Chapter Text
The early morning light rippled on the Serpentine sending flashes of brilliance into the air like song. The water was warm. It should not have been, but Aziraphale welcomed it, easing into it like an embrace.
There were a few other swimmers here today. An elderly couple, who laughed a lot, chased each other through the deeps, undulating like a two-woman school of fish. Two friends, one in a forget-me-not-blue burkini, the other in a conventional one-piece of almost the same hue, swimming together, giggling, chatting, occasionally waving at their partners (husbands?) and children, all having a picnic breakfast on the bank. Five serious middle-aged men wearing trunks as though they were business suits, one of whom had left his wheelchair parked neatly beside the walkway.
In the quiet of his mind, Aziraphale said a blessing for each of them, and began to swim.
The seconds, the minutes stretched by. He lost track, of the time, of the distance. The sun was climbing to noon. He trod water for a moment, gazed at skyscrapers, gazed at trees, and saw that he was alone.
He flung his arms wide, laid on his back, and floated. Every care seemed to drift off into the lake, or up into the clouds (altocumulus, fluffy and bright like his own hair; a storm coming, not yet), that rolled lazily above him.
He did not know why he turned, why he began swimming again, this time towards the shore.
The figure appeared on the walkway, suddenly but not abruptly. He was not there, and then he was and had been for at least ten minutes. He was robed, mitred.
The distance closed between them, and Aziraphale recognised the puckish face, the heft of the shoulders.
“Tom!” he cried, joyfully.
“Ezra!” replied the other, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “So good to see you! Give me a moment, will you? There’s something I need to do.”
And he crouched on the walkway, spread his hands over the water, began to mutter, silently.
Aziraphale swam closer, smiling over at his friend. He paused, trod water, reached one hand to his face. Tears were running down, merging with the wetness of the lake. Curious.
The breeze stilled. Tom’s words were almost audible, the blessing, the ritual given an edge of stray consonants. Aziraphale shivered. The water was cooler now. Too cold.
He looked down. There were no more ripples. Instead, his reflection stared back. Yellow eyes wide and frightened in a tight, slender face. The long hands, clawing in panic. The mouth, screaming.
“Finished!” called Tom, cheerfully.
“No...” sobbed Aziraphale. But no sound emerged. He tried to scream, tried to swim, but his breath was a mere choking whisper, and his limbs were as weak as driftwood. And the light of holiness spread out from the walkway towards him, ready to dissolve him into nothing.