Orpheus dreamt that he'd had a life. He and his wife had grown old together. They had children and grandchildren. Their love was as strong and steadfast as it always had been, ever since the moment when they'd first set eyes on each other. They would be together forever, even when they passed on and into the Elysian Fields.
He awoke to find that none of those things were true. His eyes burned, cold tears ran down his face, and he tasted salt on his lips. He dearly wished that he could go back to sleep. But when he gazed through the open door and up at the sky, he saw the position of the stars and realised that hardly any time had passed since he'd last looked at them. His dream could only have lasted a few minutes.
All that was left of him was a remnant: a severed head, sitting on an altar, in a temple, on a tiny island in the Adriatic Sea, where he had been for centuries. For all that time, he had been tended by the same family of humble fisher folk, who revered him as a last connection to the gods, heroes and monsters of ancient myth. No matter how tedious his immortal existence could be, he much preferred this quiet, peaceful place to what had happened to him before he had been brought here: passed from charlatan to mystic to would-be despot, all over Europe, from those who saw him as an amusing toy to those who saw him as a tool or a weapon they could use against their enemies. He didn't need to worry about that now. There was no need to worry about anything at all.
For hours, he waited. There was always something to see: the lights in the house across the bay, distant silhouettes moving here and there, clouds scudding across the sky, a shooting star, seabirds, the blood orange sunrise… And still he waited. How long had it been? Just a few days? Months? Years? He couldn't be sure.
He heard familiar voices. His aunt, Mania. His father, Morpheus. Had he drifted into another dream? Or had the dream come to him?
Mania was pleading: "I want to say hello or goodbye or something. I could show him my doggie. Please? I went to his wedding."
At first, the answer was a firm no, but after her entreaties this was commuted to: "Very well. But the dog remains outside."
She appeared in the doorway. Mania, whom some called Delirium of the Endless, was ragged and dishevelled, with mismatched eyes and a mane of unkempt red hair that flew wild in all directions. Her lips were smeared with red lipstick, which appeared to have been applied by a child wearing boxing gloves in a windstorm. "Orpheus?" She craned her neck to look at him from another angle. "You look different. Um. But also the same."
"Hello my aunt." He tried to smile at her. The divine power that gave him a semblance of life, though he'd been reduced to a mere relic, enabled him to do such things.
"Well, I just came to say. And now I'm going away again." She waved to him. A desultory gesture. Then, she wheeled around and seemed ready to scurry away, but something gave her pause. Standing in the doorway, she drew herself up to her full, unimpressive height, posed as if she were a snooty waitress in the kind of upper-class restaurant Orpheus had only ever glimpsed in visions, and said, "The quality of mercy is not strained, but I recommend the yoghurt."
"Yes, I know," said Morpheus, entering the room, even as his sister fled from it. "I am well aware."
"Father…" Looking up at a figure who was just as monochrome, tall and imposing as he had ever been, Orpheus hardly dared to hope.
"Orpheus. I apologize for that intrusion," said his father. "I did not intend for her to…" He paused as if unsure about what he had actually intended.
"It doesn't matter. Thank you for coming back."
"Did you doubt that I would? I gave my word." Morpheus stood with his arms folded, looking down at him.
"I know. How was my uncle?" Orpheus asked. With his oracular gifts, he had seen where Olethros was, despite his attempts to hide himself forever, but he was less sure about 'how' or 'why' or what he had become.
His father was unable to give a clear answer. He gazed past Orpheus, at the blank wall behind him, as he described how Olethros had changed somewhat, but in many ways he was the same as before, and now he was gone again. "We do not always accomplish what we set out to do," he murmured.
"Mother visited me last year. She said that you had freed her from imprisonment," said Orpheus. "You have changed, since the old days."
"I doubt it."
Orpheus's mouth was dry. Had it ever been this dry before? Or had he only just noticed? It had been thousands of years since he'd had anything to drink, after all. Frantic words escaped his lips, as if bursting out of the parched ground in which they had been buried: "Father, I am very scared."
"You asked for a boon, Orpheus. I can grant it."
He couldn't understand why he was so afraid. It made no sense. Ever since the maenads had torn him apart, so long ago, he had begged for death, prayed for it, hoped that the gods would show him mercy, and wanted nothing more than an end to his suffering. It should have come as a relief. But now it was finally at hand, he was terrified. He explained all this to his father and said, "Do you remember what you said to me, back then? 'Your life is your own. Your death, likewise, always and forever your own. Farewell. We shall not meet again.' Those were your exact words. I have had plenty of time to think on them."
There was no reply. His father was, perhaps, a little more rigid and impassive than before.
"I should have died a long time ago," said Orpheus.
His father inclined his head, just slightly.
"I wish that things had been otherwise."
A hoarse mutter followed his words: "Yes."
"Father, I am ready," said Orpheus.
There was a nod. "She will be waiting for you."
"Do you really think so?"
"I… I don't know," his father admitted. "But it seemed like the sort of thing I should say.
Orpheus sighed, though he was more amused than exasperated. "Thank you."
Moving as slowly and inexorably as the stars in the sky, his father – Lord Morpheus, the Dream King, Dream of the Endless – lifted him off the altar, cradled him in his arms, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. He reached for something very far away, beyond even an oracle's vision.
And then Orpheus was gone. This time, there was nothing left. He could finally rest.
Tanya had so many other important matters to attend to that this interview had been almost indefinitely delayed, but she had finally got around to asking Hastur what he knew about the Antichrist. The first question she asked was one that had been preying on her mind for some time: "Where did the Antichrist come from?"
"Uh, dunno," said her most loyal general. He was sitting in her office, across the desk from her, looking unaccountably nervous. "What do you mean?"
"Someone must have handed him over to you and Ligur before you passed him on to Crowley? Who was it?"
His craggy features creased with the effort of remembering. "We had to collect him from… somewhere."
"Why don't you remember?" Tanya asked. "You were given a great honor, which I'm sure would have made many other demons jealous of you, so why has it slipped your mind almost completely?"
"Yeah. Seems odd, doesn't it?" Hastur scratched his head, looking bashful. "I dunno why."
"Could someone have tampered with your memories?"
"I suppose it's possible, but why would they bother?"
Tanya didn't have enough information to be able to give that question a proper answer, but she had her suspicions. It seemed likely that this was one of Being X's plots, part of his ongoing master plan. Perhaps he was making sure all of his playing pieces were in position, ready for the apocalyptic endgame. But if that was the case, why would he do anything to Hastur's memories? What was the reason for this secrecy?
She tried a different tack: "If Lucifer is the Antichrist's father, who is his mother?"
That seemed to dredge something up from the dark recesses of Hastur's memory: "Right, yeah… I remember now. There was a cult. Performing dark satanic rituals and so on. They summoned Lucifer and…" He paused, grimaced and screwed his eyes shut for a moment. In a dull voice, he continued, "Nine months later, the Antichrist was born. We were sent to collect him."
Thoughts raced through Tanya's mind as she considered this new information. It now seemed likely that Lucifer himself had been the one to tamper with Hastur's memories, presumably because he was ashamed of what he'd done or what the cultists had forced him to do. Perhaps he'd given in to his hedonistic urges – or had he tried to resist, knowing what would happen if he did not? Had he been an unwilling participant in the conception of the Antichrist? When she'd spoken to him about it, he'd insisted that it hadn't been rape; but at the same time, he'd told her that he hadn't been given a choice, so what was the truth? Lucifer was one of the most powerful beings in all of creation; how had the cultists managed to take control of him and compel him to do their bidding, if indeed that was what they had done? Had Being X somehow weakened him or his willpower at a critical moment? Was that the real reason why he had given up his position as King of Hell? Because he was sick and tired of being toyed with?
If so, he'd done a poor job of erasing the relevant memories from Hastur's mind, to the extent that most of them had been recovered with barely any effort. Was that due to arrogance? Had he assumed that no one would ever notice what he'd done? Or was it a sign of his distress that he'd made a number of mistakes while he was trying to hide the evidence of what had happened to him?
She briefly entertained the idea of visiting Lucifer again and asking him if any of her theories were correct, but she knew that it would only serve to infuriate him for no possible benefit other than satisfying her curiosity. Perhaps she'd discovered the real reason why he'd retired – or part of it, at least – but she didn't really need to know the whole truth.
"Are you all right, Hastur? How do you feel about all this?" she asked, giving him a thoughtful glance.
"Uh, I'm not pleased that someone's been messing with my mind. But there's nothing I can do about it, so…" He shrugged.
Tanya prided herself on being a competent human resources manager. She was well aware of how the quality of her employees' work could suffer due to problems with their mental health. It was for this reason that she said, in her most sympathetic tone of voice, "I think you should take a few days off. Do something you enjoy. Think about something else, for a while."
"Thanks, boss. Sounds good to me," said Hastur. "Maybe I'll try out that new hotel everyone's been talking about."
"The Fawney Rig Hotel." Tanya nodded. "A unique experience for any demon, so I'm told."
A puzzled frown crumpled Hastur's face. "You mean you don't know? I thought it was your idea."
"Like I said, it's a unique experience. Whatever you experience, it won't be the same as what happened to me."
"Makes sense." Planting his feet firmly on the floor, Hastur was about to get up, but first it must have occurred to him to ask: "Was there anything else?"
"No, you're free to go," said Tanya. "Just remember, if you ever need to talk to someone, my door is always open."
Hastur's frown had not quite departed his face before it was called back into action once again. "No, it isn't. It's usually closed. I had to knock a few times before you let me in earlier – do you remember?"
"Figuratively, I mean."
"Right, that makes more sense," said Hastur, though he still looked mildly perplexed. He stood up. "Anyway, I'll be off now. See you later."
"In about a week's time," said Tanya. "Make sure you rest and come back refreshed."
He nodded to her as he walked away and out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Afterwards, Tanya spent a few minutes making notes on what she'd just learnt, her various speculations and how they might affect her plans going forward.
'It shouldn't make much difference,' she decided, after some consideration.
Aziraphale's bookshop was closed, as usual. The idea of parting with any of his rarer tomes appalled him, so he'd gone to some lengths to deter customers from trying to buy anything from him, with irregular opening times, a confusing and illogical store layout in which nothing was in alphabetical order, and being generally unhelpful whenever he was approached by anyone who was looking around the shop.
"Why do you even have a bookshop if you don't want people to buy anything from it?" Crowley had asked. "Just keep it as your own private library."
"I like the idea of having a bookshop," Aziraphale had tried to explain. "But the idea of selling books is rather less appealing."
Crowley's reply to that had been a derisive snort.
"Besides, it's part of my cover. 'Bookshop owner' is much less suspicious than 'mysterious individual who has plenty of money and rare books for no apparent reason', don't you think?"
"Aziraphale, anyone who had any reason to notice you would find you extremely suspicious, especially since you're a bookshop owner who doesn't want to sell any books."
"Even so," Aziraphale had said, bringing the argument to a close. You couldn't argue with 'even so'.
Most of the time, while the bookshop wasn't open, Aziraphale devoted himself to small acts of kindness and charity, improving the lives of people around him in dozens of little ways, so they would go on to do the same to others, thereby spreading the light of goodness much further than he could have done on his own, without attracting much attention like dramatic acts of heroism or self-sacrifice would. He did this fully in the knowledge that, at the same time, Crowley was doing the opposite: making people's lives more difficult and frustrating wherever he could, causing them to treat others badly in return, spreading annoyance, unpleasantness and low-grade evil as if they were nasty little diseases. Overall, he and Crowley countered each other perfectly. Everything they had done over thousands of years, some of which had involved painstaking effort and hard work, had meant nothing in the long run. They'd made no real difference whatsoever. In some ways, maybe that could be seen as a good thing: it meant that the majority of humans were free to live their own lives without supernatural beings interfering in their decision-making, but Aziraphale couldn't help wondering if he could have been doing something more productive with his immortal life. Now that the Apocalypse was near – only a few years away – he regretted that he'd wasted so much of his existence.
Crowley had been busy recently, much too busy to bother with his usual tricks, which meant that Aziraphale was temporarily unopposed. Whatever good he did now might finally make a difference, tipping the balance in favor of morality and virtue. But would it be too little, too late? Almost certainly, but what else could he do?
He was roused from these gloomy thoughts by the sharp crack of a knock on the front door: steady, unhurried, but demanding attention nonetheless.
"Now, who could that be?" he wondered aloud. Crowley wouldn't bother to knock, the postman never gave more than a perfunctory knock, and he'd never been bothered by door-to-door salespeople after the first time. He found himself hoping that it was the Jehovah's Witnesses. They had knocked on his door once, some years ago, and he'd invited them inside for tea, biscuits and a lovely chat, but they'd not been back since then. He couldn't think why.
More knocking, more insistent than before.
When Aziraphale went to answer it, he was surprised to find one of his fellow angels standing on the doorstep. It was Zauriel, widely considered to be a dangerous crackpot by many of his fellows; he'd spent more than a decade masquerading as an American superhero. He was in human form, but no less recognizable for that.
"Good afternoon," said Aziraphale, blinking at him. "This is… an unexpected delight."
"It's good to see you too," said his colleague, with a strained smile.
"Would you like to come in?"
"I think that would be for the best."
Aziraphale backed away and made an ushering gesture with his hands, indicating that Zauriel should follow him through the shop and into the back rooms where they could sit down in comfort. Perhaps the full meaning of this gesture wasn't immediately apparent, but the other angel followed him regardless.
"Cup of tea?"
"Unfortunately, this isn't a social call," Zauriel began, but then he hesitated and reconsidered. "But that's no reason why I should refuse your hospitality. So yes, I would like a cup of tea, please."
"Milk? Sugar?"
"Whatever you'd recommend," said Zauriel, whose body language clearly conveyed that he couldn't care less.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," said Aziraphale, waving to his battered old armchairs. He heard muttered thanks.
Heading into the kitchen, he prepared two cups of tea, just the way he liked it. This gave him time to think. When the other angel had appeared on his doorstep, his first thought had been that his unseemly relationship with Crowley had been discovered and that he would soon be condemned and punished for it. But if that was the case, it was unlikely that Zauriel would have come alone or accepted his offer of a cup of tea. There must be some other reason. What could it be? It had already been established that this wasn't a social call – not that Aziraphale would ever have expected Zauriel to visit him for the pleasure of his company – they weren't friends and they had little in common. Although they were on the same side and doing the same job, they approached it from different angles and with different attitudes. He respected Zauriel for his earnest desire to help people, even if he went about it in a ridiculous and melodramatic way, but he couldn't imagine getting together with him in any kind of social setting. What on earth would they talk about?
There was no way to know without speaking to him. When the tea had finished brewing, Aziraphale arranged his face in a politely attentive expression and returned to the sitting room with two steaming cups, handing one to Zauriel and keeping the other for himself. Sitting down in the armchair opposite his colleague, he said, "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"
Slowly and carefully, as if he were handling some kind of explosive device, Zauriel put down his teacup on the side table next to him. "It's about the Apocalypse."
"What about it?"
"I have been told that it's due to take place in three years' time. Is that correct?"
"I've been told the same thing," said Aziraphale, sipping his tea. He could see no reason to hide this information; no one had forbidden him from sharing it with his fellow angels, all of whom should already know it.
"What about the Antichrist? Do you know anything about him?"
Aziraphale hesitated, but again he saw no reason not to tell Zauriel. In fact, he was appalled by how ill-informed his colleague seemed to be. "His name is Warlock Dowling. He's the son of the US ambassador to the UK."
"So, it's true," said Zauriel, slumping in his chair. "Exactly as she said…"
Raising an inquiring eyebrow, Aziraphale waited for him to gather his thoughts. Though he was tempted to ask who the other angel's mysterious informant had been, he remained silent so as not to redirect the conversation along an irrelevant tangent. Instead, he would remain focused on what was really important.
"I thought we had much longer. We helped to build such a vast and beautiful universe, which could last for billions of years, but now I know it will soon come to an end… I can't help but grieve," said Zauriel. Then, as if he felt the need to justify himself, he continued, "I grieve for all those who will suffer horrible deaths during the Apocalypse. I grieve for those who will never be redeemed, who will never have a chance to prove that they deserve Heaven. And I grieve for everything that will soon be gone forever."
"We should all be glad that good will soon triumph and evil will be vanquished once and for all," said Aziraphale, dutifully. He wasn't about to voice his true, complicated opinions where any of his fellow angels could hear them. "However, in many ways, I agree with you. I pray that God will be merciful."
They stared at each other for several uncomfortable moments. Their conversation could have continued – Aziraphale had plenty of things he wanted to say and he suspected Zauriel did too – but he didn't trust him enough to share his private thoughts with him. Even if they had similar feelings about the Apocalypse, in all other respects there was a gulf between them that might never be bridged.
"I should go. Thank you for the tea," said Zauriel, despite the fact that he hadn't drunk any of it.
"That's quite all right," said Aziraphale, suppressing his irritation and putting on a genial smile. "Thank you for your company."
There were many different pantheons of gods that had been worshipped at some time or other, most of which were barely clinging on to fragments of the power they had once had, but Tanya hoped they would be useful nonetheless. She planned to invite all of them to join her in attempting to stave off the Apocalypse.
Before she did that, she wanted to meet with them, get to know them, and convince them that she would be a worthy leader. To do that, she needed a meeting place. If she asked them to come to Hell, they would refuse; they would assume that it was a trap. Tanya had no way of persuading them otherwise, so she would have to meet them somewhere else. Neutral ground. And so, with that in mind, she returned to the Dreaming once again to ask Dream for another favor…
His kingdom was grim and silent. For once, there were no distractions in her way: no whispers to befuddle her, no labyrinths to mislead her, no fanciful beasts, no far-off silhouettes and no glints of golden treasure. It was the easiest journey through his realm she'd had so far.
She found him sitting on his throne, staring at nothing. There was a mournful look in his eyes. Under normal circumstances, he was prone to dramatic gestures – like imprisoning his former girlfriend in Hell for thousands of years – so she might have expected him to announce his misery to all and sundry with a thunderstorm, anguished cries and wild gestures, but instead he was closed-off and listless.
"Dream King," she said. Then, before she could launch into her prepared speech, she found herself asking, "What's the matter?"
It took him a moment to answer: "I killed my son."
"Orpheus?" asked Tanya, remembering what Death had told her about him: he was immortal and unable to die even after he'd been torn apart by Maenads. For thousands of years, he had been forced to endure a miserable existence in what was left of his shattered body; at any time, death would have been a mercy, but he was beyond her reach.
Dream gave a small nod.
"Well done," said Tanya, giving him a congratulatory smile and thumbs-up. "I'm proud of you. I knew you could do it."
There was no reply and she gradually began to suspect that her reaction had been inappropriate to the situation; Dream didn't want to be praised for what he'd done. He continued to gaze blankly into the distance as if he hadn't heard her.
"It was the right thing to do. You brought his suffering to an end," she told him.
"I spilled family blood," he murmured.
"You did what was necessary. Like I said, I'm proud of you."
"I should have done it sooner."
"Yes, you should have. But…" Tanya hesitated, carefully considering what she was about to say. "I appreciate that you're trying to do better. To do the right thing. To correct the wrongs and mistakes of the past. I know it's not easy."
He didn't reply, but sat in dejected silence, unmoving and unmoved by what she'd said.
Tanya searched the dark caverns of her mind for ideas of what to do next, but found only a few hazy memories of trying to comfort a small child. Not knowing what else to do, she decided to use similar techniques here and now. "Would you like a hug?" she asked.
Dream raised his head almost imperceptibly, which she interpreted as assent.
His sitting position made it awkward, but she managed to squeeze in next to him. She wrapped her arms around him. He was stiff and uncomfortable. "There, there," she said, patting him on the back.
He made a sound that was either a soft chuckle or a sob. "You're terrible at this."
Tanya was affronted, but tried not to let it show. "No one can be good at everything," she said, as she released him, stood up and stepped away from him.
"That's true. And I… I appreciate your sincerity. Considering that your predecessor was the Father of Lies, it seems strange that you should be so devoid of sophistry, but… I appreciate it."
There was a pause while Tanya tried to work out what he meant by that: was it a compliment or stealthy insult?
"And thank you for your kindness. You're a good friend," Dream continued.
"Actually…" Tanya couldn't help but squirm; she'd come to him because she wanted something from him, not because she had any intention of comforting him.
Dream knew her well enough to ask: "Now, what do you want from me?"
"I want to meet with the gods of many different pantheons and ask them to help me prevent the Apocalypse. If I ask them to meet me in Hell, they will refuse because they'll assume I'm trying to lure them into a trap. Therefore, I want to invite them to meet with me in neutral ground, which I would be grateful if you would provide, here in the Dreaming," Tanya explained. "Also, many thousands of years ago, Lucifer made an agreement with the faeries, which I would like to renegotiate, so I'm planning to invite them as well. I would be indebted to you for your assistance in this matter."
"Let's not talk of debts. You've done more than enough for me in the past," said Dream. "Although…" There was a significant pause. When he spoke again, his words had a hurried, discordant quality: "Like you said, I'm trying to do better. You've told me about the importance of forgiveness, so… I would like to forgive Choronzon. He positioned himself as an obstacle in my path and tried to enslave me, but really he was no more than a minor nuisance. I forgive him… and therefore I'd appreciate it if you released him from imprisonment."
"I imprisoned him because he rebelled against me, not because of anything he did to you," Tanya pointed out.
"Even so," said Dream.
Tanya heaved an exasperated sigh. "Fine. I'm sure he won't make a mistake like that again."
"Thank you. That is all I ask," said Dream. "In return, I will create a suitable meeting place for you and ensure that your guests are treated with every courtesy while they are here."
"Are you sure you don't want anything else from me?" asked Tanya. "Choronzon is an irritating little pustule, but his freedom is a small price to pay for what you've agreed to do in exchange."
"It's enough."
"A good deal is one that leaves both parties satisfied and willing to work together again in future – and that is the outcome I would like us to reach – so please tell me if there is anything else I can do for you."
"I am content. I need nothing more," said Dream, with a small shrug.
Tanya looked doubtfully at him. Moments ago, he had been dejected, limp and spiritless, but now he seemed to have found new purpose. When he stood up and surveyed his domain, his movements seemed infused with steely resolve that had not been there before.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," she hazarded.
"You have that effect on me, Lady Tanya," he said. Though his words were playful, there was something about his expression she didn't like. It reminded her of faces she'd seen on the battlefields of her long-distant youth: men who'd lost everything but were determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
"I need to go now. I'll speak to you again soon to discuss the details of when I'm going to meet with the gods. In the meantime… take care of yourself. Don't do anything you might later regret."
"I won't," Dream promised. "Farewell."
"Farewell," Tanya echoed him, as she turned away.