Between Two Fires

by Christopher Buehlman

“She was tempted by something stronger than her. Adam was tempted by a weaker creature. Or so we are told. If Eve was his inferior, his sin was greater. You can’t have it both ways.”

The thing in the room dropped the pretense of human voice.

And you won’t have to forgive anyone or be merciful, or thoughtful or courteous, because devils will rule here. They’ll kill the good ones first, and when all the good men are dead, they’ll come for men like you, who were almost sound, but not quite; the bowls that leaked. And when you’re gone, the worst of men will find themselves in the teeth of their masters, because those that fell have no love for man. And they’ll take good and bad alike to Hell, because there won’t be anyplace but Hell anymore. Not without love. Not without forgiveness.”

“We all fall short of perfection. You. Me. Père Matthieu. We all disappoint someone. Can we forgive only those who sinned against others?”

And men of great valor gathered in the city by the river and swore to take Jerusalem, and if they could not hold it, to put it to fire and sword. And the valorous men of the deserts gathered in their tents and swore to hold Jerusalem, else to put it to fire and the sword. And so were readied the armies of Armageddon, yet not at the hour long foretold. And the dead stood with the living, and the living knew it not. And the Lord made no answer.

but he sensed that he would have died had he remained. Not of his injuries. Something had been coming for him, and he had just escaped. Had he remained, he would not only have died, he would have died spectacularly. Horribly.

The thing in the murk had not been bothered by the billhook or the boar spear; it recoiled only when struck by his sword. His sword had killed it. Her blood killed it. Her blood in its heart. The armorer at the night tourney would not touch it. Christ, what the hell is on this thing? I killed something foul in a river. Hey, Jacmel, you want any of this?

He threw his dagger to the floor and wedged the spear into the sheath at the back of his belt. He smiled to think he had just shoved a relic worth the whole of Avignon into a piece of greasy leather near his ass.

He could not, he would not watch her be hurt. Not if it meant his soul. “Am I still not to kill anyone?” “Not men.” “What does that mean?” “We won’t be facing men.”

So much of life demanded a kind of truce with perceived facts—one could not allow the suffering of the kitchen women, for example, to spoil the taste of capon. Neither would those women trouble themselves about the gnawings of a rat at the summer sausage; just cut that end off and serve the rest. Silently.

He backed up away from the boy-girl until his legs bumped against the frame of his bed. The sound of a dog licking. He half-turned to see one of the bathers on all fours, spiderlike, lapping at the love-stain on the sheet.

“I. Was. In Hell.” “You still are.” “Are. You. An angel?” “No. But there’s one here. And more are coming.” “Good,” he said, crying, looking like a pale, adult toddler. “That’s good.” “Maybe we won’t think so. The war is coming with them.”

“Jesus Christ, forgive me,” Jacquot said. The old cardinal near him disliked his words so much he unhinged his jaw and bit Jacquot’s face, dragging the skin from it and leaving his lidless eyes staring in disbelief.

Two angels and a devil had tumbled into the water. Three angels came up. Forgiveness, then, was possible even for the worst.

“I’m sorry. It’s time.” So saying, it grabbed the boy by a skinny arm. Mouths opened not just on its stomach, but in many places. “No! No!” It ate him. It hurt.

Eventually he even stopped yelling, and that was when they decided he was ready for something worse.

Love is always harder. Love means weathering blows for another’s sake and not counting them. Love is loss of self, loss of other, and faith in the death of loss.

fear of Hell is one of many paths to it. Forget Hell and love one another. That is all He wants of you.