Until I Die

the Champion is just one of many ancient prophecies. Most of them have not been fulfilled, and they are probably based on the ranting of oracles or questionable superstitions. Old guys like Jean-Baptiste lap them up like honeyed mead.”
I gave her a confused look.
“Fine, like vintage wine. That is a better comparison for Jean-Baptiste, anyway.” And then, with a wry grin, she launched into a story about how Jean-Baptiste once sent Gaspard on a wild-goose chase to find some ancient parchment that had never actually existed. She had me laughing so hard that I choked on my latte. The half a millennia she had spent on earth made Violette a veritable gold mine of good stories and juicy information.
    One day, after an evening showing of one of my all-time favorites, Harold and Maude , we headed to the Café Sainte-Lucie. Over a shared platter of deliciously runny cheeses and a basket of crunchy sliced baguette bread, Violette told me about the old times, when there wasn’t as much animosity between numa and bardia. It was weird to hear her use the ancient term for revenants as if it was common lingo.
At that point, apparently, they considered themselves in the same line of work: the work of life. Preserving life, taking life … it all boiled down to the same thing. “It is all about a balance,” she said. “In our days, there was open communication between the numa and bardia.
“You know,” she continued, leaning forward confidentially, “Arthur has kept in touch with some of our ancient contacts in the numa world, and I am glad for it. My research would have suffered if he had not!” Seeing my shock, she said, “Kate, one cannot cut off a whole subset of our type just because they have gone out of style in recent centuries.”
“Your type ? But you’re not even the same kind of creature!” I said, feeling a twinge of disgust at the comparison.
“Ah, but there you are wrong. We are exactly the same kind of creature. What has Vincent told you about how a revenant is formed? Or numa, for that matter?”
“That a human becomes a revenant after dying to save someone’s life. And a human becomes a numa when they die after betraying someone to their death.”
“Which is true,” she said. “But if you go back a step, bardia and numa are the same thing: revenants. Many, including me, believe that there is a ‘revenant gene.’ That we are a type of mutation.
“But whatever our origin, everyone agrees that revenants are all born equal: human with a latency to become a revenant. Whether they become bardia or numa all depends on their actions during their human life. And if they are never cast into a situation where they save or betray, they just live out the rest of their lives clueless that they were different from anyone else.”
“So a human’s not born a numa or bardia?”
“Not unless you believe in the Calvinistic doctrine of predestination.” And once again, she sounds four times her age , I thought. “But we are not talking theology here. We are talking about human nature. In which case the only answer can be, ‘Who knows?’ What I do know is that the numa and bardia did not used to be the enemies they are today.”
“Yeah, Jean-Baptiste said that there used to be a lot more of both in Paris.”
Violette nodded and called the waiter to bring us some coffees. “As with most wars, during World War Two many revenants of both ilk were created. And since many held personal grudges against each other from their human lives, there was a massive war of vengeance between the numa and bardia. That all came to an end, though, a decade or so later. And there has been a type of cease-fire ever since.”
“Why?” I asked, intrigued by this new information.
She shrugged. “I have no idea. Like I said, Arthur and I have been holed up in our castle in the Loire. I have stayed away from Parisian politics.”
“Well, from what I hear, you’re the go-to person for anything revenant or numa related,” I said. “If anyone would know, it would be you.”
“ Touché ,” she said, laughing. “I do pride myself on having the inside information on pretty much everything. But I also pride myself on being able to keep a secret. So if I do not tell you something, there is probably a good reason.”
“So if I asked you what Vincent was up to … ?” I asked with a sly smile.
“I would say, ‘Well, whatever do you mean!’” she responded with an equally sly grin.
I had hoped my new friend would be more open