(Three Years Later)
A lovely day: when you are living, the sun bright and gleaming, the ersatz shimmering in the ripples—calm is the musically flowing crystal turquoise lake.
A timber of lush green bushes, the vines creeping with fruits, the grasses and wildflowers, trees: their branches a veiny art.
The earth is blossoming, breathing—the early leaves swaying with each nectarous flurry.
The birds are chirping, the song dripping in ambrosia; they are coupled, perching on the branches, serenading how beautiful this inflorescent spring is.
A bed of grasses and shrubs, the peak yellow green in the sun—untouch darkening to the roots, aborning flowers with flickering glow stows sprouting from the dirt.
Over the flowers in bloom, dances in joy—the buzzing golden bees, fluttering kaleidoscopic butterflies, drinking in from the honey enriched nectar.
A leering mature river birch tree looming, the branches heavy from leaves rustling—they are almost tumbling.
The shade blesses a peaceful bearing to rest, and under the tree, Neva hums a melody—a symphony with the pulsing earth in a warm spring afternoon.
Her fingers stroking, playing with Ishmael's soft hair—who lay wearing a serene face, tranquiled than ever on his beloved's lap.
She is drifting him into a dream world, but he is adamant to stay awake; for this reality cannot be compared to any Utopia he has ever painted in the wildest of his chimaera.
A blanket is sprawled beneath, a wicker picnic basket on the side, two skilled coloured canvas of a scenery settled on the side. The paint brushes and the water in the transparent cup inked, tiny dots of watercolours splattered on the blanket.
"Love?" Ishmael ushers. Neva halts her chorus. "Hmm?" She answers, those curious gaze on him.
He looks up at her.
A lover boy kinda grin on his face, and it lightens up a smile on her own.
"I love you." He murmers, staring at her with clear and lucent eyes.
A breeze swirls around, her hair strands floating like feathers, a curtain to the features.
She is a miraculous dream; the most beautiful life to live.
Unchanged and eternally young; she is his; his precious woman.
"I love you too." Neva whispers back.
The curves of his lips arches higher.
The corners of his eyes crinkling as he sits up.
Her mysterious orbs swilling in his face beaming.
He capturs passionately her efflorescent lips. He is smiling into the kiss.
Large hand drifts up to cup her jaw—he is deepening the art... Watering their love.
"Mumma!"
An elated voice calls running, and the married couple slipping away in ardour with Neva's widened eyes and a push to Ishmael's chest—immediately seperates.
A boy with round rosy cheeks adorning the delicate milky skin stands before, underneath the river birch tree.
His wavy hair ruffled up, a heart screaming smile in beaming in his cheeky face.
Neva and Ishmael sits there peering at him. Their back stiffly straightened and visage flushed in surprise.
"I made this for you." He chirps, huffing really, sonorous almond eyes sparkling in excitement.
Neva's gaze thaws in adoration for the bouquet of wildflowers, messily, yet gorgeously tied in those tiny fist. The stubby hands holding it out to her.
She wears a gentle air, caressing the child's face, she places a doting kiss on the heated cheek.
Giggles wafts out of the boy giddy from her affection.
Her heart a warm haven from his happiness, she accepts his kind present.
"Thank you baby." Neva utters, and she is taken aback as he enfolds her into in his embrace.
She instinctively wraps her arms around his frame, a hand fondling his lush hair. Glancing at Ishmael, he holds her eyes, mirroring twirling smiles on the burnished features.
"You didn't bring me anything Isaiah?" Ishmael asks in a teasing tone.
Pulling away from his mother, Isaiah looks at him. "But boys don't like flowers Papa."
"Who said boys don't like flowers?" Ishmael raises a brow questioningly.
"I have never seen you getting one." Isaiah replies, his mumbles spinned in wonder.
"And you just assumed?" He persists.
Isaiah nods his head firmly. "The only boy I know is you." Shrugging his shoulders, he promptly goes to settle down on Neva's lap.
She glimpses at Ishmael. A guilt ridden frown is rumpled between his brows. Reaching her hand, she lightly squeezes his hand, making his gaze string to her.
Neva tilts her head, and blinks assuringly at him.
He has done everything with a proverb in his mind; to protect them, and that includes, preferring few selected people in their lives.
Ishmael returns a small smile.
Neva is arranging Isaiah's hair, plucking out sticky seeds and shreds of petals from his messy waves. "Where's your sister?" She asks, fingers combing through his tousled locks.
"Naya's very slow Mumma. I left her behind." Isaiah declares, his attention splitted on playing, scrutinizing the mechanical toy car in his hold. Then he holds it up flying in the air, his voice making the engine noises.
Neva frowns. "You can't leave her alone Isaiah. What if she's hurt?" Neva rebukes sternly. Worry clouding her heart.
Isaiah ceases his motions, glancing up at her, his lips sinking, eyes beginning to get glossy. "I'm sorry," weak voice mumbles.
Her visage immediately softens. Her son is loved and cared deeply, and he would be really sensitive, to even any slight indifference from her. Their bitter reprimands always were a pinch to the little heart.
"I'll go look for her." Ishmael says standing up.
Neva gazes up at him. "Come back soon,"
"I will."
Neva bits her bottom lip, trailing his form walking away. She is getting anxious, although guards surrounded by close, obscured within the gloom, enough to strip their presence from their sight.
It has always been this way. She is used to this; never being left alone.
It was reassuring, but sometimes, it came to her as a bother.
"Mumma?" Isaiah grabs her cheek.
It drowns him in remorse, he is the reason his mother was worried.
She offers him a smile, brushing the bangs away from his forehead.
"You shouldn't do that anymore alright? A good big brother always looks after their little sister. Okay?"
He obediently nods. "Okay,"
"Okay." Neva sounds softly, adorning a smooch on his cheek, gathering a syrupy grin in the sweet features.
---
Ishmael wanders into the woods, the scene umbrous and hushed from human's whereabouts. He is aware of every scene in the land. It is one of his properties anyway. He has put armed forces to watch over his family. They would be infallibly patrolling, close and from a distance.
Like the one men slyly slithering behind the trunk of a tree, blending in the darkened green wilderness his head to toe black attire.
He shouldn't be too worried.
But he cannot help it as he had even surveyed her favourite spot by the lake, and still his destiny hesitates to grant him a glance of his little girl.
The glistening lake looking through the blue sky with flying cotton clouds. He stands in the open shore, the shades of the grove brewing further over the lake—with the slow billowing sun.
The harsher wind cold, they make the shore overwhelmed with tall grasses waver smoothly, where the more white, purple and pink flowers sparks their heart out.
He takes out his phone, second away to ring the chief of the team, when through the apex of his eye, a tiny frame in peach coloured couquette frock possesses the calm in him.
She is picking flowers, almost fading in the tall floret of shrubs almost her height. Long curls floating down her shoulders, forever wanting to have the flare just like his Neva.
"Naya," his voice echoes gingerly through the luscious nature.
She instantly turns her head, searching for him.
When she spots him walking over through the meadow, her doe eyes skintillates—and a smile prettier than all the florals blooms in her beautiful face.
"Papa!" The girl with rosy cheek squeals.
Through ways of the fluttering butterflies, those tiny legs excitedly racing to him.
His little fairy embracing his heart in love.
He chuckles, stooping low, arms spread about, immediately catching the petite frame of his daughter in his arms.
He straightens with her in his arms.
"What is my pearl doing here?" He cooes, caressing her hair.
Inaya beams, radiant she shows him the craft that kept her so occupied.
Brows raising, true admiration swims in Ishmael's orbs.
She has two beautifully, perfectly adorned flower wreathed crown carefully held in her hands.
"Is this for Mumma?" He asks with a tilt of his head. Inaya nods eagerly. "One for mumma, one for papa." She clarifies proudly. He laughs softly, rubbing the tip of his nose with her scrunching button one.
Her sweet hearty giggles, melting him hard.
"Papa, put me down. I have still left to prepare." She declares.
"Will you let me help you with it?" He asks, pinching her chubby cheek.
"Yes." She joyously nods her head, and asks to be brought down again.