Through a Different Lens

The Damned and the Divine (Medieval)

            There is an argument to be made for the effect of good ale and summer nights on loosening the lips of those who really ought to stay quiet. Tall tales grow taller around a campfire and in the company of friends, and before long, stories are being swapped with all the vigour and passion of fragile egos all too eager to try and impress. These are peasant farmers, given a rare and precious few days away from their back-breaking toils in the fields, and the freedom has gone to their heads and turned rumours that would usually be swapped in hushed tones over candlelight into epic sagas to be swooned and astounded over.
"I swear it to the old gods and the new, there is no way what I saw that night was human. Neither of them," a voice declares, eyes as wild as the bonfire that crackles within their circle. He is met mostly with laughter, though it would seem he has captured the intrigue of at least a few of his friends. This is not the first time this man has shared a story that strayed far beyond the realms of the normal. He is stocky, a proper workman worn in by years of hard labour, with skin dappled by the sun with grey hairs speckled in his black beard.
"Supposing you did come across a real, proper angel and demon. What in the name of all that's good would they be doing just passing their time together in the woods, eh?" one sceptic challenges, swinging his cup accusingly at the storyteller.
"That's just it! I haven't even gotten to the strangest part yet."
"Oh? A messenger from the gods and a devil with yellow eyes and skin the colour of cornflowers ain't strange enough for you?"
"Not after I saw what they were doing."
A hush falls over the congregation, part confusion and part apprehension, as the storyteller's gaze falls upon the flames before him, brow furrowed and mouth ajar as he attempts to put his apparent brush with the divine into words.

"Well? Get on with it! We don't have all night to waste on your blasted drunken visions!"
"The demon had the angel in his arms from behind. I could have sworn for the life of me he was about to sink his wretched teeth into the poor angel's neck. I almost yelled out, tried to frighten the thing off, but..."
"But what? Out with it, man!"
"The angel was smiling. Laughing at whatever it was that foul creature was saying. Then –I can still see it clear as day in my head—the angel turned in his arms and kissed the thing!"
Murmurs ricochet around the campfire. Some shake their heads, some roll their eyes, and others exchange weak chuckles, trying to dismiss this as just another imagining despite the deathly serious look on the storyteller's face, the shake in his voice.
"And what do you suppose this means, then? If you really did see an angel and a demon embraced like lovers, what reason did they have to let you see them?"
"Aye! If they really were what you say they were—"
"They were! The one of them had great white wings, and the other had—"
"Yes, yes, we know. But angels and demons can both go completely unseen by man if they choose. So why would they want to let you see them like that? What do you wager the gods are trying to tell us?"

Silence. The storyteller, at long last, is rendered speechless. The uncertainty is contagious, and for a brief period the only sound that can be heard is the crackling of the fire and the faint call of owls from deep in the wood. It is almost a shock when one young man breaks the quiet, as thin and demure as his voice is. He is not an imposing man, slim and on the short side, red-faced from the cold and the ale and draped in a tattered green cloak.
"It is a sign of the end times."
Heads bob in a flurry of solemn nods, expressions espousing wisdom and certainty far beyond anything that anyone in the circle holds.
"Angels fraternising with demons... May the gods have mercy on our souls. Something awful must be on its way."
"A doomed crop."
"The death of the king."
"Another war, for certain."
Theories are exchanged, and by the time they have exhausted every catastrophe they can conjure from their imaginations, even the most steadfast doubters of the storyteller's recount have been shaken by the seriousness of their companions, and are now left to question whether there really is something wicked on its way. They sip their ale, stoke the fire, try to move onto less macabre subjects, and though several ears prick to what sounds like light, playful laughter from deep in the trees, not one of them utters a word.