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Aziraphale was not born a fighter, no matter the fine print in every molecule of his being. He refused the aching call of action in his essence before Grace pressed into his Will.
The clash of holy light thrums in his ears like a chorus. Inevitable and present, like the weight of the sword in his hand.
It hasn't been long since Michael arose to arms with a booming voice and a purpose. A part of himself knows what this is. War, She told them. And Aziraphale had heard the word like thunder and crash like a command.
He saw reality bend and break at the Archangels' will and air splitting from Seraphim's hisses. He knows he'd hear the turning of wheels and screeching of spirit roars, rising chirps, and bellow booms—the song of pommels and the clacking of shields—if he chose to hear them.
He refused, as he could only understand the rising cries of angels and archangels begging him for instruction, for mercy. Asking grumbles of questions that he hears but cannot understand. Again and again, until Lucifer descended out of Heaven and split existence as it was. Michael cried out like a crashing waterfall, and Aziraphale barely registered the stab of pain in his right leg. Hardly registers the smell of smelt and sulfur, burnt wood, and wounds. With a shock of adrenaline, he rushes to the closest being he can find, his arm at the ready.
Aziraphale had known his name in passing. Like a dying ember in his memory that keeps trying to come back to life.
"Why must you do this?" Aziraphale hears the Virtue before him chant under his curls of hair, and Aziraphale tells himself not to listen, "What do you gain from this?"
There are echoes in his mind, ozone feeling like a knot inside his chest. His siblings Fall left and right, and Her Love leaves them like heat as Aziraphale holds the Virtue's robe tighter and his quilt firmer.
With a sound voice, he says, "I won't listen," and he stands faithful because he trusts Her, "you're a traitor!"
The name still burns at the back of Aziraphale's throat until he finally—finally—raises his face to him. Golden eyes watch him with an emotion Aziraphale cannot name, the Virtue clasps his hands around the fist on his robes, not caring that the end of his sword is nearly clipping his collarbone.
"You're beautiful," is all he gets to whisper before he turns into the last echoing cry.