"Neva? Wake up," Ishmael urges, his eyes laced in concern because of a whimpering Neva, haunted by a terror of a night.
"Neva," he lightly pats her cheek, his torso now raised, and elbow shored on the bed. The frown lining in his brows deepens. Neva has her eyes veiled tight, forehead creased, and face fallen.
Big drop of tears, rolling down her temple, soaking the white pillow, unfurled over by her long disheaveled locks.
Ishmael hovers over Neva, he draws away her moist curly hair, sticking to her forehead. Little sobs vibrates her chest, her lips pursed, Neva was drenched in her own sweat.
"Wake up love," Her shut lids clenches, he's shaking her trembling body, but the sharp claws of nightmare refuses to let her go.
Her sobs intensifying, Ishmael holds by her arms—roughly jerking her frame, rudely gasping her awake.
"Hey, are you okay?" He asks, caressing her face. Neva's faint vision unveils his worried features. The tears streaming, still unceasing, she swallows down tight.
"What–what happened?" She whispers out, looking at him with her reddened, swollen eyes. He sighs out, easing. "You were crying. Did you have a nightmare?" He leans down, kissing tenderly her forehead.
"I don't remember," Neva says, her hand reaching to feel the lines of water, flowing down her temple. Unknown to her, more tears spills out, and she frowns, for she isn't aware, the reason for such sharp sting in her chest.
He looks at her, with those shadowy emotions swirling in his orbs. "It must be a bad dream."
"Just a bad dream." He barely sounds out the last words, as if he's speaking to himself, assuring himself.
"Come here," Laying down in his side of bed, he brings her close to his chest.
His hands wrapping around her frame, she stays still, her eyes wide and aroused, endeavouring to wipe away the dew on the surface of the blurry window of her dream—now fading away slowly.
Long is left of the cold night, his chin resting on her head, he's stroking her hair to put her back to sleep—to a colourless night; where she won't far away anymore, through beautiful dreams, or terrifying nightmares.
Her mind is shattered of peace, and she's threaded stiffer with the webs of wonder, for her husband's warm embrace doesn't possess the strength to penetrate into her frozen senses.
---
Earthy scent stirred with sweet autumn apples, and traces of figs and eucalyptus trees, whispering with the chilly wind overwhelms the crisp smell of rotting leaves and trees—merging slow with the dust.
The late afternoon is warm, hazy sun rays seeping through the ajar black and grey branches, rippling with swaying bright yellow and orange leaves—with tints of exploring red garnishing.
Deep in the forest, the gurgles of stream from a close distant murmers in the ears.
The susurrus of autumn breeze drifting by, floats Neva's free hair strands lacing the sides of a serene face, wishing to fly along, only to part in pain, for the soul still longs for it's flesh.
She'a sunk down there, her back resting on Ishmael's chest, his own held against the orphic, towering maple tree.
He's holding her close, running her dark curls, waving along smoothly, and so lovingly with his rough fingers. While Neva has her eyes intertwined with the dancing letters over white pages of a book.
The air is comforting, they're hushed and warm, tangled with the frame of the other. She flips the cleared paper, fluttering lightly with the wind.
"Do you feel cold?" Ishmael's chasmal voice, raveled with hot breath fans over her ear. Neva shakes her head, "I'm warm enough." She mumbles.
The coral tree hued, open front cardigan over her white dress, engulfed by the heat of his strong arms embracing her—soaking through her garments into the pores.
In response, he only closens her impossibly to his body. A pleated red and black blanket lay sprawled under, a wicker picnic basket neatly placed beside them, with all the unfinished pies, cake and fruits swallowed inside.
Kissing her head, he props his chin on her shoulder. "It feels like we're back to when we were kids." He mutters, breathing deep in her fragrance, a rare smile blooming on his face.
Neva tilts her head up to look at him, "When we were kids?"
"Hmm," threading the eyes, he kisses her lips. Neva blinks at him, with the enchanted husband melting from her adorable cocoa orbs—kissing her again.
Fondling away her hair, he smears long and soft smooches on the fair, bare neck.
Neva reaching behind, caresses the side of his face, her eyes closed—aware of the mellowing heart.
"You are like a dream. Dreams I had every night after you went away." He phrases, showering kisses along her jaw.
"I always have this fear lingering inside, terrified if you're just an illusion." He consumes her lips in a heated kiss, as if he needs to absorb her to cling to life.
Pushing him away softly, Neva glances away. Her breathing heavy, rosy cheeks flaming, while her chest still remains tightened.
"Well, I'm truly around." She puts forth, as his arms wraps her delicate form in a tight secure.
"And you'll never be able to leave me again." He affirms, rather stringently, his tone dripping in avarice. "Tell me more about when we were children." Neva prompts, her thoughts running empty.
"You were a mischievous girl, a real trouble maker," he chuckles. "But you were my sweet and kind girl." Ishmael smiles at her, having her mirror a small curve of the lips, for the sparks in his eyes succours her heart.
"You didn't tell me how grandpa died?" Neva asks. He shakes his head, "I'll tell you everything, for now you can only rely on bits and pieces."
He entangles their fingers. "After all, we have a lot of time ahead, awaiting us." He says and pecks her forehead.
"Yes," Neva whispers. "Have you decided on their names?" Ishmael asks, caressing her swollen belly.
"Not yet. Have you?" Neva probes, just then the ringing of his phone interrupts before he could answer, severing their peaceful while.
"Let me take this call," he says.
She nods in return, following the wonder swirling in her eyes for a frown replaces serenity in those handsome features—as he speaks to the person on the line.
"Tell them to leave if there's nothing important." He hangs up the call, sliding the device inside the pocket of his jacket.
"Is something up?" She probes, to which he refuses. "No."
Just then, his serrated senses are alarmed by the rustling of leaves, walked on by a person, seemingly coming from afar. He's irked by the intrusion from the unwelcome visitors.
"What's—" "Hey! There you are!" A loud yell cuts off Neva's words.
Ishmael sighs irritated. "Man the signal here's fucking crazy," Another man following behind the long haired man grumbles, waving his phone over his head.
"Who are they?" Neva inquires, sitting up straight, while he gazes at her faring figure, already missing her warmth.
"Not one of significant." He remarks.
"What nice air," the man with wavy chestnut hair utters, sniffing with his eyes closed.
"Scram," Ishmael sternly exhorts at the two men approaching near. "Brother how can you even say that?" Jacob wears a shocked, hurt expression, a hand clutching his chest.
Ishmael rolls eyes at him. Jacob smiles, his eyes trailing to Neva seated there uncomfortably with her lips pursed.
"What a beauty," he murmers to himself.
"So she is the muse you would refuse water for all your life?" The tall bulit, yet slender man walking beside Jacob presses with a brow raised.
Ishmael glares at him, then his gaze lands on Neva, uncomfortably shifting on her place from the blaring focus on her. Flinches the pitiful her due to the man abruptly hurdling before her.
The black haired man on all fours, his head tilted, he looks close at a wide-eyed Neva.
"You really are a beauty worth more than the Universe."
Then he slowly retreats, for a bloodthirsty aura looms over him.
Glancing at a grim Ishmael, he gives him an innocent grin.
"I'm just here for the food." He corrects, hands snaking for the picnic basket.