02 Eternity - Guardian

by Laury Falter

  Minutes later, cut, bruised, and in disarray, Marco was visibly tiring. Knowing this, he ended the fight in one swift movement; oddly it did not come from the end of his sword.

  He positioned himself in front of the windows, gestured to someone outside, and then fled out the door in which he’d come.

  The moment he escaped the room, glass shattered behind me and my leading thought was that another Fallen One had come through it.

  My body turned in flight to face the next attacker but it was a haphazard, lopsided turn.

  Something was throwing off my balance.

  With effort, I steadied myself and then Eran was at my side.

  “Down,” he was shouting.

  Everything moved in slow motion then.

  Something hit my torso, and then again, and then again.

  As Eran forced me to the ground and just before the window ledge obstructed my view to the outside, I caught sight of a young man, immaculately dressed, hovering just beyond the edge of the property. I knew him instantly. Not only because of his clothing but because he held a bow, which had just released an arrow.

  “Achan…” I breathed.

  As Eran laid me gentle down, my eyes drifted across the floor where Annie and Charlie lay, both with arrows lodged just under their shoulder blades.

  Fury raged in me and I released a scream that I was certain reached Achan’s ears.

  “Shhh, save your strength,” Eran consoled me.

  Strength? I thought. For what?

  My head dropped farther and I found my answer. The stems of seven arrows protruded from my own body.

  I was riddled with them.

  He was bending over me now, his eyes running the course of my body to evaluate my injuries.

  “They’re-They’re fatal,” I verified softly.

  Then the pain hit.

  It felt as if my abdomen had been lit on fire.

  I cringed against it, my teeth grinding, my breath coming in short gasps.

  Unable to bear seeing me in pain, he took hold of the tip of one arrow, intending to break it off.

  “No…” I rejected. “Leave them. There isn’t much time.”

  Eran’s head was shaking now, refusing to believe reality. Yet, the evidence was clear.

  I was dying.

  Cradling my head in his lap, he stared down at me, helpless.

  “This can’t be happening again,” he muttered, subduing a sob.

  I brought my hand up to his pressed against my cheek. I had something to tell him and I needed his full attention.

  “The Jacques I was referring to…” I whispered.

  “Yes,” he muttered, confused and hopeless at the same time.

  “That Jacques is you…”

  The feelings that came across Eran’s handsome features took my breath away. They were an evolution of shock, pride, relief, thrill, and ultimately fulfillment.

  “Are you telling me that you love me?” he asked, astonished.

  “Yes…” I breathed, able to release a laugh at his silliness. He should have known all along.

  As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I was waiting for you to declare it.”

  “I’m-I’m sorry you had to wait…to wait centuries,” I said, pushing back against the slowing pulsations rattling my body.

  Eran smiled gently. “It was worth it.”

  “I’m…close…” I informed him.

  He nodded and took hold of his sword, raising it over his head as he had done in London so many years ago.

  A sob escaped. He choked back the rest of it and recovered. Then, in case didn’t convey it already through the intensity of his expression, he declared, “My love does not end here.”

  Unable to watch his next action, his eyes closed and he brought the sword down on me, sinking it deep within my chest.

  I kept my eyes open, calling out to him though my lips would not move. I too had final words for him and I was desperate to convey them. They were simple and direct, just as his had been.

  “Neither does mine.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: GETTYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA

  The following morning I awoke to a surreal reality.

  Eran was slumped in the chair with his head dipped forward and his clothes disheveled. His chest moved slowly, habitually, a clear sign that he was dozing.

  Strangely, only moments ago, it was me who appeared feeble.

  Of course, Eran was not feeble. Far from it. It was his days of staying awake and alert to protect me and nights flying around the world to perform reconnaissance had caught up to him.

  I couldn’t blame him.

  Realizing this was the first time I had seen Eran asleep – ever – I remained sitting in bed, studying him.

  Gone was the horror at facing the taking of my life. In replace of it, was the calm, peaceful countenance that Eran traditionally exuded. His nose was chiseled to perfection, his jaw line was defined and powerful, his lips were swollen from sleep.

  He was breathtaking.

  Giving in to the urge of a closer look, I slipped my legs off the side of the bed and carefully placed my feet on the floor. Once standing, I turned and found him awake and staring at me.

  He tilted his head to the side and, fighting an awkward smile, he asked, “Still trying to sneak out?”

  Sneak out? I thought. Of course, he’d expect that. I had a history of it and I was currently in the motions of silently standing up.

  I opened my mouth to respond but no words came out. How could I admit that I was about to approach him for a better stare? After all that I had seen of our past lives, after our confession of love, after the taking of my life, it felt trivial.

  “I see,” he said, deducing that he was correct. Standing also, he approached me to divulge, “Even when it may appear that I am sleeping…I am not. I hear every sound. You have little hope of escaping.”

  He was within arm’s reach, which as usual caused my heart to quicken and pleasant exhilaration to build in me. I opened my mouth again to answer and closed it when I realized that I had chosen no words to speak.

  “I’ll see you in the kitchen,” he said, and left my room.

  He was still smirking at me as I gulped down a cup of coffee and eggs made by Rufus. Felix was busy preparing a special dinner tonight – Pickled Pig’s Snout – so he didn’t acknowledge us much. Ezra and Campion were both reading the newspaper, heads bowed deep inside the fold. Eran and I agreed to be back in time for dinner and left for school, where I actively fought the reaction I had to Fallen Ones hidden throughout the streets. Nearly exhausted by that exercise I was thankful when we were able to take our seats in Biochemistry.

  Again, Ms. Beedinwigg treated Eran and I like any other student, engaging us in conversation when the situation arose. It was a refreshing change considering that the students and remaining faculty either glared at us or snubbed us entirely.

  Homework was becoming a problem for both of us – with nightly responsibilities consuming our time - so we spent much of the lunch hour in the library cramming in answers to questions and racing through required reading chapters.

  At the end of the day, we made it home without incident involving any Fallen Ones, though I sensed them along the way.

  Entering the house, our noses were assaulted with the smell of Pickled Pig’s Snout which emitted the aroma of vinegar and rubber, a particularly unappetizing combination.

  To our surprise, Felix agreed with the rest of us in our reluctance to dine on this newly-inspired dish and ordered pizzas instead. Someone turned on the transistor radio on a shelf in the kitchen to a melodic jazz station, another poured the drinks and we spent the next hour sitting around the table talking.

  Eran and Campion were astonished to learn that Felix had grown up in foster care in Indianapolis and ended up studying with some of the world’s most renowned chefs. In fact, it was one of these chefs that introduced him to his love for tarot cards and he joined the psychic circuit quickly after. He met Ezra on the circuit alm
ost immediately and traveled with her from that point.

  They were also intrigued to hear that Ezra had come from a wealthy family on the east coast and was handed off from one relative to the next when her parents died. As a teenager, she befriended juvenile delinquents and ran unchecked until she began to realize that she could change their lives for the better. From that point forward, she educated herself, earning multiple doctorate degrees while working the psychic circuit as well. She then dedicated her life to guiding those who needed it and counseling juveniles in trouble.

  Rufus also grew up without parents. He had lived his life in an orphanage in Ireland until his teenage years. The tattoos he bore reflected something special and unique about each of his former orphanage mates. Alone and without much proper education, he had come to America, drawing sketches on the streets for dimes. He met Ezra not long after and began traveling the psychic circuit with her, picking up Felix sometime thereafter.

  They had considered themselves a family from then on.

  Then it came time for Eran to leave and we stepped out on to the back porch together.

  “Germany again?” I asked nervously.

  He nodded his head, sympathetic to my fear for him. Without me having to say so, he knew that my mind was more often on him than the dinner conversation. “I intend to find out more about Sarai and Achan’s plan.”

  “All right,” I muttered. “Just be-”

  “Careful. I will…” he confirmed, drawing his shirt over his head and handing it to me. Then, with a powerful thrust of his wings, he spun and lifted into the inky black sky.

  I waited, noting the elegant contours of his muscular back, until he was out of sight.

  As always, Campion gave us our time and waited until Eran had gone before opening the door. He pulled my bike from the shed and we left for another session with Ms. Beedinwigg.

  Just as the night before, I raced the obstacle courses and we practiced weaponry with multiple attackers. Although, this time Ms. Beedinwigg took each piece of artillery, described it, gave a brief history on which Fallen Ones were known to use it (recounting many names I’d never heard before), and finally showed me how to use it.

  I memorized them and their uses on the way home and until my head met the pillow.

  Seconds later, I was back in the Hall of Records.

  Pulling my scroll from the wall, I unrolled it and moved my finger over my fourth and final past life:

  Previously Margaret Talor – Died Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, July 3, 1863

  I was dropped into my body sometime during my teenage years. I became aware of this after glancing at my reflection in a window across from me. My hair and face remained the same but my clothing was now a tight, itchy, sweltering dress and petticoat. My shoes were without cushion so my feet ached a little as I stood on a rutted dirt road.

  Directly in front of me was Eran, also in his teenage years and wearing trousers, a cotton shirt, and an eagle feather behind his ear. A necklace dangled around his neck, lined with the teeth of different animals, ones that I figured he had killed as a test of courage and strength.

  A line had been created in front of him of six boys, each restlessly shifting around as if they were itching for a fight.

  “Injun lover,” said one boy of the six standing before Eran.

  He contemplated that and then nodded. “Yes, that would be accurate.”

  Another boy scoffed, “See…he doesn’t even try to deny it.”

  A few others snickered.

  One of Eran’s shoulders shrugged and from the look on his face he couldn’t have cared less. He then turned to leave.

  Suddenly, the boy closest to him reached out and pulled him back by the shoulder.

  To me, from my stance on the side of the road, that looked like a challenge. I stepped forward.

  Noticing my movement, Eran put his hand up in my direction. “No.”

  Against my wishes, I stopped.

  That gave the boys all the fodder they needed and the haranguing began.

  “Letting a girl fight for you, eh Eran?”

  “Scared? He’s scared, boys!”

  “Need a girl to do your dirty work?”

  “Ignore them, Eran!”

  Those last words came from my mouth, I realized.

  A few of Eran’s attackers glanced in my direction; the ones who didn’t saw the first strike.

  The boy closest to Eran pulled his arm back, curled his fist, and flung it forward.

  The only problem for the boy was that Eran had seen it too.

  As the fist came forward, Eran deftly stepped out of the way, sending the boy flying through the air, floundering to keep himself from falling forward.

  Then a round of fists flew forward, all aimed at Eran.

  He sidestepped them all, spinning, ducking and maneuvering himself away from contact.

  I heard a commotion behind me and twisted to find a group of boys and girls of varying ages running towards us, clumps of dirt kicking up behind them. Most of them were yelling the same word: Fight!

  Surrounding Eran and the other six boys, they watched with concentrated interest as the fists were hurled, none of which were Eran’s.

  “Isn’t he heavenly?” said one girl beside me, not bothering to hide her wistfulness.

  The girls next to her sighed, tilting their heads dreamily.

  Who, I wondered, could these girls be stupid enough to be infatuated over when clearly none of them were able to defend themselves?

  “His name is Eran, right?” asked one and the other shushed her, eyeing me warily.

  Pride swelled in me then, coursing through my entire being. There was not a hint of jealousy with it. There shouldn’t have been. Eran had already professed his love for me in Paris and, judging from this body’s reaction to the girls, he’d already reinforced it in this life.

  Eran pranced through the storm of attacks with ease, skillfully avoiding any injury. One by one the boys fell or tired and stepped to the side. In the end only one remained in the circle.

  “Aren’t you…” he huffed, “going to try to hit just once?”

  “Why?” Eran asked confused. “You’re doing a fine enough job beating yourself.”

  That spurred a brief rage in the boy and he took a swing, missed yet again, and, without the energy to keep himself up, fell to the ground in a puff of dust.

  Eran waltzed to my side, took my hand, and led me through the crowd. But before leaving, he did land one jab. Glancing over his shoulder, he called out, his voice edged in sarcasm, “Thanks for the practice…boys.”

  We left the crowd at the roadside watching us walk into the forest surrounding us. We walked for several minutes with Eran courteously helping me over fallen logs and small boulders. We talked, though I didn’t understand much of it as it dealt with people that I didn’t recall in this life time.

  Then we reached a cliff overlooking an awe-inspiring gorge and I wondered where we intended to go now.

  Eran removed his shirt, his muscles still steaming from the fight and glinting off the sun, and tucked one end into his pants. Shockingly, I was removing my own clothing now. The stiff, tight dress I’d worn slipped down my body to my ankles and I stepped out. Beneath it was a pair of loose fitting cotton pants tightened around the waist and ankles. My torso was covered in a custom shirt with a gaping hole at my shoulder blades. The reason for it became clear to me when my wings sprouted from the hole and stretched admirably long. Eran also had his wings extended. They tucked under him, sprang out to their full length, and caught the air just as Eran tipped over the cliff’s edge. He soared out into the gorge, the wind rippling the feathers along the base of his wings. Standing out in contrast against the green and blue backdrop of the gorge, his pale body and stark white wings carried him through the cool air with grace and agility.

  I followed shortly behind him; tipping over the edge and allowing my wings to lift me back into the air. The wind caught under my wings and carried me effortlessly, whi
stling in my ears and carrying the smell of fresh earth across the breeze. My clothes fluttered wildly against my body and my hair, long and untied, snapped loudly behind me.

  As I reached Eran, our wings just inches apart, he grinned and I knew he felt the very same way I did…absolutely free. Then his grin changed to a smirk just before he twirled and darted for the ground. I followed and we reached the treetops in seconds.

  Eran came to a sharp stop just behind a boulder, where he pulled the shirt from his pants and slipped it on. I reached him and followed the same process, dropping the dress I’d worn over my head.

  His grin returned as he took my hand and we walked around the boulder where a large cluster of teepees lay. Native Americans walked between them, carrying children, bowls, and clothing, going about their daily chores.

  He led me to a larger but otherwise unremarkable teepee towards the edge of the village. Drawing back the animal skin doorway, he stepped inside, releasing my hand then so I could enter too.

  An elderly man with graying, waist-length hair, braided and decorated with feathers sat inside. I assumed immediately that he was their chief.

  He beckoned us.

  In the Iroquoian language of the Susquehannock people, Eran stated, “I brought what you asked.”

  As in other past lives, I listened and, though I did not know the language, I understood the words.

  The chief nodded and waited patiently as Eran drew a sack from his pocket and handed it to the chief.

  The chief opened it, tilted the bag, and coins fell in to his hands.

  “Was it a good trade?”

  “Yes it was,” replied Eran.

  The chief nodded.

  The entire process was extraordinarily unhurried and serene as if both men had the entire day to complete their business. I reasoned that the trade involving those coins must have been the purpose behind our trip in to the town where Eran had met his six rivals.

  “When you came,” said the chief, “to us as a child I saw courage in you. The teeth of animals you have collected hanging from your neck shows this. As our trade man, you have been good. Courageous and good. Your parents are happy too of your history. Now…it is time. Search out your own path.”