It had been a lonely day.
The menfolk of the village of Wettlemeet had toiled in their marshy fields, hunted in their marshy bogs, and longed for their marshy beds. The women of the village had made their houses, cooked their meals, and scolded their children.
Josepe had been with the other children as they had explored the marshes on the outskirts and played through the streets.
It had been a normal day. Yet, it had been different.
The day had been weighed down by a sense of sadness, a sadness that came from nowhere and nothing, and had been felt by every one of the village’s residents, Josepe included.
As Josepe stood at the edge of the fields, watching for his father, he had glanced to the skies, overcast as they were that day, as if the heavens themselves shared the village’s sorrow.
“Josepe!” his father’s voice had filled his ears, as the hardy man had picked the young boy up, smiling as he did. Josepe had hugged him back, heedless of the mud adorning the man’s clothes. His mother would scold them both for it, yet she would smile fondly and pull them close after, as she always did.
The young boy had just begun to tell his father of what he had done that day, his head against the man’s shoulder, when the skies had torn in two with a frightful roar.
As one, all eyes in the village had turned to the skies as something fell from the clouds, a streak of white and black against the grey.
Moments later, it had struck the ground just beyond the village with tremendous force, earth thrown high into the air as it had made landfall.
Josepe had peeked around his father’s legs as the villagers had gathered on the edge of the crater that had formed, the smoke clearing to gasps, shock and fear.
“By the gods,” Old Vilfer, the holy man, had said, eyes so wide Josepe had wondered if they would fall from his head, “Winged ones.”
And they were.
In the crater, they laid. Two figures, one male, one female, naked as could be, a faint glow seeming to fade from their bodies as the last of the dust settled.
The male, black haired and pale, had great wings, blackened white, which lay broken and twisted. His hands clutched the hands of the female, a figure of great beauty, silvery haired and radiant, her wings of pure white turned uncomfortably.
“Are they… dead?” someone had asked.
“Mayhaps they would be the better for it if they were,” Old Vilfer had replied, thumbing at the symbol of his church, hanging from a chain at his neck, “the Gods have thrown them out, and their deaths would be a mercy.” Suddenly, the male gasped weakly, body shifting. Terrified, the villagers had backed off as his eyes had cracked open, vivid greens meeting Joseph's own.
The winged one had turned to his companion, a muttered word, “Fleur”, emerging from his lips as his eyes shut once more.
“It's Alive.” “It moved!” “What did it say?”
“What should we do?”
“I think,” Vilfer had muttered, licking his lips, his expression uncertain, “That the Church should be told of this. They will know what must be done”
Murmurs of agreement sprang out over the crowd. As cloth was was unfurled and brought out, to wrap the winged ones, Josepe couldn't help but feel that they were making a grievous mistake.