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And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.
- Luke 1:29
Bethlehem, 4 BC
“May I, my dear?”
From just inside the doorway of the meager stable, Aziraphale stands guard. His eyes remain affixed on the sleeping babe nestled in swaddling cloths, an impossibly tiny bundle resting upon a clean pile of hay. The veil of a mild night blankets them in a quiet stillness, the cosmic enormity of what’s transpired palpable in the undercurrent of the air.
From her place near the window Mary offers him a single nod, releasing her arms from her own protective embrace. She gestures for him to approach the manger tucked away in the corner.
Aziraphale treads lightly, he and the very universe seemingly holding their breath in tandem. He crouches low, his knees sinking to the earth with a particular sort of reverence he’s not experienced before, save for the precious few moments he’s been in the presence of the Almighty. He leans closer to the babe, his greeting as soft as the evening breeze. “Hello, little one,” he murmurs, words barely leaving his lips.
“Mal'akh?” Mary asks, tone tinged with hesitation. Aziraphale hums from his place on the ground, fine dust clinging to the hem of his garments.
Before him, Mary stands rigid, her fists tucked at her sides as though she is presenting her case before some court unseen. There’s a palpable weight to her posture, a quiet insistence that her words be heard — not by a lone angel, no — but by the Divine.
“They’ve told me that the mountains will tremble at the moving of his tongue… that the knees of the mightiest kings will bow. One even told me that his voice will raise the dead.”
A brittle laugh bursts from her lips, sharp and unbidden, hanging heavily in the still night air. She pulls deftly at her shawl, the rigidity of her movements betraying her growing turmoil. Aziraphale can only look on as she shifts her weight, bare feet seeking purchase in the richness of the earth as she sways subconsciously, the tightness around her eyes betraying how the movement pulls at her still-tender hips.
Mary shakes her head suddenly, her resolve faltering. Briefly she shifts her eyes Heavenward, seeking Divine solace. Aziraphale knows she won’t find it.
He stands slowly, the movement pulling her gaze from where they search the stars. Fresh tears streak her ruddy cheeks, emphasizing her paltry reach towards adulthood. At the sight of her trembling fingers clutching at the fabric of her ketonet just above her heart, Azirapahle’s struck with the incomprehensible cruelty of it all.
“They speak of miraculous things.”
The whispered admission carries a tinge of awe, soiled by an underbelly of disbelief. Aziraphale can only swallow past the mounting thickness in his throat, his composure faltering. Suddenly she’s moving, the swiftness at which she wraps her hands around his wrists stalling the breath in his chest. She levels his gaze, tightening her grip. “Tell me…will he lead a happy life?”
And although Aziraphale is not the executioner, the ineffable weight of the divinely preordained settles over his shoulders like a shroud. His eyes find the sleeping babe nestled amongst the hay. He tracks the pout of His lips, the delicate tuck of a fist against the lines of His face. A lamb destined for slaughter.
“Take comfort, dear one. I can assure you, our Lord has the most marvelous plans for Him,” Aziraphale replies, the lie of omission tasting bitter on his tongue.
It’s the loosening of her hold on his wrist that compels him to look upon her face. There’s something in Mary’s eye, a subtle tension in her jaw. They both know it’s not the truth.
With a shuddering breath she stoops to bring her child to her breast, only pausing to roughly swipe at the dampness on her cheeks. When she speaks, it’s with a sudden resolve that makes Aziraphale’s throat constrict, a horrifying churn of emotions attempting to claw their way out.
“Would you bless him, Mal'akh? We’ll take him to the Temple once the sun rises, of course — but your words now would be a gift.”
It’s the earnestness in Mary’s voice that has him nodding, a subtle flick of his chin all he can manage as words escape him. The transition is stilted, an awkward twist of limbs before he secures the tiny bundle against his chest. He pulls in a shuddering breath, the warm weight of the Messiah in his arms pulling at the fraying threads of his own resolve, something fragile and aching within him. With the waving of his fingers he produces an unassuming clay jar.
Aziraphale dips his fingers into the anointing oil, its rich fragrance almost putrid where it sits in his nose. He flares his nostrils, a desperate attempt to dislodge the sense of foreboding that has descended heavily upon his corporation.
With shaking hands he paints two delicate lines in the center of His forehead, his thumb trailing delicately against His skin. In the brilliant light of the evening's stars, the glint of a cross radiates from his forehead; a brand seared into his body mere hours after His birth. Even now, in the very beginning, His life is laid before him — anointed with the very thing that will kill him.
“Peace be with you, Dear Boy,” Aziraphale murmurs, rocking slightly as He fusses. With another wave of his hand, he conjures up a small wooden sistrum and shakes it gently, the beads rattling in a soothing rhythm.
Tiny fingers wrap round the base, and he easily relinquishes the gift in offering. A faint smile touches his lips as he watches the child’s grip tighten, a brief moment of innocence that momentarily lifts the impossible weight from his shoulders. The soft noises of the sistrum fill the still night air, its song ancient, as if to honor the Gift of salvation nestled in his arms.
Mary watches the exchange, her expression caught between open reverence and guarded apprehension. With a deep breath, the chill of the night air tugging harshly at his lungs, Aziraphale moves to return the child to her arms.
“Here you are,” he whispers, carefully transferring the tiny bundle.
Mary’s arms wrap protectively around her son, as if the sanctity of her embrace will be enough to keep Him from the trials that lie in wait. And although her lip quivers, she offers Aziraphale a faint smile.
“Thank you,” she replies, voice laden with gratitude.
Before Aziraphale can reply, the sistrum falls from the baby’s fingers, tumbling to the ground. The faint clatter seems unnaturally loud as it reverberates across the space, almost echoing into the night. Without hesitation Aziraphale drops to his knees, retrieving the rattle from where it’s landed at his feet.
Dust clings to his palms where they meet the ground, the perpetual hum of the earth echoing like a litany across the breadth of his fingertips. His breath catches as he bows his head low, the top of his white curls grazing against Mary’s bare feet.
“Forgive me,” he murmurs, voice trembling. Whether the plea is meant for Mary, the Messiah or the Almighty, he cannot say.
“Mal’akh, please,” Mary says, her voice soft but firm. “You owe me no penance.”
With a shuddering breath Aziraphale lifts his head, overwhelmed with the weight of the moment. His grip tightens around the sistrum as he regards Mary’s earnest face with wide eyes, and he’s acutely aware of the adrift expression plastered across his own. She leans forward slightly, her free hand raising as though to rest upon his shoulder. He climbs slowly to his feet, her gesture beckoning him to rise.
Aziraphale struggles to find his words, tongue seized by the calamity gripping his heart. Mary shifts her fussing babe to her shoulder, rocking Him as he gristles against her chest. There’s a quiet understanding between them, an unspoken, cataclysmic shift settling in the air.
Finally, he settles on offering her the sistrum, his grip gentle but reverent. As she takes it from his grasp, his free hand comes to rest upon her own. “He is your Son, dear one. Never doubt that — not for one moment.” His voice carries a weight of sincerity that brings a fresh wave of tears to Mary’s eyes.
“Go in peace,” she says softly, the smile gracing her lips trembling under the weight of her words. “And may we both find comfort in the plans the Lord has for us all.”