Fifty or so years later (Approx. 1950)
You knew this day would come. You couldn't stay here forever. You had to die. You'd lived a wonderful life. You found love, hope and peace during your time, and you'd seen the world change, some ways for the better, and in others, for the far, far worse.
Two wars, global in scale, followed the prosperity of the turn of the century. The booming, thundering parade of free market economics, of trade and progress, the titans of industry, all came crashing down in the end of the 1920s. The rains inundating the dirty streets of New York, Paris, Berlin, and London as poor souls sloshed through unemployment lines reminded you of your youth- when you'd run though the East End, the future ahead of you bright and open, the darkness of your world years away.
Years seemed longer then. As you grew, first into a young woman, then a wife, a mother, (you'd adopted the orphans. They were twins. Thomas and Beatrice. They were nice kids, and they never knew who their parents really were.) and now, to your relative chagrin, a grandmother. Tom went to Weston. Her Majesty pulled some strings before she passed. She was old. She died happy, though. She was excited to see Albert again. She'd been mourning him for so long. Tom did well, and met a noble girl. She didn't care that he was an orphan, or not of her station. Her family was in on what had happened. Elizabeth and Beatrice got along famously, and she ended up finding love as well with Lizzie's help. She wouldn't let anyone call her Elizabeth anymore. She never got engaged again. She maintained the only one for her could ever be Ciel Phantomhive. You understood her more than she knew, as you only heard from her on rare occasion. You didn't want to explain yourself too much outside of what was sufficiently necessary. It was what Ciel wanted, for all of you.
Tom named his daughter after you. Beatrice named hers after her daddy. Little prat. You told her to call him father. Tom got it. She reminded you of yourself, though. So, you couldn't stay mad. She wasn't going to do things any way but her own. They were good kids. If their parents would have been alive to see them, they'd be proud.
The wars took a great deal away from those around you, and you couldn't do anything to prevent them coming on. You'd asked Sebastian, but evidently more so Azazel, if he had the power to help, if he could do anything, but it was already clear from the start: this had to happen. It was all part of the plan.
You couldn't imagine what part of God's plan would include the abandonment of his chosen people. The Nazis were worse than any legion in Hell. They were satanic. They had to be. Humans were just as terrible sometimes. You cried when you saw pictures of the death camps, and you hoped they'd be sorry for what they'd done; you couldn't hate them, because they didn't know what awaited them, just like those men all that time ago, just like the man who'd brought you into this world. You'd forgiven him too, now. Time healed all your wounds, now that it was up.
You had no hate left in your heart. You never could hold onto it. It was too much of a burden.
Tom and Beatrice were with their families, and though you loved them, you wanted to be alone with him when you died. Your husband. They'd miss you, and you'd miss them, but this was coming for a longer time than they could truly understand.
You forced him to look old. You made sure he'd tone down his appeal, and he listened, but somehow he was the most attractive elderly man in all of France. Bastard. You weren't ugly, and to your great joy, you still had all your teeth. Perhaps years of eating like a hunter made you savage enough to be more carnivorous than not, and your teeth reflected that. You smiled, despite the fact that this time, you were dying, and nothing anyone could do could prevent it.
You looked up, and groaned, though it wasn't because you were in terrible pain. This was actually relatively peaceful. Your heart was failing, and your breathing was ragged, but you weren't suffering. Well, not entirely. "No!" You yelled, coughing. "Change the fuck back, Sebastian! Damn it! look eighty again or so help me the first thing I do when I get up there is command my father to smite you."
"Which father?" He tried to smile, to be coy, but he wasn't happy. You narrowed your eyes, lifting your head up off the pillow. The warm breezes, the scent of fruit and food blew in from town, mixed with the salty air of the seaside cottage you'd moved into with who used to be a demon, adopted two shiny-eyed orphan children, and lived a lifestyle cheesier than the spread of hors d'oeuvres paired with the wines brought to you as gifts, now that Sebastian Michaelis II was ten. Lame. Lame. Lame name. There can only be one! And, technically, though you couldn't bear to tell your son that he was wrong, he was the third, since he was French, but as he went with the English spelling, he wasn't technically wrong. Even so, you practically fled from any congratulatory letters from anyone, friend or stranger, as though they were filled with poison. Instead, you let the only man you'd ever call "Sebastian Michaelis" handle the possible inquiries therein. He'd done an exemplary job for ten years and more, just like he always had, for decades.
"You know which one." You coughed again. He looked so beautiful, and something about him was even more different than before. He was comforting you, but not like he'd done in the past, conditionally, your choices affecting his ambitions. Now, it was unconditional, as though it wasn't anyone you knew, but an angel in essence, nothing less than a pure, radiant beam of light. You were probably just getting the dementia you deserved since you were far too lucky and didn't have it prior to this very minute. Every old lady's gotta go crazy before she dies. It's a right of passage.
No. This wasn't like that. He was different, and you never had dementia. Not everyone did, clearly. You lowered your head, still catty after all these years. "I thought you'd lost your wings."
He smiled then. You knew it took effort, but you were smirking, yourself. It was hard for him to wallow in abject sorrow while his clearly weaker human wife was able to smile as she greeted death like an old friend. He'd be the weak one, but then again, for him to even be here was the strongest thing anyone you knew had ever done. "I didn't. I just got rid of them. What?" You seemed to be growling under your breath. Your lips formed a fine line, and you held the bed linens up over your face, narrowing your eyes. You looked just like a kid again, despite your evident decrepitude. "They'd be in the way. Did you expect me to carry on looking like a giant bird? What would the people here think?"
You cleared your throat. "That you were an angel. You are. Literally."
He wiped his eyes. "So are you. Metaphorically. Well, soon enough..."
"I'll still be human when I die." You wheezed. "Plus, I think it says, somewhat offensively, in the Bible, that when we die-" you coughed again, specks of blood fell on white fabric. Gross. Gross. Damn it. Stop it. "we'll be even higher than-" you couldn't keep talking. You had to save your breath. You didn't care and kept ruining your already failing health, dying faster so you could crack a joke. Classic you. "The-" you inhaled. "God Damn it! Give me a moment won't you?" You shrieked at the sky, raising a shaking, bony finger, pointing directly above you. The golden band and sparkling diamond on it reflected the sunlight in the room. "Just give me like five more minutes to make fun of my husband, okay?" You could breathe again. Thank God. "Angels. Higher than you. Better than you."
He blinked repeatedly, shocked at your display, but not the least bit surprised. You would shout obscenities and curse out the almighty on your deathbed. You weren't afraid. You knew where you were headed. "You've always been better than me, {Y/N}."
You exhaled, the closest you could get to a laugh. "Now, I know that's a lie."
He took your hand in his, and held it against his face. You blinked. How you ended up here was still unbelievable: the greatest miracle of all. It was perfect. You hated that it had to come to an end. You still had questions, and you'd been somewhat unsatisfied with the ambiguity of it all. But then again, that's how it always worked with faith. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you knew this was it. Your time had come.
You were dying. "Promise me something, {Y/N." His grip almost squished your hand (not that you'd be needing it). He was clearly distraught, and didn't mean to cause you pain. You wouldn't cause him any. His strength would be needed more than ever now that he had a job to do. It was better that he underestimate himself than overestimate his power.
"Anything." You panted. You didn't have much time.
"Wait for me." Thats it? Like you had a choice. Where else would you go? Go on holiday in Purgatory? Dumbass. He'd be the one waiting up.
"Same to you, Sebastian." You closed your eyes. "Remember, I'm the wife. Not a wife." He leaned over you, and the light begin to fade. You wondered whether it was because of his unquestionably beautiful, angelic wings that he thought to be such a nuisance, or if it was because you were quite plainly, literally in death's shadow. Perhaps it was both. "Don't ever forget how much I love you."
You heard him crying as he replied. "Like I've said, countless times before, {Y/N}, no matter how or why, I'd do anything you asked of me. My only wish now is that one day I'll see you again. So, if you get to Heaven and find out they don't want me-"
You raised a hand, the last gesture you ever made, and slapped him. "Stupid. Of course they'll want you."
He leaned down and kissed you, as you slipped away from the world, both of you wanting to say so much more.
That night, his memories were clearer than ever, but one stood out among the rest. Why you had never let up about that night in the dark, who you'd really encountered that made you believe in God, he never really understood, but he knew one thing: he'd find out, even if it took a thousand years. If it was the last thing that he'd do, he'd do it-for you.
Some time before, shortly after you were married, completely normally, in a church and everything (Year Unspecified)
You'd been arguing again, about who'd you'd truly met all those years ago. You wanted him to think. Really really really really think on it. If he remembered anyone, maybe he could contact them. It could be a hunt! Find and convert all the demons, like Jesus told his disciples to do with men. Fish them out. Make them see the light. You cringed, noticing the Puritan undertones.
"Maybe it was you." You sighed, guiltlessly, knowing the witches you'd be hunting would be real, and more than that, they'd be the unclean spirits in the forests of Hawthorn's novels, not the humans working with them, though you may run into your fair share of Faustian Contracts. Still it wasn't witchcraft. Not technically, contemporarily. It kinda was. You didn't care. The Puritans left anyway. "Your memory is shit, you know."
"Maybe it was the Devil." He waved his fingers comedically, as though playfully scaring children on All Hallows' Eve.
"Maybe you're one in the same." You were serious.
"I'll never know, but I do know I'd hate myself if I were to discover I ever planned on hurting you."
"I hope you're the same person. Then we'll both be right!"
"You're impossible." He laughed. "And a terrible Christian."
"No, husband-" you held up your hand, which now wasn't ever without a shiny gold ring, the diamond almost as big as your eye, and just as bright. "I'm the best Christian."
You stopped in moment of inspiration, thrusting your finger higher into the air "That's how I want you to address me!" He raised an eyebrow, as you you moved your hand as though you were envisioning a title to a show, spelled out in lights.
"Her Majesty's bastard granddaughter -a-k-a, or at least known to everyone else- the best Christian...ever!"
He'd said it before for various reasons, but going forward, he knew the reason for everything, fully intending and desiring to honor your wish, and any and all future ones, no matter how ridiculous they should be. You were the reason. Only you, no mater how vain, shallow, weak, occasionally useless, once nieve you could be, you meant everything to him. How he could have ever told you otherwise was beyond his comprehension. He loved you, maybe even more than you loved him, though it seemed pretty obvious, as with everything between you, that you were no less than equal. You both grinned as he said those words, ones which meant more than you could ever properly express with other forms of communication, be they pose, poetry or prayers. It was an unspoken agreements you'd made. That was your covenant. Love. Lame. You thought, recognising how stupidly happy you both looked. If anyone actually knew your pasts, they'd think you were either possessed by some exceptionally delusional romantic deity, or straight up on drugs: opium or something of the like, but you weren't. Clearly.
"As you wish, {Y/N}."