Twilight paints the lake in mythical shades of reverie as birds whistle through the
woods, until the sound of his children's laughter fills his heart with pure bliss.
Awestruck, Ishmael watches as a glowing, spirit-like figure twirls before him.
A breeze stirs her curls into whispering waves while her long lashes veil her lowered eyes.
A rosy blush warms her cheeks, her lips bloom in a shade of luscious red,
and her ethereal face is the closest he has ever come to glimpsing heaven. Ivory fabric drifts like mist around her milky skin as her fingertips lightly gather the flowing skirt.
Her light seeps into the little figures circling around her, a pearl-like little girl with floating curls and a beaming boy
with bright, beautiful eyes never leaving the woman he calls Mother.
His heart races as her eyes find his, a soft smile blooming across her lips.
In that mysterious moment, he beholds a whole world...
his young wife, their children, and a serene corner of creation untouched by shadow.
Tears well in his eyes as the fullness of it all overwhelms him so much,
so much that a breathless wave of pure, soaring joy sweeps through his soul.
He carefully steps forward, the sweet symphony of their laughters sprinkling over him like silvery dewdrops.
His trembling fingers reach for her, when dawn erupts into a blinding flood of light.
His love and their children dissolve into the brilliance like morning mist melting before the burning rays of the sun.
He awakens in the bleak, smothering woods, drowning in the cold sweat of reality, torn from an ephemeral dream.
Yet, he knows this is no dream as he observes her emerge from the tent,
her face every bit as breathtaking as the vision that had graced his sleep.
As she draws the black veil from her head, the deep green folds of her dress brushing the ground, this painful verity haunts him.
For he remains hidden in the darkness of the woods enclosing the village while she takes the opposite path, aglow in warm daylight.
Joyful voices and laughter greet her as the children gather around her and the agent beside her in the cottage foyer, before they make their way inside, vanishing from sight.
He takes a step forward but a firm hand on his shoulder halts him mid-step.
"The appointed time will come," Gideon says. "But it is not yet."
"And watch my children die...
while my wife warms another man's bed?" Ishmael says quietly.
Gideon remains unmoved. "When the priests learn of the camp, the soldiers will come.
Then you shall return unto your family."
"When will that be?" Ishmael asks again.
"Soon," Gideon replies. "It shall all come to an end soon."
The solemn certainty in Gideon's pale grey eyes only deepens Ishmael's doubt.
Even so, Gideon had remained behind
when the agents rescued the refugees and took Jacob captive.
Having seen a vision of the camp, Gideon had led him here to Moriah, back to his family,
where thousands of refugees had gathered.
An inescapable storm is already gathering over Miraeth. The moment the other priests discover the camp, soldiers will descend upon it like wolves among a flock of sheep.
Miraeth will drown in the chaos of two warring faiths, and he must get his family away before they too are swallowed by it.
Yet in the end, whose side would Gideon truly choose? What did he stand to gain by helping him at all?
Why not inform the priests beforehand? Had he done the right thing by listening to Gideon instead of bringing guards?
It had been his strategy to remain as inconspicuous as possible. And Ishmael was desperate to be with his family, to make sure his children were safe, and that his daughter was still holding on for him.
But why would Gideon care whether he and his family ever escaped the island alive?
Gideon had not even flinched when he killed those children on his orders,
sacrificing them to Leviathan in exchange for his daughter's life.
Gideon hardened his heart towards the believers and became one of Leviathan's priests because his very faith had turned on him, leading to his family's persecution.
Ishmael thought nothing could surprise him anymore until that night, six months ago, when the vessel transporting him to
Erriador under the agents' custody came under attack by a band of mercenaries.
He was rescued by the mercenaries commanded by the notorious fugitive Huston, after which he met the priests whom he served, one of them being Gideon.
Funny. Gideon had tried to lead him down the path of faith, preaching to him while he was held captive in that cramped room under the watch of one of the agents.
Gideon delayed revealing to the priests where the true believers of Ephrath lay, that he was their respected pastor. All the while he was fattening the villagers with words of hope before delivering them to slaughter.
Perhaps he is a man still torn between morality and revenge.
Or is he plotting something even worse than the corruption of the other priests?
Either way, Ishmael knows never to truly trust the man beside him.
"We must find a place to rest," Gideon says, keeping to the cover of the woods as he heads towards the quieter edge of the camp, farther from the village.
Ishmael follows after him, his gaze drifting over the armed guards patrolling the camp's borders, paying them no mind.
They had entered through the woods, a choice by necessity. The gates would have meant scrutiny, questions, and a search they could not afford. Yet,
within the shelter of the woods, they found someone willing to help them for a price.
Ishmael owed the crone a future debt, one she would collect when the time came.
He casts another glance toward the cottage for a glimpse of her, only to find Agent Czar heading toward it instead.
He looks away, a numbing ache spreading through his chest.
It's as if he's trapped inside the narrowing confines of a coffin, paralyzed as a deafening roar engulfs him.
Fire races beneath his skin, the pain intensifying until the sickening scent of burning fiesh numbs all his senses.
His throat tightens painfully as a sharp epiphany of failure drags him back to where it all went wrong.
Had the initial assault that left them trapped within the cave succeeded in bringing Neva back to him,
he would have found peace by now.
But why did he have to try so desperately to get his own wife to return to him in the first place?
He had forged an alliance with the priests to wipe out the believers once enough of
them had gathered, so that the rest would witness the fate of those who dared dream of an elusive freedom. It meant stopping their Prophetess, and reclaiming his wife.
Even as he brought her back, he had meant to reveal how foolish she had been to risk her own life for those brutish savages.
Surely, it had taken only a few words from Gideon, and the refugees could not bear the thought that their Prophetess was not as flawless as they had imagined.
How easily they had turned from her and looked to him instead.
It had all come unraveling so smoothly.
He had almost had her, along with the believers' lives to use as he pleased,
until Agent Knight threatened the lives of his own children.
Yet, swaying the flock had done its work, and in the end he had not truly lost.
He had his children back, and he still possessed the one leverage that mattered.
She would come back for the believers.
Then his daughter fell ill, and nothing mattered anymore except saving her.
Now she had taken them back from him.
How were they being treated now? Were they even still alive?
Rage consumes him, searing through his mind until everything dissolves into a haze of smoke.
He'll make sure she understands the grave mistake she's made once he gets the chance to take her back. Just one chance.
He'll break her limbs if that's what it takes to keep her by his side.
Because he can.
Because she's his to love, his to possess, his to break, his to save, and his to destroy.
Only... his.