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go_exchange2007-12-10 06:34 pm
musegaarid.livejournal.com) wrote in go_exchange2007-12-10 06:34 pm
Entry tags:
Happy Holidays, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
argyleheir!
Title: The Fiery Furnace
Author:daughtersofisis
Prompt: “A/C, Hanging Gardens of Babylon, dates.”
Pairings/Characters: Crowley/Aziraphale.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Ancient Babylonians having sex.
Summary: Regional, religious, and personal tensions are played out between Aziraphale and Crowley in the Gardens of Babylon.
Author's Note: Thanks to my fabulous beta, who is eternally patient and godlike and a genius. The inevitable historical or other errors are my fault, definitely not hers. Happy holidays,argyleheir; I hope you enjoy your gift!
". . . Nebuchadnez'zar the king was astonished, and rose up in haste, and spake . . . Did we not cast three men bound into the midst of the fire? . . . Lo, I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God. . . . Then Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed'nego, came forth of the midst of the fire. And . . . these men, upon whose bodies the fire had no power, nor was a hair of their head singed, neither were their coats changed, nor the smell of fire had passed on them. . . . Then Nebuchadnez'zar spake, and said, Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed'nego . . . because there is no other God that can deliver after this sort."
--Daniel 3:24-9
---
THE FIERY FURNACE
---
Because the woman was tormented by thoughts of the green home to which she would never return, her husband created a garden for her, stocked with vines and fruiting trees, in the centre of dusty Babylon. And at this the woman was pleased and grew quiet again, apart from an occasional tinkling laugh, muffled by the greenery and funneled from the bottom of her Gardens to the sky. So now the man had his peace and the freedom to get on with his business, which is all any man wants.
When the woman was engaged in pursuits outside of her sanctuary--such as producing sons--occasional visitors might enter the Gardens to marvel at such natural beauty in the midst of the great city. Here, they might say, is a a pool teeming with silver fish--where is its source? How do these fish eat? Here, a grove of date palms that seems as though it has been here for decades! Here, in the middle of our great king's city, is a secluded, self-sustaining valley, open only to the sky! This is a great accomplishment indeed, they said, and praised the king.
And then there were the other, rarer visitors, who knew that this surrogate jungle was a perfect square, and that water fed it with quiet, rhythmic secrecy, and that the lush fruit trees stood upon a layer of lead. They watched from the Gardens' top tier, and evaded one another.
---
NOTES IN CLAY, 608 BC. RESTORED TO BACK ROOM OF FELL'S BOOKS AFTER INCIDENTS RECOUNTED ELSEWHERE.
"I have sent a message to Crowley, who (to no-one's great surprise) has the ear of the king. My aim in this is, quite plainly, to halt Nebuchadnez'zar's aggressive progress towards Jerusalem--or, rather, to request that Crowley persuade the king to target some other city. I would prefer not to put myself in debt to either of them, but at least Crowley's favours are predictable and generally harmless. In any event, the king will no longer hear my petitions, so my choices are limited.
"The end result of this method of writing is frightfully unwieldy and certainly not easy to carry. How many official messengers have wrenched their backs carrying slabs of clay, I don't care to contemplate. Next step? Must consider."
---
MESSAGE, SIMILARLY IN CLAY, 608 BC. SIGIL: THE SERPENT'S HEAD.
"To the Angel:
"As much as it pains me not to have you in my debt, I must confess that I cannot fulfill your request. When it comes to the city of Jerusalem, the king's mind is set and his ears are shut. The city will fall, Aziraphale. Accustom yourself to the idea.
- C"
---
607 BC. THE HOLY CITY FALLS.
Effortlessly dodging the hazy noon light filtering through the leaves above, the king's man catches up with Aziraphale as he walks his worn path atop the Garden wall. With an instinctual show of reluctance he adjusts his pace, speeding up even as Crowley slows down.
"What do you want, Crowley?" he says, wishing he were more naturally rude, blunter, sharper, capable of causing something other than embarrassed guilt.
"There are many things I want," the demon replies, one eyebrow cocked. "At the moment, I'd quite like a date. Look at her, she's completely ignoring them."
Aziraphale glances down at the queen. She's lovingly tending to the purple flowers on the bottom tier of the Gardens and, indeed, ignoring the sweet fruit dangling over her shoulder.
"Such a waste." Crowley shakes his head and flashes a rare white grin.
Aziraphale, unsmiling, shifts his weight to stand at the edge of the tier, blocking the view of the queen and her vegetable bounty. "Crowley," he says. "What do you want?"
The smile vanishes, replaced by what would almost be called worry if it were anyone else. "To give you the gift of information," he mutters, his words belied by the frown between his eyes, "and I expect that you'll return the favour one day."
"What good is that? The last information you gave me was useless."
"Information can do many things. Perhaps most importantly it can keep you out of trouble." Crowley puts a cautious hand on the angel's shoulder. "Stay away from Jerusalem, Aziraphale."
"Why would I go to--?" Aziraphale stares at Crowley, who tightens his grip. "He's taken it?" He tries to run to the wall, to look over, as if there will be a haze of smoke hanging over the distant city to mourn its capture, but Crowley holds on. "Let go of me!"
"No." Crowley pulls him back. "Don't you understand? There's nothing to accomplish by going there, Aziraphale. There's no point! The city's been sacked! Who would you be helping by leaving Babylon?"
"I don't know!" the angel snarls. "Who would I be helping by staying?"
Crowley lets his arm fall from Aziraphale's shoulder. "Don't go," he says, looking peculiar and helpless.
"Don't get involved, demon," Aziraphale replies coolly. He tilts his chin upwards, once, and Crowley slowly walks away.
The angel goes to the wall, leans on the edge and gazes at the city of Babylon--at the dust and the children in the streets, at the houses and their empty windows, and at the triple walls between the city and the world. Then he looks down at Amytis, the queen, suffocating in flowers and fruit trees, surrounded by walls secure enough to resist any siege.
As he turns once again to look at the plains outside Babylon, he wipes the wetness and the dust out of his eyes, shaking his head. Below him, the ripe dates begin to fall.
---
When, weeks later, the king comes home to Babylon, he seeks out his wife. She is sitting in the Gardens on a cool stone bench, unaware of her husband's return or, indeed, everything other than the green of her little world. He puts his calloused hand on her bare shoulder, and she turns with a cry of shock that turns to one of pleasure.
They are watched for a while, as he tells her in detail of his victory; as she blushes and smiles with pride at her husband's courage and skill, and he notes her pleasure and is delighted by it; as she tells him of the flourishing of this or that plant, and he observes her intently; as she watches him sideways, coyly cautious about the movements of her lips and her hips.
And as the king and his queen make love in the Gardens, him flushed with triumph, her with wonder, the gazes from above are averted, eyes refuse to meet, and one waits for the other to leave before he follows with slow, pained steps.
---
602 BC. THE FIERY FURNACE.
Nebuchadnez'zar, the king of Babylon, who is a devout man, has built his city up out of its own devastation and made it a wonder. Once, too, he builds a statue of gold in the middle of the dusty plains and orders that it be worshipped. Despite the sense of this suggestion, there are three men who will not bow and are cast into a fiery furnace.
It will be said, later, that it is an angel who saves the three Jews, walking through white flames to pull them out unscathed, before disappearing without a trace. It is certainly true that the king, seeing these men untouched by even the smoke of the furnace, proclaims their God superior to his own. Word of these miracles soon reach the city, where someone paces the Garden walls alone, face set and eyes locked on the gates, waiting.
---
“I'm sure you think you're incredibly clever for that little trick.”
Aziraphale smiles. “What, no hello?”
“No niceties, please. What precisely were you hoping to accomplish with that stunt?”
“Oh . . . simply to increase local reverence for the Lord our God, of course,” the angel says, leaning over the edge of the Gardens. “What other motives could I possibly have?”
“A few have occurred to me,” Crowley replies grimly.
“Really? Such as?”
“Current favourites include the possibility that those men possessed some rare statuary or, alternately, that you enjoy causing me headaches.”
“Really, my dear. I am an angel.”
“A fact of which I am well aware.”
A silence arises, thick as the scent of burning myrrh. A brief breeze blows in from the North; Aziraphale leans in, inhales the desert.
“I suppose you could say it was revenge,” he says quietly.
“For Jerusalem?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “I wanted to make him look like a fool. But my plan seems to have backfired.”
“Aziraphale, you've converted the king of Babylon. That does not qualify as backfiring.”
The angel grimaces. “He isn't a true convert. He's merely an opportunist. He said it himself, no god can deliver like the Lord.”
“Semantics, Aziraphale,” Crowley reminds him. “You should take what you can get.” He quirks his mouth impiously. “Or I'll take it for you.”
He's rewarded with a quiet, distant laugh and a reproachful, gratified smile.
“Don't worry,” he adds, eyes wide with unaccustomed earnestness. “Jerusalem will rise again.” There is no response. “Aziraphale?” he says uncertainly.
“Get thee behind me, Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him, already turning back to the desert.
---
582 BC. MADNESS OF THE KING.
The dates ripen, fall, and ripen again; their trees twist towards the sun and spit forth flowers that blink open and shut at the glare from the Babylonian sky. Roots dancing on soil soaked in lead, leaves stretching like fingers to part the layers of dust that cloud the sky. The queen keeps her flowers elsewhere, these days. Still, the Gardens are not deserted--every branch holds a tiny bird, waiting for the seeds to form, or the fruit to fall, or the worms to come out and take what's left over. Their short, focussed flights recall the gods to Babylon, this city that has never been far from the time when its creators crossed the sky to pass their incontestable judgment.
One night, when the stars and stillness dull the cheap jeweled illusion of their wings, someone creeps into the Gardens and picks a piece of fruit. He brings the date to his lips, pauses, picks another one, and lays it on the ground, before stealing away on silent feet. The birds, heads tucked away safe, don't notice until morning, and, once they do, don't bother wondering why.
---
539 BC. INVASION OF BABYLON.
Aziraphale sits alone on the stone bench, looking at the withered flowers, as if expecting them to start growing again before his eyes at any moment. In the centre of a great circle of walls, he is deaf to the noise at the city's gates. When Crowley walks up to him at last, he stands beside him for a moment, hovering, like a reprimanded guard. A brief, shared glance catches him where he stands, leaving him stripped and exposed; Aziraphale's eyes are red, wide, and searching.
“Are you planning to let them capture you, then?” Crowley ventures. “They won't go easy on you just because you're a messenger of God, you know.”
“I might,” the angel replies, with a faint smile. “It would be a change—perhaps a new opportunity.” His shoulders twitch, almost involuntarily. “Perhaps I could accomplish more with the Persians.”
“What are you talking about?” Crowley eyes him warily.
“Oh, come now, Crowley. . . .”
“No, I mean it. What are you talking about?”
“Look at this place. What have I done here, really? What have I changed, in the long run?” Aziraphale gestures at the Gardens and the surrounding walls. “I've done far less than Nebuchadnez'zar did.”
“What does he have to do with you?”
“Nothing directly. But look at this place; look what he made of it! It's . . .” The dying trees seem to swallow up his voice for a moment. “It's beautiful,” he manages at last.
“It's only a city, Aziraphale,” Crowley says irritably. “There will be other cities. There are several, in fact. We might be able to reach Nippur by morning if we leave now.”
“I'm not leaving.”
Crowley sighs disgustedly. “Right, well, good luck, then.” He turns to go.
“Crowley.”
He stops. “Yes?” he says.
“We've been here so long.”
“Yes . . .”
“How much longer will it go on?”
“It . . .” Crowley stops. He sees the river in the distance, distorting the flat gray of the sky into an undulating pattern of uncertain blurs. The water ripples its way around a body that has fallen in at the shore, drawing pictures and erasing them as fast as a heartbeat.
Turning, he says, “I don't know any more than you do. It'll go on until it stops. But do you really want to leave?”
Aziraphale won't look at him. “I'm . . . not sure.”
Crowley walks over to the date palms, still standing expectant amidst the brown and shriveled flowers; he picks a date, bites down. It's slightly overripe, juice runs down his fingers, but he eats it all, spitting the seeds into his free hand. Then he takes another, pulls it from the tree, and offers it to the angel.
“Eat it,” he says.
“But I--”
“Eat it!”
Eying the fruit with distaste, Aziraphale takes a tentative bite, holding it on his tongue. He frowns, confused, overwhelmed, and swallows. He touches his fingers to his face and feels the stickiness on his skin. The angel looks wonderingly at Crowley, who is watching attentively, expressionless.
Aziraphale eats the rest in tiny, careful bites, removing every seed carefully with his clean hand. Then he looks uncertainly at Crowley.
“Right,” the demon says. “Now give me those seeds.”
Without a word, Aziraphale presses them into his hands. Crowley digs a shallow trough with his feet and sprinkles half of the seeds in. At a meaningful glance, Aziraphale kneels down and covers them with thin soil, packing it painstakingly into a low mound, heedless of the increasing noise from the city's gates.
Crowley stands up then and passes the remaining seeds to Aziraphale. “Time to leave,” he says firmly. The angel nods, and they walk past the dying battle at the gates, silent and invisible.
Once they are well on the road to Nippur, Aziraphale says to the demon, “They won't grow, Crowley.”
“They might.”
“They won't.”
“But they might.”
So Heaven and Hell, forsaking one empire in favour of the next, drop seeds in the dust behind them as the sun goes down on Babylon.
---
end.
Enjoy,argyleheir, from your Secret Author!
Author:
daughtersofisisPrompt: “A/C, Hanging Gardens of Babylon, dates.”
Pairings/Characters: Crowley/Aziraphale.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Ancient Babylonians having sex.
Summary: Regional, religious, and personal tensions are played out between Aziraphale and Crowley in the Gardens of Babylon.
Author's Note: Thanks to my fabulous beta, who is eternally patient and godlike and a genius. The inevitable historical or other errors are my fault, definitely not hers. Happy holidays,
argyleheir; I hope you enjoy your gift!". . . Nebuchadnez'zar the king was astonished, and rose up in haste, and spake . . . Did we not cast three men bound into the midst of the fire? . . . Lo, I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God. . . . Then Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed'nego, came forth of the midst of the fire. And . . . these men, upon whose bodies the fire had no power, nor was a hair of their head singed, neither were their coats changed, nor the smell of fire had passed on them. . . . Then Nebuchadnez'zar spake, and said, Blessed be the God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed'nego . . . because there is no other God that can deliver after this sort."
--Daniel 3:24-9
---
THE FIERY FURNACE
---
Because the woman was tormented by thoughts of the green home to which she would never return, her husband created a garden for her, stocked with vines and fruiting trees, in the centre of dusty Babylon. And at this the woman was pleased and grew quiet again, apart from an occasional tinkling laugh, muffled by the greenery and funneled from the bottom of her Gardens to the sky. So now the man had his peace and the freedom to get on with his business, which is all any man wants.
When the woman was engaged in pursuits outside of her sanctuary--such as producing sons--occasional visitors might enter the Gardens to marvel at such natural beauty in the midst of the great city. Here, they might say, is a a pool teeming with silver fish--where is its source? How do these fish eat? Here, a grove of date palms that seems as though it has been here for decades! Here, in the middle of our great king's city, is a secluded, self-sustaining valley, open only to the sky! This is a great accomplishment indeed, they said, and praised the king.
And then there were the other, rarer visitors, who knew that this surrogate jungle was a perfect square, and that water fed it with quiet, rhythmic secrecy, and that the lush fruit trees stood upon a layer of lead. They watched from the Gardens' top tier, and evaded one another.
---
NOTES IN CLAY, 608 BC. RESTORED TO BACK ROOM OF FELL'S BOOKS AFTER INCIDENTS RECOUNTED ELSEWHERE.
"I have sent a message to Crowley, who (to no-one's great surprise) has the ear of the king. My aim in this is, quite plainly, to halt Nebuchadnez'zar's aggressive progress towards Jerusalem--or, rather, to request that Crowley persuade the king to target some other city. I would prefer not to put myself in debt to either of them, but at least Crowley's favours are predictable and generally harmless. In any event, the king will no longer hear my petitions, so my choices are limited.
"The end result of this method of writing is frightfully unwieldy and certainly not easy to carry. How many official messengers have wrenched their backs carrying slabs of clay, I don't care to contemplate. Next step? Must consider."
---
MESSAGE, SIMILARLY IN CLAY, 608 BC. SIGIL: THE SERPENT'S HEAD.
"To the Angel:
"As much as it pains me not to have you in my debt, I must confess that I cannot fulfill your request. When it comes to the city of Jerusalem, the king's mind is set and his ears are shut. The city will fall, Aziraphale. Accustom yourself to the idea.
- C"
---
607 BC. THE HOLY CITY FALLS.
Effortlessly dodging the hazy noon light filtering through the leaves above, the king's man catches up with Aziraphale as he walks his worn path atop the Garden wall. With an instinctual show of reluctance he adjusts his pace, speeding up even as Crowley slows down.
"What do you want, Crowley?" he says, wishing he were more naturally rude, blunter, sharper, capable of causing something other than embarrassed guilt.
"There are many things I want," the demon replies, one eyebrow cocked. "At the moment, I'd quite like a date. Look at her, she's completely ignoring them."
Aziraphale glances down at the queen. She's lovingly tending to the purple flowers on the bottom tier of the Gardens and, indeed, ignoring the sweet fruit dangling over her shoulder.
"Such a waste." Crowley shakes his head and flashes a rare white grin.
Aziraphale, unsmiling, shifts his weight to stand at the edge of the tier, blocking the view of the queen and her vegetable bounty. "Crowley," he says. "What do you want?"
The smile vanishes, replaced by what would almost be called worry if it were anyone else. "To give you the gift of information," he mutters, his words belied by the frown between his eyes, "and I expect that you'll return the favour one day."
"What good is that? The last information you gave me was useless."
"Information can do many things. Perhaps most importantly it can keep you out of trouble." Crowley puts a cautious hand on the angel's shoulder. "Stay away from Jerusalem, Aziraphale."
"Why would I go to--?" Aziraphale stares at Crowley, who tightens his grip. "He's taken it?" He tries to run to the wall, to look over, as if there will be a haze of smoke hanging over the distant city to mourn its capture, but Crowley holds on. "Let go of me!"
"No." Crowley pulls him back. "Don't you understand? There's nothing to accomplish by going there, Aziraphale. There's no point! The city's been sacked! Who would you be helping by leaving Babylon?"
"I don't know!" the angel snarls. "Who would I be helping by staying?"
Crowley lets his arm fall from Aziraphale's shoulder. "Don't go," he says, looking peculiar and helpless.
"Don't get involved, demon," Aziraphale replies coolly. He tilts his chin upwards, once, and Crowley slowly walks away.
The angel goes to the wall, leans on the edge and gazes at the city of Babylon--at the dust and the children in the streets, at the houses and their empty windows, and at the triple walls between the city and the world. Then he looks down at Amytis, the queen, suffocating in flowers and fruit trees, surrounded by walls secure enough to resist any siege.
As he turns once again to look at the plains outside Babylon, he wipes the wetness and the dust out of his eyes, shaking his head. Below him, the ripe dates begin to fall.
---
When, weeks later, the king comes home to Babylon, he seeks out his wife. She is sitting in the Gardens on a cool stone bench, unaware of her husband's return or, indeed, everything other than the green of her little world. He puts his calloused hand on her bare shoulder, and she turns with a cry of shock that turns to one of pleasure.
They are watched for a while, as he tells her in detail of his victory; as she blushes and smiles with pride at her husband's courage and skill, and he notes her pleasure and is delighted by it; as she tells him of the flourishing of this or that plant, and he observes her intently; as she watches him sideways, coyly cautious about the movements of her lips and her hips.
And as the king and his queen make love in the Gardens, him flushed with triumph, her with wonder, the gazes from above are averted, eyes refuse to meet, and one waits for the other to leave before he follows with slow, pained steps.
---
602 BC. THE FIERY FURNACE.
Nebuchadnez'zar, the king of Babylon, who is a devout man, has built his city up out of its own devastation and made it a wonder. Once, too, he builds a statue of gold in the middle of the dusty plains and orders that it be worshipped. Despite the sense of this suggestion, there are three men who will not bow and are cast into a fiery furnace.
It will be said, later, that it is an angel who saves the three Jews, walking through white flames to pull them out unscathed, before disappearing without a trace. It is certainly true that the king, seeing these men untouched by even the smoke of the furnace, proclaims their God superior to his own. Word of these miracles soon reach the city, where someone paces the Garden walls alone, face set and eyes locked on the gates, waiting.
---
“I'm sure you think you're incredibly clever for that little trick.”
Aziraphale smiles. “What, no hello?”
“No niceties, please. What precisely were you hoping to accomplish with that stunt?”
“Oh . . . simply to increase local reverence for the Lord our God, of course,” the angel says, leaning over the edge of the Gardens. “What other motives could I possibly have?”
“A few have occurred to me,” Crowley replies grimly.
“Really? Such as?”
“Current favourites include the possibility that those men possessed some rare statuary or, alternately, that you enjoy causing me headaches.”
“Really, my dear. I am an angel.”
“A fact of which I am well aware.”
A silence arises, thick as the scent of burning myrrh. A brief breeze blows in from the North; Aziraphale leans in, inhales the desert.
“I suppose you could say it was revenge,” he says quietly.
“For Jerusalem?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “I wanted to make him look like a fool. But my plan seems to have backfired.”
“Aziraphale, you've converted the king of Babylon. That does not qualify as backfiring.”
The angel grimaces. “He isn't a true convert. He's merely an opportunist. He said it himself, no god can deliver like the Lord.”
“Semantics, Aziraphale,” Crowley reminds him. “You should take what you can get.” He quirks his mouth impiously. “Or I'll take it for you.”
He's rewarded with a quiet, distant laugh and a reproachful, gratified smile.
“Don't worry,” he adds, eyes wide with unaccustomed earnestness. “Jerusalem will rise again.” There is no response. “Aziraphale?” he says uncertainly.
“Get thee behind me, Crowley,” Aziraphale tells him, already turning back to the desert.
---
582 BC. MADNESS OF THE KING.
The dates ripen, fall, and ripen again; their trees twist towards the sun and spit forth flowers that blink open and shut at the glare from the Babylonian sky. Roots dancing on soil soaked in lead, leaves stretching like fingers to part the layers of dust that cloud the sky. The queen keeps her flowers elsewhere, these days. Still, the Gardens are not deserted--every branch holds a tiny bird, waiting for the seeds to form, or the fruit to fall, or the worms to come out and take what's left over. Their short, focussed flights recall the gods to Babylon, this city that has never been far from the time when its creators crossed the sky to pass their incontestable judgment.
One night, when the stars and stillness dull the cheap jeweled illusion of their wings, someone creeps into the Gardens and picks a piece of fruit. He brings the date to his lips, pauses, picks another one, and lays it on the ground, before stealing away on silent feet. The birds, heads tucked away safe, don't notice until morning, and, once they do, don't bother wondering why.
---
539 BC. INVASION OF BABYLON.
Aziraphale sits alone on the stone bench, looking at the withered flowers, as if expecting them to start growing again before his eyes at any moment. In the centre of a great circle of walls, he is deaf to the noise at the city's gates. When Crowley walks up to him at last, he stands beside him for a moment, hovering, like a reprimanded guard. A brief, shared glance catches him where he stands, leaving him stripped and exposed; Aziraphale's eyes are red, wide, and searching.
“Are you planning to let them capture you, then?” Crowley ventures. “They won't go easy on you just because you're a messenger of God, you know.”
“I might,” the angel replies, with a faint smile. “It would be a change—perhaps a new opportunity.” His shoulders twitch, almost involuntarily. “Perhaps I could accomplish more with the Persians.”
“What are you talking about?” Crowley eyes him warily.
“Oh, come now, Crowley. . . .”
“No, I mean it. What are you talking about?”
“Look at this place. What have I done here, really? What have I changed, in the long run?” Aziraphale gestures at the Gardens and the surrounding walls. “I've done far less than Nebuchadnez'zar did.”
“What does he have to do with you?”
“Nothing directly. But look at this place; look what he made of it! It's . . .” The dying trees seem to swallow up his voice for a moment. “It's beautiful,” he manages at last.
“It's only a city, Aziraphale,” Crowley says irritably. “There will be other cities. There are several, in fact. We might be able to reach Nippur by morning if we leave now.”
“I'm not leaving.”
Crowley sighs disgustedly. “Right, well, good luck, then.” He turns to go.
“Crowley.”
He stops. “Yes?” he says.
“We've been here so long.”
“Yes . . .”
“How much longer will it go on?”
“It . . .” Crowley stops. He sees the river in the distance, distorting the flat gray of the sky into an undulating pattern of uncertain blurs. The water ripples its way around a body that has fallen in at the shore, drawing pictures and erasing them as fast as a heartbeat.
Turning, he says, “I don't know any more than you do. It'll go on until it stops. But do you really want to leave?”
Aziraphale won't look at him. “I'm . . . not sure.”
Crowley walks over to the date palms, still standing expectant amidst the brown and shriveled flowers; he picks a date, bites down. It's slightly overripe, juice runs down his fingers, but he eats it all, spitting the seeds into his free hand. Then he takes another, pulls it from the tree, and offers it to the angel.
“Eat it,” he says.
“But I--”
“Eat it!”
Eying the fruit with distaste, Aziraphale takes a tentative bite, holding it on his tongue. He frowns, confused, overwhelmed, and swallows. He touches his fingers to his face and feels the stickiness on his skin. The angel looks wonderingly at Crowley, who is watching attentively, expressionless.
Aziraphale eats the rest in tiny, careful bites, removing every seed carefully with his clean hand. Then he looks uncertainly at Crowley.
“Right,” the demon says. “Now give me those seeds.”
Without a word, Aziraphale presses them into his hands. Crowley digs a shallow trough with his feet and sprinkles half of the seeds in. At a meaningful glance, Aziraphale kneels down and covers them with thin soil, packing it painstakingly into a low mound, heedless of the increasing noise from the city's gates.
Crowley stands up then and passes the remaining seeds to Aziraphale. “Time to leave,” he says firmly. The angel nods, and they walk past the dying battle at the gates, silent and invisible.
Once they are well on the road to Nippur, Aziraphale says to the demon, “They won't grow, Crowley.”
“They might.”
“They won't.”
“But they might.”
So Heaven and Hell, forsaking one empire in favour of the next, drop seeds in the dust behind them as the sun goes down on Babylon.
---
end.
Enjoy,
argyleheir, from your Secret Author!
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See this? This stabbed me through the heart with a huge blunt kitchen knife. And then made me like it.
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It's all his fault. I did nothing. XD
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Secret Author, you ended that with the shivers that mark a true invocation of the muses. Brava.
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Why yes, I'm a religion major.
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It's a FUN thesis but I have a fear that it's disertation length, not thesis length. Course I find Lilith to be one of the most fascinating mythological characters in Judaism because of her evolution from seductress demon to feminist icon.
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what a great conceptualization of the prompt.
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NOTES IN CLAY, 608 BC. RESTORED TO BACK ROOM OF FELL'S BOOKS AFTER INCIDENTS RECOUNTED ELSEWHERE
What a terrific tidbit -- marvelously ironic and so subtly touching.
And the ending gave me chills. I can say without a doubt that this is just what I wanted when I wrote the prompt, and also fundamentally more.
Thank you so very much!
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Gobsmacked is about my favourite word, incidentally. HOW DID YOU KNOW? Happy holidays, dear!
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I couldn't help but take great satisfaction from that line! :D