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Of all the things that I have learned in my centuries of life, this is the most evident. Time does not care. It moves forward at the same pace, weather you want it to stop and hold that happy moment forever, or weather you want it to speed along so that the bad memories were not as fresh. It does not care.
I was born in early summer of the year 610, to a seamstress and a royal guard. I do not remember their names any longer. I do however remember their faces. My mother's face was a kind and gentle thing, full of soft edges and ready smiles. My father's was strong, hard edges and scarred. The face of a battle worn warrior. I remember my mother's voice as being like the chimes of the sunday bells. My father's hands were large and could be as soft as silk when he was happy, but as hard as iron when I'd displeased him. I never had any brothers or sisters, which was strange for that time, when most families had as many children as they could.
I was well off as a child, was able to learn a craft other than my mothers, and even learned some fighting skills from my father.
However, life did not stay happy. Just after I became a women, a traveler slew my parents for protecting me from him. That was when my powers came in. The moment that man laid his hands on me, my wings burst forth. I still remember the smell of blood, and charred flesh. I'd called lightening down on the man. I was cast from my home, and forced to make my own way.