A Predictin

“I must tell you this, so listen closely.”  The older woman said, her eyes glazed over as if in a trance, “What if there was a life you could not let go of, a man whom you would give your life for but his abilities make him a threat to human and Daeva history.”

     “There would be no such man,” Irti replied.

     “But there is and you will find him irresistible.  His wit and caring nature, will be for you.  He will calm the rage burning in your soul.”  The older woman paused briefly, “What are you willing to give up for your true mate?”

     “If I am understanding you correctly, I will love a human?”

     “Yes,” What a simple answer from the woman’s mouth. 

     Irti got up from where she was sitting.  “I think I will wait by the door.”

     “What bothers you so?”  The older woman asked. 

     “You, to think I will love a mortal, a human, preposterous.”  Irti turned.  “Mind yourself old woman.  For what you say will get me banished from my people.”

     “If that is your choice, then make it.  Happiness is fleeting, don’t throw it away with both hands when offered.”

     A chill went up Irti’s spine. Maybe the woman was right.

Finding Sanctuary

The consequences of the injury did not escape her notice.  Her wing started to stiffen; this arthritic pain was the first sign to any Daeva that their person was being taken by stone.  She pushed up off of the sand.

     Irti looked at the half stormy sky.  The sun happened to be behind her.  The storm ahead of her could be a flight problem.  She had to try.

     Opening her wings she awkwardly entered the air.  She felt like an albatross; a big bird that had to run and flop into the air.  When she was in the air, she could not keep her balance very well.  It was sheer will that kept her aloft.  The storm still raged above her.

     Somehow she made the short distance to Paris.  At that time Paris was under a curfew.  Residents had to be home from their various jobs at a specific time due to the German occupation.

     Crossing Paris had its risks.  “Come on girl, you can do it,” Irti cheered herself on.  She pulled herself upright tucking her wing as gently as she could behind her back.  She had to make it to Notre Dame.  Around there was a safe home, where individuals would help her get home.

     She inched her way along the streets of Paris ducking into the shadows when she saw a German patrol.  For heart pounding moments she feared being found.  Germans shot first then asked questions later, only because this was a time of curfew.  Irti knew she took a great risk coming to the occupied city. 

     Death is a fate immortals don’t really face.  It simply did not happen.  But for a small few, when a time of conflict happens and severe injury occurs, the immortal turns to stone.  Irti stood at the base of Notre Dame, panting and injured.  She bent her wing again, and she felt it stiffen.  She knew she needed to find help. 

     She looked up at the stone building, then walked toward it. She went around to the side of the building.  Touching the cold stone of the grand cathedral she prayed, “Please let the sanctuary still be there.”  

Beginning of a new Century and Mission

     The smoke clouded the sunny sky, as another air raid siren blared over the city speakers.  Those people caught out in the street ran toward an unusual light. There were not many since most of London was evacuated, but the ones who stayed still had to get to jobs. A man motioned to the frantic people walking, not running along the street.  So the people flocked to the man motioning to them.

     The man was an Ahriman, a man with white wings; he gave the appearance of helping the humans.  He was actually interfering.  The female Daeva watched from a shadowy rooftop.  Humans called her kind demons.  Her kind had nothing to do with humans.  All her people did, the Daeva, was to keep the Ahriman from interfering with the humans. 

     But did humans really need to know the truth? 

     They idealized the Ahriman as “Angels,” and seemed to not want to see that sometimes what the Ahriman did was against the human’s best interests.  Who would tell them the truth?  Nobody, the Daeva’s liked being able to do his or her job without human knowledge.

     So the female Daeva watched, disgusted.  She had thought of the man in a different way only a few years ago.  She honestly planned to try to convince her own kind that the Ahriman had changed.  The man had convinced her that the entire race had, since he was their leader.  She had been fooled.  He wanted only knowledge of how her people figured out where and when they needed to step in, to stop the Ahriman from interfering.  She did not tell him, even though he was so convincing.

     She cursed him under her breath.  His manipulations ticked her off.  He swore his love for her.  She wanted desperately to believe him.  She wanted to believe that she loved him too.  She knew something held her back. 

     Even their lovemaking was not what she imagined lovemaking should be.  It was cold and just functional with no real passion.  She wanted everything, love and passion. So, he was lacking.

     She shook her head to clear it.  Her job was to stop his kind.  She would complete her mission then return home.  

A beginning

Irti leapt from the building, and covertly unfurled her black wings.  She glided to the next roof, landing on her feet, and turned to see if she was still being followed.  Sure enough, there they were, three white-winged males, all brandishing swords, and all with only one thought-her death.

     She scoffed at them before leaping down from that roof.  Her large twelve-foot wingspan opened quickly to catch the rainy wind.  She reached around her back with her right hand to grab the hilt of her sword.  If only she did not have to fight such dire odds.

     Her black hair whipped in the wind crossing over her eyes, diminishing her ability to see. This temporarily knocked her a little bit off balance.  She steadied herself by lifting a few of her feathers to control her glide to the next roof, where she landed again gracefully on her feet.

     She was a Daeva, a black angel.  What humans called a demon or helpers of the “devil.” Humans were mistaken.  First, her kind had never heard of the “devil.”  Second, her kind only wanted to stop the Ahriman from interfering with the history of the humans.  Humans thought of the Ahrimans as “angels“ or helpers of God.  This disgusted Irti.

     The rain fell cold against the bare skin on her back.  She mused about why she was out there, it was August 14, 1792, and she had just failed in her mission.  The Ahriman had foiled some human assassination attempt.  She didn’t know why, but she would find out.  She drew her bronze colored sword, and scowled at them, “Why did you stop those Girondists?”

     The one in the center, stocky with black hair and swarthy skin, spoke, “We were saving a life.  Maximilian Robes Pierre must survive.  And for your interference, you must be eliminated.”

     With that the two others, one tall and skinny, but also swarthy, the other short and vaguely Irish looking, moved forward and to the sides, trying to encircle her.

     Glancing about, she saw a large chimney, not a perfect defense, but at least something to put her back to.  She darted quickly to it, and moved her sword in small circles, flexing her wrist.  They moved to trap her there.