Jarrett the dreamer

     Jarrett sat upright in his hotel room bed. The dream about an angelic battle during World War II woke him from an unsound sleep.  It was a dream he wouldn’t soon forget.  His pulse raced when he saw the Angels battle, as if he had something to do with the female with black wings who had lost.  He wanted to help the woman. Something inside of him made him feel protective toward her, a feeling he had never felt about any woman before.

     When she dove, he felt the wind against his own face.  When she went to parry her opponent’s blade, he felt anticipation.  When her wing had been injured, he wanted to step in and fight for her.

      The woman with black wings intrigued him.  He saw her determination during the battle.  He now looked back at the dream, and thought about her.  The angel with black wings had the finest figure Jarrett had ever seen.  She had wings, which was odd, and he was dreaming about World War II, but . . .  something made his pulse race when watching her.

     Now he sat there in bed, his mind had forced him to wake up at 2:00am on a Tuesday morning, he had only a few more hours of sleep before his workday started.

     He laid his head back down on the pillow, maybe he was being a bit fanciful, it was just a dream after all.  He lay there thinking a little bit more about the dream before drifting off to sleep.  Another dream a bit more pleasant than the first came to him.

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.