An Isohel Of Hope 1

i•so•hel [ahy-suh-hel]

(n., meteorology)

A line on a weather map connecting points that receive equal amounts of suns.h.i.+ne

He could sense the darkness looming on the horizon. The war was quickly ending, and it wasn't in their favor. Soon, the fallen angels would be invading, and from the wrath wrought on the small villages nearby, he could tell there wasn't much hope to get out alive. The only question was how much time he still had. He sensed that it wouldn't be long. He had to go somewhere safe, somewhere where the resistance movement was strong, and would inevitably turn the tide in their favor. Grabbing his meteorology maps, the one semblance of joy he had left in the world, he began to search for that place. The lines zigzagged crazily around the page, getting closer together at spots, and then farther away at others. A meteorology map, at least to him, was the most beautiful thing one could lay their eyes on. He plotted a point in his city, the bustling town of Tenemora, and carefully followed the lines of longitude, down, down, down, until he found it. Riolava. The site of one of the biggest battles of the war, if not one of the biggest battles in all of history. Millions of warriors died over the course of those few weeks that the city was besieged. Although a good chunk of it was destroyed in the battle, he thought it might contain the last rays of hope for him and his people. It was settled then. He'd take off tomorrow morning, and hopefully arrive within a few days.

He could finally relax enough to drift off to sleep. …

A loud banging on the door awoke him from his slumber. His eyes darted over to it. The door was blasted off its hinges, laying in a slump against the wall. In the doorway stood two men, their glossy black wings s.h.i.+ning in the last remnants of candlelight.

"Bakemono. You've got five minutes to pack your things," one of them said. Both of them left the doorway, walking down the street to another house.
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"Now I'm screwed," Bakemono said to n.o.body in particular. The only thing he really had to defend himself was a pistol and a couple rounds of ammunition. Even if he were to use it, the probability of him surviving was slim to none. For a second, it looked so inviting. He could die with honor, carve a hole through his temple, and be hailed as one willing to sacrifice themselves for their country. But on the other hand, if the fallen angels somehow got squashed by the resistance, he'd miss everything. He grabbed it anyway, unsure of what its purpose might be, and threw it in a small drawstring bag, along with a few clothes, some food, and his meteorology maps.

Everyone was lined up outside, unsure of what their fate would be. A gust of wind rushed over them, and he looked up just in time to see a pair of black wings fly by. He then drew his attention to the two fallen angels he had seen earlier, who were now standing in the middle of the street.

"Alright everyone, listen up!" one of them shouted. "If you decide that you want to not obey us, you will be immediately shot. No questions asked. The war is over. Your armies have either surrendered or been defeated. There is no hope for you all, do you understand? Now, we will be relocating you to a camp while we decide what we're going to do with you all. On my say-so, you will march to the train station and board a train there. You will not push, shove, or do anything we can perceive as rebelling. Do you understand?" Everyone seemed to nod. "Now, go!"

They all started to slowly walk forward, leaving behind the familiar, and marching into the unknown.

That isohel of hope seemed long gone now. …