Chapter Text
677 AD, Malmesbury, South-west England
Aziraphale paused on the town bridge, listening to the music that spilled from the entertainer's lyre. He was supposed to be blessing the monastery's abbot, a man named Aldhelm, but the abbey was a long pull up the hill from the river. The crowd parted a little, and he got a better view of the musician, only to find it was a monk who was taking every request thrown at him and playing it for the crowd.
Not just holy music either, the angel realised, as someone taunted the monk with a request for one of the tavern bawdy ballads about Lancelot and Guinevere. The man only smiled and launched into it, but to Aziraphale's eyes, a dusting of holiness already hung around him. Then he caught sight of the abbot's cross hanging around the monk's neck and relaxed. This must be the man he was sent to bless after all, so there would be no reprimand for hanging around and listening, even if the subject matter did rankle a little.
The song ended, and a deep voice asked for an old, old tune. Aziraphale hadn't heard it since Crowley had popularised it while playing blind bard for King Arthur himself. He settled to listen to the old memories, humming along too quietly for anyone to hear, and glanced over at the man who had requested it. A tall man, with wiry white hair above a high forehead, and a harsh, hawk-like face dominated by deep-set dark eyes and a great beak of a nose. The odd thing was, he looked familiar... A chance resemblance, the angel told himself. It's almost a century and a half since Arthur's court, it can't possibly be any of the humans you knew then.
The man glanced back at him, blinked in recognition himself, and looked again, frowning.
The expression was one Aziraphale had seen facing him across a game-board countless times. He murmured, startled, "Merriman?"
The frown only deepened, and he felt more than saw the man catch them both out of time before he replied, "Sir Aziraphale?"
"Uh, well, just Aziraphale these days, actually."
They stared at each other for another long breath, then spoke almost simultaneously, "What are you?"
Aziraphale smiled rather ruefully and laid his blessing on the monk while he thought. "I'm an angel," he admitted at last. "A Principality - that is a Guardian of humanity of a sort. I spread blessings and all that. And you?"
"An Old One. Part of the Circle. Also a Guardian of humanity - of a sort. I serve the Light that stands against the Dark."
"Perhaps we should rather discuss this at the tavern over a drink and a bite to eat?"
Merriman smiled and his bony face lit up for once as time flowed back around them. "An excellent idea. Lead on."