"Ishmael! Ishmael!!"
The shrill, panicked voice of a little girl tears through the hushed field—deformed by the ferocious growling of a looming rottweiler.
Summer benelovent orthopteras, intrinsic in the free meadow, self-possesed, they sing harmonizing with the trickling, burbling musical murmers of a river nearby.
July lingers in the air. The twilight breeze swirls through her hair as she stands trembling in a weary, white summer frock.
She dares not open her eyes, her cherry lips quivering, afraid the beast—twice her size—will swallow her whole.
Hot tears dribble down her flushed, scarlet cheeks.
Her chest rises and falls with the rapid thrumming of her heart.
She pleads to God; let this all be nothing but a nightmare.
The beast looms, massive and menacing, it's head and tail raised high.
It inches closer, stalking with slow and heavy strides, bristling with fury—grim eyes fixed on her, threatening to claw her pretty red little heart into shreds. The monstrous thing is salivating.
With each elapse of time, the rottweiler growls more aggressively, viciously—summoning grave to cause her scalding pain, a monster risen from her darkest night terrors, set to drown the breath from her lungs.
There is no one to save her.
No one around to deceive death.
And yet, she does not surrender hope.
She stands—fear–stricken—with nothing but a brittle twig clenched in her trembling fist. Aiming. Defying. Keeping the beast at bay.
A heartbreaking hiccup escapes her lips. She prays, begs for the fragile armament to magically vanish the beast.
Then—
the air swifts.
Running footsteps rise through the wooshing wind, chirping birds and crickets—unforeseen, fast and suddenly, warmth radiates close.
Near enough to reach her skin.
And it instantly, strangely soothes the scream caught in her chest.
Slowly, she cracks an eye open to peek at the scene before her. And then, follows a soft whimper slipping past her twisted and trembling, red–stained lips.
He is here.
The only one—
The same boy who had accompanied her to revel in the charm-work of twinkling fireflies that close of day. She had lost him—painfully, bitterly—for what feels like hurtfully forever ago.
Yet now, he stands before her.
Senses sharp. Mind clear. Body taut and vigilant. A shield guarding a soldier.
"Neva, don't worry. I'm here. I will protect you," he says, a voice so saccharine—yet sturdy as a stone.
"Ishmael—" Neva sobs aloud.
Her shoulders jerking with each ragged hiccups, breathing coming in sharp, stuffed gasps.
He is a presence; akin to a saviour.
A miracle carved from the moment she needed it most.
And she feels secure with him.
Ishmael's eyes burns with a murderous intend—locked onto the beast that dares threaten her.
He stands with arms spread wide, shielding his Neva from danger. Piercing eyes.
A cold expression—a stark contrast to the softness etched into the boyish features of his.
Earlier, he parted ways from her to pluck wild berries he'd discovered in the wilderness days before.
He had left her with a reasuring smile, promising he will return and accompany her in a blink of an eye.
But as he emerged out from the little forest onto the trail leading to the pasture, his curved up lips fell.
The sweet and sour black berries slipped from his hands, falling and splattering on the green, grassy ground below.
The motive to surprise her dimmed from his eyes, replaced by dread. For his beloved was there, in crisis, tremored, trembling beneath the shadow of a wild rottweiler.
And so, her ran—
Faster than the caged birds taking flight.
Faster than thought.
He had spared not a chance for the creature to react in time, no chance to shift it's gaze and strike, appearing from its pheriphery and now standing before it.
He stands firm, safeguarding Neva.
Enraged by the intruder hindering its hunt, the beast barks louder, baring its cruel fangs, eager to pierce flesh and draw blood.
Its twisted, snarling face bears the look of an impending apocalypse.
Ishmael's eyes lock with the rottweiler's in a burning clash of wills. Slowly—deliberately—he begins to inch sideways, slithering toward the riverbank with measured steps.
The beast has long shifted its target to the boy. It no longer focuses on the girl.
The slightly larger looking, bolder, unyielding boy irking the wild rottweiler greater than she did.
The crude rottweiler's matted fur is a mix of faded tan and a taupe colour, a long scar vertically slicing down an eye like a blade mark—war–born, brutal.
Its monstrous form mirrors Ishmael's every move, stalking him with feral intuition, sensing something brewing.
Just then—
Ishmael reaches the river's edge and seizes a large rock in both hands.
His body wavers slightly, knees unsteady.
His face scrunches with effort as he summons every ounce of strength—turning nature's bare offering into a weapon.
All the while, the beast roars on, growling in fury, held back by some unseen thread—unable, or perhaps unwilling, to strike just yet.
The weight of the stone punishes Ishmael's young frame, aching through his bones.
But before it can drag him down, he screams—rallying the raw force buried deep in his chest. And in a blaze of lightning-fueled fury, he hurls the rock high above his head—
Then down, toward the beast.
A high-pitched yelp splits the air.
The dog screeches, its massive body flung backward, tumbling across the grass.
Scarlet blooms from its shoulder—burst open, bleeding freely into the earth.
And yet—
Ishmael does not cradle a cruel heart.
He never meant to kill the dog—only, to wound it enough to protect.
Although he did injure it awfully.
The creature wails, a shrill, broken sound slicing the silence.
Blood seeps into its fur, dyeing it deep red.
With trembling limbs, the injured beast rises—its left foreleg limp, dragging.
Frightened now, subdued, the once-savage rottweiler limps away, howling in pain, vanishing into the wilderness.
Ishmael's merciless eyes soften as his gaze shifts to Neva—
Still trembling. Still caught in her fear.
"Neva," he calls, hurrying to her side, though his voice barely reaches her stunned, distant state.
He gently wraps his hands around her icy fingers, attempting to pry away the twig clutched in her rigid grip.
"Let go, Neva," he murmurs—his voice warm, steady, soothing like a lullaby in a storm.
And slowly, the haze begins to clear.
She lifts her tear-streaked face, her lips quivering.
Her posture slackens.
Her grip loosens.
The twig falls from her fingers like a brittle leaf at the end of its season.
The adorable, fair face of the boy reflects in her eyes—those bright cocoa pools glowing with warmth.
"You left me, Ishmael," she says, lips pursed, voice soft and trembling.
She sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her tiny hand.
"I… I was so scared."
Her honey-dipped eyes shimmer with tears, the pearls falling freely.
Above them, the noonday sun now wears a mystical hue of orange, peeking shyly through lilac clouds, painting the sky along in gentle strokes of red, orange, and violet.
A breeze, sweet and calming, drifts past them. Birds chirp, their dark silhouettes soaring—a delicate path traced across the misted heavens.
Bathed in golden light, Neva looks—at that moment—especially, enchanting and pretty. So achingly innocent.
Her soft whimpers crack the trance Ishmael finds himself in, spellbound by her ethereal presence.
"Hush… I'm here now," he whispers, voice low and steady.
"Be afraid no more."
He draws her into his embrace, one arm wrapped securely around her, the other gently patting her head.
His words—soft and sure—the sweetest he ever breath out.
She clings to him tightly, her small arms wrapped around his waist, her breathing slowly beginning to steady.
"Ishmael… p–please don't leave me anymore," she trails off, her rosy lips forming a soft, trembling pout.
He pulls back just enough to look at her—
at her long, fluttering lashes heavy with tears, her cheeks and nose flushed in hues of scarlet, like the blush of a ripened apple.
"I won't ever leave you again," he promises, wiping away the tears with his thumbs.
His gaze reflects the warmth in his smile, his heart brimming with affection for his precious Neva.
"Promise?" she asks in a small, sweet voice.
Placing a hand over his heart, he replies, "I promise."
His bright grin draws a smile from her—her lips mirroring his, soft and pretty.
"Come on, let's go home," Ishmael says, reaching for her hand.
Neva nods and grips his hand tightly.
Side by side, they begin the climb up the grassy slope, the path dotted with blooming white daisies, their soft petals catching the last blush of fading sunlight.
The trail gently leads them toward the main street, a quiet world growing dimmer under the hushed spell of evening.
By the riverbank, thousands of tiny, glittering fireflies begin to rise—lanterns of gold floating through the twilight air.
The breeze carries a subtle chill, the first whisper of the approaching night…
---
Birdsong echoes faintly across the hollow mountain, soft notes threading through the still air.
An isolated mansion stands solemn and silent at the heart of the dense forest.
Sunlight creeps slyly through the narrow slits of dark blue curtains, casting faint streaks across the room.
His eyelids twitch before slowly parting.
A somber gaze fixes on the dark grey ceiling—his soul sinking into its colorless depths.
He gradually props himself up, shallow breaths scraping past dry, cracked lips.
He swallows, tongue dragging across the parched skin of his mouth.
The room is cold—pitch black shadows still lingering—numbing the space he calls his own.
His eyes are bare and bleak, framed with the dusky shadows of another sleepless night.
Even in this state, his frame remains well-sculpted—chiseled in silence, shaped in sorrow.
Such a well-sculpted frame—and yet, the treacherous aura emanating from his lone soul sends a chill down the spine, leaving the air around him weighted with despair.
For the nightmare of breathing the same air enclosing him splits the heart and masticates the brain.
He had the dream—the same one still.
A flicker of past, a dream of a memory laced in gold—of him and the most precious person of his.
"Where are you?" he whispers, voice low and broken, his lips too heavy to speak her name.
He swallows the lump of grief clawing at his throat, rough, calloused hands drag down his face before releasling a weary sigh.
He readies himself—mentally bracing for the hours of wandering, burying himself in work to dull the ache.
His body being sturdy, though bears the quiet tremble of a weakened state.
Because of a wound. A wound that refuses to heal. No matter the passing days and strength he builds around it.
For it festers not in his flesh, but raw, deep and cruel in the heart.
And each new dawn only peels the wound in his heart further open—drying him gradually of life.
And only; The One shall be the reviver.