracks in the mud bricks when she wanted to sulk. Even the horrid decaying form she never used because it looked a bit too much like something from one of her own nightmares.

Nothing worked.

With the circles broken, she should have all her powers back, and she could feel the little scales flickering across her arms and back as frustration shifted to anxiety and back again. But she couldn’tcontrolhe change at all.

“Oh, you fucking… I bet you think you’re so clever.” There must be something else in the room, an extra ward or binding circle, one she was still connected to. “I’ll find it, don’t worry about that. Find it and shove it right down your throats, you pathetic wankers.”

Making sure the pins were firmly back in place, Crawley picked up one of the oil lamps and began to explore the room, crouching to study the stones.

She’d never seen a house built like this before, with flat stones pressed into the clay. Nothing was carved into the limestone, but here and there were roughly dabbed paintings: eight or sixteen pointed stars, bundles of reeds, lions, date palms, little scenes of figures chasing each other that were perhaps supposed to represent some kind of story, but were incomprehensible to Crawley.

Nothing that might be binding her here.

In the corner farthest from the exit, where the priests had stood when she first regained her senses, Crawley found a little table covered with the remains of the summoning ritual. Oils and powders had likely all gone inert, but she swept them onto the floor anyway, then searched the table for any other marks. Nothing, but in a back corner she spotted a carved piece of stone, a stamp seal, perhaps similar to the metal one they’d used to brand her. She picked it up, wondering if—

Searing pain burst across her fingers, broiling through her skin, lances of pain, pinning her hand to the wall with a flaming blade—

Screaming, she threw the stamp across the room, clutched her hand to her chest. It hurt, hurt like nothing she’d felt since the Fall, since those last few moments as the love of Heaven soured, the light turning cruelly against the forsaken demons…

They’d branded her with a holy seal.

“No no no no,” she moaned, scratching frantically at the star burned into her arm, no bigger than the pad of her thumb. Her nails slid easily across it, not even leaving a mark.

Were those footsteps overhead?

“Fuck, no no, come on.” She pulled the hair pin free again, jabbing herself in the arm as hard as she could, scraping it deep, drawing blood. But when she wiped the blood away, the scratch simply stopped at one edge of the brand and picked up on the other. The star remained unbroken inside its little circle.

More footsteps, the sound of voices. Something dragging across the roof.

“Damn it, damn it.” She held the bronze hair pin to the tiny flickering flame, trying to heat it up. That should cancel it out, right? Burn from an infernally created item? But her hand shook, spilling the last few drops of oil, and the flame went out. “Fuck, no!”

The darkness of the corner shifted, alleviated by a dim light. A pair of legs…

Crawley flung herself back at the summoning circle, grabbing at one of the remaining lamps. She’d pour the oil directly on herself, that should—

“What do you think you’re doing?” A pair of hands grabbed her, hauling her up, shoving her against the wall. The priest—the younger one, Mattaki—leered at her.

“Let go of me, you worm!” The metal flashed as she drove the pin towards his neck, but he caught her wrist, forcing it back, twisting until she dropped her only weapon to the ground.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he snarled, leaning close to her ear. “You have no idea how much danger you’re in already, you stupid bitch.”

“Danger? Don’t make me laugh.” Not quite enough space to hold her head high, but she did her best. “I’ve faced things in the depths of Hell that would… rot your brain just to hear their names. You’re nothing but a pathetic child, playing with things you couldn’t begin to understand.”

He just laughed, pushing a hand against her mouth. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand, demon, the plans we have for you. Welcoming the harvest. The season of death.” His hand shifted, stroking her cheek. “Death of the crops, the land, the gods themselves, and you get to be in the center of it all. Such an honor.” Once again, he leaned close, lips brushing her ear. “But it seems such a waste…” His other hand slid down her hip. “If you submit to me now, I’ll make it all as painless as possible.”

He tipped his head back, meeting her eyes. Crawley smiled.

And slapped his face as hard as she could.

“I told you before, keep your fucking hands to yourself, or I swear next time I’ll tear them off! You foul, repulsive swine. You vile shitheel! I would rather die than—”

His fist struck her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Crawley staggered and fell to the ground.

“Well,” the priest smiled down at her. “If you insist.”

Chapter 3: The First Ritual

Crawley huddled in the corner of her cell.

That’s what it was, a cell. Some priests had come in and removed the table, the lamps, everything. She’d almost managed to stab one with her hair pin, so they took that away, too.

Nothing left but the darkness, the smell of clay, and the stifling near-summer heat.

At some point she slipped into a dream, kneeling before Beelzebub’s throne, trying to explain why a series of carefully timed gusts of wind counted as demonic activity. “The whole city was in an uproar,” she said. “They still haven’t found the high priest’s wig!”

“And how doezz any of that count azz ‘evil’?” ze demanded, looking a lethal combination of bored and irritated.

But suddenly Crawley couldn’t speak at all, nothing but broken words, guttural grunts and hissing, so much hissing. Beelzebub rolled zir eyes and turned to Dagon. “Get it out of my zzight.”

“My pleasure.” She grabbed Crawley by the hair and threw her into a pit. “Your rats were in my archive again.”

“Not mine!” Crawley managed. “They would never—”

She crashed into the bottom of the pit, shattering into countless pieces, all still alive, all able to feel as things skittered and swarmed out of the darkness—

“Aziraphale!” She woke panting, reaching into the darkness for solid arms wrapped in softness, for assurance that she was safe now. “Angel!”

But he wasn’t there. And, as memory crept back, she realized he never would be again. Even he could see she was a worthless excuse for—

With a scrape and a bump, the hatch in the ceiling opened again, the dim light pouring in almost blindingly bright. Crawley pressed back into the corner, baring her teeth and hissing.

“Go on then. Pull it out.”

“Pull—I’m not going down there! It sounds like a wild animal.”

“Maybe it is. No one saw Master Sabium or Mattaki bring anything in. Could be a lion or something, right?”

“Did you see what they got last year? A lion would be a relief.”

“Good. So you can go down, then.”

“No way. We drew straws, fair’s fair.”

“Let me see those straws again.”

There was a scuffle, some murmurs, and finally a human dropped through the hole, staggering slightly and lifting a lamp that stung her eyes.

“Get the ladder ready. I think it’s just…” The stumbling scuff of a footstep. “Blessed Lady Inana!”

“What?” called a voice from above. “Is it a lion?”

“No.” The young human glanced back towards the hatch. “It’s a woman.”

The moment the eyes turned away from her, Crawley surged forward, shoving the smaller figure to the ground. She scurried up the ladder in two steps and pushed her way past a cluster of humans onto—

Not a roof.

She stumbled to a stop on the white plaster floor, staring uncomprehendingly around her.

It was a room, easily twice as long as the guest house she and Aziraphale had shared, three times as wide. Any temple she’d ever seen could have fit inside it with room to spare, all that wide expanse broken only by a sunken fire pit in the center and several upright posts beyond.

And the height of it. Taller than any building she’d ever seen on Earth, smooth white walls extending up and up like…

Like the vaults of Heaven.

When two pairs of hands roughly grabbed her, Crawley hardly even noticed. The size and scale of the building seemed impossible, more so with every detail she noticed. When had the humans gotten so clever?

As the two priests pushed her past the fire on numb, shuffling feet, three doors boomed shut to her left, though she could barely make them out at the end of long corridors covered with complex geometric patterns in black and red and yellow. Matching doors to her right still stood open, spilling in long shafts of orange sunset light. More trickled down from small high windows above, reflecting off the white walls to illuminate the room below.

Before the farthest wall, beyond the posts, stood an enormous statue, a winged woman standing naked atop a lion, with round breasts and broad thighs. She held a bundle of reeds in one hand and a spear in the other. A horned crown sat upon her head, and behind her the eight-pointed evening star, framing her head like a halo. The goddess Ishtar.

Two other statues stood on either side of her, smaller, lesser beings. A bearded man dressed as a shepherd bearing a sheaf of barley, a plump woman with a grape vine twined about her like a snake.

Something was wrong with the statues, but Crawley didn’t have time to work out what. The priests were bringing her to the first pair of posts, and she could see now leather straps hanging from them. And that Mattaki stood beside them, grinning. Holding a whip.

“No,” Crawley snapped, her mind suddenly acutely focused. She dug her heels into the floor, falling back, wriggling to pull free of the priests who held her. “No, let go of me! I’m not taking part in your barbaric—unhand me!”

The two priests were small, much smaller than her, and she managed to get free of their grip, turning to run—

Mattaki seized her hair, dragging her back.

“I said let go! You shit-eating—” He slammed her against a post and she screamed in frustration. It was pathetic. Humiliating.

He slapped her wrist against one post while the other two priests hurried to secure it. One was shaved bald, like Mattaki, but nowhere near as muscular. The other had elaborate waist-length braids, and easily fell over as Crawley frantically pushed and struggled with her free arm.

“Hey,” Mattaki stepped in front of her, grabbing her chin as the other two priests tied her left hand in place. “You need to calm yourself, girl. We’ve still got a long night ahead.” She glared up at him, straining against the leather bonds even as the priests tied the final knots. Every tug sent a pulse through the brand on her arm. More holy seals. Smiling, Mattaki leaned close, whispering so only she could hear. “Don’t forget,” he purred. “I gave you a chance to bargain. This is your choice. Though perhaps, if you were properly contrite…”

The moment her wrist was released, Crawley braced herself and kicked with all her strength, ramming her foot into Mattaki’s knee. “Sorry,” she said contritely. “I was aiming for your—”

The whip cracked. She hardly saw it move. Just a blur, an ear-shattering snap, and a bright red line of blood burning across the tear in her sheepskin.

“You,” he growled, grabbing Crawley’s braids and twisting, “obstinate, unmannered wretch. I’m going to enjoy tearing you to pieces.”

“Good,” she snapped back, freezing her face in her most arrogant smirk. “After that is it my turn?”

He shoved her back with a laugh. “You lot. Follow me.”

She watched the priests circle back around the fire, dragging an enormous stone altar back over the hatch to Crawley’s cell. At least that explained why she hadn’t been able to budge it.

No. Wait. Something was wrong again.

There were the two main priests, Sabium and Mattaki. Six guards, one standing before each corridor from the main room. Thirty more priests all gathered about the altar, most of them fairly young.

Very young. The two who had tied her were barely older than the village kids who’d chased her a few hours before, the one who’d gone down to fetch her seemed younger still. No more than ten appeared to be fully grown…

Where were the priestesses?

Every temple of Ishtar—or Inana, as she was called in the south—had at least as many priestesses as priests, and often half as many gala-priests, and enough female holy guards to form their own unit if they wished.

But here… only four or five priestesses, half of them children, none of them armed.

There was no high priestess. Sabium appeared to be in charge, and a high priest of Ishtar wasn’t unheard of, but all of the women kept back from him heads bowed. None even close to his equal.

Something else. The altar was on the wrong side of the room. It should be where Crawley stood now, laid out before the cult statues. Crawley twisted, glancing over her shoulder at them, and felt a chill.

All three statues were bare. No brilliant paint bringing their flesh to life. No wigs woven from the hair of the faithful. No garlands of flowers or offerings of fennel for the god and goddess of the fields. No garment of hammered gold or freshly slaughtered lion skin for Ishtar.

They were chipped, cracked, in disrepair. When the firelight hit them just right, Crawley could see the cobwebs stretching across them.

But behind the altar, at least as large as the statues, a limestone relief ornamented in black and red and gold. Ishtar stood at the top in her aspect of the goddess of war, fully armored, weapons in hand. And when the humans stepped aside, Crawley could see below her…

The bearded god of the harvest trapped in the underworld, chained between two pillars and surrounded by demons bearing all manner of weapons.

“Oh, no,” Crawley groaned, looking at the somber faces all around. “What have you stupid bastards come up with this time?”

The sun sank in a brilliant blaze of orange-red light, setting the river afire with its glow, broken by deep purple shadows.

It might have been glorious. Aziraphale hardly noticed.

He lay slumped on the bank, breathing heavily, the stolen boat dragged free of the river beside him. He couldn’t remember his arms ever aching this much, not once in all eternity.

The approach of the summer flood meant the river current was stronger than he’d ever imagined it could be, constantly pushing back against him. If he rested for even a moment, it would sweep the boat up like an errant twig, spinning it away down one of the countless branches of the marsh.

Half a day of rowing hadn’t even brought him to the end of the marsh. He’d passed through two more villages, asking directions in both, desperately hoping to discover Uruk wasn’t nearly as far as he’d thought.

Instead, from what he could understand, he’d barely covered a quarter of the distance. He’d hoped to continue through the night, but now he couldn’t even lift his arms, never mind try to paddle again.

The beer jar sat beside him, and his scrying had confirmed that Crawley was upstream and slightly north. The sunset reflecting off the water within had made it seem to be full of blood.

For once in his existence, Aziraphale hoped that was no kind of omen.

There’d been talk in the last village of strange happenings in Uruk. Advising him to stay away until after the solstice.

From what he could gather, the high priestess of Inana had been carried off in the summer flood some years before, and her replacement had arrived during the worst famine in living memory. And he brought with him… strange ideas.

No one had been able to tell him more than that, but he’d paddled harder than ever.

Now he lay on the bank, listening to the wind through the reeds, watching the bright glow of the evening star sink towards the horizon. Trying not to think about the argument.

He hadn’t meant to upset Crawley. He never did, though at the time it always seemed inevitable. They were opposites, utterly incompatible. Any moment of harmony between them could only be transitory, brief, an anomaly in the larger pattern. Their natures would always drive them apart. Always.

He rolled onto his side, clutching the hide bag of Crawley’s things. It was lumpy and hard. She was, too, a jumbled bag of too-sharp bones that sometimes kicked in her sleep. But then her fingers would tighten around his arm, or she’d nuzzle his neck, burrowing closer, and he’d need to remind himself that her actions in her sleep had nothing to do with him, just a response to whatever she dreamt about.

That thought always made him unaccountably sad, made him want to clutch her more tightly, though he never did. She had to be free to pull away when she no longer needed him. He would never try to contain a being so wild and beautiful as his demon.

Still. He hoped she knew he would always come when she needed him. Always.

“Enki, the king of the gods,”¹ the high priest began, voice echoing through the temple, “lord of prosperity, lord of wisdom, the beloved of An, the ornament of Eridu, he who understands the decreeing of fates, was commissioned by Enlil to bless the lands and the people, the cities and the fields, the rivers and the marshes, to assign the roles of the Anunaki and bestow upon them the symbols of their duties—

“For Satan’s sake,” Crawley shouted, straining against her bonds. “After all that, you brought me up here for story time?”

A few heads turned her way—younger priests, though a few wore the garments of off-duty guards—but Sabium didn’t even pause in his rambling. At a nod from him, Mattaki struck Crawley in the stomach with a wooden rod, knocking all the wind out of her. As she coughed and whimpered, trying to take a breath around the pain, he struck her again on the spine, a sharp pain rushing all up and down her body.

“Are you going to listen quietly?” he asked, clearly hoping she’d say no, that she’d give him an excuse to keep going.

She probably would. Crawley had never learned when to stop.

“‘…Enlil left in your hands to assign the roles of the Anunaki. Why was I the exception? I am holy Inana, the great woman of heaven—where is my domain?’ Enki answered holy Inana: ‘How have I insulted you? Goddess, how have I wronged you? I have clothed you in a warrior’s garment and placed shield and spear in your hand. I have put clever plans in your mind and clever words upon your tongue. I have given you the means to claim all you desire. Go, pile up human heads like heaps of dust. Go, remove the cover from the jar of lamentations—’”

Crawley’s head snapped up. “That isn’t right!” This time, all the priests turned towards her, a few shaking their heads. “That’s wrong! You bloody hack, no one ever told her to—”

The rod cracked into her jaw, snapping her mouth shut with a searing pain. Blood flooded across her tongue and Crawley choked on it, trying to spit it out as Mattaki struck her again and again—

“Enough.”

The pain stopped. For a moment, that was all she was sure of. There had been pain and there would be more pain soon, but for now there was only darkness and the soft laughter of demons running claws across her skin…

When her vision cleared, she was surrounded. More than thirty of them, priests and priestesses and kids, a circle all around, watching her with hollow eyes.

Each held two stones in their hands.

“No,” she managed, lifting her eyes to find the man in charge. “Don’t do this… not the kids…”

“We all take part in the ritual,” Sabium said. “So that all will share in the reward when Inana conquers the underworld and breaks the power of the demons.”

“What are you talking about? That’s not—”

“On my signal,” Sabium said, pulling his arm back. The others complied.

“Stop! Just stop—”

The stones flew.

¹ From ”Enki and the World Order”

Chapter 4: The Demon and the Priest

“Well done, Enmerkar.” The acolyte stepped away from the demon, dropping the bloody knife with a clatter in their haste to get away. “You have all performed your initiation admirably.” Sabium gave the four newly-initiated members of the priesthood one of his rare smiles.

Iltani did their best to smile back, taking a piece of the sacred bread. Fortunately, the initiates only needed to take a small bite before throwing the rest in the fire as an offering to the goddess. They didn’t think they could handle much more.

It was the screaming, really. Iltani had been prepared for the threats, the blasphemies, the violent way the creature tried to break free. They’d been surprised, but not unprepared, when its form began to shift like a desert mirage.

But the screaming… that had been too human.

The ritual now complete, the full priests and guards all stepped forward to welcome the newcomers to their ranks. None of them seemed terribly upset by the night’s work, though Iltani couldn’t help noticing that a few of them were paler than usual, and that both Jushur and Etena were missing.

Or… when had they last seen either of the two senior priests? Things shifted so quickly, it was difficult to keep track. Perhaps they’d both been reassigned weeks ago.

“Dawn approaches,” Sabium said, and all conversation immediately died. “Elutil, Tizgan,” he nodded to the new priestess and priest, “fetch what we need for the procession. You will accompany us to the fields. Dadasig,” to the tallest initiate, as large as a grown man though he was only a little older than the rest, “make sure everything is ready for tonight. After that, report to the guard captain for your first official assignment. And Enmerkar—no, apologies. Iltani.” Another rare smile. “You can tend to the demon.”

The elation at finally being addressed by their chosen name collided hard with the feeling of dread. “The demon?” They glanced back at where it slumped, hanging by its wrists from the posts. Blood pooled on the floor below, bright red cut through with black.

“Yes. We’ll need her cleaned up for the sunset procession. The guards can assist if she gives you trouble, but I doubt that will be necessary.”

“Um. Yes. Of course. Thank you, sir.”

They stood by the fire, staring into the heart of the flames until the eastern doors had been thrown open and the sunrise procession had stepped forth into the courtyard, solemn drums mixed with hopeful flutes, and the crowd continued into the city to bless the farmers on the first day of the harvest.

And then they were alone, Iltani and… the demon.

Stop that, they told themself firmly. It’s just like any other sacrificial animal. Clean it up, secure the bonds, maybe bring some food or—

“Really went for the gut wound, huh, kid?”

Yelping, Iltani spun to find the demon’s golden eyes open and alert, watching them with those odd narrow pupils. Blood ran down its scalp and chin, and raw shining patches shone through the battered sheepskin wrap.

“I mean,” the demon continued, shifting thin legs but not making much effort to stand. “F’you really wanted t’fuck me up, shoulda gone deeper. N’twisted it, too.” Another shift, this time getting the demon’s torso almost vertical, though it brought another swell of blood from… everywhere. “Mean. You prob’ly tried but. Th’leather. Took th’worst’f it.”

“Hhhhhh…” Iltani managed. “How… how are you not…”

“Knocked out?” A laugh rattled through the narrow rib cage, which turned into a cough, then a full-body convulsion. Iltani thought the demon would vomit—or shake to pieces—but the fit passed with nothing more than a sheen of sweat across its brow and a little more blood dripping down the pointed chin. “M’a demon, kid. Had worse’n this…” One last shudder and the demon’s chin dropped to its chest, eyes shut, breathing reedily.

Carefully, Iltani crept closer, reaching out with their foot for the knife, dragging it back towards them. Just as they bent to pick it up, the demon muttered, eyes still closed, “Wha w’szat… even… s’p’osed to… why?”

They clutched the bronze blade, backing away. “Those secrets aren’t for the uninitiated.”

“I jus…wen through…yer whole…wossname… Y’c’n consid… consi… c’n say I wzz…” A gleam of gold as a single eye cracked open. “Oh. You don’ know.”

“I will learn the holy truths when I am prepared.”

“Nh.” The eye shut. “Sure, kid.”

“Stop calling me that!” Anger briefly overcame Iltani’s fear. “I’m not a-a goat! I’m Iltani, gala-priest of the goddess Inana, initiate of the sacred mysteries!”

“All that?” Another gleam of gold, even smaller this time. “How old’r you?”

“This will be my thirteenth summer,” they said proudly. Practically an adult.

“Shit.” The demon began to convulse again, hollow coughs that echoed off the temple walls, growing louder, mixed with inhuman grunts and groans.

Iltani was just wondering if they should call for help, intervene before the demon had some sort of fatal fit and the ritual had to begin all over again, when the head snapped back.

The demon’s eyes were enormous, yellow as lamplight, the face black with scales twisting into some inhuman shape. Its whole body bent back nearly double and a too-wide mouth full of fangs fell open in the most horrid howl to ever grace the goddess’s temple.

Iltani, gala-priest of Inana, dropped their knife and fled.

Crawley hid in the darkest part of Hell.

They’d torn her apart again, but she’d found most of the pieces and slipped away while they were laughing. They’d noticed she was gone by now, so she had to hide, curled in on herself, coiled in the shadows, trying to stop her heart from beating before they heard it.

She didn’t know who they were, but it was important they didn’t find her.

She’d tried to go to the place she was safe, the only place, but they’d taken it from her, and now she couldn’t say the name, couldn’t even think it or they’d take the memory, too. Or had they already done so? If forgetting was the only way to protect it, how was she supposed to know if it was safe?

Something was coming. Shuffling, dragging steps. Scrabbling paws. A hand running across her hair as Lucifer whispered, “Come on, Crawley, the others want to play…”

With a strangled cry, her eyes snapped open to find someone far too close. Someone who wasn’t Aziraphale.

She hissed, snapping away from them, trying to pull back, but her arms were trapped in sheathes of pain—

With an effort, she brought her mind back to reality. Her arms were bound to posts, her body still worn out from last night’s torture, and the frightened-pale child scrambling away was the young priest who’d tried to gut her.

Not the only one. All the priests had gotten a couple hits in at least, after the initial stoning… more whipping… a flaming brand pressed against her… but the youngest—two boys, a girl, and Iltani—they’d been as much the focus of the evening’s activities as Crawley had been. Led in and out of the room, prayed over, finally handed the knives, egged on by their high priest…

Crawley took a deep breath, pleased to find her lungs were working now, even if her throat was still raw and dry. “S’alright, kid. M’not gonna eat you. Promise.”

“I know,” they snapped with attempted arrogance, but didn’t move any closer. “You bear the holy seal of Inana. You couldn’t hurt me if you wanted to.”

“Couldn’t, huh?” She rolled her head, trying to look at the burn on her shoulder, but that just sent a cascade of pain through her body. Still, she’d managed to get a few good kicks in at Mattaki during the night. Maybe the seal wasn’t as strong as they thought. “So? You gon’torture me again’r what?”

“It’s no worse than what you do to your victims in the underworld.”

“Yes. It is.” Demons were fantastically unoriginal when it came to torture. Had to get ideas from humans. Or from Crawley, reporting on what the humans were up to. Then they’d test it out on her. If she was a good sport about it, she’d be rewarded at the end. If she wasn’t…

“Hey!” Crawley shook her head, looking up to find the young priest had crawled a little closer. A bowl of water lay between them, as well as quite a bit of wool, some of it stained red. Also the knife, but it was no longer in the kid’s hand. By the fire was a tray with some bread and cheese on it and a jar of beer.

Shit. Beer sounded really good. Anything sounded really good right now.

The clicking of the young priest’s fingers drew her eyes back. “I asked you a question,” they said with an attempt at command in their voice. “Are you not a gallu-demon, here to abduct Lord Dumuzid and plunge the world into death and decay?”

Her eyes wandered up to the elaborate relief behind the altar, the shepherd being tortured by demons. Tried to recall the story that went with it. “Kid. I never met yer god. Summers’re hot. S’nothing t’do with me.”

“But…” They looked confused, as if Crawley had just explained the temple was actually a star in another galaxy. It was hot enough. Fuck it was hard to breathe. “You are a gallu-demon?”

“Dunno what that is.” Talking was too hard. All Crawley wanted was to slide back into unconsciousness, hide from the pain in the darkness. Wake up with her head in Aziraphale’s lap, her angel cheerfully chatting away, telling stories of his time on earth as if he hadn’t noticed her falling asleep, fingers gently tracing through her hair…

“Gallu-demons kidnap unwary humans.” The kid settled down, crossing their legs. Trying to look relaxed, and not as if they might run off at any moment. “Drag them to Kur for an eternity of torment.”

“Nah. That ain’ me.” No, bad idea. If her body failed she wouldn’t be waking up beside an angel. Not after disappointing him like that. Back to Hell for her. Eternity of torment.

“Then what are you?”

“A failure,” the word was out before she could stop it. “Notta… proper demon…”

But Aziraphale would never have spent six months traveling with a proper demon. Or would he? Would he have offered his wing as shelter to Hastur, or Ligur, or Lucifer himself?

Maybe. Aziraphale was incredible like that. Thought everyone was worth saving.

“The wicked Utukku who slays a man alive on the plain.”

Crawley blinked, rudely dragged out of her spiraling thoughts. “Wha’?”

“I’m trying to teach you. Pay attention:

The wicked Utukku who slays a man on the plain.²
The wicked Alu who covers a man like a garment.
The wicked Edimmu, the wicked Gallu, who bind the body.
The Lamashtu, the Labasu, who cause disease in the body.
The Lilu who wanders in the plain at night.
They come nigh unto a suffering man on the outside.
They bring about a powerful malady in his body.

“Nice poem.” The words rolled around in her mind, for the moment keeping the pain and exhaustion at bay. “M’not any o’those. What else you got?”

“Those are the seven types of demon. There aren’t any others.”

“Yeah there are. Your lot named a… a million kinds’a demon. A billion. More’n there really are. What is this, yer firs’ week in th’temple?”

“I’ve been here more than seven years,” they said, tossing their head. “Master Sabium has overseen my education for as long as I can remember. I know all the rituals and traditions. I learned all the songs and stories and laws back to the founding of the city, and not one of them has mentioned—”

“Why’m I here? If they…” Crawley coughed, trying to clear her throat. It sounded drier than before, which hurt more, but at least there wasn’t more blood. “F’they tell you errything, y’should know that.”

The kid was silent so long, she felt herself start to drift again. Too tired to focus. Maybe if she leaned all the way to the right, that side wouldn’t hurt as much. Maybe if she went back to Hell, it wouldn’t be so bad…

“Demons besiege Uruk, send storms and disease, all manner of evils. Every harvest, Master Sabium captures one and…” A shuffling of feet. “The rest will be revealed in time. It is not my place to question the will of Inana. We know only what she chooses to reveal to us. If she chose to lead you into Sabium’s trap, she must have her reason.”

Fuck that sounded familiar. Crawley opened her eyes half expecting to see Aziraphale. But no. The kid stood with their back to her, looking nothing like the angel. Scrawny, undersized, wrapped in an undyed sheepskin. Head shaved on the sides with short black hair standing stiffly like a horse’s mane, falling into a braid down their back.

Definitely not an angel. Sure sounded like one, though.

“Big fan of questions, me,” Crawley sighed, letting her head rest against the post. “Beer, too. Y’gonna share’r what?”

“But…”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be… takin’ care o’me?” Even her tongue hurt.

“Gallu-demons don’t drink,” they said stubbornly. “Those who had come for Dumuzid know no food, know no drink, eat no flour offering, drink no libation. They never enjoy the pleasures of marital embrace, never have any sweet children to kiss.”³

“Shit. Sounds awful. Glad’m not one of those bastards.” Her eyes had shut, though she didn’t remember closing them, and her mind slid away, drifting towards a better time. A happier festival, where she’d danced with humans and walked with an angel on her arm. Listened to stories from kinder priests who called her… “Shedu,” she mumbled. “Tha’s what I am. Shedu-demon.”⁴

Something jabbed her in the mouth. The room came back into focus and the young priest knelt in front of her again, jar of beer beside them, straw held to her lips. “Come on, shedu-demon, I don’t have all day.”

Crawley wrapped her tongue around the straw and pulled it into her mouth, drinking deeply. The beer was bitter, probably left in the sun too long, but it was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted.

Iltani held another piece of bread to the shedu-demon’s mouth, watching in fascination as the long forked tongue shot out to swipe it from their fingers.

“Mmmmmh,” the golden eyes half-closed with pleasure. “S’good.”

“It’s made by the younger acolytes,” they explained, pulling off part of the crust for themself. It tasted gritty, rough, a little dry. “They didn’t grind the barley fine enough. And left it in the fire too long.” The next piece went to the demon, then another for Iltani.

“Good enough. M’not picky.”

The beer, it seemed, had revived the demon—the golden eyes shone more clearly, and the rough voice hardly tripped over words anymore. The posts still held the demon’s hands awkwardly over its head, but it sat between them looking almost comfortable.

“I expect I’ll be back with them in a few days,” Iltani said, rolling a bit of bread between their fingers. “Maybe I can find out who’s responsible for this mess.”

“Back in the kitchens? Even though you’re a full priest now?”

“Full junior gala-priest,” they corrected. “A junior priest can never be so proud they refuse to do a job asked of them by their goddess. I’m fairly good with bread, anyway, so I can serve her well there.”

“Gala-priests are… singers right?”

“Oh, yes. I sing the lamentations during ceremonies.” They perked up a bit, thinking of that. Missing the sunrise procession had been a little disappointing, but there was still tonight to look forward to. “I mourn, so no one else has to. But Master Sabium says laments are an…” they furrowed their brow, trying to remember. “‘An ostentatious display best reserved for the privacy of the temple, lest they do the public more harm than good.’” Aruru, the head gala-priest when Iltani had first arrived, had disagreed, but it had been many years since Aruru was sent to preach beyond the city wall.

“So the rest of the time you… study stories and law?”

“Bit of everything. I study, I cook, run errands for the administrators, sweep the steps, prune the trees in the sacred grove, muck out the stables. Whatever needs doing.” They shrugged. “All the jobs that the others find distasteful, but it’s not actually that bad.”

“I see.” They held out the bread for the shedu-demon again, watching as the long tongue again pulled it in. “So… where’s everyone else?”

“Sunrise procession, mostly. Blessing the fields. And the rest of the guards are training, of course, and the acolytes will start their lessons once their morning tasks are done.” It felt good to not be part of that group, even if things hadn’t changed much.

“No, I mean… I didn’t see that many in here last night.”

Iltani’s hand twitched, their thumb burrowing deep into the bread. Last night. They really didn’t want to think about the initiation. “Dunno what you mean. Everyone came.”

“Everyone?”

“Mmmh.” The bread shredded in their hand, and they started pulling at the next piece. “Not… not everyone everyone. All the—the priests and priestesses and ordained guards. Um. The acolytes aren’t initiated, obviously. They can’t come. And most’f the guards are just guards. And. And, yeah, a lot of the senior priests are ministering beyond the city walls, so we don’t see them… um. Oh! And Master Sabium has the schoolmasters be very strict, so only the best acolytes make it to priesthood. Otherwise he sends them to—to serve the goddess in other ways. So there’s that. And. Yeah, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” The demon’s head tilted. “Who’d the temple steward, then? Mattaki?”

That made Iltani giggle a little. “Oh, no, he’s Guard Commander. Temple steward isn’t a priest. Or he was, and gave it up. Can’t be an administrator and a priest.”

“Uh-huh. But you can be Guard Commander and a priest?”

“Mmmh.” Now they were starting to feel uncomfortable. Iltani started arranging the bread and cheese on the plate to make it seem less empty. They were supposed to be saving it to share with their friends.

But the shedu-demon hadn’t finished yet. “So these ones who go beyond the city—when do they come back? End of harvest? Solstice?”

“They come back when they come back.” They shrugged awkwardly. “Some are gone for over a year. The ones who aren’t suited to temple life, they never come back.”

“You don’t find that odd?”

“What’s odd?” Iltani slid the plate further away, shuffling back. “Everyone’s just… just serving as best they can. Nothing odd about that.”

“Kid.” Now those strange inhuman eyes were too sharp, piercing too deeply into Iltani’s mind. “This is the temple of a powerful and beloved goddess, during her most important season, in the middle of the largest city in the world, and she has… three priestesses? And one gala-priest?”

“Be quiet!” Iltani snatched the bowl of water and the wool, scrubbing hard at the blood and sweat on the demon’s brow. “Besides, you’re wrong. There are… plenty of others. When they get back to the city, the temple will be crowded with them, just like…”

They hesitated.

“Just like it used to be?” the demon suggested. “Do you remember when it changed?”

It hadn’t, not all at once. Iltani remembered… Being hungry. Everyone was sad. Some of the other acolytes wanting to go home, but of course this was home for Iltani. Only things had stopped making sense and then… then Master Sabium was there, telling everyone Inana had shown him the way to make things right. That if everyone obeyed, everyone followed their appointed task, the temple would thrive again.

And it did thrive. Offerings came in by the cart load. Of course, there weren’t as many people around and it was a great deal quieter, but everyone loved the goddess, was devoted to her service. And the city thrived, too, at least, that’s what Master Sabium told them. It was prosperous and strong and safe from the demons.

And all it took was…

They felt again the knife in their hand, sinking into the demon’s flesh. Heard the sound of rocks cracking bone, and the screaming, so real, so human.

“Kid? You alright?”

“I’m not a kid, I told you, stop calling me that.” They scrubbed harder, hard enough to push the demon’s head back a little. “Stop asking questions, stop pretending you understand anything, just—”

The blood came away, revealing small cuts along the demon’s scalp. A few bruises. Nothing worse, not even above the ear where Dadasig’s stone had struck hard enough to knock a human out cold. “Just…”

They crouched lower, scrubbing at the demon’s neck, pushing aside the ragged strands of the sheepskin wrap. Elutil had tried to slit the demon’s throat, but her shaking hand had missed and deeply cut the collarbone instead. Now there was just a scratch, nothing more.

Dropping the wool, Iltani searched down the black dress, finding the tear where they’d thrust the dagger. The blood soaked into the wool hadn’t even dried fully, but underneath was nothing more than a particularly large scab.

“How did you…?”

“M’a demon. What did you expect?”

A strange relief rushed through Iltani, like floodwaters through a canal. Of course, a demon was far stronger and tougher than any mortal creature, far beyond their ability to hurt.

It had all been an act, the screaming, the struggling, the quiet broken voice. An attempt to earn their pity, a trick from this clever creature, nothing more.

And if the demon hadn’t truly been hurt, then Iltani hadn’t done anything truly cruel.

No, nothing Sabium had asked of them could be cruel. This was Inana’s will to see this being rightfully punished. Or defeated. Or its plans interrupted. It didn’t matter, Iltani didn’t need to know the goal, just that they needed to obey.

Then they met the shedu-demon’s eyes—wide, exhausted, fearful—and their heart sank again.

With a heavy sigh, the demon pushed to its feet, standing shakily between the posts. “Even without my powers, I could be healed in about… two days. With a bit more bread and a comfortable place to rest, maybe less. Not going to get that, though, am I?”

The air was shattered by the sound of a horn. Iltani’s head jerked around to the eastern doors. The procession was returning, was nearly here, drums and marching feet and pipes and singing, and they hadn’t heard it at all.

Quickly, Iltani snatched up the wool and bowl again, slathering water all over the creature’s arms, leaving behind pink, diluted streaks of blood. It was fine; for the ceremony, the demon merely needed to look presentable.

“Hey, kid, are you—” Iltani scooped up the remaining water and flung it towards the demon’s head, two splashes at the face and the rest onto the impossibly red braids.

Good enough. They tucked the washing wool under one arm and grabbed the board of bread and cheese, but hesitated, feeling vaguely guilty in a way they never had before. Guilty, and a little afraid. “You, um… Are you gonna…” They looked down at the food. “I shouldn’t have…”

The demon grunted something that might have been a laugh. “Dunno what you’re mumbling about. Demons don’t eat, right?”

Iltani looked up and the demon winked. That should have made them feel worse, but instead they found themself smiling. “Yes. Yes! Of course.” Glancing over their shoulder—there was still time—they pinched off a little soft cheese and offered it up.

The demon leaned forward as far as it could, tongue flicking out to snatch it from their fingers. “Get lost kid. Go greet the sun or whatever.”

Nodding, they dashed off towards the eastern doors to welcome the procession back.

Swallowing the last piece of cheese, Crawley gazed across the temple towards the carving of the imprisoned god.

Had she learned anything useful from all that? Nothing she couldn’t have guessed, probably, and nothing she could use to escape.

The food and drink had helped, at least. She still felt like she’d been thrown off a mountain and hit every thorn bush on the way down, but not in a near-fatal sort of way. But that was all she was likely to get. The young priest was nearly as deep in denial as Aziraphale could be, and about as likely to stick their neck out for a demon. Besides, they were a kid. She couldn’t ask that of them.

On her own, then.

Crawley leaned back, testing her weight against the straps that held her. The pulse went through the seal on her arm again, hot pressure like a fiery finger jabbed into her soul. She could see something scratched into the leather by her wrists, almost certainly more seals, but no way to get at them.

Footsteps approaching. She stood back up, arrogant smirk back on her face. Trying to look as if she was having a great time.

“So, was that it?” she called out, not even turning to look. “Because I was expecting—”

A hand grabbed her throat, shoving her back as far as she could go, so that the straps nearly pulled her arms from her shoulder and hot fire raced up her arm. Mattaki leered at her. Asshole hadn’t hit her or called her a bitch in almost three hours, probably looking to make up lost time.

“Try not to injure her too badly,” the high priest said, sounding almost bored. “We need her active for…”

He stopped, looking at her—really looking at Crawley, possibly for the first time. His dark eyes narrowed.

There wasn’t much to distinguish one priest from the other. Same bald head, same wrap that hung from the bottom of the ribs to the knees, same look of someone who’d never done a real day’s work in his life. Mattaki was a little taller, more muscular, more openly hostile. Sabium was older, smaller, and, she’d assumed, less hot-tempered.

But when he moved next, it was almost too fast for her to follow, pushing aside the younger priest, twisting his hand in Crawley’s braids, pulling her head back until she could feel every muscle straining in her neck, until she couldn’t breathe. A flick of his free hand and suddenly the bone pin that held her dress in place hovered before her eye, so close her eyelashes would brush it if she dared to blink.

Then, in a low, growling voice: “Who fed you?”

“Wh—no one!” She barely managed to squeeze the words out. “What are you—Demons don’t eat!”

Without letting go of her or moving the point of the pin at all, Sabium’s leg flashed out, kicking something on the ground beside him. Crawley couldn’t see it, but she could certainly recognize the sound of shattering clay. The beer jar.

“S’not food,” she pointed out weakly.

“I see. You are very humorous.” The priest’s fist twisted until she could feel the braids starting to tear from her scalp. “Do not make me ask again.”

² Stephen Herbert Langdon Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia, Volume 4 (Semitic)
³ From “Inana’s Descent to the Underworld”
⁴ Shedu–Akkadian term for a spirit that could be protective or malevolent. Possibly from the same root as shedim, the Hebrew word generally translated as “demons”

Chapter 5: The Initiates

The temple looked different today.

Not the building itself, decorated with the same woven diamond pattern that had covered the sides for as long as Iltani could remember. It rose above the courtyard, nearly to the sky, somehow more real, more solid than anything else in Uruk.

Not the yard, either. It looked very much as it had yesterday. Smoke rose from the bakehouse in the far corner, a thin smudge visible above the temple, a secondary offering to the gods. Animals called out in the stables, a few chickens getting loose to scratch at the bare ground. Guards trained, spears moving in perfect harmony, Dadasig smiling with every successfully completed maneuver. Priests walked to and fro, attending to their duties with silent reverence and contemplation, as befitted men of their rank.

From the roof of the acolyte’s building, young voices imperfectly repeated their lessons, never quite managing to recite in unison no matter how the day’s schoolmaster tried. Iltani sat on the ground outside along with Elutil and Tigzar, playing with the remnants of the bread and cheese.

“I feel guilty,” Elutil suddenly confessed. “Like I’m supposed to be up there, too. Is that weird?” She glanced at the two sitting on either side of her.

“We’re not acolytes anymore,” Tigzar pointed out. “But… yeah, I keep waiting for someone to drag me up by my ear.”

It was something about the way people walked. The older priests, heads bowed, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the path ahead of them. The younger ones excited, energized, some breaking discipline to laugh and talk as they dashed about. Still the same as before but… more so.

There aren’t many in the middle, Iltani reflected. Old men with grandfather beards, boys too young to shave. Hardly anyone in between. When had that happened?

“They ought to have something for us to do,” Elutil declared, running a hand across her veil. She was a priestess now, and could no longer walk around with her head uncovered like a little girl. “Initiates should always be kept busyon their first day.”

“And how many times have you been an initiate?” Tigzar asked, tugging playfully at her veil. She swatted his hands away, so he folded them behind his head. “And don’t just say you’ve been here the longest, that’s not going to work on us anymore.”

She had been here the longest, since the day she was born. Daughter of one of the goddess’s courtesans, conceived during one of Inana’s sacred rituals. She liked to pretend that gave her authority over the other acolytes.

There’d been a time when nearly all the temple children had been born to it, like her. Raised as siblings, children of the gods, none knowing their true parents. Now Iltani couldn’t remember the last time one had been sent from Inana’s smaller temple on the other side of the sacred district, though the courtesans were as numerous as ever.

Most of the ones at their lessons had been dedicated during the famine, given up by poor families with too many mouths to feed. Tigzar had been one of the first. Now when children arrived, they were always older, orphans found wandering the streets.

It didn’t mean anything, did it? Inana welcomed all.

“I’m just saying,” Elutil went on coldly, “that I didn’t prepare my whole life just to… to sit in the dirt like aflower. I’m meant to be doing something.”

“So go join the other priestesses.”

Three of them walked by now. The only three, two older women and a girl of about seventeen summers. The guards watched them as they passed, but none of the women looked up. Why were there so few? Iltani knew there had been many more girls among the acolytes, that plenty had graduated to full priestess-hood. Had they all been sent to more suitable duties in the city? How had Iltani never noticed?

“Oh, any time I tell them I’m bored Siduri sends me to fetch water. Whether we need it or not. I hate busy work.”

“You should have asked to be a guard, like Dadasig,” Tigzar said. “They’ve always got things to do.”

How many of the guard unit were full priests? Lately, Mattaki had begun accepting any young men who showed an interest. Iltani couldn’t think of any apart from Dadasig who had spent more than a few weeks among the acolytes. And yet they were allowed to live in the temple grounds, when even the sacred courtesans were not.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Elutil sighed, rapping her head against the wall behind her, though it caused a braid to slip free of her veil. “I swear, Master Sabium just… forgot we exist.”

“Elutil, no one who can hear your voice could forget you exist.”

“Then why are we waiting here?”

“The will of Inana will be revealed in time,” Iltani said, mostly to themself.

Elutil threw an arm around the young gala-priest’s shoulders. “We can’t all be as patient as you, Enme… what’s the new name again?”

“Iltani.”

“Right. Iltani. Some of us just want to know everything now.”

“And some of us,” Tigzar pushed himself up and came to sit on Iltani’s other side, “just want to relax. How did I wind up with two sisters who think too much?”

Iltani tried to smile, knowing it was meant to cheer them up. “Not a sister,” they said.

“But Iltani is a girl’s name,” he said. “And you’re not a boy anymore, right?”

“They were never a boy,” Elutil corrected. “That’s why you asked to be a gala-priest, right?”

“Yeah,” Iltani said, not in the mood to correct her. Elutil, Tigzar and Dadasig tried, but none of them really understood.

You didn’t ask to be a gala-priest, you didn’t even really become one at your initiation. It was something you were born as, something you grew up knowing about yourself. A sense that you weren’t quite the same as your brothers, or even your sisters, a sense that grew stronger the more you were expected to act as a man should.

The young gala-priest still remembered stepping onto the temple grounds for the first time, being greeted by the old high priestess. There had been so many people, such activity, such life. And she’d led the child over to a group of women and… not men. It was the first time they’d ever felt like they belonged.

There were no other gala-priests left now. They’d been sent to serve Inana elsewhere, to minister outside the city walls. They would come back, of course, when their duties were finished. They would return.

The last had left a year and a half ago. Why had they still not returned?

“Are you alright?” Iltani looked up into the concerned faces of the other two initiates. Tigzar gently tugged their braid. “That demon didn’t do anything weird while we were on procession, right? Didn’t attack you or anything?”

Another uncomfortable surge of guilt, their palms beginning to sweat. “Nah. Mostly it just slept. But, um…” Their feet wriggled uncomfortably in the dust as Iltani glanced about, making sure none of the priests were too close. “It said it was a shedu-demon. You ever heard of it?”

“Sounds made up,” Tigzar said. “Shouldn’t believe what a demon tells you.”

“No…” Elutil furrowed her brow. “Shedu…? Might be something from the northern cities. You should ask Jushur, he’ll probably know.”

“Where is he?” Three pairs of eyes scanned the temple grounds. “He wasn’t there last night, either,” Iltani said. “I thought that was strange but…”

“Maybe he left,” Tigzar suggested. “I mean, went to the villages or something? He always argues with Sabium around the harvest. Mattaki says he’s stuck in the ‘old ways,’ whatever that means.”

“And Siduri says Mattaki doesn’t have the brains of a donkey,” Elutil pointed out primly. “And she’s been here longer than anyone except Jushur, so she would know.” She frowned, looking uncomfortable. “But… I saw her talking to him yesterday. Jushur wouldn’t just walk away the day before the harvest.”

“Yeah.” Tigzar dug at the ground, searching for a loose stone to throw. “Specially not when we were about to be initiated.” He shivered, though the day was blisteringly hot. “The, uh. The ritual wasn’t… what I expected.”

Iltani didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to think about how the dagger had felt, sinking into the demon’s stomach. Didn’t want to remember how it just kept going deeper and deeper, as if searching for something inside. A day ago, they wouldn’t have believed themself capable of such a thing. Now…

Beside them, Elutil seemed to be having trouble breathing, bracing her hands on her knees. “Really not what I… no,” she finally managed, swallowing.

“Do you think…” A horrifying thought crept into Iltani’s mind. “Do you think everyone had to… to…” They waved their hand as if holding a knife, but just the gesture made all the blood drain from their face.

“Gotta be,” Tigzar mumbled. “I mean… it’s the initiation, right?”

They sat for a moment, watching the priests walk back and forth. At least half had taken their turns whipping or beating the demon the night before. And everyone had thrown the stones.

The demon had pleaded right before. By Inana, it had sounded like real pleas. What had it said…?

“I don’t think so,” Elutil said softly. “I mean, Jushur talks about the old ways, right? Traditions going back generations. I don’t think… demons were involved in that.”

“You…” Iltani tried to suck in enough boiling air to talk. “You ever notice… everyone who talks about the old ways… goes outside the city walls?”

“Not everyone,” Tigzar pointed out. “We don’t know Jushur is gone. And there’s Unzi… Hanish… Siduri…”

“Only they don’t talk about them,” Elutil said. “Not anymore, not for at least a year, right? And today…” she leaned even closer to Iltani. “When we got to the fields, Siduri didn’t even try to sing the laments. Not once. We only did the marches Sabium likes.”

“So?” said Tigzar, but Iltani nodded, biting their lip.

The senior priestess had always been outspoken about traditions. Or she used to be, back before she started walking with hunched shoulders and her eyes stuck to the path ahead of her.

What did it all mean? And why had it taken a demon to make them realize…

Master Sabium stepped out of the temple. And he looked furious.

The three initiates leapt to their feet. “What are we supposed to be doing?” Tigzar hissed.

“I don’t know!” Elutil shoved her braids back into the veil. “Were we supposed to be in class? Did we forget to clean something? Iltani—”

The high priest was looking directly at the young gala-priest. They opened their mouth to say something, but not a word came out.

“You three,” he snapped, voice cold as a winter night. “In here.”

Their bodies seemed to move forward without their permission, drawn in instant obedience to the priest’s command. Even though they were no longer children, Iltani found themself reaching for the others’ hands, and they clasped back, equally rigid with terror as they stumbled forward.

The high priest jabbed a finger towards the training guards, and four of them stepped into place behind the initiates. Dadasig was one of them, leaning close to hiss, “Elutil, what did you do this time?” She just shook her head.

As soon as they stepped through the doorway, Sabium seized the back of Iltani’s neck and dragged them forward, through the mosaic-covered anteroom and back into the temple’s main chamber. Back to where the demon still knelt, bound to the posts, eyes closed, face once more covered in blood.

“I… Master Sabium, what—?”

The high priest shoved them so hard they lost their balance, falling to the ground before the demon.

“What did you do?” Sabium demanded coldly.

“I… I don’t understand…” They glanced at the demon, who seemed to huddle down in on itself, face turned away. “I… I swear, I just… I cleaned the wounds like you asked, I’d never—”

“Do not try my patience, Enmerkar!” The name struck them, a hollow pain right down to the center of their being. “Do not spit in the face of the hospitality I and this temple have extended to you! The goddess took you in and sheltered you when no one else would have you and this is how you repay her?”

“I don’t understand,” they said again, mind blank with fear as they scrambled away. “Wh—whatever this—this demon told you, it lied, I…” Iltani’s hand landed in something wet and sticky. They pulled back, expecting to see a pool of blood.

No. It smelled of alcohol. Beer.

Their eyes drifted across the floor to the shattered pottery, then up to the demon, cowering in its guilt.

“You liar…” they said, feeling their body begin to shake. “Master Sabium, I swear, whatever this creature told you, I didn’t—I wouldn’t—it is a… a vile, deceitful—”

“Silence.” Iltani’s mouth snapped shut. The head priest continued to stare at them as he raised his voice. “Start with the girl.”

Mattaki seized Elutil and dragged her towards the posts. For a moment, she hung numbly in his arms, then all at once she started screaming, trying to get free.

“Wait!” Tigzar raced after, grabbing Mattaki’s arm. “Don’t—”

“Wait your turn,” Mattaki said, kicking Tigzar in the stomach. The boy fell to the ground, clutching his middle. “You. Hold him,” Mattaki snapped towards the guards. Towards one of the guards.

Dadasig’s face turned pale. “But…”
“That’s an order!” he shouted, and instantly the young soldier stepped forward, kneeling beside Tigzar and pinning him to the ground. Watching as Mattaki wrestled Elutil into position, pulling the straps around her wrists.

It all happened too fast. “Stop! Please!” Iltani looked desperately from one priest to the other. “What are you doing? They—We—don’t hurt—”

“Do you know what happens when you share food or drink with a creature of the underworld?” Sabium asked, voice far too calm, as if he hadn’t noticed what was happening behind him. “The moment you do so, you are bound to it, completely.”

The demon’s head snapped up. “That’s not true! I didn’t—”

“I have heard enough from you.” Sabium’s fist struck the demon’s head, and its whole body shook from the impact. “Enmerkar, whatever this demon promised you, whatever deal you think you made, it was a trick. One you walked directly into, damning not just yourself but everyone in this temple.”

“It—I—no, it wasn’t like that, I—”

The crack of a whip, and Elutil’s piercing scream.

“Whether you know it or not, you are in this demon’s service.” The whip cracked again. “It will see this temple destroyed, this city fall to ruin, and then it will drag you back to the underworld with it. Is that what you want?”

Again the whip cracked, and now Elutil was sobbing uncontrollably. She was too small for the restraints, hanging from her own wrists, toes barely touching the ground. Dimly, they heard Tigzar shouting, swearing, but they couldn’t make out the words.

“No, it isn’t, I swear it isn’t.” They clutched desperately at the priest’s legs as the whip began moving faster. “Please, don’t hurt her, Master Sabium. Please!”

“I do not wish to hurt her, I wish to save her. Save all of us.” Another snap. “Neither you nor this demon will tell me the nature of the bond. I must find some way to break it.” Another, eliciting a ragged, hopeless scream.

“Demon!” Iltani spun, now grabbing the black sheepskin wrap. “What did you do to me? Tell me!”

The creature just shook its head, eyes still shut, unmoved by the pain of the girl behind it. “Kid, I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t lie to me!” They glanced up at Elutil’s tear-stained face. “Just—just say it!”

Sabium sighed, waving a hand. “Her clothing is providing too much protection. Take it off.”

Everything around Iltani seemed to go dark and hazy. They grabbed the demon’s hair and punched it in the face. “Tell me! Tell me! You beast! You monster! Tell me!”

Another blood-curdling scream. Iltani didn’t even look up this time. Their hand groped around the ground beside them, found one of the stones from the night before, and slammed it into the demon’s skull. “Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”

“I release you!” The demon shouted it, breaking through the mist in Iltani’s mind. “I—I couldn’t complete the… the binding without a promise, but it—it’s all gone. I release you. You’re free. Is that enough?”

“That is sufficient. Release her.”

The demon bowed its head. “M’sorry, Iltani.”

But they weren’t listening. Released from her bonds, Elutil collapsed to the ground, falling on the dress she no longer wore. Dadasig was already moving towards her, but Iltani shoved him aside. “Elutil,” they said, bundling her wrap around her, pulling her into their arms. “It’s alright, I’m here.” Oh, Inana, the whip marks were so deep. “I’m here now.”

She curled her fingers weakly around their wrist. “Tigzar?”

They glanced up to see the boy stumbling towards them, one hand still pressed to his ribs. Was he injured? How would Iltani even know?

“Guards,” Sabium called, eyes still on the demon. The remaining guards surrounded them. “Take these children to the healing waters. I will deal with them later. And Enmerkar,” he added, looking down at them with disappointment written all over his face. “We will talk about your future then.”

When the room had fallen silent again, Crawley managed to open one eye, glaring up at the priest. “What. The fuck. Was the point of that?”

“The loyalties of my priests cannot be in question.”

“They were loyal to you! Completely!”

Sabium smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps. But what I’m doing here is far too important to leave to chance.”

“What? What are you doing?”

“You don’t need to know.” He nodded to Mattaki, and the two of them walked back towards the temple yard. “I had thought those three seemed too reluctant in their initiation, but now…”

Crawley coiled as best she could and screamed, howling out every bit of pain and frustration and humiliation that had been inflicted on her. It only seemed to make things worse.

The mind-numbing howls of the demon echoed up the corridor, interrupting the guards’ comments about sending for a priestess.

Iltani ignored it all, shoving past them and into the room with the long L-shaped pool sunken into the floor. Elutil had gone very still in their arms.

“Stop!” someone called. “A priestess cannot enter the pool with a man—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a man, isn’t it?” They tugged their own clothing off and slid into the water, which was warm and clear and more than waist-deep. Iltani arranged their arms to help Elutil float, then carefully pulled away her blood-soaked wrap, tossing it back to the edge of the pool.

She whimpered a little, but her eyes didn’t open.

“It’s alright now,” they said in a shaking voice. “Just rest. I’ve got you now.”

“Well. At least we know what it takes for you to lose your shit.” They glanced up to see Tigzar sitting on the side of the pool, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other working to undo his wrap.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Neither are you. Technically.” He let the sheepskin drop behind him. “Sides. We’ve been bathing together since we were five summers old. Not gonna start being weird about it now.” Tigzar slid into the water, sighing heavily.

Iltani turned back to Elutil. “I think she’s getting worse, does she look worse to you?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who trains with priestesses.”

“For music, not medicine. Hold her.” They struggled to get the girl upright so Iltani could let water run down her back. It sluiced off, thick and red, staining the waters of the pool. “Why won’t she say anything?”

“Shock,” said another voice, and they turned back towards the entrance to find Dadasig, dressed in full armor, his arms crossed over his chest. “She’s gone into shock. And you’re both going to be in a lot of trouble for this.”

“I’m not listening to you,” Tigzar snapped, eyes locked on Elutil’s face as he lay her down to float between them again. “Go back to your friends, you bloody coward.”

Dadasig looked down at them with narrowed eyes. “I didn’t like it any more than you. What was I supposed to do? Ignore my orders?”

“Yes!” Iltani screamed, shooting one last glare before gathering the girl back into their arms. Her eyes were open. Was that good? “Can you hear me? Look at me, Elutil.”

“They lop off body parts for this, you know,” Dadasig said. “The ones you miss when they’re gone. Do either of you even like girls?”

Their head snapped back around. “Will you shut—!”

The older boy was already nearly naked, face red. “Cuz I don’t, for the record. So my punishment is going to come with many layers of irony.” He scowled at Tigzar, kicking one of the discarded sheepskins at his face. “Fuck off. And press that against her back, evenly as you can. It’ll slow the bleeding.”

Iltani struggled to hold her upright while Tigzar scrubbed off the blood with the soft leather. A moment later, Dadasig was there, looking at the wounds and shaking his head.

“Is she going to be alright?” Iltani asked.

“Yes. Just keep talking to her, that helps. And like this,” he added, pressing against her back with another wrap, which Tigzar awkwardly tried to copy.

“When did you learn so much about medicine?” he grumbled.

“Getting the shit kicked out of me living on the streets. It’s a real education. Go on.”

“Talking. Right. Um. Hey, Elutil. It’s me. I um…” Tears welled in Iltani’s eyes. “I screwed up. Real bad.”

“Don’t say that,” Tigzar said.

“But I did. They left me alone with a demon, and I…I…” They shut their eyes. “Don’t know what I did, but it’s my fault.”

A hand rested on their shoulder, and they looked up into Dadasig’s face. “Don’t dwell on it like that. You’re not the first person to get fooled by a demon, right? They’re clever bastards with no mercy.”

“I… I guess…” They couldn’t really remember anything the demon had said. Soft words. Jokes. Questions. Nothing all that evil. Yet somehow they’d still been drawn in. Iltani had never felt this confused before in their life.

They shifted Elutil, holding her against their side as the two boys worked. After a moment she shifted, drawing a deep breath.

“Hey.” Iltani stepped back, easing her down so he could see her face. “Elutil. Hey. Do you know who I am?”

“Nnnnnh.” Her eyes narrowed. “No… no, sorry. I don’t remember your new name.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “It was pretty, though.”

“It’s fine.” They took a shaking breath. “Probably gotta go back to the old one, anyway.”

“No.” Tigzar’s hand landed on their head. “You earned that name putting up with our crap for years. It’s Iltani.”

“That’s right. Iltani.” She smiled briefly, then opened her eyes again, looking worried. “We’re safe now, right?”

“Yes.” Tigzar took her hand. “Iltani is free of the demon, and it’s not going to try to hurt us again. Isn’t that right?”

Iltani bit their lip and wished they understood.

Chapter 6: The Long Day

Aziraphale held his hand over the jar, trying to keep it steady, though the bead at the end of the thread bounced and shook erratically.

“Crawley… Crawley… Crawley…” he whispered, trying to picture her clearly, to force the image to focus despite his buzzing mind.

He could see what she would look like, braids falling over her shoulders as she crouched in the middle of a summoning circle, solid gold eyes rising to glare at those who trapped her. They would need more than just the circle, she was too clever to be held like that for long. Aziraphale had heard of all manner of traps, though, particularly one which caused pain every time the captive resisted.

Oh, there was nothing Crawley liked better than to resist, the obstinate fool. In his mind the summoning circle glowed brighter than the sun as she collapsed, twisting, claws digging into the earth, back arched as she screamed his name, begging for help—

Aziraphale stood up, pacing down the bit of riverbed he’d rested on the night before. Not slept—he never slept, and in any case he was too tense to try. But he’d lay there, practicing meditation, calming himself, doing everything in his power not to wonder what was happening to her now.

It hadn’t gone very well.

As he turned to pace back, Aziraphale found his feet sinking into the marshy soil. The boat, which he’d pulled three-quarters of the way onto dry land the night before, was now less than half grounded.

The summer flood. It must have been an early spring in the mountains. It would still be weeks before it reached its highest point, but it would grow stronger every day, bringing water and fertile soil to cover the land even as the blazing summer heat killed everything. Life and death at the same time. Paradoxical miracle.

The locals, of course, had their explanation. Some complex tale of gods coming and going from the underworld, shifting motivations, layered revenges. It seemed every city they’d journeyed through had its own twist on the tale, but instead of evolving into separate stories, it just grew and grew. Prophetic dreams. Demons hunting their prey in a grove. A god and his sister forced to share damnation because of his wife’s arrogance. Somehow there was a snake involved, which he was sure was Crawley’s influence.

Aziraphale knelt beside the jar and took a deep breath, trying to calm his mind again. It would certainly work eventually.

The current would grow stronger with the flood. Already it was almost more than he could bear, and it would be worse once he was out of the marsh. It was still the fastest way to Uruk. He just had to be sure she was there.

Dangle the bead. Slow circles. “Crawley… Crawley…”

She twisted and screamed in his mind still, upright this time, being held still by the very power that poured through her, surging up from the ground, from Hell itself, ripped through her body to empower the humans who held her captive, building their strength as she burned away like a tuft of wool, reaching for him with desperate eyes—

“Stop that,” he told himself firmly. That sort of energy channeling was entirely theoretical. Granted, the theory was sound—a sort of reverse smiting—but no human was even close to figuring it out.

No, more likely, Crawley was held captive by whatever traps her captors had set. Forced to perform miracles, grant gifts, whatever the humans wanted until they chose to free her. Rumor had it some humans had held their demons for years until the creatures’ bodies gave in, destroyed by the strain. Or until the humans simply discorporated them.

Another image of Crawley, bound and panting, face covered in a sheen of sweat as someone thrust a knife into her—

“I said stop it!” Aziraphale clenched his fist, tried to focus on that. “She’s fine. She’s fine. She can talk her way out of anything. Convince them to trade her freedom for—for trinkets. It’s been… nearly a day. She could be halfway to the Fortress of Copper-Workers⁵ by now. Or—or lounging in a beer hall getting pleasantly drunk. Laughing at some… wholly inappropriate joke…”

In his mind now she wore that smile, the one she used to mask her fear and pain, the one that fooled almost everyone.

Aziraphale pictured himself sitting nearby, watching her, making sure she was in good health. Her eyes turned his way and the smile vanished. “I am sick of your sanctimonious bullshit!” she shouted at him, though the air filled with serpentine hissing. “Don’t even think of following me!”

“This…” he sniffed, trying to ignore the vision. “This isn’t helping.”

Another image, Crawley huddled in a corner. Crying. Giving up. Knowing she’d been abandoned.

How could she think otherwise, after the dreadful things he’d said?

Carefully, Aziraphale wiped away his tears before they could fall into the jar and interfere with the scry. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, far too late. “I am so terribly… dreadfully sorry…”

But being sorry wouldn’t help her either.

Aziraphale crossed his legs and took deep, calming breaths, focusing on how his body moved to the exclusion of all else. Dangled the bead over the jar. Pictured Crawley as she looked when she woke up, head in his lap, hair helplessly mussed by his attentions. The brief smile that shone out before she scowled, scolding him for talking nonsense while she was trying to sleep.

The string turned in his hand, swung in a loop, a larger loop, a twitch.

Towards Uruk.

He quickly loaded everything back into the boat, but the current began pulling it off-course before he could even get it out onto the water properly. He didn’t have time to fuss around with this, didn’t have time to waste. Crawley didn’t have time.

He’d been planning to miracle extra strength into his arms. That would allow him to paddle faster, but it would still be at least another day before he arrived. And he could hardly create a miracle powerful enough to disrupt the entire river.

Which left the boat.

All around him it began to hum, glowing slightly blue. He carefully wrapped the miracle to keep it under strict control and placed the paddle in the water. One experimental stroke...

The boat shot forward, fast as an arrow, gliding through the water as if it had been transported to a calm lake. Perfect.

He smiled grimly, preparing to row in earnest. “I’m coming,” he said softly. “Hold on, dear girl.”

Iltani sat outside the temple, back pressed into its mosaic, thousands of cones with points buried in the wall forming lines and diamonds and all sorts of patterns. They’d been fascinated when they first arrived, trying to trace a copy of the patterns into the dirt with a stick. The old high priestess had made them sweep it all clear again. She’d also shown them how to make patterns with different colored stones, and later how to weave a basket of reeds so the colors formed a star.

Later, Sabium had declared that simple hand crafts were not appropriate activities for priests of the goddess of war.

He’d been right, of course. Everything had its place in a properly working city. Farmers tended the fields, shepherds tended the sheep, weavers tended the baskets, and priests tended the goddess.

Iltani frowned. There was a contradiction somewhere, they were sure of it.

“There you are.” They glanced up to find Tigzar standing by the nearest door, leaning heavily. “How… how is everyone?”

Sighing, they looked back across the courtyard where the women’s hut stood. “Elutil is with the priestesses. Siduri looked more worried than scandalized.” The senior priestess had emerged at one point to give Iltani a very complicated lecture that seemed to include half-formed thoughts on propriety, healing, demons, discipline, general anatomy, the important duties of priesthood, and proper breath control when singing a high note. She’d glanced at the roof of the temple several times, then ended by patting Iltani’s shoulder and saying Elutil would be fine, then disappeared back into the hut to check on her charge again. “I think… only one of the cuts was really deep.”

“That’s good news.” Tigzar traced his toe in the dirt. “Sounds good. Um. Dadasig?”

“Got a really long lecture. Stood patiently through most of it, too. Until Mattaki said something about ‘defiling the priestess.’ Dadasig… didn’t like that.”

“Shit. Is he dead?”

“Not yet.” The larger boy stumbled around the corner of the temple, breathing heavily. He staggered, shaking his head and starting to lean forward, but a guard lounging at the corner swung a reed at him. In a burst of speed, Dadasig started running again, though not very fast. When he passed close, Iltani could see he was drenched in sweat. “Three more laps,” they hissed, getting a nod in response.

“Yikes,” Tigzar muttered. “And I thought mine went bad.”

“Master Sabium didn’t throw you off the roof,” Iltani pointed out. “So it couldn’t have been too bad.”

Grunting, Tigzar lowered himself to sit beside Iltani. He kept a hand pressed to his ribs, breathing carefully. “He did make a lot of comments about girls becoming women and the ways their bodies change. That it would be perfectly natural to have had ‘urges.’ You know. Seeing her like that.”

Urges had been the farthest thing from Iltani’s mind. “What did you say?”

“That I know all about urges and I’ve never felt any for Elutil. She’s my sister. Just like you are. Aren’t. Whatever. He didn’t believe me, though. Kept trying to get me to confess to something. Finally told him I’d rather touch my actual sister like that. S’when he got real mad, but I think he saw my point.” Tigzar grinned as if it were a joke.

Iltani nodded, but didn’t feel up to a smile. “So, um. He… he really thought we’d hurt her? When she was already…”

Another set of screams would be living in Iltani’s head.

“That’s… not all. He asked a lot about you. How you’ve acted since… being alone with the demon…” He held his hands up. “I didn’t say anything! Or I tried not to. Just that. Y’know. We were all upset after… after…”

After the initiation. Images flashed through their mind again, the stoning, the priests taking their turns. Themself, the knife sliding into the demon. And a new image, grasping, screaming, slamming a stone against its skull again and again until it cracked like—

“Iltani!” They shook their head, turning back. Tigzar’s hands were on their shoulders, brow wrinkled in concern. “You’re alright now. Got it? Whatever the demon did to you, it’s over. Once Sabium sees that, everything will be fine.”

“Did he say that?” Tigzar hesitated. “Did he? Tell me what he said!”

“It won’t help—”

“Tell me! Tell m—!” They clamped a hand over their mouth, but already they could hear their own shout tell me tell me tell me, feel the stone…

“I will, I will.” Tigzar’s arm across their shoulders. “Sorry, I just… I didn’t want to upset you. It’s not what he said, it’s… Master Sabium… called you he.”

“No…” Iltani shook their head, rocking in place.

It wasn’t an accident. Accidents happened. The younger acolytes sometimes forgot, or guests at the temple, unused to people who were neither boys nor girls. Even Tigzar had taken months to get used to it and still screwed up sometimes. But the priests, they never got it wrong. Which meant…

Their breath started to come short.

“I can’t…” they gasped, “can’t go… can’t leave the temple… can’t go out… there’s… there’s…”

There was no they out there in the city. Unless you were a gala-priest, you were a man or a woman. Strict roles. Restrictive. Confining. Suffocating.

“Hey, Iltani!” The voice was from too far away.

From the moment Iltani arrived at the temple, they’d understood who they were. What they were supposed to be. Yes, the temple had its own rules, but within those, so much freedom. To work any job, try any craft, hear any story. To grow their hair long and learn to braid it. To speak with the female inflection, openly, and have no one find it strange. To one day choose a new name and shed their old self entirely.

To lose that now… to go back…

“Look—look at me!” Tigzar’s face came into focus.

“Can’t go back,” Iltani managed. “Can’t!”

“It’s going to be alright,” he said slowly. “You’ll be fine. You used to live in the city. You have family that cares about you, right? Checks up on you sometimes? And I—I don’t think Sabium’s decided yet, but even if he has…”

Tears poured from Iltani’s eyes. “I don’t… don’t know how to… be a man…”

“Neither do I,” Tigzar pulled them closer, let them cry on his shoulder. “No one does, we’re all just… making it up as we go.”

“That’s not…” They felt hollow. Alone. “You don’t understand.”

“No. I don’t,” he said miserably. “I’m sorry. I wish I did, I really do. But I want to help. Alright? Tell me how I can help.”

“Can I just…” Iltani’s arms tightened, making Tigzar hiss. “Sorry,” they pulled back.

“Nah. S’alright. Just.” Pressing a hand to his ribs, Tigzar wriggled back to lean against the wall, then held out his other arm. “Right here.”

Gratefully, Iltani curled against his side, head on his shoulder. “This isn’t weird?”

“Nah. Nothing weird about a guy comforting his not-sister when they’re crying in a non-official way.” His hand awkwardly patted their hair. “Take as long as you need.”

“…sit right here and eat these.”

Elutil didn’t want to wake up. Awake was full of sharp burning pain and lurking fears she didn’t know what to do with. Awake meant that she had to think about what had happened in the temple, and she didn’t even want to put words to it yet.

But light and heat crept into her awareness, and her eyes fluttered open.

She was lying on her stomach, on the floor of the priestesses’ hut. It hadn’t always been that, when she’d been younger, when the temple had been less quiet. But Sabium had moved everything around when he arrived, and the hut had been the right size for the three women to share.

Four now. But this wasn’t how she’d wanted to arrive in her new home.

The door faced west, the sun still too high to give much light except through the roof hatch. Someone sat in the dimmest corner, being fussed over by Siduri. Someone large, covered in sweat, and trying to feed himself dates with shaking hands.

“Nnnh. Dadasig?”

He smirked tiredly at her. “Am I going to get in more trouble for this?”

Siduri tsked sharply, then settled next to Elutil, adjusting a sheepskin over her lower half and twisting her hair into a veil. “Try not to move too much. It will take time to heal.”

“How bad is it?” Elutil wriggled her shoulders and the burning pain exploded into something more. She shouted a word that Siduri tried very hard to pretend she didn’t know.

“I did tell you not to move. You’ve torn them open again. Now I need to…” She picked up a jar and stared inside it, then sighed in defeat. “I need to get more honey. I will be right outside that door.” She pointed a bent finger towards Dadasig. “Neither of you move.”

Elutil pillowed her head on her crossed arms, but that didn’t help much with the pain. “So. What happened to you?”

“Had to run around the temple as punishment.”

Her eyebrows shot up. Dadasig never got in trouble. “For what?”

“Oh. Um. Being alone with a naked priestess.”

She stared at him, feeling her ribs begin to twitch, and they both started laughing at the same time. It wasn’t really funny. The idea that she would ever find Dadasig, of all people, threatening was absurd, but not in a funny sort of way.

It just… really felt good to laugh.

At least, until she shifted enough to pull her wounds open again.

“Owwwww… Shit. Well. Hope you learned your lesson.”

“I’m a new man,” he promised. But his smile fell. “Iltani’s taking it hard. Taking everything hard.”

“They always do.” Elutil settled her head back onto her arms. “Did… did the demon hurt them?”

Dadasig slowly chewed on a date, not looking at her now. “No… no they’re fine. Well. As fine as they can be.” He shifted even further into the corner. “You were hurt,” he added, as if she might have missed it.

“I’m fine, I j—” A sound from somewhere behind her, whistling. She jerked her head, twisting, fighting back a scream, trying to find the whip, bracing herself for an impact—

Only the wind, whistling through a crack.

She relaxed, but that only brought more pain. She’d managed to roll over and wriggle off her mat and onto the floor, probably tearing all the wounds open again. She shoved her fist in her mouth, biting down on a finger to keep from screaming, keep Siduri from coming in and seeing what an idiot she’d been.

“Alright, you’re fine,” Dadasig’s voice said gently. “Let’s get you back where you belong.” He crouched beside her, making sure she saw his hands before he put them on her shoulders and rolled her back in place, adjusting the sheepskin again to cover her. “There. Feel better?”

“Ugh. No. I’m such a moron. And get back to your corner before Siduri has you skinned.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” he said, settling back. “You got scared. It’s going to happen after… after something like that.” He rolled the dates around in his bowl, not picking any up. “And. Um. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, don’t do it again.” She grinned, but this time he looked genuinely upset. “Sorry for what? I really—I’m not mad at you over—”

“I didn’t stop him. Didn’t let Tigzar stop him. Just watched while he…”

“Who?” But she didn’t want him to say the name, she could feel herself shaking before his lips even formed the word.

“Mattaki.” Her whole body tensed as if struck, and when she closed her eyes she could see him, how dead his eyes had been when he’d grabbed her. How they’d glittered when he let her go. The way his hands had moved as he took her dress off, lingering on the task. And the whip—

“Don’t…” She opened her eyes, keeping the quiver out of her voice. “Don’t be silly.”

“He ordered me to hold Tigzar.” His voice grew tight. “And I did. I just let him—”

“Shhhh,” she said, trying to smile reassuringly. “It wasn’t your fault, none of it was. It was… it was Inana’s will…”

“Why? What good possibly came from that?”

“Dadasig!” She pushed herself up as far as her straining muscles would let her, frowning at him sternly. “We do not question the will of the goddess.”

“Don’t we?” He sighed, hands folded in his lap. “Look, I get it. I’m a soldier. I follow orders. Don’t need to know the reason, just… someone says jump, I say how high, all that. Same for you and the goddess. Great. But. I… I heard Sabium order it, and I don’t… see how… it could possibly…”

“It was necessary,” Elutil said firmly. “That demon had… some sort of hold on Iltani. Yes the… the pain was bad, but if my being hurt helped them break free, I would do so a thousand times. Gladly.”

Brave words, but even as she said them, she felt the shrinking fear inside. She would have to go back in the temple again tonight. She would have to see Mattaki again, perhaps even stand near him…

“Shhhh.” She looked up to find Dadasig beside her, taking her hand. “It’s ok. He isn’t going to hurt you.”

“I’m not…” she wiped at her cheeks. “I’m not afraid of that. Don’t you understand? It was in Inana’s temple. Under her… her very eyes. If it… it wasn’t her will… she’d have stopped it.” Elutil nodded. “She… she had faith in me. So I have faith in her.”

It would all be more convincing if she could stop trembling.

“If you say so.” He squeezed her hand. “But… look, I’m not smart like the rest of you. I’m some dumbass kid who doesn’t like to see his friends hurt. So. So I’m letting you and Inana know. If… if anything like this happens again, I’m going to stop it. Alright? So if it is her will, she needs to have a plan for that. Because that’s… it’s going to happen.”

“Right.” She squeezed his hand back. “I’m sure she will. Inana is wise and just. If she can account for the torments of a thousand demons in her plans, I’m sure she can account for you as well.” But somehow his words, not her own, were what made Elutil feel better.

“Yeah. See? That’s—”

Elutil didn’t hear the footstep, but Dadasig did, leaping back to the corner as if pulled by a rope, settling down just as Siduri stepped in. “Well. I need to speak to Delondra again about storing things where…”

The old woman’s eyes darted from Elutil, lying crooked on her mattress, to the veil in the middle of the floor, to Dadasig, sitting in an entirely different corner from his bowl of dates. “Girl, there are some things in the world I cannot keep you safe from if you don’t put in a modicum of effort.”

“Sorry Siduri,” she said contritely.

“Speaking of keeping us all safe,” Dadasig said, shifting back to his original corner as casually as he could, “I’m going to kick that demon’s ass later.”

“Mmmh.” Elutil closed her eyes as Siduri began slathering honey across her wounds. “Can’t wait.”

Aziraphale’s boat hurtled up the river, the banks fading into grey haze on either side. It was getting impossible to steer, partly because the air in front of him was so blue-tinged he could barely see the approaching bends, and partly because his oar had snapped in half on a wayward stroke, torn apart by the difference in speed between the inside of his miracle and the rest of the world.

At this point, he could only change his course by carefully directed bursts of water behind him, jerking the little craft this way and that, trying to keep in the middle of—

An impact nearly upended him.

He never knew quite what it was. Perhaps a rock, lurking below the water’s surface. Perhaps one of his own jets of water missing the mark. Perhaps he’d simply hit a small twig at a speed no wooden boat should ever reach.

The impact vibrated through the craft, working its way into existing imperfections. One became a crack, a gap, right there between his feet.

And the water began to pour in.

He leaned over one side of the boat, shoving his hand into the river. The entire boat bucked and jolted at the change in pressure, back end skidding in a wide arc until the front was pointed at the shore. But though he zipped towards it, the boat was rapidly losing speed, now more than half filled with water.

So he gathered Crawley’s bag under one arm and the jar under the other, stepped onto the prow of the boat and leapt—

Landing in a heap in the mud of the shoreline. He heard a high-pitched ceramic crack, and a line of clear water began to trickle past.

For a long time, that was it.

He slumped on the bank, letting the mud soak into his clothes. Breathing heavily in the mid-day heat.

Somewhere, the summoners were hurting Crawley. Commanding Crawley. Forcing her to do their cruel work, whatever that was.

There was no cruelty in Crawley. Chaos, yes, and mischief. A clever mind that saw the world as a puzzle to be solved. How to get the biggest impact from the smallest influence. She hardly even cared if the impact was good or bad, so long as it was unexpected.

He should have realized all that long ago. That was the reason no angel had ever truly thwarted her evil. There was no evil there, not really. Just tiny imperceptible nudges.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps he’d known since Nineveh that this mission would fail. Perhaps even before that.

And yet he’d wasted his last few months on Earth following her around. Lounging in gardens cultivated in the middle of cities. Fighting their way through crowded markets to get the first fish of the day. Listening to music and sharing a drink, heads tipping close as they reached for their straws. Sitting on a rooftop trying to toss dates into each other’s mouth. Whispering stories in the firelight, bodies pressed close as if they were designed to support each other.

No. Whatever the last half-year had been, it hadn’t been a waste.

Could he ever explain that to Crawley? How wonderful their time together had felt? What a precious gift the memory would be when he was transferred back to Heaven for eternity?

He thought again of Crawley, huddled in the dark, in pain. Certain he’d abandoned her.

“Stop being sentimental and foolish,” he chided himself, pushing the thoughts away. There would be time for all that later, when Crawley was safe.

He sat up, settling the jar beside him. The neck was cracked badly, but the body still seemed intact and there should be enough water left to work.

On the third try, the bead twitched towards Uruk, no longer so distant. If he craned his neck, he thought he could see the distant shadow of walls rising above the waves of green.

Well. All things considered, he could likely travel as fast overland as in a boat against the current. Faster if he could find a relatively straight path.

Aziraphale dusted off the mud from his robes, gathered sack and jar, and began to walk towards Uruk.

Iltani climbed the wooden steps to the temple roof on shaking legs. The sun seemed brighter up here, more demanding, though perhaps that was just the way the white plaster roof reflected it back unrelentingly.

From here, they could see beyond the temple walls to the endless city stretching in every direction. Clusters of homes and shops in jumbled squares and blocks rose above the floodplain, broken here and there by a larger structure—store houses, administrative centers, temples to lesser gods. Through it all twisted the hard-packed roads and the glistening canals, wide sweeps of the mighty river carefully controlled and guided to bring water to the people, filling stone-lined reservoirs and watering groves of trees. Far in the distance stood the great city wall, and beyond it the green fields, rustling in the wind as the farmers moved through, harvesting Inana and Dumuzid’s gifts to humanity before the demons brought death to the land once more.

Inana’s temple stood at the very heart of the city, its center and highest point. Beyond its courtyard stood the larger sacred district. Master Sabium had a home there, opulent, luxurious, as befitted his station, where he could meet with city officials, priests of the lesser temples. But he preferred to meet with his own priests here, atop the temple. Iltani wasn’t sure why; to them, it felt like an intrusion into the goddess’s territory. But of course, if her high priest wasn’t allowed to stand so close to her, who would be?

Just now, Master Sabium was looking east across the sacred grove where the date palms waved in the wind. He didn’t turn, even when Iltani cleared their throat.

“You… you called for me, sir?”

They wiped their palms against their wrap, shivering despite the burning midday heat. Waiting for the lecture, the accusations, the end.

Instead, Sabium barely glanced their way before turning to look west. “What do you see over there?”

Iltani frowned. Just beyond the sacred district’s outer wall was another cluster of homes and beyond that—

“The great temple of Lord An, father of Holy Inana.” The temple itself was both smaller and newer than Inana’s, but it stood upon the ancient ziggurat, a mighty platform that rose like a mountain from the city below.

“Long ago, Uruk was not a city, but a pair of villages. Kullaba, the southern village,” Sabium nodded towards the ziggurat, “built a temple to An, and grew in prosperity until they could build for him a home atop a mountain, build the mountain itself in the midst of the marshlands. The northern village built temples to many gods, and was called E-anna, the Dwelling-Place of Heaven. But it was only when the first temple of Inana was built that divine favor turned our way.

“We became the dominant power, devouring Kullaba, becoming the city you see before you, a shining jewel in the desert. Our power reaches now from the mountains to the gulf and beyond. Inana dwells here, in this temple, in our hearts, always. Guiding us. The whole of Uruk is but her tool to create the world she desires, the world where she sits supreme. And for those who follow her, a world of endless fertile fields, free from the evils of the demons.

As they listened, Iltani’s heart rose. This story was not quite like any they’d heard before, a glimpse into the goddess’s mind. A blessing they were hardly worthy of, but surely a sign of favor, that they had earned the high priest’s trust again.

Then he turned to face them and their heart dropped to the building’s foundation.

“And do you think, Enmerkar, that there is a place in her world for one who would side with a demon over his own people?”

They stumbled back, pressing against the raised portion of roof above the temple’s inner sanctum. Even through the stone and mortar, they could feel the demon far below.

“I didn’t…” No, just apologize. Iltani swallowed. “I am,” they began, lowering themself to their hands and knees, “truly, deeply sorry for the offense I—”

“Your apology means nothing,” Sabium snapped. “We have seen how easily your heart is swayed, and that says far more than any words you could utter. The question now is whether this temple is a fitting place for such a faithless boy.”

Tears pattered onto the bright clay roof as they bent their head lower. They cried too much, even for a gala-priest. No matter how they struggled to keep it in. Always had. “Are… are you going to send me away?”

“You would already know the answer were you not under a demon’s influence.”

“But…” Iltani closed their eyes so they wouldn’t see the blood that coated their hand, that would never wash off their hand. “But I rejected it! The demon released me! You heard—”

“And yet the moment you were out of its sight, you convinced two young men to bathe with a priestess… an unconscious priestess who couldn’t have defended herself.”

“But that’s not… they would never…”

“That is very much the point. We questioned those boys thoroughly. There is no evil in them, though perhaps quite a bit of anger. Left to themselves, they would never have found themselves even considering such an action. And yet, without a thought, you convinced them to break a sacred commandment.”

“But… she’d only been a priestess for two hours. We bathed with her last night!”

“And still you make excuses!” Iltani cowered at the anger in the high priest’s voice, but a moment later he crouched nearby. “Child. Do you know what a shedu-demon is?”

They shook their head. “It is the most vile and cunning of them all. Other demons attack the body or possess the mind. A shedu-demon, though, finds its way into your heart. Confuses you. Tempts you. Until what is wrong seems right. Even if the demon has released you, it is clear you do not remain untouched.” His fingers rested lightly on their hair. “Did you feel even a moment of doubt as you tempted those two boys?”

Iltani bowed their head until it rested on the roof, sobbing too hard to speak. No. Both Dadasig and Tigzar had had doubts, objections, had remembered Inana’s commandments. Elutil was no longer a little girl who could consort freely with the other acolytes. She was a woman, a priestess, to be shielded and protected. Everyone else had seen that.

“I’m sorry,” they managed between sobs. “Sorry… sorry…”

Sabium waited until the worst of the pitiful display was over. “Now tell me. After all this, do you wish to remain at the temple?”

“Yes!” Immediately, without hesitation.

“Why? And be honest. There may be no need to send you away entirely. We could perhaps find a role for a penitent man in the city, serving Inana in other ways.”

“No! I can’t…” They wrapped their arms about themself, no longer bent so low, but rocking uncontrollably. “I can’t… this is where I belong, I…” they managed a sharp, shaking breath. “Master Sabium, I… I have known since I first arrived that this… this is where I’m meant to be. I serve the goddess. I am a gala-priest of Inana. It is the only thing I can be.”

The high priest studied them, face as blank as uncarved limestone. Perhaps seeing the doubt, the selfishness, the unspoken plea woven in their words.

Finally, he nodded. “It would seem the goddess has not entirely abandoned you yet. Perhaps you can still free yourself of this corruption.”

“Yes. Yes! I can, I will, just please tell me what to do.”

“You will need to be very careful. Constantly searching for the demon’s influence in your thoughts and actions. If you find yourself tempted to disobey the goddess again, if you feel any doubt coming on, you must tell me immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes! I will! Oh, thank you!” They clasped the high priest’s legs. “Thank you…”

“And I think… yes, you will be well-suited to see if the demon’s influence has spread any farther. If you see signs of doubt or corruption in others, you must tell me that as well so we can put them back on the right path.”

“Of course, Master Sabium.” They could feel it welling up in them again, the certainty, security, and love of their goddess. “I will be vigilant. For the rest of my life, if need be.”

“Good.” They looked up to see the priest smiling. “Then rise, Iltani, gala-priest of Inana.”

The guards, it turned out, weren’t much better than the priests. Crawley had been given some time to recover—enough that the shattered pain in her skull had been reduced to near-unbearable pressure, constant nausea, and a bright flash of light if she moved too quickly. Then five over-sized men in the armor of the war-goddess had come in for their own turn.

At least none of them made any offers, like Mattaki had, though maybe just because when they stripped her, they hadn’t been impressed with what they saw. A few crude jokes and another dousing with water and they wrapped her in a new sheepskin, dyed ochre-red and fastened over her shoulder with a pin of shining gold.

As four of them started poking and prodding at her, feeling her arms and grabbing her chin as if they were inspecting a prize racehorse, the other stood in the back rolling something between his fingers. A piece of white bone.

“Wait!” Crawley called as he turned away. “I need—my pin, please!”

One of them grabbed her braids, jerking her head back. “You’ve got one. And you’ll need more than that trinket to keep you safe.”

She really didn’t have time to think about how ominous that sounded. “Then… switch it back, I don’t care, just don’t—”

A fist sank into her stomach, knocking the wind out of her. Crawley fell to her knees, arms still held up by the leather straps, another flash of pain from the seal on her bicep.

Laughing, the guards walked away, one of them palming her angel’s pin.

Crawley hadn’t thought she could feel any worse, any more broken, any more alone. But as they stepped out the doors, she felt another piece of herself torn away.

Another figure stood in the shadows, watching the guards pass before following them out. Her vision was still blurry, but the gala-priest was unmistakable.

“Kid!” She called, trying to pull herself up. “Iltani! I didn’t—”

They turned and walked out without so much as a glance in her direction.

It was nearly sunset. Aziraphale shifted his burdens and walked faster, pressing on through the tall barley until he suddenly stumbled into the open.

Across the uneven ground of the harvested fields loomed the great city of Uruk.

He’d glimpsed it many times as he walked, always thinking he must be nearly there, but it had stayed stubbornly distant. Now he understood why.

The city was easily five times as large as any he and Crawley had visited, and ten times the size of most. The wall stood more than twice the height of a man, though he could see within it a temple rising ever higher on an enormous mound. And the river—

The river parted around the city, directed by enormous hand-carved channels to flow at the base of the walls, smaller and smaller branches breaking off to run through the fields and groves. Impossibly straight and orderly side-channels directed overflow back to the main river, while artificial levees protected carefully prepared walking paths. Just ahead a wooden gate stood partially open, releasing a steady stream of water that had clearly been directed through the city itself. Even as he watched, some unseen mechanism pressed the gate shut, and one by one the canals began to dry up as the water flowing to them simply turned off for the night.

It was, by far, the most complex engineering project Aziraphale had ever seen.

Crawley would be fascinated. She’d spend a day running up and down the canals, learning their paths, and by the next have invented some strange new game to distract the younger workers from their task…

He shook his head, exhausted. A different sort of exhaustion from before. Not the ache of overworked muscles in the hot sun, but a sort of numbness that pressed his mind down to almost nothing.

But he was here now. Or nearly. The farmers were filing in through another gate, this one even larger and clearly intended for travel. No doubt eager for a meal and a chance to lay down after their grueling day in the fields. They were still a bit ahead, but he should be able to catch up and slip in with the crowd if he just—

The city before him vanished.

Aziraphale stumbled, grasping his head as pain shot through his eyes. The jar slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor, sending a wave of water across his feet.

When he finally blinked his eyes open, everything was brilliant white, and Gabriel stood before him, hands folded, smiling.

“Ah, there you are, Aziraphale! I’m excited to hear what you’ve accomplished this year.”

⁵ Bad-tibira, located slightly up-river of Uruk.

Next: Part 2!

Happy Holidays, cassie-oh! Part 1

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