"Ishmael! Ishmael!!" The shriek and panicked voice of a little girl—deformed by the ferocious growlings of a large rottweiler echoed round the hushed field.
Summer benelovent orthopteras, intrinsic in the free meadow, self-possesed, they sang harmonizing with the trickling, burbling musical murmers of a river nearby.
July in the air, swirls the twilight breeze in her hair. The little form quivering in the little weary, white summer frock.
She dared not keep her eyes open, afraid the beast twice her size would gobble her down. Dribbling hot tears swam down her scarlet, chubby red cheeks. Heart thrumming loud, she hoped; all's nothing but a nightmare.
The beast loomed tall, the large head and tail raised high, almost hurdling at her—threatening with the blades to claw out the pretty red heart into shreds, grim eyeballs glaring, the sharp fangs flared to gnaw out a chunk of her flesh.
The monstrous thing was salivating.
With each elapse of time, the rottweiler growled aggressively a summon of grave to cause her scalding pain: a monster drowning her breath out from the deepest night terrors.
There was no one to save her. No one around to deceive the death. But she hadn't lost hope as she stood fear stricken—a spare twig in the fisted hold of her trembling hands, aiming—keeping the animal at bay.
A heartbreaking hiccup broke out her lips, praying; begging for the fragile armament to magically vanish the beast.
Then the air swifted, an unforeseen, the running footsteps... And suddenly a warmth radiated close.
And it instantly, strangely lulled to loosen the squeezed heart.
Slowly, an eye unveiled to peek at the scene, and followed the harrowing, the lightening whimper escaping the twisted red lips of the poor little girl.
He was here.
The only one; he who had accompanied her to revel in the charm-work of twinkling fireflies that close of day. But she had bitterly lost sight of him hurtfully long while ago.
Yet now he stood there; with alert senses and a clear running mind, his body tensed and vigilant; he was a shield guarding a soldier.
"Neva, don't worry. I'm here. I will protect you." He said, a voice so saccharine—yet so sturdy.
"Ishmael–" Neva sobbed aloud, shoulder jerking with each deep hiccups, her breathing sharp and stuffed, suffocating her chest.
He was a presence; akin to a saviour; her miracle. And she felt secure with him.
Ishmael's orbs burned a murderous intend. He had arms spread wide, obscuring his Neva from danger. Piercing eyes, a cold expression—a stark contrast to the soft boy features of his.
He parted ways to pluck wild berries, which he discovered few days before in the wilderness. He left her, reasuring her; he will be back, and accompany her in a blink of an eye.
As he unravelled himself out the little forest—and into the trail to the pasture, the curved up lips fell, sweet and sour black berries dropped from his hands—splattering on the green grassy ground.
The motive to surprise, dimming in his eye; his beloved was in crisis being tremored by a wild rottweiler.
The man raced faster than the birds freed from the cages to route to Neva. He had spared not a chance for the creature to take heed and attack him.
He stood firm, safeguarding Neva.
Enraged at the intruder hindering his meal, the beast barked louder, baring cruel fangs to pierce the flesh and draw blood.
The expression in the wry mug hinting an approaching apocalypse.
In a burning clash of glare chained to the beast, Ishmael slowly, carefully slithered away towards the near river bank.
The beast had long shifted it's target to the boy, slightly larger looking than the girl. Ishmael irking the wild animal greater than she did.
The crude rottweiler had a fur of faded tan and a taupe colour, a long scar vertically lining it's eyes. The big monstrous body of reflected along the motion of the boy. An instinct to Ishmael's approaching scheme.
Ishmael picked up a huge rock by the river bank—almost the size of his head. His body was slightly unsteady, face scrunching from the force, utilising nature's bare offering into a weapon.
All the while, the beast carried on with the roars, unable to attack.
An arid booming thunder in the sky, with not an ounce of courage to draw droplets.
The overwhelming weight of the rock abused his growing form, before the mass could draw him down, screaming—rallying strength to lift the rock above his head, in the lightning rage of a crack—he hurled the rock at the growling beast.
A high-pitched yelp sliced the air, the dog shoved screeching away shoved afar.
Oozing scarlet blood splattering out it's bursted open shoulder...
Ishmael did not cradle a cruel heart, he did not wish to murder the dog, he did only injure it awfully. The creature wailed aloud shrilly in pain, blood dying the fur red. With wavering limbs the wounded dog rose, the left fore-limp not moveable.
Frightened and tamed the savage rottweiler, staggered away—howling in agony.
Merciless eyes of Ishmael's swirled soft, his vision now on the shivering Neva.
"Neva," he called, hurrying to her, his voice failiing to reach her appalled state.
He gently caressed her cold hands, and attempted to throw away the twig from the tightened fists.
"Let go Neva." He assured, and warm voice did swirl away the haze in her mind.
She peered up at him, her lips quivering. Her posture loosened, the hold unfastening, Ishmael slipped out the twig through the breach, tossing it away.
The adorable fair face of the boy mirrorred in her orbs, those bright cocoa pools radiating warmth.
"You left me Ishmael," lips pursed, she sniffs wiping snot with the back of her right hand.
"I-I was so scared." Her orbs dripped in honey shed pearls like tears.
The bright sun of the noon, wearing a mystical shade of orange hue—peeking through the lilac clouds, painted the sky along red, orange and lilac. The breeze sweet and soothing, birds chirping, their flying silhouettes a route through the misty clouds.
Casted upon golden luminescence, Neva looked especially, enchanting and pretty at that very moment. Her little whimpers, cracked his trance from the fantastical presence in front of him.
"Hush... I'm here now. Be afraid no more." Embracing her, he patted her head, calming her down. His words the most delightful he ever breath out.
She clinged her arms around him, gradually stabling her breathing.
"Ishmael, p–please don't leave me anymore,"
She trailed off, her rosy lips budding a pout.
Parting apart from her, he gazed down at her wet feathery, long fluttering lashes. Her cheeks and nose in shades of scarlet, alike a red ripened apple.
"I won't ever leave you anymore." He wiped away her tears with his thumbs, eyes a parallel to the delighted smile on his lips. His heart overflowing in love for the adorable Neva.
"Promise?" In a small, sweet voice she asked. A hand over his heart, "I promise." He assured, grinning brightly, garnering back his mirror in her pretty lips.
"Come on, let's go home." Ishmael declared, reaching for her hand. Neva nodded her head, holding tight onto his hand.
They walked up the high slope with grass green, white daisies sprawling, blooming around, leading to the main street.
Thousands of little glittering fireflies, near the river bank, just started to illuminate the scene. The chilly night approaching...
---
The sounds of bird chirping, re-echoed around the swallow mountain. The isolated mansion erected in the heart of the dense forest.
Sun rays, slyly peeping through the tiny slits of the dark blue curtains.
His eyelids twitching, he eventually peeled them open.
A gloomy gaze stared at the dark grey ceiling—drowning his soul.
He slowly propped himself up to sit, shallow breaths ripping out parched lips. He swallowed, swiping tongue on the thin lips. The cold and pitch black room, clouding his domain with numbness.
Eyes bare and bleak, the dark hue encricling his orbs hinted one of those sleepless night.
Such well sculpted frame of the man. Nevertheless, the treacherous aura eminating from out the lone soul has one shiver dispirited. For the nightmare of breathing the same air enclosing him; splitted the heart and masticated the brain.
He had the dream; the same one still. The dream of a precious memory of him and the most precious person of his.
"Where are you?" He whispered, his lips heavy, failing to draw out her name. He swallowed the lump of agony down his throat, rough, calloused palms rubbing his face—heaving out yet another exhausted sigh.
Mentally preparing for the hours of roving, burying his mind in workload—approaching.
His body being sturdy, yet in a weakened state, because of a wound.
A wound which never healed, no matter the rest and efforts he achieved.
For only; The One shall be the reviver.