"Ishmael! Ishmael!"
The shrill, panicked voice of a little girl tears through the meadow's hush—warped, tangled in the feral growl of a rottweiler, hulking and astray from home.
Summer benevolent orthoptera, intrinsic in the heat of the free meadow, self-possessed, they sing unceasingly, harmonizing with the trickling, burbling musical murmurs of a stream nearby.
July lingers heavy in the air.
The twilight breeze playing with her curls, swirling through the loose strands as she stands trembling in her weary, white summer frock.
Her cherry lips quiver, hot tears dribbling down her flushed cheeks.
Eyes squeezed shut, she dares not open them, afraid the beast—twice her size—will swallow her whole.
"Please—" she chokes on her tears. "Please, Father..." she whispers, her small voice cracking, her chest rising and falling with the frantic beat of a caged heart.
"Let... let this be a dream."
The growl deepens with each elapse of her ragged breath, aggressive, vicious.
The looming beast prowls closer—massive, menacing—muscles coiling,
eyes gleaming with hunger,
locked on her—as though her pretty little heart is a prize to tear to shreds.
A salivating monster—fangs bared, eager to pierce flesh and crush her lungs—
crawled out of her darkest night terrors, its twisted, snarling face bearing the dread of an impending apocalypse.
There is no one to save her. No one to deceive death.
And yet, she clings to hope, standing—fear–stricken, with nothing but a brittle twig clenched in her trembling fist.
She lifts it, aiming, defying, keeping the beast at bay. A helpless hiccup bursts from her quivering lips.
She prays, begs for the fragile armament to make the beast vanish miraculously.
Then—the air swifts.
Running footsteps—fast, fierce—rise through the growls, the whooshing wind, the chirping crickets.
"Get away from her!"
The boyish cry splits the air—raw with worry and terror, echoing across the wide field and into the dark hush of the forest beyond.
A loud thump—
Followed by the ghastly crack of bone, and a high-pitched yelp splitting the serenity of the sky.
Slowly, she parts her lashes, brave enough to glimpse at the scene before her.
An aching whimper slips past her twisted, red–stained lips as hope and relief bloom within her chest—
his warmth radiating close, close enough to brush her against her skin.
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.
"Neva, don't worry. I'm here. I will protect you," he says, voice tender as honey—yet sturdy as a stone.
He stands between her and death, breath heaving, large rocks clenched tight in each trembling grip.
His senses sharpen, mind clear, body taut and vigilant as his eyes burn with murderous resolve—fixed on the rottweiler's massive form, tumbling across the grass before lying limp in the distance.
Scarlet blooms from its head—
burst open, bleeding freely into the earth.
The creature wails—a shrill, broken sound slicing the silence.
Blood seeps down its face, dribbling over an eye marked by a long, vertical scar—blade-born, a remnant of some old war.
Its faded tan and taupe fur, now matted and dyed deep red, quivers with each pants.
With trembling limbs, the wounded beast staggers upright, dragging its legs.
Frightened now, subdued, the once-savage rottweiler limps away—howling in pain—until it vanishes into the wilderness.
Ishmael sighs in relief and turns, eyes softening as he finds Neva still shivering, still caught in her fear.
"Neva," Ishmael calls softly, dropping the stones as he steps closer,
though his voice barely reaches her—lost to the haze of her stunned, distant state.
He gently wraps his hands around her icy fingers, trying to loosen the twig clutched in her rigid grasp.
"Let go, Neva," he murmurs—his voice warm and steady, soothing like a lullaby in the heart of a storm.
She slowly lifts her tear-streaked face, her lips quivering, cocoa eyes shimmering with the remnants of fear and disbelief.
As her posture softens, her grip loosens.
He takes the twig from her fingers, and it falls away, like a brittle leaf at the end of its season.
"Y–you left me, Ishmael," she whispers, lips pursed, voice soft and quivering.
Her honey-dipped eyes shimmer with tears, the pearls slipping freely.
Ishmael smiles softly, wiping the tears from her cheeks and the dampness beneath her nose with a folded white handkerchief.
"Hush... I'm here now,'' he whispers, his voice low and steady—the softest he ever breath out. "Be afraid no more."
Earlier, only minutes ago, he parted ways from her to pluck wild blackberries from a patch he'd discovered in the wilderness days before. He had left her with a reassuring smile, promising he would return and accompany her in the 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 playful motive to surprise her dimmed from his eyes,
replaced by a dread that clawed at his chest.
For there Neva was, tremored, trembling beneath the shadow of a wild rottweiler.
The sweet-and-sour berries slipping from his hands,
scattering red and black against the green grass below as he searched for sticks—or stones—to drive the beast away from her.
He scans her body for any wound, relief and gratitude flooding his chest when he finds her unharmed.
His gaze lifts—meeting Neva's eyes, bathed in golden light. In that moment, she looks especially enchanting, so achingly innocent.
He wouldn't have forgiven himself had he been a second late; his heart clenching at the thought of what ifs.
A sweet, calming breeze drifts past them, stirring loose strands of their hair, their thin, weary clothes clinging softly to their small forms.
She looks up as birds begin to chirp—dark silhouettes gliding high, tracing delicate paths across the misted heavens.
The noonday sun wears a mystical hue of amber, peeking shyly through lilac clouds, painting the sky in tender strokes of red, orange, and violet.
"Let's go home," Ishmael says gently, reaching for her hand.
Neva's rosy lips form a soft pout, her long lashes still heavy with tears.
Her cheeks and nose are flushed in hues of scarlet—like the blush of a ripened apple. "But… the fireflies?"
"We will come back tomorrow," Ishmael murmurs, his tone soft and sure.
"Promise?" she asks, her voice small as she blinks hopefully at him.
He places a hand over his heart. "I promise."
His bright grin draws a smile from her—fragile, but pure as the first light of dawn.
The breeze carries a subtle chill—
the first whisper of the approaching summer night—as it sweeps through the green glades of grass.
Hand in hand, they begin their climb up the gentle slope, the path scattered with blooming white daisies whose soft petals catch the last blush of the fading sun.
The trail leads them toward the main street, where the quiet world dims beneath the tender hush of evening.
By the riverbank, thousands of tiny fireflies begin to rise—glittering lanterns of gold drifting through the twilight air.
---
Birdsong echoes faintly across the Swallow mountain, delicate notes threading through the still, suffocating air. The dense forest presses close, the pine-scented breath thick and earthy.
At the heart, an isolated mansion stands solemn and silent, dark timbers humming faintly under the weight of shadows.
Sunlight creeps slyly through the narrow slits of dark blue curtains, casting faint streaks of twilight beam across the room.
His eyelids twitch, heavy as lead, before peeling apart with a slow, deliberate ache.
A somber gaze fixes on the dark grey ceiling, smooth and lifeless above him—his soul gradually sinking into its colorless depths.
He gradually props himself up, the dark–grey duvet rustling as it slides off his chest.
Shallow breaths scrape past dry, cracked lips.
The room is cold—pitch black shadows still lingering thickly in the corners—black and viscous, clinging to the edges of his vision.
His eyes are bare and bleak—catching glimmers of the dim light, framed with the dusky shadows of another sleepless night
Even in this fragile state, his frame remains well-sculpted—chiseled shoulders slouching in silence by silent endurance, his taut form shaped in sorrow.
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 exhales a heavy sigh, swallowing down the lump of grief clawing at his throat.
A deep penumbra of emptiness lingers in his soul from the girl in his dream,
still tethered to the edges of his sobering mind, while the chill of the space he calls home seeps into him—numbing every part of his frame.
As he moves himself from the bed, a hollow shadow veils the raw depths of his gaze, masking the unrest of his soul.
His body moves with quiet resistance, while he steels his mind, preparing to lose himself in work, hoping the relentless rhythm can dull the ache gnawing at his heart.
His body, though sturdy, trembles quietly under the weight of its 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 peels off the fragile scab forming over the wound—gnawing him deeper, leaving his heart further open, drying him gradually of life.
And only; The One shall be the reviver.