Love is of so many kinds—
Is life even lived without love?
Yet, our hearts often wander,
They doubt—what is love, truly?
Love is Jehovah. Love is Jesus. Love—
is the Holy Spirit dwelling within us.
And what is life without God,
If not the slow undoing of souls?
There is pain—endless sufferings in this realm,
Yet did not Jesus call us this way:
"Come to Me, all you who are weary
and burdened, and I will give you rest."
—Matthew 11:28
Carrying the cross can be hard.
Turning from sin feels impossible.
But did not God love us in this way—
That He gave His only Son,
That whoever believes in Him
Shall not perish, but have eternal life?
—John 3:16
So keep the faith alive and burning.
Do not be afraid—do not be afraid.
We look upon hollowness of the world,
Its ignorance, its hatred, its hunger for death.
Yet aren't we called to love as Christ loved us—
To do all things for the glory of God?
We do not live for ourselves alone,
But for Christ—for to Him we belong.
Worldliness is revolting. Mortality is fading.
Why not root our souls in Him?
Weep out the tears of pain and suffering.
Guard your hearts from hollow comforts.
For you—my brothers and sisters in Christ—
Know the Lord is merciful beyond measure.
Is life not more beautiful with Him?
Is love not patient, kind in His presence?
Is He not preparing a way beyond this—
This graveyard—to love Him without bondages?
Is not the second coming of the King near,
To tear down cities, to judge the wicked?
So keep the faith alive and burning.
And keep singing—do not be afraid.
The prophetess looks up at the darkening sky, then lets her gaze fall upon the sea of those who call themselves believers.
"Though a storm brews, and the night looms—we shall keep praying, unafraid."
A hand rises among the multitude. "Sister, when shall the day of deliverance come?"
"Truly!" another man cries out. "The priests and their soldiers hunt us like vipers!"
"It is soon—very soon," the prophetess says calmly.
"The Lord sees. He knows every heart. Trust in Him, and He will make all things right."
Murmurs swell like the waves, believers murmuring among themselves. The prophetess calms their doubts, offering them shelter in reassurance.
She calls them to pray with her, giving thanks to the Lord for granting them an uninterrupted sermon—and for His blessings in guiding the believers home as He had guided them safely there.
As the crowd slowly disperses, Jacob stands, a smile lingering as he watches Neva—his sister-in-law—converse with the believers, until she is led away by the infamous Agent Czar and his guards.
He studies the grey clouds gathering above, his thoughts returning to the solemn-faced woman he had always known—the prophetess, now beautiful and glowing.
A sharp impact at his side draws Jacob's attention to the boy who has stumbled into him.
"Forgive me," says the young boy, big brown eyes wide as they stare up at him.
Jacob smiles and ruffles the boy's hair. "I might forgive you, if you'll do me a favor."
The boy looks up at him warily,
but Jacob merely withdraws an envelope from his robe.
He lowers himself to the boy's height. "Will you give this to the prophetess?" he asks, displaying the envelope between them.
The boy glances between the white envelope and Jacob.
After a pause, he nods, snatches it, and slips swiftly into the crowd.
He presses through the shifting bodies, voices humming in his ears, until he breaks into the open.
His gaze fixes onto the prophetess gathered with a few others by the stream, beneath the drooping branches of a willow tree.
Beaming, the nine-year-old bounds forward, wondering if he should address her as his parents do.
Just as he opens his mouth, a firm hand clamps down his shoulder, freezing him.
"What are you doing here, laddie?" A big, bearded man in armor towers over him.
He clutches the envelope, his heart thumping as he meets the terrifying stare in the soldier's pale blue eyes.
"Sir!" the soldier barks, snatching the envelope from his hands.
He notices the man standing beside the prophetess studying him. "Let him."
The soldier eyes him suspiciously once more before returning the envelope.
The boy continues forward timidly, his head bowed, pausing only to look up at the prophetess, who smiles at him.
"He told me to give you this," he says quietly, extending the envelope toward her.
"Is it from someone you know?" she asks, gently taking hold of the envelope.
The boy shakes his head, still staring at the prophetess.
He had only seen her from afar before, but up close, he thinks she is the most beautiful person he has ever met.
"Mama!" the boy's voice rings out, running footsteps sounding behind him.
The prophetess's fingers still over the unsealed envelope as she glances up at the boy, who runs straight into her embrace.
"Finished admiring the scenery?" she asks softly, wiping a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth.
The boy nods with a bright grin. "I'm going to paint it."
"Do you mind?" the man asks as he settles beside them.
Though he appears slightly less intimidating than before, the boy avoids his gaze.
He must be the prophetess's husband.
She hands him the envelope and meets his eyes again. "That was so kind of you," she says, smiling warmly. "Are your parents here?"
Moving the wicker basket aside, she pats the grass beside her. "Come sit with us."
The boy shakes his head. "I have to go. Ma will be worried if I don't get home on time."
"Do you want one?" the boy—clearly younger than him—asks, offering what looks like a cinnamon crumble muffin.
He glances at the prophetess for permission, but she simply smiles. "Go on. It's very tasty."
He nods, smiling as he takes it from the boy. His family wasn't well off, so treats like this were rare. But he had done the man a favor, and just as Ma always said,
God blesses those who help others.
"My sincerest thanks," he says, bowing his head.
"You're welcome," Rhean says, tilting his head while the freckle-cheeked boy takes off, grinning from ear to ear.
"My sweet baby," Mama coos, placing a kiss on the crown of his head.
Rhean smiles shyly and reaches into the basket for the last cinnamon crumble muffin. "Do you want it, Mama?"
"You eat it, baby," Neva says,
gently plucking a sticky cleaver burr from her son's curls.
She had only managed a light breakfast, yet hunger barely stirs in her,
though fatigue and dizziness caught up with her at the end of the sermon.
Their companions had gone ahead as the darkening sky threatened rain, but she needed a little moment to rest.
"Who's it from?'' Neva asks, glancing at the letter in Rhett's hand.
"Jacob Ellis." He lifts his eyes to hers, a grim look settling in them.
"Jacob?" Her heart quickens as she takes the letter from him.
She assumed it was a prayer request or something else the believers often send.
It reads like this:
Dear Blossom,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. It is with great remorse that I write to you after so long. As you may already know, a catastrophic plague has been unleashed upon the world. Our Inaya is believed to have fallen ill with the same sickness. I have brought the best doctors I could find, yet they all gave the same grievous answer.
I am well aware of the wounds my brother has left upon your heart. Yet I am selfish enough to hope that you might come and stay by your daughter's side in what may be her final moments. With the most earnest faith, I pray that such a tragedy will not befall a child who longs only to see her mother.
Meet me by Birch Lake at five in the afternoon. Iam afraid you must come alone. I give you my word that you will be sent back unharmed.
Yours faithfully,
Jacob Ellis
"Inaya is dying." Neva barely hears her voice over the roaring in her ears.
She looks up in a daze and sees Rhett speaking with Ace nearby, but their voices fade into the billowing silence of the wind rustling through the ancient willow tree.
She can't make sense of it.
Inaya is dying.
Inaya is dying.
It doesn't matter how many times she repeats it.
"What's wrong, Mama?" Rhean walks toward her, a frown tugging at his brow.
The crone's words wash over her in waves.
"One of thy children is sure to lose their life."
She thought nothing of the lingering fear that kept tapping at her chest.
She had no idea she was in so much pain.
"It could be a scheme, Angel." Rhett crouches in front of her. "Don't overthink it."
She hopes it is.
She hates herself.
She hates herself so much.
"We're going to get the twins back," he says, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let's go back. It's getting dark."
"My daughter is dying." Her throat closes,
a burning numbness spreading through her chest.
Her daughter with her childhood friend.
Her daughter with the man who had cleaved a brutal curse into her.
Her daughter whom she never wanted.
Her daughter she got rid of.
In the deepest core of her soul, she knows she was afraid the twins' presence might only deepen the stain in their marriage.
Ishmael's redemption through those children was merely an excuse.
She's rotten, gnawed on by maggots.
What of being God's chosen one and all.
She doesn't deserve anything good.
She meets his eyes. "Nothing will happen to her."
"Of course," he says, a soft smile on his lips.
She pushes off the grass with unfeeling limbs, eyes fixed on the distant blue woods, washed grim beneath the greying heavens.
"Why would God do that to her?" she murmurs, drowning in her own head. "She has been nothing but loving to Him."
She waits for him to say something—anything.
To reassure her that God probably has a purpose behind it.
That she'll be okay. That it's only a lie.
"I'll go to her, Rhett." She steps forward, the heaviness in her chest pressing down on her entire being.
"He'll heal her. He'll heal her through me."
It's as if a rope weighed down with rocks has been tied around her neck, pulling her deeper and deeper, drowning her in a lake of living fire.
How much sorrow could she take if Inaya were to die? What would she do then?
"He's lying," he says, stopping her with a grip on her elbow. "Most kids don't even make it three days once the virus hits."
Right. There was no way Jacob could have found the doctors, brought them here, and checked on Inaya—all in three days.
Inaya has always been weaker than most.
She's probably waiting for her.
God wants her there. She's so sure of it.
"I need to… I need to pray," she murmurs, breathless.
"Let's head back home first," he says. "It's starting to drizzle."
She glances up at the black clouds, a jagged bolt of blue lightning slicing through them, as a cold drop of rain strikes her cheekbone.
Lord, what do You want me to do?
Go, beloved. Bring my sheeps back to me.
His voice ripples through her mind like still water—gentle,
yet firm—rising above the roar of thunder.
Your will shall be done, Father.
"Rhean, grab the basket," he says, glancing back at her. "Ace and Sky are on Jacob's trail—or whoever's with him.
We'll reach them fast." His fingers sweep the rain from her face, then linger on her cheek, a vain promise against the raging storm.
"I have to go," she says, gently brushing his hand away.
"I have to go alone, as he said. I'll be back before midnight."
The cold wind lashes at her, carrying a spray of rain as she steps away.
"You will not do this," he says in bleak voice.
"Please, Rhett—" She spins to face him. "I'll be back. Don't go after him. Not yet."
His face darkens. "You will never go back to that man," he says. "Not while I'm alive."
"I'm not going back to him," she snaps, frowning.
"Mama," her son says, clutching the skirt of her dress.
She instinctively wraps an arm around him, pulling him close.
"I will lose you." He runs his hands over his face, frustration shaking him. "I will lose both of you."
"Have you no little faith?" she whispers, the tremor creeping back into her hands.
"Of course I do," he replies, casting a glance at their son before meeting her gaze.
"Then trust me to do His will." She smiles softly. "We'll return unharmed—me, our child, our twins, and the believers as well."
"I can't." His gaze locks on hers. "I just can't."
"Sir!" a voice calls—it's the rebel guard. "We have to go, now."
"Yes," he says, his gaze unwavering.
"Go with your father," she says, stepping back. "I'll be back before long, I promise."
"Angel," he says, footsteps following close behind. "Please."
"You have a mission to do, Rhett!" she calls over the whooshing wind, rain lashing against her. "I have mine. He will meet you soon."
"What do you mean?!" he yells, voice raw with desperation.
She comes to a sudden stop and turns. He stands before her, their confused and frightened boy safe in his arms.
The guards trail closely behind.
"You're both drenched," she murmurs, nodding toward the wicker basket one guard holds.
"There's an umbrella in there."
He stares at her, terror and disbelief etched into his features.
"There are others who need you," she says, moving closer. "Just like I have to be needed. We can't both be there at once."
She smiles at their son and brushes a gentle kiss across his cheek.
"Believe me. Don't be afraid." She rises onto her toes to press her lips softly to his.
It feels too familiar—a ghostly shimmer of a past that once had color.
"I couldn't live with myself... if anything happened to you." A tear falls down his cheek, lost in the rain.
"Nothing—nothing will happen to us," she assures, taking a step back. "Please. Trust."
Without a backward glance, she strides into the meadow, heart racing as the rain pours down.
This time, his warmth doesn't follow her.