The shock waves from Good Omens Season 3, or The Finale, or whatever that was continue to resonate, and several conversations have referenced the way things actually began to get weird during season 2 -- culminating, of course, in That Kiss, which I view (ymmv) as part gratuitous infliction of distress on the fandom, because a Certain Person enjoys (per some very credible public testimony) reeling people in and then hurting them, and part simple cynical orchestration of clamor for a conclusion (ring another one up on the register, boys).
The book was complete in itself. Season 1, impressively faithful to the book (credit where credit is due), was complete in itself. Yes, Crowley predicted a future Big One that would be "all of us (humanity and those on humanity's side) against All Of Them (the power structure of corporate Heaven and Hell)." But Armageddon was spiked, Satan was undercut by his own intended heir, and Aziraphale and Crowley -- who at best helped, but endeared themselves to us in the process -- were last seen sitting at the Ritz, enjoying Earth's luxuries and looking forward to retirement free of Celestial interference, whether it involved simply hanging out together, or a cottage by the sea, choose your own adventure. And quite a lot of us have decided that canon ended there.
I've certainly lost any faith that there was ever a serious outline for a sequel. Season 2 was supposedly a "bridge" to a "fully plotted out conclusion;" season 3, when we got there, was a thematically antithetical incident salad that made zero sense even if you allow for the compression into one-third the intended runtime. And that second season itself was six episodes of thin plot and a mostly forgettable supporting cast; the humor (again, ymmv) was strained, the fan service embarrassingly heavy-handed, and the proliferation of Mysterious Inconsistencies was just... exhausting. But the fandom responded with a lot of fics that tried to be less flimsy and more thoughtful; most of all, to resolve the "end of act II breakup" in a credible way (something that season 3 Never. Did). For this week's Throwback, I toss out three of my 2023 offerings, all rated T.
I'll Wait -- Aziraphale's back in Heaven. Crowley's trying to pick up the pieces on Earth. Both find that there's time to consider all the unsaid things.
And Muriel keeps finding things in the bookshop.
Dark Roast Espresso At The Purgatory Cafe -- The Supreme Archangel's swamped with paperwork and droning meetings.
And then, suddenly, he's in a grimy caff, across the table from the demon who walked away.
It's neither Heaven, nor Hell, nor Earth as they know it. But it's a place they can talk. And they need to.
Don't Look Back -- Hell has something the Supreme Archangel wants, if he has what it takes to retrieve it.
“You promised,” said Aziraphale.
Shax didn’t command the iron throne the way Beelzebub had. She was too conscious of occupying it, like a just-engaged girl gesturing with her newly beringed hand. Not asking you to look, but looky, looky, look.
It was an odd thing to be thinking about with Crowley chained on his knees between them.
Have you got a favorite post-s2 fic, your own or another's? Drop a link!
Bonus: @curiouspupsicle, that curator of delicious fic lists at @curiouspupsiclelibrary, has started their own Throwback, tossing out a challenge to fic writers to reflect on and share their early fic. Go check it out!
Tagging in the replies as is my wont; let me know if you want your name added or removed!
I write mainly Good Omens, along with occasional ventures into Sherlock Holmes (BBC and ACD), Doctor Who, and my first love, Star Trek. Find my fic here on AO3.
I just reread one of my slightly older fics bc someone commented on it. Y'all, I love going back to read my own shit. Sometimes it's like, "Damn, this author knows JUST what I needed." Then I remember I wrote it and I feel very proud.
What a difference a night makes by Readingfanfics (aka me).
“So”, Greg started, his eyes going over the hotel room before his gaze stopped at the bed. “What side do you want to sleep on?” He dropped his coat on the nearby chair, feeling dead tired and icky. He’d been running after Sherlock all day, tracking down several leads for a case but somehow getting nowhere. The weather had worsened, up to the point that now the snow was so high they couldn’t drive back to London. At least they’d found a hotel and Greg was still grateful for that, even if he had to share his bed with Sherlock bloody Holmes. He turned his head, raising an eyebrow when Sherlock still hadn’t answered.
“Either one is fine, Lestrade. I don’t have a preferred side.” Sherlock finally responded, his voice sounded softer than usual. His eyes were small and something inside Greg’s heart cracked when he saw Sherlock rub his eyes, trying to suppress a yawn. At least he looked more human, though he wasn’t nearly as dirty or rumbled like Greg was. Sherlock walked further into the room, still wearing his coat and Greg’s gloves. Greg saw his eyes go over every inch of the room, could practically hear his mind work as his eyes stayed a second too long on the bed. He turned around, looking outside the window. The snow was still falling, covering the ugliness of the world up. Sherlock brushed a hand through his curls before closing the curtains and sitting down in front of the small desk. He pulled out his phone, the blue light on Sherlock’s face making him seem paler and more tired.
“Sherlock.” Greg sighed. He threw off his shoes, his feet aching from standing up and walking around so long. He yawned loudly, his body shivering, mostly from tiredness but they had been outside all day and the temperature was far belong freezing point so there was that. He walked towards the thermostat, setting the temperature of the room higher. Sherlock was still fiddling with his phone, his mouth set in a tight line and Greg wanted to go over there and grab it, maybe toss it out the window for good measure. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before looking at Sherlock again. “For god’s sake, can you stop playing with that thing for 5 seconds and just answer the damn question!”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
@frownyalfred mentioned bear traps yesterday and i suddenly?? remembered??? i wrote this?? like if you had asked me two days ago if i had written a jason and damian story, this WOULD NOT have occurred to me to be on that list, bc my brain just YEETED it
Fair Lutessa was not always the cradle of kings, and before its austere temples and marble effigies came to dominate the horizon, Lutessa was a village just like yours or mine. But the Wheel turns, and Lutessa’s idyll shattered as she grew. Her people came to bicker and fight more and more often amongst themselves, over even the smallest of things! Things such as: whether this man had sold his neighbor the right amount of flour, or whether the miller’s children had pushed the blacksmith’s children into the marshes, or whether the inn-keeper’s wife was allowed to dine with the tavern-keep. Since Lutessa had yet no magistrate or ruler to call her own, the townspeople, fresh from a brawl, clamored for adjudication at the doors of the Martyr-God’s prophet.
“Prophet! Grant us your wisdom,” they cried, rattling the gates of the temple. “Settle our disputes; we want for a judge!”
The prophet, who was sweeping the entrance, replied, “Settle your own arguments! Rule you not amongst yourselves? I have my God’s work to do - now, begone.”
The people, unsure what to answer, retired to their houses and conferred between themselves; however, the following day, they returned with bloodied noses and bruised eyes. “Prophet! Our minds are filled with chaos and we are unfit to rule! Bring us under your command, that we may live in harmony!”
The prophet, who was lighting incense by the altar, said: “Cease your mewling! Be ye babes or men? I will not judge you, for I am neither of you nor above you; judge yourselves.”
The people once more took the prophet’s words home and discussed them, but besought him a third time the following morning, again battered and beaten-up.
“O Prophet!” they cried out as one. “We are unworthy to rule ourselves! Grant us a king! Grant us a king!”
On and on they shouted, “King! King!” louder and louder until the prophet, supping on bread and wine, could tolerate it no longer.
“Seeing as they are of one mind, which they have never once been before,” said he, “who am I to deny them my intercession?” So he rose from his seat and entered the holy-of-holies, and as he communed there, the breath of the Martyr-God came down from on high, and joined with his statue in the square. And lo! the statue became as flesh, and turned its countenance toward the heavens; and it removed its head from its shoulders and threw it far, far into the distance, where it flew brightly across the sky like a shooting star. (And this is why today, when you see the statue of the Martyr-God outside the great temple of Lutessa, you will see that it has no head.)
Then the prophet left the divine chambers and addressed the people gathered outside. “As you have asked, so is it given. Wheresoever the sign of the Martyr-God shall lead, there you shall find your king; and you will know him by the sign he gives, for it is the sign that the Godhead has shown you. I have spoken!” The people, marveling at the miracle they had just witnessed, left him many grateful words and many precious gifts; and finally, they left him also at peace.
Now the townsfolk took the quickest and hardiest amongst themselves, and sent them in the direction of the new star, which was east and north. The scouts rode, inquiring at every village and hillfort about the sign the Martyr-God had shown, and each time they were turned away empty handed. This went on for fortnight after fortnight until it seemed that they would exhaust all the tribes of Ferrancha. But at the last, two of the riders came upon an ancient citadel, where dwelt a fierce clan of giants. These giants had bear skins draped around them like cloaks, and long beards that stretched down to their knees, and they growled in a speech that was scarcely recognizable as human. But one towered above the rest of them and wore as a sign of his authority a necklace of purplest stone.
This one said: “Who comes to challenge Sea-Bull [1] in the home of his people?”
The scouts answered: “None but two humble riders, come seeking a sign from the Martyr-God.”
Then Sea-Bull leered and bade them come closer; and when they had drawn within an arm’s length, he seized one and tore the head off him, and he threw the bloody thing at the other scout, saying:
“There is your god’s martyr! And this is the only sign you shall have from me.”
The surviving rider fled from the giants’ mocking laughter, and rode without eating or sleeping for ten days. In that time, he covered a fortnight’s distance, and when he passed through the gates of Lutessa, the people first mistook him for a scarecrow atop Death’s horse, for his hair had gone white and ragged from fear, and the flight had consumed so much of him that his skin now clung to his bones. Whatever warning he would have proffered went unheeded, for as he fell from his horse, the head of his companion rolled out of his satchel, and the people, beholding it, exclaimed:
“The Martyr-God has given us back his sign! The prophecy is fulfilled!”
So they bore the scout to the temple of the healers, cheering, and sent word for the riders to return home. They prepared the town to welcome their new king, even as they worried how to find him or even to recognize him, for the power of speech had deserted the scout and he could no longer direct them to their ruler. Yet they need not have worried, for Sea-Bull in his curiosity had sent trackers after his visitor, and, hearing of the manner in which his threat had been received, became desirous of ruling these toothless people and their lands. So he gathered his clan and broke camp, and each giant sat astride a great-ox, which they commanded as we do camels and horses, and they made for the bounty which had been laid out for them.
When they arrived in Lutessa a fortnight later, Sea-Bull divided up the town among his strongest warriors and bid them take wives for themselves from among the daughters of the village. Then he shackled the men and forced much work upon them, including that a hall be built for him and his clan. He tore down the statues of Lutessa’s gods as well, since they offended him; but that of the Martyr-God he left alone, for this was the deity that had granted him conquest. And he set a watch all around the temple of the Martyr-God, that no harm may befall it or its prophet.
Sea-Bull reigned for many years, during which he sent out warbands and brought also many other villages under his rule. He ordered that in each of them should be hung necklaces like his of purplest stone, which anyone passing had to bow before and kiss, and he ordered that any who disobeyed be put to the sword. In Lutessa he was strictest of all: he would take silver and fine cloths from those families which offended him, and seize their farms, so that his great-oxen might have more land to graze on. He would furthermore take their daughters and lie with them against their will, and some he would take as concubines while others he would return to their households; but for none of them did he ever pay a bridewealth. And of those families which had displeased them the most, when their daughters did bear him child, he would gather them to his hall and swallow the newborn whole before them, in order that their misery might be prolonged by seeing it.
II.
Now there was a maiden named Snow-Iris, for she was as fair and unblemished as winter’s first snow. It happened that Sea-Bull took a liking to her, and wished to have her as his own. But her father, hearing of this, woke her in the night and snuck her far outside the village, leaving her with some provisions and a cloak, so that she might not die in the wilds.
Then Snow-Iris’ heart was filled with anger and dread, and she cried out to the Martyr-God, saying: “What kind of trespass have we committed against you, that you repay our faith with punishment? We came seeking a guardian; why did you send us a butcher instead?” And she wept in the fields until gentle sleep overtook her.
But hearing her, the Martyr-God took pity and came to her in her slumber; and she dreamed that his voice rang out from the star he had set in the heavens, which shone more clearly and brilliantly than ever it had. “Child,” he said, his voice suffused with tenderness and dread. “‘Twas your folk who betrayed our compact, not I. I set my sign up above, that it might guide them towards noble and unsullied spirits; yet they rooted around in the base earth like swine digging for worms. But now see: I desire that the suffering of your people shall end, for I am faithful and ever-merciful, and your cries have softened my heart. Therefore follow my Star, and when you draw nigh, I will cause it to descend upon your true king, and he will know to expect thee at his gate. And you shall know him too by his company, for he will keep in his retinue men of metal; and by his attire, for his brow shall be ringed with heavenly iron. Until you find the king, no harm shall befall you; only do not stray from the path, for perdition will claim your soul. This I vow.”
The star beckoned still on the horizon when Snow-Iris awoke, bathing her in a ray of heavenly light, and though Sea-Bull’s men scoured the hills and fields in search of her, they could not see her behind the veil of light. Seeing the violence in their manner, she knew that she would have no more place in Lutessa until the arrival of the true king. So she began her pursuit to the north-east, sometimes falling in with traders, sometimes with hunters, sometimes tarrying summers in bustling towns, sometimes passing winters in stone ruins. On many occasions, temptation visited her and tugged at her heartstrings, offering her purest love, or the wealth and dominion of lords, or the restful seclusion of the hermitage. And for some of them, she wrestled many hours with herself; but in the end, rejected them all, for the Martyr-God had made good on his side of the pledge, and she wished to make good on hers.
One evening, as Snow-Iris rode through the passes of the High Forest with a caravan of merchants, a terrible roar filled the air, shaking the trees and the very ground, and it was as if the doors of heaven had been slammed shut. And at this unearthly herald, night turned briefly into day, and the rivers ran uphill for a few seconds, and (it is said) many men of wicked repute dropped dead in the streets. Then Snow-Iris beheld that the star of the Martyr-God descended and streaked through the sky, and she knew that she drew nigh to the true king.
“What town lies yonder?” she asked, pointing where the star had fallen. But her companions, seized with fright, ran about her in mad circles just like the horses they were riding, and none could answer her properly.
So she left them and rode on by herself, inquiring about the falling star at several hamlets along the way. They all told her to head for the town of Accisgrand, where a miracle had occurred recently, and whose mayor sought the bearer of a sign; and they described to her the appearance of Accisgrand, that she might recognize it from afar. So she continued for some days until she came upon a town that matched the description, with high stone walls and manned by sentries clothed in raiment of metal. As she approached the gate, the guards barred her entry; but she said:
“I am Snow-Iris of Lutessa, and I seek the man who received the sign of the Godhead.”
At this, the guards exchanged looks, and instructed her to wait. She began to set up camp, thinking that she would be made to pass the afternoon; but scarce had the first noon hour [2] come and gone than a scribe appeared at the gate to escort her within. They passed through halls of arched marble with glass windows as tall as the ancient trees, which Snow-Iris marveled at like a young girl. But it was in a humble room of wood that the mayor received her.
“Tell me your name and the sign that you seek,” said the mayor. But Snow-Iris could not answer immediately, for as her eyes traveled up his imposing figure and silken cloak, they came to rest on the circlet of graceful iron girdling his brow. “Tell me your business,” he said again, impatient.
“Your Grace,” she replied with a curtsy. “I am Snow-Iris of Lutessa. Many years ago, the Godhead placed a sign in the heavens by which we might find someone wise to rule us. We misread the sign, and were punished. However, the Godhead is merciful, and has brought me here to seek the true ruler, who will deliver us from this ordeal. I seek the one to whom he has shown his sign.”
The mayor nodded. “Your story rings true; therefore I will tell you mine. Not a week ago, a god spoke to me in a dream, saying that a maiden would arrive from far-away Lutessa to ask for deliverance from a false king, and that I would know her by the sign of the Godhead, which would be granted unto me. Come: there is something I must needs show you.”
Then he stepped forward and took her by the hand, and together they walked out, through a courtyard of fragrant trees and pruned bushes, to a lofty temple of vaulted stone. And lo! the head of the Martyr-God sat on the altar - no longer the cold gray of stone, but the lustrous gleam of iron.
Seeing this, Snow-Iris knelt and kissed the hand of the mayor. “You are indeed the one I seek,” she said, “and by your leave, I would grant you your kingdom.”
“Let us put off talks of kingship until later,” he answered with a smile. “First I must fulfill the sacred duty granted unto me and deliver your people from despotic rule.”
So he gathered an army of twenty thousand soldiers and five thousand knights and marched towards Lutessa, under the banner of the Martyr-God. When Sea-Bull heard of this, he howled in anger and ordered his warriors to burn down the villages between him and Accisgrand, for he wanted none of their riches to go to this man. But his warriors persuaded him otherwise, for even though they were giants and their prowess in combat was unmatched, still their numbers were few, and they could ill afford to spread their forces thin. And while both mayor and Sea-Bull could claim divine favor, only one could be assured of his mandate - he who asserted his rule according to prophecy. [3]
I will not sing of battle, although their clash was great - many songs have already been given to that day alone. For this mayor was indeed the hero named KING [4], who in the Northern tongue is called Krol or Korol, and is known to all peoples as “Great”, because he drove out the giants and slew Sea-Bull, and, under his just rule, united all the tribes of Ferrancha from the Pannonian Woods to the Uttermost Sea. With Snow-Iris as his queen, he began the lineage of monarchs that would turn Ferrancha into a vast and magnificent realm - who would, despite their humble origins, erect monuments and metropoles to rival even those of Akbal himself (may he ever be remembered!).
Though KING eventually set his throne in Accisgrand, sweet Lutessa forever held a fond place in his heart. And so, as his children came of age, he would bid them dwell in Lutessa and take the manner and custom of its people as their own; and when one of those children became king, that one would in turn send his children to Lutessa. So this tradition carried on until it was a tradition no longer, for the descendants of KING so came to love Lutessa that they moved the throne there, pledging their faith to the city just as the city had placed its faith in them.
Runao’s Commentary:
Iron is the metal of the gods, and so it is the symbol of mandate, authority, and justice, which only the gods are allowed to bestow. Pretenders can only steal the insignia of the past and defend them with violence; true rulers receive their legitimacy directly from the divine. This is how the keen-eyed subject knows which master to follow.
Footnotes:
[1] Burton gives this as “She-Bull” in the 1888 edition, and it was retained in editions until 1913. Garcìa (1964) theorizes that this name may be a fanciful rewording of “Mare-Bull”, which was a common mistranslation at the time; Humbert & Luis (1991), however, consider it a printer’s error, as Burton left no indication in his extensive notes that he was aware of this erroneous translation.
[2] Incidentally, the hour of Iron.
[3] This sentence was almost certainly added by Runao, as it is not present in alternative forms of the story. See Quirin Egidius, Prophets of the Times: Bronze-Age Divination in Runao’s Book of Hours (2001), p. 67.
[4] The name given here is the literal word for ‘king’, in the honorific form. Although it is unclear whether the honorific was added by Runao or existed in the original Illapartian language, we can say with relative certainty that the King’s name most likely became synonymous with rulership in the geographical area corresponding to his kingdom (similar to ‘Caesar’ becoming the word for ‘emperor’ in many European languages), before being transmitted to Illapars via cultural osmosis. Ibid, p. 51.
Hello again! It's Good Omens Throwback Thursday, something I started posting intermittently a few years back, after realizing how incredibly many good fics were already the stuff of history (and to shamelessly promote some of my own older works). Lately a posse of wonderful writers have picked up the idea, with the twist of reflecting on their own writing process: check out @curiouspupsicle, @quitequaintrelle, @rogue-bard, @ineffabildaddy, @carry-the-sky (and more!). Meanwhile, I've been occupied with the question: how do you respond to critique of elements in your fic that feels thoughtful and, on consideration, legitimate?
I've actually already featured Ethical Considerations, my first AU, posted in 2020. Over the years, it's continued to receive a steady trickle of kudos and comments, and some of those comments addressed issues with two specific beats in the story that I would handle differently now.
-- Was it either realistic or satisfying for this human version of Crowley, all too prone to self-medicate instead of coping with his emotions, to escape any legal consequences whatever for drink driving? I had to admit, a flippant message and not an incentive for the kind of growth the character practically cried out for.
-- Did this Salvation-Army-raised, semi-closeted Aziraphale ever get proper acknowledgement of a traumatic boundary violation -- one to which other characters, Crowley included, reacted by exhorting him to move on when he was clearly dissociating and sexually shutting down? Um, no. Instead, in the wake of Crowley's acting out, he rebooted their sexual connection after a little cursory make-up dialogue, without anyone ever giving much space to his trauma reaction. Romantic, but hardly wholesome. I squirmed a little bit as I thunk it over.
The thing is that AO3 is the kind of platform where you can fix that. No one suggested that the story be rewritten -- only that a couple of the existing elements of the narrative could have been addressed more thoughtfully. I had wanted to get my pair to a happy ending with all dispatch, but in the rearview, their reconciliation scene read like the unearned flip of a switch. And after Season 3 (or whatever that was), a narrative that shortchanged Aziraphale's courage and trauma, while letting Crowley completely off the hook for wallowing drunkenly in his feels, just landed wrong.
So, first in 2024 and again since s3 aired, I reworked sections of the dialogue in the final chapter, when the major incident of the story is done and dusted and Aziraphale and Crowley are actually obliged to communicate. [I downloaded the earlier versions as PDFs, so no iteration of the story is lost, and referenced the changes I made in an addition to the chapter notes.] It felt especially important to indicate clearly that Crowley's bestie -- a literal crisis counselor -- respected what Aziraphale had been through, and had words with Crowley about how he handled it. The point of the fic's breakup scene (essentially the s1 bandstand scene), as with every moment of conflict in the first two TV seasons, is that on some level they are both right and both have legitimate feelings, and I did my best to rework the chapter in a way that honors that.
There's a fair amount of discourse about unsolicited criticism on fic, and most of the time I am firmly in the corner of "if you didn't like it, step quietly back from the keyboard with your hands in plain sight." We write for free, we write for love, we are all at different places in our creative growth, and we are not here to be nitpicked or scolded because someone doesn't like that kind of story or we used the word "ecstatic" three times in a scene or the AI police are out in force. And we are telling our story, not the one that someone else thinks we should write. But if two or three readers experience a particular element of a story as dissonant in a specific way -- insensitive to an issue that touches them, or emotionally unrealistic -- and address that reaction respectfully? I think it's appropriate to consider their points. And if a few tweaks yield what feels like a better story, it's a win all round.
You can read the story here if you're new to it, or check in on Chapter 15 if you just want to see the changes and notes.
Ethical Considerations - rated E, ~37,000 words
Aziraphale Fell isn’t exactly in the closet, but he’s not made it much further out than the hat-stand. The hairdresser at the spa where he’s just taken a job is far too flamboyant for his liking – doubtless, that’s why he can’t get the man out of his mind. His boss is a grouchy, nonbinary terror, who has an inexplicable soft spot for a priggish conservative MP from Oxfordshire. His best friend can’t stop predicting he’s fated to couple up soon. And the rent is due.
Tagging in the replies as usual; drop a note if you want on or off the list.
I write mainly Good Omens, along with occasional ventures into Sherlock Holmes (BBC and ACD), Doctor Who, and my first love, Star Trek. Find my fic here on AO3.
