Okay, here it is. My third story.

First up, I'd like to state that I have vowed never, ever again to write a follow-up to anyone else's fanfiction. Ever. I have sworn it, I will stand by it.

That said, this is indeed a sequel to something. To 'The Sacred and the Profane', by afrai. It's to her that all credit goes for the creation of this AU, and it is truly a remarkable achievement, as grand as it is heart-tearing. Her AU, in turn, was based on 'Good Omens', which belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. No personal profit was intended with the writing of this story. God no.

Still, a warning is in order. Even more so than was the case for my previous two stories, it is absolutely essential that you read her story - which can be found in my Favourites section - in order to understand anything of what mine is about. However. Unless your tolerance for sadness is incredibly high, I do not recommend doing this. Instead, believe me, you would do well to close this screen right now, and move to happier places. I am not kidding.

A big thank-you goes to Clear Dawnlight and Thrice Seven Once Eleven, for reading my story back when I had no intention of ever putting it up, and for encouraging me to do so anyway. I am eternally grateful to the both of them for this.

I'd also like to thank Clear Dawnlight for sticking by me throughout the writing process, and Thrice Seven Once Eleven for putting the opening quote in my head and contributing to the soundtrack, which can be found on my profile page, to be updated from time to time. If you can spare a couple of minutes, I do hope you'll listen to the songs: they were chosen with care, let me tell you.

Here, then, for those who can take it, is my story. I'd say, "Enjoy," but that's not the right word here.

Warnings: AU, slash, language, mild sexual themes.

–––

Crucible

We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In
many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can
love a thing because. That's as easy as putting a penny
in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know
the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

- Patrick Rothfuss, 'The Wise Man's Fear'

Prologue

Sacrifice

–––

15th August, 2006

A boy was sitting slouched on a bench in St James's Park.

He looked to be sixteen years old, or thereabouts, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and an old T-shirt. He was staring, through wisps of curly blond hair falling over his forehead, at a dark-haired man standing over by the duckpond, some distance away. The man's head was lowered, and he had his back to the boy. He did not move.

After some time, a little girl, certainly no more than five years old, her brown hair in two ponytails, and a picture of a sheep on her blue dress, came walking down the path that led by the bench, and clambered up to sit next to the boy. Neither of them acknowledged the other's presence. They simply sat there, side by side, the eyes of each fixed unwaveringly on the same point. If anyone had been there to see them, they would have been shocked by the looks of grim seriousness on such young faces.

Eventually, the man could be seen to shudder, and tore himself away from the fence surrounding the pond. He all but ran from the park, long coat billowing up behind him, unaware of the two watching him go.

The sound of hurried footsteps receding.

Silence.

The boy said, "It's been five years."

The girl nodded. "Yes. It has."

"How long will it go on?"

"Long," she replied. "Not sure how long. But long."

There was another pause. Then the boy said, "You know, I offered to give 'im back to 'im, but 'e wouldn't let me." He turned to the girl, asked her, "It's because 'e's good, innit?"

"The best," she answered gloomily.

The boy pondered this, then shook his head in frustration. "I should never 'ave listened to 'im. I should 'ave done it anyway. Then it wouldn't 'ave come to... this..." His voice trailed off, and he shivered in spite of the heat.

The girl said, "You could have, yes, but that was not the way. It still isn't, even now." She looked at him. "Are you afraid?"

Blue eyes met hazel ones, and quickly looked away. "A little," the boy admitted. "Aren't you? You're so much younger than me."

"Am I?" She shook her head, shrugged. "No, I'm not afraid. I can't say I like the idea, of course, but I am not afraid. Not anymore. Not like the first time. This time, I know what to expect."

The boy fidgeted. "Will it take very long? The thing itself, I mean?"

She smiled, though it never reached her eyes. "No longer than a pinprick, and just as painful. There and gone. Don't worry."

"And we have no other choice, do we," he said. It wasn't a question.

"We have no other choice, my brother," she echoed his words. "I know how hard it is for you, and how much trust I ask, but if we do not do this, the other will never be able to see us, and be healed." She sighed. "Neither of them will. For only the sins are shown there where he is now, and only those sins from which a soul may learn. Else what would be the point?"

There was yet another long silence. The boy spoke again, his voice soft and subdued. "Did he," indicating the direction the man had run off in, "ever know you were born, sister?"

"He didn't," she answered, in the same tone.

The boy frowned. "Isn't that cruel?"

"Not in the least: it is a mercy. Can you even begin to imagine what he would have felt if he had known? Now, at least, for all his misery, he has the consolation, however small, of being able to believe that what he did was right. Whereas the knowledge that I existed, and that he would not be able to stop what is about to take place, for the sake of him and the other, that would have dealt him a killing blow. There is only so much that a heart can take, brother, even the heart of an angel."

She stopped talking, sniffled once. Then, without warning, she burst into tears. Not loud and impetuous, like a child would: these were the near-silent, agonised tears of one who had seen suffering and sorrow, in all the myriad forms it took, and was torn by the memories of it, now more than ever. "All his life," she choked out, "he did only what was right, always what he had to do. But, oh, how I wish that one act had not been necessary. It was the very moment I was born, you know," and she curled up in a ball, hugging her knees, "and I screamed and screamed along with him. Oh, I know you were there in spirit, and saw it, but you were too young to understand. But I, I felt it, in that moment, I felt his pain, like knives in my heart. And I've never been able to forget. It haunts my nightmares, even now."

The boy bit his lip, very near tears himself, and reached out to give the girl a clumsy pat on the head. "There, there, little sister," he said. "We'll fix it."

Somewhere in Asia, the earth trembled.

The girl looked up at him and smiled, genuinely this time. "That's true," she said. "That's true."

"And besides," he added encouragingly, "your father was the one who told you we had to do this, so we can't go wrong."

"Actually," she took a deep breath, "he wasn't."

For a few seconds, the boy could find no words. Finally, he said, "...what?"

She sighed again. "I haven't heard from him, not a syllable, in years. No matter how I've tried, he won't answer me," she said, looking up to the sky, where rainclouds were forming.

The boy gaped, burst out, "But then how can you know -"

"I don't. I've never really known anything, strictly speaking. I've always acted according to what I feel. I've never had anything else to guide me." She looked up sharply. "It's time. Have you said your goodbyes?" she asked.

He nodded, swallowed. "I've left everyone a letter, like you told me to. I... hope they'll all understand. If not..." He shrugged. "Choices we make. And you, have you left -"

"No need. It doesn't matter to me whether the orphanage understands or not. As you say, choices we make. Well, come on," she said, sliding off the bench. "It's almost here." She took hold of two of the boy's fingers, all her tiny hand could manage, and gave him an impatient tug.

There was a mild earthquake, somewhere in the Middle East.

Obediently, the boy got up, and let the girl drag him along for a bit. Soon, however, he pulled free, picked up the girl, and gave her a cuddle. "We're in this together," he said, tickled her a little, and placed a tap of a kiss on her nose. She giggled and laughed, and flung her arms around his neck.

In the land of Israel, a city shook upon its foundations.

"So then, little big brother. Shall we?"

"Well then, big little sister. We shall."

The two of them, the boy still carrying the girl, walked out of the park, chatting happily about this and that. Laughter bubbled up from them every now and then.

–––

Standing silent, alone in the shadows, Death watched them go. They'd be crossing the road any minute now. His fist, the one that wasn't holding the scythe, tightened convulsively.

There was a loud screeching of brakes, a dull thud, cries of dismay. Many people, Death knew, had instantly whipped out their cellphones, and called an ambulance, desperately, pointlessly. Others, also many, were calling the truck driver a murderer, disregarding how badly in shock he was. The doctors, when they came, would declare that the children had not suffered, that they had died upon impact. Witnesses would state to the police that they couldn't understand what had possessed the boy; that he'd looked neither left nor right, but had stepped blindly out onto the road. None present there would ever be able to forget the serene, contented smiles on the faces of the dead, or the way that they still held each other's crushed bodies embraced, as their blood pooled out. The sight would stay with them forever.

Sometimes, Death truly hated his job.

And in the ancient city of Jerusalem, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre...

... collapsed.