Chapter Text
Aziraphale had a fraught relationship with combat training. On the one hand, he had never been drawn to violence, and the archangel Camiel was a stern taskmaster. Frankly, if Aziraphale thought too long about the prospect of destroying anyone he began to feel sick. And yet, on the other hand, he was held in higher esteem as a warrior than as a worker bee. He did his best to do as he was told, but he was never quite fast enough, or meticulous enough, or good enough with the grunt work that Gabriel handed off to him. By comparison, an accurate strike with the sword was irrefutable. For as uncomfortable as combat was, he was good at it. Not to mention, there was something invigorating about good exercise, and his limited conversations with Camiel were perhaps his most reliable source of social interaction. A strong argument could be made that combat training was good for him.
Combat training had an almost reassuring rhythm. There was a predictability to it, no matter how many ways Camiel endeavored to mimic the chaos of war. His teacher was still compelled by the logic and ethics of good training practices, and there would always be repetition in the exercises. Aziraphale preferred target practice, by far. Proving his skill against unfeeling dummies was the best of both worlds: no suffering, all of the validation.
However, every light has its shadow. The worst of the exercises were executions. Not that Camiel referred to them that way; they called them “Hands-on experience.” “Executions” was more accurate, but Aziraphale didn’t dare describe them that way out loud. “Hands-on experience” was one of the simplest tasks put before Aziraphale, but also the most unsettling: every so often, a captured demon would be pushed before him, and Aziraphale would be tasked with their destruction. One blow of his sword, lit with holy fire, and the demon burned away into ashes, expelled from Her creation entirely.
It had been too long since an execution.
It was difficult (and not especially necessary) to keep time in Heaven, but Aziraphale could feel it. It was only a matter of time. Nonetheless, he dutifully reported to Camiel when summoned. Training offered him such a valuable change of pace from his tedious work.
“We must be prepared,” Camiel reminded him as he took up his sword, “war is coming.” Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t have a better answer for any of their comments about The War. Much of Heaven, it seemed, eagerly anticipated the inevitable, indeterminate war time. Aziraphale quickly put thoughts of war aside when Camiel presented him with a training range, filled with inanimate dummies. Perfect.
He made quick work of the course, navigating easily amongst the familiar obstacles. For all of Camiel’s creativity and dedication to strengthening Heaven’s army, a dummy is a dummy, is a dummy.
“Excellent work,” Camiel confirmed as Aziraphale turned back to his teacher, “as expected. Bring it in!” With a broad gesture Camiel ushered in two angels, a demon’s crumpled form dragged between them. The swelling pride that had filled Aziraphale’s chest at the compliments dropped like a stone into the pit of his stomach. He swallowed hard, bracing himself for the task ahead.
The demon was placed unceremoniously before him, a ball of black and red, head hanging low, and the other two angels retreated. Camiel took a step back and folded their hands behind their back. They nodded to Aziraphale.
“Go on, Aziraphale,” they said, and the demon’s head snapped up. “Destroy it.” Yellow eyes with slit pupils stared up a Aziraphale through stray strands of tangled red hair.
“Aziraphale?” the demon asked in a hoarse whisper, wide eyes brimming with tears. Aziraphale turned to Camiel,
“What did—“ Camiel sighed before Aziraphale could finish the question. His teacher had never been especially fond of Aziraphale’s instance on knowing what evil demons had wrought before he put an end to them. Camiel begrudgingly explained,
“He’s the serpent of Eden, Aziraphale. He caused the fall. If that’s not enough, he instigated at least four major wars, and is on record as one of Hell’s best operatives. They love him down there.” Camiel was watching Aziraphale closely. One wrong move and the weight of Camiel’s disappointment would fall on Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale turned back to the demon.
One of the many reasons Aziraphale hated this task was the state the demons were in by the time they were handed off to him. This one was no exception. Blood trailed down the demon’s face from a wound under his mess of red hair, and shards of tinted glass were embedded in one cheek. A bruise bloomed on the other. As always, his arms were restrained tightly behind him, and his wings were out, one hanging limp and broken to one side. The serpent’s black clothes made it hard to make out what other injuries he’d sustained, but the wet blotches scattered about his body made it clear that plenty of damage had been done. Aziraphale swallowed hard and gripped his sword. The demon’s eyes never left his.
“I didn’t do any of that,” the demon told him in the same hoarse voice, “‘cept the apple. I was in Eden. Please, Aziraphale,” the demon pleaded, tears dripping down his face. Aziraphale could see Camiel’s frown out of the corner of his eye. “Please,” the demon whimpered once more, voice cracking.
Aziraphale took a deep breath. He raised his sword, lit with holy fire, and plunged it through the demon’s chest. A scream rent the air.
Camiel’s frown faded as they watched the demon dissolve into ash around the sword. The demon’s cuffs clattered to the ground. After a moment, when the demon was undeniably destroyed, Aziraphale straightened, removing his sword from where it had lodged in the floor with a quick tug. By the time he turned back to Camiel the hint of a smile was tugging at one corner of their mouth.
“Perfect,” they told him. “You will be invaluable to Heaven, when the time comes.”
“Thank you,” Aziraphale said with a short nod.