Chapter Text
A very long way away, a long time ago, perhaps when I was only a little older than you, there was a village, which suffered terribly from being overrun by rats. It was awful and very unfair and disgusting. Nothing could be done, and no matter what the townspeople tried, there were always more of the vermin, nibbling and chewing and ruining everything from dinner to the drapes. With nothing else to be done, the mayor sent out messages far and wide, promising a grand reward for ridding the village of the plague of rodents. Many skilled experts came to try their hand, but no matter how many traps they set or poisons they laced, it was all for nothing. Each of the traveling experts tried, and left after greater or lesser efforts, nibbled and scratched and with their bags gnawed, unpaid and in failure. After many months, when all attempts had long ceased, one last strange man came walking into the village. He was dressed strangely, with a smiling mouth full of sharp teeth and promises of success. His eyes were covered with dark glass, and his bag seemed heavy on his back. The village had so little to offer that wasn’t eaten down to the crumbs by the rats, they barely scraped together a meal for the stranger. The following day he rose late.
That was the day that salvation and destruction came to the village both.
No cats were tolerated anywhere near the town, at risk of all of their immortal souls.
Aziraphale followed the rules. Always had. He found them comforting, when so little else about his life pleased him. He was forever saying and doing the wrong things, despite his best efforts. Unwritten social customs escaped him, but he did his best where he could. He was odd and not what he should be, but no one could say that he was rebellious. The children stickered and called him other names instead, only occasionally halfheartedly shushed by their smiling parents. Aziraphale had always been queer, but he had never been disobedient.
Except, he had. He had a very great sin that he had been holding close to his heart for several years. At the moment, his sin was purring in his lap, kneading his leg lazily and graciously accepting his whispers that she was a very good girl indeed.
The town mayor had a terror of witchcraft, and had in fact earned his place in his semiretirement from being a renowned Witchfinder. Mayor Shadwell, along with the rest of the council (with the notable exception of the Seamstress’ guild) and the blessing of the church had rid the town from all witches, spellcraft, suspicious characters, and of course any familiars. Everyone knew that cats, particularly named cats, were all in league with the devil.
So, Aziraphale had sadly bid farewell to his soul, because when he had found the bedraggled kitten half-drowned and crying in the drainage ditch, he had picked her up and tucked her in his coat instead of throwing her into deeper water like he should have. Her little heartbeat had pattered against his chest all the way home, but after she had dried off and been brushed gently, Aziraphale had thought she was the very prettiest little fluff that had ever been. She purred and blinked her enormous slitted eyes at him, and was the only living creature in the world that seemed to find Aziraphale pleasing. He had been hiding her in the depths of his bookshop ever since.
When the rats had begun to grow bolder around the edges of town, then numerous enough to devour the pantries of even the wealthiest houses, Aziraphale’s little shop and the rooms above remained nearly untouched. His sweet kitten hadn’t grown much, but she was the queen of her castle, and no rodent trespassed on her domain. Aziraphale read his books and sipped his tea, comfortably content. He bought extra fish for dinner (as expensive as it was these days) as a special treat for his tiny protector, and considered himself pleasantly damned. He wasn’t a subtle man, and if his shop was even moderately popular, the two of them would have been discovered ages ago. As it was, Aziraphale the bookseller and Jane the cat managed well enough.
Still, the destruction of homes and food was slowly ruining the town, and Aziraphale dreaded the winter to come. The reaping time was soon, but if there was nowhere safe to store the harvest, then there would be hungry bellies before the first frost.
None of the ratcatchers had managed to do much against the plague of scratching and gnawing rodents that were destroying them by inches, and Aziraphale had stopped paying attention when each doomed expert came to town. He kept to himself, endured the mockery of his neighbors and their terrible children, read his unpopular books and petted his forbidden cat.
On the day of doom, the music was initially faint with distance, through his thick and dusty windowglass, but eventually even Aziraphale rose to his feet to peek outside and see what was happening. He clapped his hand over his mouth and stumbled back. Quickly, he yanked the curtains shut, scooped up Jane, and held her tightly to him all the way back to his bedroom. He locked the door and petted his cat steadily, murmuring to her and doing his best to cover her pretty ears as much as possible, while she wriggled and contorted in his grasp, little face turned towards the source of the song.
Aziraphale had only caught a glimpse, but the sight would remain with him forever: a black-draped violinist, dancing to his own music, smiling wide and sharp, leading a vast furred swarm of rats that followed him enthralled down the road.
He held Jane and begged her to stay with him, hoping that the magnetic melody would let her remain. Her whiskers bristled and her tail twitched, face turning slowly as the music grew louder, and just as slowly passed them by, followed by the dull roar of uncountable clawed rodent feet in a vast parade.
Art by JustZero
Afterward, there was a towering cloud of fine dust rising from the road where they had passed. Jane let out a snuffling little whine into Aziraphale’s collar, her whiskers tickling his neck. At nearly the same moment, there was a distant liquid crash, as if the faraway salt sea had suddenly poured into their small drainage canal.
It was as if the entire town held its breath. The silence held long and tight. There was no scampering, no scratches, no grinding teeth within the walls. Peeking hesitantly between his drawn curtains, Aziraphale watched as the rest of his neighbors slowly opened doors and windows, walking out in groups into the street, fear shifting into hope into wide smiles. By the time the dark form of the musician sauntered back into town, the celebration was in full swing.
Aziraphale watched as the strange musician’s hand was shaken and his back was slapped. The violin case never left his other hand, and his smile was nearly as wide. After a time, the bookseller breathed out a conflicted sigh and stepped away from the window. It was one thing to read about magic and mystery, and another to witness it in all of its unsettling ways.
The air of celebration lasted for the rest of the week.
Then the musician had the audacity to ask for the reward that had been promised, and all hell broke loose.