"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 river nearby.
July lingers heavy in the air. The twilight breeze plays with her hair, swirling through the loose strands as she stands trembling in her weary, white summer frock.
She dares not open her eyes, cherry lips quivering, afraid the beast—twice her size—will swallow her whole.
Hot tears dribble down her flushed cheeks.
Her chest rises and falls with the frantic beat of a caged heart—as she pleads in silence; God, let this all be nothing but a nightmare.
The beast looms—massive, menacing—its head and tail raised high.
It prowls closer, muscles coiling, eyes grim and locked on her as though—her pretty little heart is a prize to tear to shreds.
Saliva drips from the mouth of the monstrous thing.
The growl deepens with each elapse of her breath, aggressive, vicious—summoning grave to cause her scalding pain.
A salivating monster crawled out of her darkest night terrors, set to crush the breath from her lungs.
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.
And then unforeseen—warmth radiates close. Close enough to brush her skin.
And it instantly, somehow strangely soothes the scream caught in her throat.
Slowly, she cracks her eyes open to peek at the scene before her.
And then follows a soft whimper slipping past her twisted, 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.
Between her and death.
Senses sharp. Mind clear. Body taut and vigilant. A soldier guarding his beloved.
"Neva, don't worry. I'm here. I will protect you," he says, voice tender as honey—yet sturdy as a stone.
"Ish–Ishmael—" Neva sobs aloud, shoulders jolting with each ragged breath.
He is a presence—akin to a saviour.
A miracle carved in the instant she needed it most.
And in his shadow, her heart beats serene.
Ishmael's eyes burns with a murderous intent—locked onto the beast that dares threaten her.
He stands with arms spread wide, shielding his Neva entirely from danger. His eyes piercing.
His expression cold and hardened—a stark contrast to the softness etched into the boyish features of his.
Earlier, only minutes ago, he parted ways from her to pluck wild berries from a patch he'd discovered in the wilderness days before.
He had left her with a reassuring 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 red and black against the green grass 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, he 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 its gaze and strike, appearing from its periphery and now standing before it.
Enraged by the intruder hindering its hunt, the beast barks louder, baring fangs eager to pierce flesh and drink 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. Unblinking.
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, as though it senses something brewing.
Just then—
Ishmael reaches the river's edge and seizes a large river 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 boyish frame, wobbling his knees, 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 ghastly crack of a bone rings out.
A high-pitched yelp splits the air.
The rottweiler's massive body is flung backward, tumbling across the grass before lying limp in a distant.
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 injured 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 clears.
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.
"Y–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 breathed 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.
He pulls back just enough to look at her—her rosy lips form a soft, trembling pout.
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 curved 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 summer night…
---
Birdsong echoes faintly across the Swallow mountain, delicate notes trembling 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.
He swallows, tongue dragging across the parched skin of his mouth.
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.
Such a well-sculpted face—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.
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 flesh.
He swallows the lump of grief clawing at his throat—then drags his rough hands down his face before releasing a weary sigh.
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.