You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When sky's are gray
A melody tunes...
The ethereal features of a weary woman, facing up—her eyes closed in serene, her back leaned back, soaked onyx hued, wavy hair flowing and floating.
She lay bare, arms resting on the rims of the tub, sumberged in the cold water.
The ground night of July, obscured in grim darkness, the heaven is enraged.
The wind howls, the thunder roars, shuddering the terrain of mortal. Plummeting on the window, yielding through—the branch patterns of dire lightning strikes in the sky, flaming the flickers in the gloomy master bathroom.
"You'll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away" A voice trickled with honey, sings she, so beautiful and sweet; the lullaby she often sang to her little boy.
"The other night dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed i held you... in my arms
When I awoke dear
I was mistaken
So I hung my head and cry"
"You are my sunshine hm hm hm hm hmm..." She feels the whirling, furious roars of thunders, and peers at the long thorned vines of lightning, mirroring fluttering luminescence in the eerie shadows of the walls.
Heavy wails of rain, the painful howling of wind...
"You make me happy
When skies are grey" Neva's singing an aria, and she's veiling the vision—as she's sinking in the coldness of the water.
Her form pale and freezing, yet she doesn't spare the cold a shiver, calm and slowly, the water falls over her fair; heavenly features.
"Neva? Are you alright?"
She hears the faint, muffled voice of Ishmael's. Oh how she missed this face...
How much she longs for them; how much she loves them...
But right now; she's delighted; her head clear.
She's drowning... and she's flying with the clouds.
"Say something Neva!" Loud knocks on the door, ushered by Ishmael's panicked voice.
"Open the door!!"
Harsh blows striked on the door, Ishmael opens the door with a thump. Stumbling his way in, fear obscures his features.
With heavy, quivering breaths he reaches out to Neva. She's all; engulfed in the water.
As Ishmael grazes his hands into the tub, he flinches at the coldness of the water. Grabbing a hold of her limp form, he carries her out, and brings Neva to his chest.
Her naked body, ashen and ice-cold. He swallows the hard lump formed in his throat, his hands shaking as he brushes away the damped strands veiling her beautiful face.
Neva's eyes closed, lips paled. Ishmael grits his teeth, closening her form to the warmth of his chest, as he sat there, on the white tiled floor, wearing a grey expression, heart beating fast; he is terrified if she's gonna run away.
And once again, his hands would be tied, he wouldn't be able to keep her close, while she endeavours to far away from him.
"What have you done?" He whispers in a weakened tone.
In the doorway, leaning in, two maids gasps looking at them. Their gaze sore with terror of the assumed future to unfold.
The sublime young madam, although very good-looking, she was forever cold and never uttered a word. Astonishing them on that faithful day three months ago, when their master, out of nowhere brought the woman home, and now, she lay there unconscious in his arms.
Great fault embraces them.
To look after her, to care for her, to ensure she was secured and comfortable, the two of the three of maids were specially assigned to the madam.
They were sweating in fear, for they had failed miserably, and they were very familiar with the rage of their master.
She was the woman he loves; and according to the unthinkable harm caused on her well-being, their route to grave would differ horribly.
Head lowered, they shudder and make way as Ishmael past by them, walking out through the door in a haste, bridal carrying Neva's naked body wrapped in a towel.
---
"She should be fine now, but she's weak and malnourished. Make sure she's well taken care of." The doctor says, straightening his posture after he had checked Neva.
"Then why does she not wake up?" Ishmael standing next to him asks, looking down at her.
Neva's breathing steady, she lay slumbering on the hospital bed, warm under the covers. The colour tenderly brushing over her features again. She had been unconscious for more than twenty-four hours.
The nurse beside hands him the reports. "She'll wake up in a few. But had you found her a little late, it would've endangered her life." He declares, pushing up his nose the sliding glasses, scrutinzimg Neva's reports.
Ishmael closes his eyes, breathing out a sigh of succour.
"Have you known she's pregnant?" The doctor asks, having an immediate gaze on him.
"What?" Ishmael exhales out, his brows creasing and mind muddled.
The doctor raises a brow at him and nods to himself. "So you weren't aware."
"Try to avoid getting through extreme of cold and hot water. Altering the core temperature will affect blood flow to the placenta." The doctor hands him the ultrasound pictures.
Ishmael, stiffened, with thousands of emotions running, composing himself, he takes a hold of the ultrasound pictures. He frowns, for he couldn't see nothing but black, white and gray.
"How long?" Ishmael inquires, glancing up at the doctor with a hard gaze.
"Pardon?" He asks, the querie muffled in the ears.
"How far is she along?" He repeats once more, uneasiness gripping his heart.
"Oh, she's about eight weeks along. And you can see she's pregnant with twins." The doctor reveals a smile.
Ishmael sucks in a wavering air. He gulps, and turns his face to gaze at Neva, sleeping so serene.
In his eyes, engulfs softness, his lips curves up and flickers a faint smile.
Ishmael and his dear love, his Neva; they were to have their own warm family.
He rests on the seat beside her, by the gentle bed. He holds her hand, bringing it closer to his lips, kissing her so lovingly.
After everything, after endless swords and fires propelled at him, in the wake of—what felt like thousand of years, all the sleepless night, the lifeless days, all the wounds, ocean of tears, he's healed and came out stronger...
He had waited long enough, he had died every moment without her by his side. He hadn't given up, now, he had finally found his haven; his heaven.
Every hope, every faith, dreams, each of his breaths tied a string, and weaved such a beautiful while for him.
He has his eyes veiled, and her hand connected to his forehead, "I won't give up on us. Never..." He murmers.
And there and then, he's determined; he shall perfect their promise.
Their dear promise to each other—threaded while they were only children; a vow to get married.
This is everything; all he had ever wished of.