Interlude

The scene is one of utmost tranquillity. The sky is that shimmering blue of the lazy, hazy days of summer. Delicate wisps of fluffy cloud chase each other playfully on the currents of the upper air. It is warm and the grass comfortable, with the threat of slipping off to sleep being a welcome danger. The drifting perfume of wild flowers is accompanied by the mellifluous laughter of various faeries capering joyously in the nearby woodlands. All is well with this world.

Sitting here in the shade of a leafy oak, on the fringes of the deciduous woods that stretch across these small foothills, gives an unrivalled view of the sweeping plains filled with fields of slowly swaying flowers, metronomes to the gentle breezes that waft cool air around. A rustle in the leaves above brings the activity of a solitary squirrel to notice. Its vibrantly red bushy tail curls behind for balance as it scampers from branch to branch in search of precious fruit, those cupped bells of oakish delight, the acorns. Spying one, the lithe creature darts forward to swipe it with a deft flick of its tiny paws. It looks down and pauses, its head tilted to one side, as if in puzzlement.

It acts, throwing the acorn with all its might so that it arcs high into the air and out down the hillside before leaping back into the oaken canopy whence it came. Forgetting the surprise of how such a small animal could have lofted the nut with so much force, by tracking its flight, it is seen to land in a hitherto unnoticed section of this idyllic landscape. And it is severely incongruous with the rest of the peaceful surroundings. Natural inquisitiveness, at the very least, demands an investigation at closer quarters.

Traipsing a meandering path down the hill, pondering why this area had not been seen before, brings the investigative trail to the edge of a circular patch of blasted land. The earth is scorched and slightly warm to the touch. Letting the sharp, grit-like grains trickle away, scars and deep ruts are noticeable as if some minor skirmish or duel has been fought here. Recently, by the looks of things.

The situation does not seem to tally. Looking back and around, this piece of land is now completely enclosed within a ring of identical-looking hills. There is no sign of the woodlands, the air is silent and the sweet scent present before is gone, replaced only by a faint sulphurous smell. The atmosphere is no longer fresh. It is oppressive, drawing in like an invisible strait jacket. Clouds whirl overhead, spinning in threatening dance, all grey and nebulous. Flashes of whiteness flicker across their nebulous underbellies. The hills are alive but this time, it is not with the sound of music. It is the sound of unspoken discontent. Of a land under stress. In distress.

All is not well with this world. The pain is almost tangible.

There is movement ahead. Something disturbs the earth. From beneath the landing place of the flung acorn, the soil shifts to cover the seed. A green leaf breaks forth, followed swiftly by a stem. And stretches. And grows. Before long it is a young sapling. Then a youthful tree. Then an established one. In a matter of moments there is a venerable oak where there was nothing but seconds previously. It is not discernable as to whether any time has actually passed for such an extraordinary event to take place. But there it is.

The leaves turn russet red and autumnal gold. They fall, drifting to the blackened earth before withering away to nothing. The branches shake, writhing in agony as they twist, split and shrivel. Now it is a stunted reflection of what it should be and had been, succumbing to unnatural caducity. The beauty of natural oak is disfigured, almost deconstructed section by section, until almost nothing of before remains. It is a tortured remnant, a reminder that all is fragile. The trunk and a few of the larger branches remain but they are warped and knotted. It is truly a sorry sight.

There is movement from the hill opposite. A figure crests the mound and starts walking down. It is too far away to discern details, not helped by the faint haze of mist or smoke that has appeared and continues to thicken. The air is now the consistency of thin fog. The figure carries on walking. The rustle of soil and charred earth indicate that the boundary from well to ill is crossed. The footsteps stop. All that can be seen is an outline, a vague silhouette of a person.

All of a sudden, it is cold. Icy fingers stab to the bone, borne on the freezing sleighs of the wind. It gusts and rips away at the foggy cover, shredding the wall of obscurity. To reveal two additional figures. Sitting on opposite branches of the twisted tree, branches that seem incapable of bearing their weight yet stay fast as if in the peak of health and maturity.

Careful scrutiny of the nearer one shows that he - for the cut of the features and observable stature appear to be masculine in spite of the aura of celestial androgyny - is dressed entirely in white. Clad in a shimmering samite suit of almost blinding, burning white. There is a sense of peace and calm despite the nature of the nature around. But on his face, he wears an expression of troubled serenity. All in all, the vision presented is that of an angel. All bar the usual presence of wings.

As if on cue, a pair of white, feathered limbs spread themselves from behind his back. On these wings of a dove, he glides down to stand but a few feet away. With a quick glance back to his companion, who is identical in all respects except for the colour of his vestments and wings that are that of deepest black, he spreads his arms in the stereotypical gesture of benediction. In the background, the dark angel can be seen displaying a similar gesture to the figure seen before across the way, a figure whose image stirs feelings of remembrance, even friendship. Yet a name is elusive, flitting away on the frailties of memory.

The white figure is pensive, lips pursed as if about to speak. Faintly, like a distant mirage, a silver anadem is perceivable hanging in the air above his silver hair, which crowns him like a mane. This close, the facial features are much clearer. A softly angular visage with bone structure reminiscent of royalty. The eyes are akin to those of fantasy elves. Are grey and troubled.

'Your spirit is strong. You may indeed be the one. Until history deems otherwise, I hail you Lord Ęthylin.' He kneels, as if offering fealty before a feudal lord. Over his shoulder, the sable seraph does the same before the other. Returning from bended knee, his voice descends to that of a conspiratorial whisper. 'Another age, another person. Listen carefully: Eternity does not sit well with us. Every step forward echoes. Looking to the past is futile for the present is neither there nor here. And the shores are not limitless in supply. Find us, find everything. Find them,' he says gesturing surreptitiously to the distanced pair, 'find nothing. Yet one is useless without the other.' He smiles radiantly. 'Right, with that out of the way, I have three things to say: One - we're nearby. Two - keep your friends close, and your enemies even closer. And three - my brother cannot be trusted.'

The smile bursts forth again. 'Don't worry-' He cuts himself off. 'I wouldn't worry too much. It will only cloud your judgement. Everything has a conclusion. We will speak again anon.' Looking back to where his twin stands, he receives a nod in confirmation. They move to stand together, back to back. And vanish. No ceremony, no sparkle. Just nothing.

And then there is one. He moves to take a step forward. Hesitates. Stops. His face contorts. In recognition, it appears. But not only that. It is tinged with something else. With apprehension. With horror. With fear. He shakes his head, turns and runs. Back up the hill. Over and gone. Over and done with.

The light is quickly fading. Before night claims this scene as victim, there is a sparkle from the tree. Something indistinctly shiny hangs from a shattered bough.

The face of that other person is bothersome. More for that fact that the details do not click. And then it happens.

A click.

One detail sparks the embers. A chain, half-seen, around his neck. A silver sigil on a silver T-bar.

Fade to black.