Looking at all of my other "Good Omens" fics, I realized that I kept hurting and almost killing Crowley in a variety of different ways. And to be honest, that isn't fair. That realization sparked off the idea for this story.

Flaming Sword

There was nothing to see. Only endless empty darkness. There was no form. No shape. Nothing.

And yet he almost felt like there was something. Something immaterial and metaphysical. Something meant to bind him tight. But it seemed stretched and loosening. Not quite fraying, but it was weakening and growing thin. From a thick cable to a rope. And it thinned further, from a rope until it began to resemble yarn thread. A weakening and failing connection to… to…

What was he connected to?

"EXISTENCE. THAT IS YOUR CONNECTION TO EXISTENCE, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE."

Principality Aziraphale… Was that him? It sparked a memory or two. A creature of holy light and flame, of turning wheels, of gold and ivory, of numerous eyes, of white wings, and of Her love and grace nestled at the core. A human-shaped entity with blond hair, pale and well-worn clothes, books, and hands that fumbled, twisted, and fretted. Both were him.

But not now. He wasn't like that in the endless darkness. Those parts of him were far away. He was… He was a small guttering light. And the dimmer he grew, the more that immaterial thread weakened and…

Wait… Who spoke before?

"YOU KNOW ME. YOU KNOW ME AS A CONCEPT AND YOU KNOW ME AS AN ENTITY. BUT I TAKE NO INSULT IF YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN FOR A MOMENT. MANY FIND THIS EXPERIENCE TO BE DISORIENTING."

A dark shape in the not-quite-empty darkness. Dressed in black robes. Humanoid. Skeletal. Then wings unfolded. Angel wings, but not ones of feathers. Wings of night. Wings that Aziraphale could sense more than see in this strange place. And even if the thin thread didn't truly exist except as a concept to better understand what was happening, one skeletal hand rested on the weakening connection. Waiting patiently.

Azrael. Creation's Shadow. The Angel of Death.

"Oh," he said quietly, his voice swallowed by the emptiness.

"—ngel? No, no, no, please, no—"

He knew that voice. It felt close, but at the same time… not. The sound was distant, faint, and quiet. So far away, but real. Crowley. He knew that voice and it triggered more memories. Aziraphale remembered what happened.

He'd gone to Crowley's flat, concerned when he didn't show up earlier. Crowley always showed up. Especially after the Apoca-Oops. He went to his flat and found Hastur. A duke of Hell, more concerned with revenge than Hell's semi-official order to ignore the pair. He found Hastur, glancing up in surprise from where he'd pinned Crowley against the wall. From where he was hurting Crowley. There was a fight; Hastur more powerful than them individually, but the pair more creative and outnumbering him. They wounded him somehow. Luck. But Crowley was knocked down and there was a blade. A demonic blade forged in hellfire, crafted like the angelic counterparts to wound the true self within the corporeal body. Aziraphale saw the blade turn towards the downed Crowley…

He remembered moving. He remembered the blade sliding in, sharp and sudden. He remembered pain. And then…

"—need to open your eyes. Please, angel, wake—"

"I died, didn't I?" he asked.

That realization should have hurt more. He should have been shocked, scared, heartbroken, filled with regret, something. He should have felt something and yet his only reaction was a feeling that could described as a weak "oh" and a shrug. Which was a little odd when he had no form, let alone shoulders to shrug. But Aziraphale couldn't seem to scrounge up any stronger reaction as his light guttered like a candle burned down to the end of its wick.

"DYING, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE," corrected Azrael, skeletal fingers brushing along the connection now no thicker than embroidery thread. "YOU STILL EXIST UNTIL THIS FINAL CONNECTION IS SEVERED. BUT THE OUTCOME IS INEVITABLE. YOU ARE DYING FROM A DEEP WOUND TO YOUR TRUE SELF, ONE TOO GRAVE TO HEAL BY ANY HUMAN, ANGELIC, OR DEMONIC MEANS." He paused a moment before adding, "TAKE COMFORT IN THE FACT THAT YOU ARE FAR ENOUGH ALONG THAT YOU CAN NOT FEEL ANY PAIN. DESPITE WHAT SOME MAY BELIEVE, I AM NOT CRUEL AND DO NOT TAKE PLEASURE IN ANYONE'S SUFFERING."

Outside of the end of the world, Death wasn't actually that bad of an entity. He merely represented something that all living creatures wanted to avoid for as long as possible. He truly was the ultimate neutral party.

And Aziraphale knew that some things were beyond the power of any angel or demon to change. Some deaths could be stopped or reversed in mortal creatures. A brief miracle before too much time passed, if the damage was not too great. After all, it took a moment or two for death to really settle in and take hold once the heart stopped and breath left the body. Humans had even figured out how to sometimes save each other in that state without miracles. They were so clever and creative.

But other deaths were impossible to affect. Trying to change their fate was the equivalent of fighting Death itself and that could not be done. No one could defeat Death and only She had the power to command Death to ignore his duty. Not even the most powerful angel or demon could stop Death when he came to collect someone that he was determined to reach.

If Azrael said that Aziraphale was dying and could not be saved, then there was no point denying or arguing.

"What happens now?" he asked quietly. "I'm not human and this isn't discorporation. I won't be returning to Heaven. What happens to an angel when they die?"

"THAT IS A QUESTION THAT I CANNOT ANSWER. JUST AS I CANNOT TELL ALL THE HUMANS WHO ASK ME WHERE THEIR SOULS WILL GO WHEN THEIR TIME HAS COME. IN THAT WAY, I AM FAIR TO MORTALS, ANGELS, AND DEMONS. I AM THERE FOR THE END OF LIFE. NOT WHAT COMES AFTER."

"—ngel, don't you dare. Hold on. Please hold on or I'll sell all your books. All of them. And—"

Faint and distant, he heard Crowley's voice. Frantic, angry, scared, desperate, and strained. Aziraphale hated hearing him sound like that. But there was nothing that he could do. He couldn't comfort the demon because there was no time left.

The faint connection to existence seemed as thin and frail as spiderweb silk. A mere cobweb. And the weak light that flickered and faded, the light that was Aziraphale, was on the verge of being extinguished completely. Over six thousand years of existence and now it was over.

But before the immaterial thread broke completely and before the last of the dim light vanished, something dark and burning latched onto him. Wrapped around the light and held tight, feeding strength into the glow. Anchoring him to existence. Vast amounts of power holding him back from dying. Demonic energy.

Crowley.

"—on. Just stay with me. I've got you. I'm not letting you go. I can fix this. I—"

"DOES HE REALLY THINK THAT HE CAN STOP WHAT IS HAPPENING?" asked Azrael, sounding mildly confused. "DEATH IS NOT THAT EASILY THWARTED. THE DEMON CROWLEY MUST RECOGNIZE THAT WHAT HE IS DOING IS FUTILE."

Apparently Crowley didn't care that what he was attempting should be impossible. Aziraphale could feel how much power that the demon was pouring into him. Keeping him bound to existence. Keeping the guttering light lit. He knew that Crowley was stronger than he normally seemed, rarely using his full strength. He pulled himself, Aziraphale, and Adam completely out of the normal flow of time during the near Apocalypse. And now the demon was using that strength to force Death to hold off a little longer.

Crowley always specialized in the impossible.

"—with me. Stay with me. You're stronger than this, angel. Don't you even think of—"

The faint and distant voice sounded choked and strained. Struggling to speak.

"Oh, Crowley," he murmured.

"HE CANNOT HEAR YOU. REGARDLESS OF WHAT FOOLISHNESS THAT THE DEMON IS ATTEMPTING, YOUR WORDS CANNOT REACH HIM. AND HIS EFFORTS ARE MERELY DELAYING THE INEVITABLE. YOU ARE STILL DYING, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE."

"—can fix this. I can fix this, angel. It wasn't supposed to be you. It's my fault. It should have been—"

"That's not true. It wasn't your fault. I wanted to keep you safe. I wanted to protect you," said Aziraphale, even knowing that his words would never reach him. "What happened to me… it wasn't your fault."

Maybe Crowley could do what he claimed, despite Azrael's assertions to the contrary. Maybe he could fix this. The demon could certainly heal physical injuries. With all the times that he covered for Aziraphale's blessings during the Arrangement, Crowley probably had more experience with healing than any other demon. And yes, healing corporeal bodies was different than healing damage to an angelic true form. And yes, occult and ethereal powers tended to not work as well on each other. Opposite forces and all that. But Crowley was smart, talented, and creative. Aziraphale wanted to believe in him.

"—can't do this. You can't do this. Please don't take him. Don't take my angel. 'S not right. He doesn't deserve—"

Crowley's distant and faint voice sounded worse. Slower and shaking. Cracked and broken, sharp edges cutting deep. Tight and choking. And he wasn't speaking to Aziraphale now. Equal parts accusing and pleading, Crowley was addressing someone else. But even as his desperate words continued, so did the demonic power being poured into Aziraphale.

Though there didn't seem to be as much of that energy as before.

"—n't take Aziraphale. He's brave and good and everything that Heaven is supposed to be, but isn't. He's the best of Your angels. Don't let him—"

The flow of demonic energy was still there, binding Aziraphale to existence and fueling the dim guttering light. But there was less now. Less energy flowing into the angel. But not because Crowley was stopping. Aziraphale could feel that much. He was still offering as much strength as he could. Crowley was simply running out.

The feeling of dull acceptance that previously coated his thoughts was pushed back by a sharp spike of worry though Aziraphale.

"What a rare experience. A demon praying to Me to spare the life of an angel? Very few of the Fallen would ever dream of such a thing and very few angels would give them a reason. It would be accurate to call this moment 'unique.'"

Shock and awe jolted through Aziraphale. How could he have ever believed that he was surrounded by empty darkness. Because She was there and he abruptly realized that She had always been there. Bright, glorious, and beyond description. There were no words. She was everything. Love, mercy, and forgiveness. She was endless, eternal, and far beyond the comprehension of even Her angels.

And Aziraphale had heard Her speak. After such a very long time, She had spoken.

"My Lord," he whispered in awe.

"Aziraphale, where is the flaming sword which was given to you?"

Even six thousand years after the first time that She asked him that question, Aziraphale wanted to duck his head in embarrassment. Which was difficult without a head or an actual form. But this time he couldn't lie, even by avoiding the topic.

"The deliveryman took it with him after Armageddon failed to occur. If War has reformed, she may have hunted it down again," he said solemnly. "Otherwise, I don't know."

She was too bright, too glorious, and too awe-inspiring for a mere principality to truly see Her, but Aziraphale could feel Her smile. A small, mysterious, and mildly bemused smile.

"That was always the trouble when speaking with My angels. They take literal what should be metaphorical and treat straightforward instructions as vague suggestions open to interpretation. Of course, humans make the same types of mistakes as well. It is certainly part of the reason why the Great Plan went 'off the rails' the moment that My attention was elsewhere."

"So… you don't mean the literal flaming sword? You mean a metaphorical… sword? I don't understand, my Lord."

"When you stood on the walls of Eden, the weapon assigned to you already gone, I sent you a gift. Something to defend you and to remain at your side. Something strong and dangerous to those who would harm you. Forged in hellfire, burning with questions, tongue sharp enough to cut, and always prepared to keep you safe. And if that was too subtle, his red hair and yellow eyes should remind you of fire."

Cold shock washed over him. He knew what She was describing, but Aziraphale couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. The entire idea sounded impossible.

"Crowley," he whispered. "You mean Crowley. When You asked where my flaming sword was back in Eden, You were asking where he was."

"He is your flaming sword, meant to protect and defend. But you are his bright shield in return, meant to strengthen and guard."

Which meant that She approved of their friendship from the start. Part of him always hoped that She would understand, but it was reassuring to know for certain.

Though Her words also stirred a feeling of guilt in him. He wasn't sure that he'd done a very good job of being a shield for Crowley, whatever that might mean. Aziraphale certainly didn't rescue and protect Crowley nearly as much as the other way around. And he knew that he'd hurt the demon with his words, on purpose and on accident, more times than he liked to remember. That was already bad enough. Thinking about all the times that he emotionally stabbed someone so dear to him already made the angel feel horrible, but now he had the added guilt that he'd somehow let Her down too.

"Where is your flaming sword, Aziraphale? The one that was given to you?"

The question brought his attention back to his more immediate situation. He'd been too distracted by Her presence to notice anything else. But now Aziraphale remembered that Death lurked beside him, waiting patiently. And he noticed a change in the offered strength anchoring him to existence.

It wasn't just a normal demonic miracle anymore. That source felt nearly depleted. Whatever personal wellspring of power that Crowley might have accessed to, that was already gone. But Crowley kept pouring energy into Aziraphale, keeping the flickering light lit despite everything. Energy that wasn't power from Hell meant for miracles.

This was something deeper.

"—can't lose him. Please, if You ever cared about him, let Aziraphale live. I'll do anything You ask. Just… Take me. Not him. He's—"

Sorrow and exhaustion filled the distant voice. But the tired and shaking words didn't stop. Nor did the offered strength that he poured into Aziraphale. Strength that the demon couldn't possibly spare. Not so much.

"THE DEMON CROWLEY CANNOT CONTINUE HIS EFFORTS FOR MUCH LONGER," said Azrael evenly. "HE IS NO LONGER USING POWER DRAWN FROM HELL TO SUSTAIN YOU, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. HE HAS ALREADY EXHAUSTED THOSE RESERVES. HE PRESERVES YOUR LIFE WITH HIS OWN. IF HE DOES NOT STOP SOON, I WILL CLAIM BOTH OF YOU THIS VISIT."

No.

No, no, no.

Aziraphale had no form, no limbs to struggle with, but he immediately tried to pull free. To tear loose of the weakening bonds to existence. To break the connection before it was too late. But that only caused the demonic energy to wrap around tighter.

Demonic energy. Or rather, Crowley's life. The strength of his own existence. He was burning himself out trying to keep Aziraphale from falling into Azrael's custody. And the angel could not bear the idea of dragging Crowley down with him.

"Let me go," begged Aziraphale desperately. "Please, Crowley."

"He will not stop. But you already know that, Aziraphale," She said. "Your flaming sword will burn himself out trying to keep you from Azrael's care. He has already made his decision. He will accept nothing less than your survival or his own destruction."

"Unless I can break free before he kills himself trying to save me," said Aziraphale, still struggling and pulling away from the connection Crowley forged to hold him in existence. "He won't be destroyed if I die before he…"

"—n't let him die. Please don't do this. It's my fault… I'm sorry, Aziraphale. I—"

Still fighting and yet unable to tear himself from the weakening connection, Aziraphale whispered, "Please, Lord. I know that I am dying and I accept it. If it is part of Your plan for me, so be it. But, please… Please stop Crowley before it is too late. He's holding me in existence. Please break that connection before it is too late. Let me die before he is destroyed in the process."

Maybe it was because he had no form, no throat to tighten or breath to catch, but the words came out steadier than he expected. Aziraphale didn't particularly want to die. He didn't want to be destroyed as if he'd never existed in the first place. But that was beyond his ability to change. Azrael was already standing by to reap him. He'd already accepted what his fate would be. But Aziraphale refused to let that happen to Crowley. And if he couldn't stop the demon from pouring every shred of his strength and life into the useless endeavor, then he could only hope that She would listen to his plea. She was Crowley's only chance.

"And if your demise should cause him to seek out his own destruction regardless?" She asked calmly, even as her question brought back memories of a horrifying request and a thermos handed over reluctantly decades later. "Your flaming sword was not made to be cast aside or left behind. He does not shine as bright alone."

Frantic and desperately trying not to imagine Crowley doing something impulsive and terrible, Aziraphale begged, "Then let him forget me. As if I never existed. Or have Crowley think that I did something cruel and that he hates me so that he'll be glad I'm gone. He can forget me. He can hate me. Whatever it takes. Please, Lord, just don't let him die. Not because of me. Don't let him die like this. He can hate me. Just as long as he's safe."

He had nothing to offer Her. Aziraphale had absolutely nothing. He had no strength left. No knowledge to trade. He couldn't even offer up his own life in exchange. His existence was hanging by a thread. A thread that he desperately wanted to sever. All that he had was Crowley's distant voice reminding him of what he could lose.

Aziraphale knew that he had nothing that he could offer, even if She was the type to bargain with Her angels. Which She was not. If She had been, then perhaps something could have been worked out with Lucifer and the others before the Rebellion and the Fall. But then, how would one make a deal with eternity and infinity? How could you offer anything to one who is all-knowing and all-powerful? She did not make deals and bargains with Her angels.

But that didn't mean She was uncaring. She could be kind and She could be merciful. The strength of Her fury was mirrored by the depths of Her love. And Aziraphale hoped that She would show Crowley at least that much mercy.

He was a demon. He had Fallen. But perhaps She could still show him a little mercy.

"One praying for you to live while you ask to die," She said calmly. "I will not alter his memories, Aziraphale. His mind, his thoughts, and his decisions will remain his own. And if you want your existence to end before he burns himself out, that will be your decision."

"I can't," said Aziraphale weakly. "I've tried. I can't."

Drawing closer to the faint and flickering light that was the dying angel, Azrael said, "THEN THE DEMON CROWLEY WILL SOON FALL INTO MY CARE."

No. Please, no. Aziraphale refused. He couldn't let that happen.

"—no… please, no… Aziraphale… I can't… I… I—"

The broken, exhausted, and quiet words slowed and weakened as Crowley spoke. And the shared strength was almost gone. The frail connection to existence was growing thin again. But Crowley didn't let go. He didn't stop.

Crowley was killing himself trying to do the impossible and yet wouldn't stop.

"I'm sorry," murmured Aziraphale before throwing everything into a final attempt to break free.

It was sudden and unexpected. And Crowley had already used nearly all of his strength. He held tight, but it wasn't enough. And with an indescribable sensation of something snapping, Aziraphale tore away. A sudden move from Death and the guttering light went dark.

Oh… That felt strange. Like he was coming apart, his mind unraveling around the edges. Everything hazy and cloudy. Azrael somehow held whatever was left of him. It wasn't so bad. Death. Just… different.

Was this what… falling asleep felt like?

"ETERNAL REST," said Azrael, his voice sounding strangely fuzzy now. "YOUR TIME IS OVER, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. REST NOW."

Did angels simply… fade away? Felt like it. Might be nice. Just… disappear…

Wait… He'd been… worried? About… someone…

…Crowley?

"I SHALL NOT BE COLLECTING HIM THIS EVENING."

Good… That was… good…

He was… drifting away. Fading. Like his memories.

Nothing. He felt like… nothing.

"Aziraphale," She said, forcing him to pay attention despite barely remember who he used to be. "Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Principality. Protector of Earth and Humanity."

Was that… him? He tried to hold onto that identity a little longer. Everything kept slipping away.

A soft and gentle sensation. Like a parent… brushing back his hair.

Did he… used to have hair? A shape?

Hazy… Can't remember…

"You made a sacrifice out of mercy and kindness," She continued. "He prayed to Me when he had no reason to believe that I would listen, an act of faith and hope. And both of your decisions were made from love. Neither of you can accept a world that does not include the other." There was a feeling of a bemused smile. "What am I going to do with the pair of you?"

Didn't matter. He was… He…

"Despite everything that has happened, you are both still Mine. My bright shield and My flaming sword. You have a role yet to play in My Plan. And one should not exist without the other," She said mysteriously. "Your own side. The existence of one bound to the other."

"ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE MY JOB MORE COMPLICATED ON PURPOSE?"

"Not that complicated, Azrael. Make certain that you put everything where it belongs before you move on. What needs to be done shall be."

"VERY WELL. BUT AFTERWARDS, I SHALL RETURN TO MY MORE USUAL DUTIES. I AM BUSY ENOUGH WITH THE TASKS THAT YOU ORIGINALLY GAVE ME WITHOUT THESE DISTRACTIONS."

Talking… Who…? Don't… understand…

Can't focus…

Drifting away… apart…

Then there was an uncomfortable jolt, and he could feel discomfort again, before a warm and bright light engulfed him. And then darkness swept in.

This was originally meant to be a one-shot. But it was getting a bit long, so I decided to split it in half. I hope you don't mind.