I cannot stop shaking. I have never known fear such as this.
Inca and Eburnean are still with me. I tried to tell them that I was all right, but they do not believe me, and they should not. I am not all right.
Eburnean says that I should write what I have experienced. I am not certain what it was that I experienced, to say truth, though I can make some guesses that make the whole thing more frightening. But I trust their wisdom, and I am willing to try.
I was spending the evening with Freya—it seems so long ago!—when George called her and invited her out to dinner. She was amenable, and so they agreed on a location, and she tidied herself up and went out.
I urged caution, for the weather was not the best. The people of Boston do well enough in treacherous winter conditions, but even so there was no need to hurry. My urging was necessary, for Freya’s inclination was to rush. She and George have met several times since their last date for coffee or just to pass some time, but it has been a few days since she has seen him.
She arrived at the restaurant just moments before George did—she was still in the parking lot, walking toward the door, as he pulled in. She paused to wait for him, and he waved.
It happened in an instant.
I felt suddenly as if the winter wind, which could not touch me all that evening, had gained strength to cut right to my heart. I shuddered, and so did Freya, and I heard her inhale sharply, her smile vanishing as she watched George’s car turning.
And then, though there was little enough ice in the parking lot, the car continued to turn, veering sideways out of control. Even from across the lot, I could feel the spike of George’s fear.
An elderly gentleman, who had just assisted his wife into their car, looked up in astonishment at the car swinging towards him.
I moved then, gathering all my strength. I knew I would not have the strength to move the man, much less stop the car. But there was a small mound of gravel close by, and I managed to scatter some of it beneath the tires to give more traction. Even then, I stood before the man, wishing that I had mass and form to stop the car, to shield him even if it meant my life.
But it was not needed. George’s car skidded to a stop, and the old man crumpled to the ground, shocked but unhurt, his eyes wide and staring. In the car, his wife was crying prayers, while Freya was running, shouting, and George had simply dropped his head to the steering wheel.
In the midst of this relief and gratitude, I still felt freezing cold. And my fear was not gone—rather, it had intensified, as if the danger had left off watching the others and turned all of its attention to me.
I have never felt so vulnerable before, so—helpless. I have never before feared so for my own safety. And I do not know why.
But as I said before, I can guess, for it was in that instant that Orison appeared.
He descended like the shadow of lightning, his wings cutting through the air. Suddenly he was before me, and though all I could see of him was his back, he looked vast and more terrible than anything I have ever experienced. The sight of him drove out all of my fear, though it left me weak. I, too, fell to my knees, watching as Orison extended a hand into the empty air.
“Be gone,” he said.
And somewhere, there was a wail, as thin as the howling wind, and then the cold and the fear were both gone, and I could breathe again.
Orison turned to me, his expression concerned. “Can you stand, brother?” he asked.
I could not. So Orison stood for me, watching with me as Freya embraced George, as George apologized to the shaken but smiling couple for the narrow escape. When Freya drove George back to her house—neither of them had any appetite after that—Orison helped me to follow, to make certain that they were both well. And then, when I was reassured, he brought me back to heaven, for while my charges were safe, I myself was still haunted by what had happened.
What did happen? Could it possibly have been that one of the Fallen attacked us? I could not see any creature, but I could feel its presence—a hatred in the air that was so real I cannot deny it, however much I may want to. And perhaps I am imagining things, but I could have sworn that Freya felt it, too. How is that possible? And if it was a Fallen, what was its purpose? Was George the target, or else the old man who nearly died at his hands? Is it possible that the creature could have harmed me?
I have asked Inca and Eburnean all of these questions, but neither of them would tell me. Perhaps they do not know. I should not be accusatory.
But I am frightened. I am frightened for my charges, and I am frightened for myself. I do not know what to do.