Disclaimer: Writing fics for your own story? How odd...
It was the eve of the last battle.
The Earth had gone: the apocalypse had passeed, this time with no complications.
The Angel Aziraphale was dressed in his glistening gold armour, his halo shining brightly as he waited. He did not know what he was waiting for. For one of the thousands of Angels in the lines in front of him to advance? For a signal from God? For the Enemy to move?
Aziraphale looked above him at the infinite sky. The scene was the same below him. They stood in the place that had once been the Indian ocean, or so he had heard. Truth be told, Aziraphale could not remember the Earth. It was on his records: he had received six awards for his work there, but the memories existed only on paper – his head was blurred by the divine light, and he could not focus on his time there.
There had been an enemy there, so the records said. A demon Crowley. Aziraphale could not put a face to the name, only glazed images. Dark hair? Imbedded beside the name in his mind, occasionally there seemed to be a streak of dark metal flying by, accompanied by a mechanical grumbling. But all this meant nothing. He did not remember what the demon had been disguised as, or whether they had ever met. Aziraphale knew only one thing: that he hated the demon Crowley. It was the enemy.
The angel did feel a twinge of fear as he looked out across to the army of the damned. There had been rumours; rumours of them inventing a weapon that was able to kill an angel, that they had created hate-driven monsters and spent a thousand years mastering their weapons, slaying their own brethren to learn the art of fighting.
There had been no such behaviour in Heaven: We will win, they said, we will win. They faced each other now – a sea of black and a sea of white. All was silent.
Then it came – what they had all been waiting for. It was a roar from Lucifer, seated on a humungous horse at the front of his own army, but Aziraphale noted, when the demons advanced, screaming and brandishing their swords, he allowed them to overtake him until he was lost in their midst. The angels at the front began to thrash with their own swords – blood sprayed up like a deathly fountain, the screams became so thick in the air that Aziraphale had to breathe them in. He looked up again, into the immensity of darkness, where the love of God tore through the nothingness. The creatures advanced almost in slow motion. Their armour was weighted with jewels: they would rather wear their greed than win the final battle. But something was happening… something unthinkable… it couldn't be happening… but it was: the Demons were coming closer – the front line of angels had been cut down! Looking beneath his feet, he could see their bodies floating down into space. Their eyes were open but they were still. They were really dead!
It was then that Aziraphale felt the nausea rising in him – he might die. He had always wondered what it was like to die: the dead were happy. They floated in empty, blissful oblivion. But there was no hereafter for him. If he died, he was gone, and may as well have never been.
He watched the angels before him fall, one by one. The demons were dying too. Both sides were being eaten away. Each line was paired up, you were a partnership until one killed the other.
Nearer and nearer.
The angel in front had been killed by a wild young demon with thick black hair, the beauty of which Aziraphale had one moment to reflect upon before drawing his sword and slashing it towards him. But the demon had missed the first nano-second of the fight, just watching the angel he had killed fall, almost with a compassion and now, he was dying.
There had been no scream, but a fountain of blood from the neck, the divine power from the sword surging through his body, poisoning him.
This was happening all about him, people killing other people: perhaps their long lost family from the days before the revolution, but Aziraphale was transfixed with the dying demon that he was just going to have killed. He had great beautiful golden eyes, glazed with agony, past seeing anything of sense, but the more Aziraphale gazed into them, in the midst of the scene of death and destruction, the more he knew what he had done. And the more he knew he loved the demon Crowley, whose wings had failed and whose body was now falling away to be lost in the infinite space, forever.
Well, that was it folks, please review, or I may die of a broken heart!