Chapter Text
The night doesn't scare Aziraphale. It's the day that he fears. Which is why his knees are jelly and his palms are slick with sweat. He wishes they weren't. He can't afford to lose an ounce of hydration. Not if he's going to make it beyond the walls of Eden and to the shelter of the cliffs before the sun climbs over the horizon and sprawls out over the landscape, claiming anything unlucky enough, or stupid enough, to be above ground.
When he was a boy his great-grandmother would tell him stories about walking in the daylight when she was a little girl. Basking in it even. How the rich and the powerful would seek it out and spend weeks letting it touch every corner of their bodies. The images he's seen on the covers of the few books that have survived make his skin crawl. All that flesh laid bare. He shudders at the thought. Cinches his hood tight and checks for any gaps between it and the heavy cloak draped over his shoulders. Rearranges the kidney-shaped bladder tucked beneath. It feels too light. He knows Ana and Adam won't have been able to save as much as him, his position has earned him some advantages they don't have. But even so, he's been rationing his water allowance for a month and it still doesn't seem like enough. They'll have to be careful if they want to make it to the nearest outpost. He prays that the seeds he swiped from Uriel will be worth enough to fill it again once they get there. And that she doesn't notice they've gone missing until he's put a day between them.
Aziraphale hefts his pack over his shoulder and slips into the darkened corridor, running his fingers over the cut stone walls. He knows this labyrinth of passages and chambers by heart. Doesn't need to see to be able to make it where he needs to be. But the faint glow of a candle in the distance casts enough light for him to make out the low ceiling and the entryways scattered along the corridor's length, some covered with a heavy drape of fabric and leading to people's dens. Others dark and empty, the yawning mouths of tunnels stretching out for miles in every direction, some of them plunging deeper into the earth, others angling up toward the surface.
The candle flickers as he approaches, the flame leaning over, following a current of air that Aziraphale can only feel when he closes his eyes and focuses. A compass arrow, pointing to the surface. Ana and Adam will be on the upper levels, not far from the gate he's sworn to protect. The gate that greets the sun. Tonight he'll leave it vulnerable for the first time since he was initiated into service. He'd be lying if he said it didn't cut into the core of him. He never asked for the responsibility, but it's his birthright. And by abandoning his post, he's abandoning Eden. He'll never be able to step inside its walls again.
Halfway down the corridor he turns and takes a side passage. The muscles in his legs tell him he's moving up, climbing toward the sun-baked stretch of desert that lies within Eden's borders. The walls close in on him until both his shoulders brush against them with every step. And then the corridor ends and he's standing in a towering chamber. The cathedral. Once upon a time it was filled with water. Not anymore. The whole cavern is dry as a bone. The ceiling is still dotted with stalactites, but they're dormant now, no moisture drips from their frail tips. Hasn’t for nearly four decades. Still, the memory of the underground lake remains, etched into the smooth rock beneath his feet. If he were to drag his palms over the walls he could feel where centuries of water lapping at the stone had worn down the jagged edges before human greed had drained it in the blink of an eye.
It's in this space that Eden holds ceremonies. Where they pray and praise. Where they distribute the scant harvest, so carefully tended beneath the moonlight. And where, having disappointed the gods, they will offer their penance.
A sacrifice.
There's almost no light illuminating the cathedral, only the whisper of the candle from the corridor behind him, but Aziraphale can see all the same. There's the pulpit to his left, where Gabriel gives his sermons. Where in three days time he'll drain the life from a boy who did nothing but be born at the wrong time.
Aziraphale avoids the centre of the cathedral. Skirts the wall until he can step through a thick drape into a small room at the back.
As he scoops the fabric aside, light spills out around him. He raises his forearm to his eyes and for the first time since he stepped out of his den, he's truly blind. But even without his sight, he knows each wall. The height of the ceiling. Even if he’d never stepped foot here before he’d be able to sense them. Just like he senses the two souls in front of him. He can feel their bodies in the space. Can hear a sharp intake of breath. The rustling of a cloak. Their hearts crashing in their chests.
Aziraphale blinks. Squints against the light to find the hardened lines of Ana's face. There's a softness around her eyes that hints at how little she's slept as of late, but the set of her jaw tells of her determination.
"I wasn't sure you were coming."
"I told you I'd be here."
Ana nods and squeezes the shoulders of the young boy standing in front of her.
"Is the gate clear?"
"I need ten minutes to relieve Michael of duty. Then we'll leave."
Her brow pinches and her hands meet across the boy's collarbones. "Are we doing the right thing?"
Aziraphale doesn't know how to answer. He's spent a long time praying about it. Hours and hours while he stared at the gate, knowing the sun was on the other side. The gods didn't speak to him the way they do to Gabriel. Or at least the way Gabriel claims they do. He's not sure anymore. Not after the things he's seen. The conversations he's overheard.
"Tonight's our only chance. I'll be waiting for you."
He doesn't look at Adam. He can't. He's old enough now to understand what is expected of him. The fate that awaits him. And the consequences of leaving. Instead, Aziraphale turns and ducks back into the darkness. Skims the water-worn walls all the way to the passage that leads to the surface. The corridor here is narrow, just like the one leading into the cathedral. A way to force worshippers into single file, to make it feel like rebirth every time they gather. And then again when they step out of the system and into the moonlight.
At the end of the corridor, Michael is stretched out with her feet propped up on what remains of a broken stalagmite. There's a candle that's more puddle than anything else, casting shadows on the stacked rubble walls and high ceiling, a portal into the earth constructed generations ago. Behind her is a wooden gate at least twice her height and built out of solid ash. The gates at each of the four cardinal directions are among the few objects in Eden made of wood, the trees having died out long ago. The Eastern gate is carved with the image of Janus, faces looking forward and back.
Michael stretches and groans. Her feet fall to the floor. "Another quiet night."
Aziraphale tips his chin and hopes that the bladder under his cloak isn't noticeable, that its weight obscures it.
Michael's cloak is thin. Light. A symbol of her status more than anything. She doesn't wear the hood that Aziraphale keeps drawn tight. Doesn't need to. Aziraphale risks more, guarding this gate during the day, and though it's been years since anyone has tried to breach at all, stories make their way to Eden, riding on the tongues of travellers and traders. War parties that have learned to travel under the sun. Tribes looking to take control of the few places where the water table can still be accessed. Savages as likely to slaughter you and drink your blood as they are to relieve you of your water bladder.
And Eden's own scouting parties have reported sightings at the furthest reaches of the empire.
If they were to come today, Eden might fall.
Aziraphale forces his face into a mask of calm. Pretends it's just like any other morning. "Here's to a quiet day."
Michael isn't usually one to linger, but with dawn looming only a few short hours away she hesitates as she stands. Her fingers trace the dagger at her hip. "Stay strong, cousin. I've seen doubt in the witch's eyes."
It's hard to swallow down the anger building under his ribs. Ana has done nothing but be a source of guidance for Eden. Has shared her gift. Her prophecies have saved countless lives, and still the community wants more from her. "She'll see reason. She'll do what's right. Trust, cousin."
Michael nods, but it's short. She doesn't look convinced.
"I admire your faith."
With that she sweeps down the corridor and is eaten up by the darkness. Aziraphale's never been fond of Michael, never been fond of many people at all really, but the realisation that he'll never see her again settles heavy on his shoulders. There's a growing ache there that has nothing to do with the weight of the bladder and his pack and the thick cloak that will protect him from the earliest light of the sun when he leaves this place for the last time.
It feels like an eternity pacing from one side of the gate to the other, alone in the comforting embrace of the dark, the candle having snuffed itself out as if it were privy to Aziraphale's plan. The moment Ana and Adam step into the corridor from the cathedral, Aziraphale knows. He can hear them. Can smell them. Not everyone in Eden is bestowed with his gift. In fact, almost no one is. Gabriel says Aziraphale is the way of the future. That he needs to spread his seed to populate Eden with a lineage bred to live underground. He scoffs at Aziraphale's protestations. Accepts that as a Guardian he could never take a woman's hand in marriage but doesn't understand how he hasn't lived up to his duty to procreate. No matter how many times Aziraphale has explained it to him.
Ana and Adam arrive in the dark, their fingers trailing the walls. The gate groans and protests but eventually gives under Aziraphale's weight and they step into the moonlight side by side. Aziraphale has to dig his feet into the earth to push it closed after them. With Eden beneath their feet, Aziraphale turns his face up to the sinking moon.
"She'll rise soon. If we move fast we can shelter in the cliffs at the edge of Eden's territory."
Ana stares back at the gate. At the knots and the grain and the wards carved into the wood by her ancestors a century ago.
"Change is coming."
Aziraphale's voice barely rises above the wind carving ridges into the landscape. "We can only hope so."
The trek to the cliffs feels long. Every few steps Aziraphale looks over his shoulder, convinced that there are foot soldiers after them, and every time he's met with the same grim view. An endless stretch of sand and the spectre of Eden's walls towering in the distance. Walls surrounding nothing but empty desert, and four gates, all but one protected by a Guardian born to give their life for Eden.
The quiet early morning air is punctuated with the warble of foxes making one last ditch attempt at hunting down mice or scorpions before the sun makes her appearance. It reminds Aziraphale that life flourishes here despite the fate that has befallen them. That the heat of the day hasn't kept nature at bay.
Ana and Aziraphale don't speak. Only their hurried footsteps sinking through the delicate crust coating the desert mark their journey. Even Adam, a normally rambunctious and outspoken boy, wise beyond his years but still immature enough to seek out validation, is quiet as he walks in the footsteps Aziraphale leaves behind.
The first grey-blue glow of the sun is lighting up the morning sky by the time they’re standing beneath the cliffs. He can see Ana adjusting Adam's hood as they trudge ever forward, pulling the darkened lenses down over his eyes before the sun can creep over the earth and shine down with all her might. Aziraphale adjusts the lenses he’s already wearing and hurries, each step crunching under his weight.
"There's a cavern. Just a little further. We can rest for the day."
"Will it be enough? Are we far enough?"
Aziraphale doesn't know for sure. He can see through the darkness, but he can't see the future. He was hoping maybe Ana would. He knows that Eden will be able to follow their tracks. That their only hope is to pass beyond Eden's claimed territory to ground more well trodden. Whether they can get there before they're spotted is anyone's guess.
"No one will know we've gone for hours. We'll put another day between us before anyone comes searching."
He doesn't believe his own words, but he's hoping Ana doesn't see through them. Or Adam. Aziraphale doesn't know if he has his mother's gift or is simply astute, either way he's just as likely to sniff out his lies.
The climb to the cavern is taxing. Aziraphale's muscles ache. His throat is parched. They don't have enough water. They've already stopped twice to rest and between the three of them the bladder is only two-thirds full. They'll need at least as much to make it to the first outpost beyond the furthest reaches of the empire. He knows at this rate they'll barely make it there. He fingers the seeds in the pocket of his cloak. His most precious possession. They're their saving grace. He's sure of it.
It's longer to the entrance than Aziraphale remembered. By the time they find the crack in the rock that they can slip into, the first true rays of the sun nip at their heels. Urges them over a steep overhang and through the narrow passage into the waiting darkness beyond. Ana and Adam scurry away from the light as Aziraphale unties his cloak and whips it off his shoulders. He tucks it against the stone. Lets the fabric catch on sharp cracks so that he can stretch it taut. Murmurs a prayer that it holds, that the angle of the sun will be forgiving and it will be enough to protect them from the day.
"Rest. When the sun sets we'll go over the ridge. There's an outpost a day's walk from here. I can negotiate a den for the day."
Ana lays her own cloak on the ground and Adam curls onto his side. Aziraphale knows he must be thirsty, but he doesn't ask for anything. He simply tucks his hands under his cheek and closes his eyes.
"How will you do that?"
Aziraphale avoids her gaze. Sets his pack on the ground and tries to ignore the grumble in his stomach.
"I'll figure something out."
"You don't need to do this. I can-"
"You've done enough, Ana. Let me handle this."
She steps close and lowers her voice. "You can still turn back. Say you trailed me and got caught by dawn. As soon as she sets…"
Aziraphale tugs his hood off over his head and can feel his curls spring free and fall against his forehead. He doesn't miss the way Ana's eyes fall on them. He doesn't blame her. Everyone looks. And besides, she doesn't look because of surprise or fear or disgust. Her gaze is born out of concern. About what people might do if they see. "I can't go back there."
"Gabriel-"
"Is wrong. Here." He hands Ana the bladder and waves a hand at Adam. "He'll need energy for tomorrow. Make sure he drinks."
She hesitates but takes it from him. Kneels at her son's side and pours it between his lips, careful not to lose a drop. Then she sets it aside and wraps her body around his, putting herself between him and the entrance, that fragile place where the sun may sneak through. It's a gesture of affection Aziraphale hasn't been on the receiving end of in too long, and likely never will be again. Something cracks in his chest but he ignores it, just like he learned to do when he was given the Eastern gate.
Aziraphale sits with his back against the wall and stares at his cloak. At the fingers of light creeping in around its edges. He's prepared to do whatever he needs to do to protect it.
Today, this is his gate.