(Three Years Later)
A lovely day: when you're living, the sun is 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, sat 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 lay 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 her husband's soft hair—who lay tranquiled than ever on his beloved's lap, eyes veiled, he's wearing a serene face.
She's drifting him into a dream world, but he's adamant to stay awake; for this reality could not be compared, to any Utopia he's 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 lay on the side. The paint brushes and the water in the transparent cup inked, tiny dots of watercolours splattered in the blanket.
"Love?" Ishmael ushers. Neva halts her chorus, "Hmm?" She answers, her curious gaze on him.
He looks up at her, a lover boy kinda grin in his face, and it lights up a smile in her own.
"I love you." He murmers, staring with clear and lucent eyes. A breeze swirls around, the hair strands a curtain to her features, floating like feathers.
She's a miraculous dream; the most beautiful life to live.
Unchanged and eternally young; she's 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 captures passionately her efflorescent lips, smiling into the kiss. His large hand cupping her jaw, drifting up fingers weaving in her hair—he's 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 red cheeks adorning the milky skin, the wavy hair ruffled up, and a heart screaming smile in the cheeky face stands before—underneath the shadow of the river birch tree.
Neva and Ishmael sat there peering at him, with their back straigtened and face 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—wafting giggles out of the boy.
Her heart a warm haven from his giddiness, she accepts his kind present. "Thank you baby." Neva utters, and she's taken aback as he enfolds her into after in his embrace.
She wraps her arms around his small frame, hand stroking his head with 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, his tone teasing.
Pulling away from his mother, Isaiah looks at him, "But boys don't like flowers Papa."
"Who said boys don't like flowers?" Ishmael urges, his brows raised.
"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." He shrugs his shoulders, then promptly goes to settle down in Neva's lap.
She glimpses at Ishmael, a guilt ridden frown rumpled between his brows. She lightly squeezes his hand, his gaze stringing to her.
Neva tilts her head and blinks assuringly at him. He's done everything with a proverb in his mind; to protect them, preferring few selected people in their lives.
Ishmael returns a faint smile.
He will make it better.
Neva's plucking out sticky seeds and shreds of petals from Isaiah's hair, arranging his messy waves. "Where's your sister?" She asks, combing with her fingers 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. He holds it up in the air, his voice is the engine noises, he's pretending: if he's driving a flying car.
"You can't leave her alone Isaiah. What if she's hurt?" Neva rebukes, frowning. Worry clouding her heart.
Isaiah ceases his motions, he glances up at her, his lips sunken and eyes beginning to get glossy. "I'm sorry,"
Her visage immediately softens, her son was 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, already standing up.
Neva gazes up at him. "Come back soon,"
"I will."
Neva nibbles on her bottom lips, trailing his form walking away. She's getting anxious, although guards surrounds by close, obscured within the gloom, enough to strip their presence from their sight. It had always been this way.
She's used to this. They are never alone.
It's reassuring, but sometimes, it comes as a bother.
"Mumma?" Isaiah grabs her cheek. It drowns him in remorse, he's the reason his mother's worried.
She offers him a smile, brushing the bangs away from his face, "You shouldn't do that anymore alright? A good big brother always looks after their sister. Hmm?"
He dips his head, he's an obedient child. "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's aware of every scene in the land. One of his belonging. He's put armed forces to watch over his family. They will 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 worried, an elite squad is assembled entirely for the protection of the twins.
But he cannot help it as he's 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's standing 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 grasses waver smoothly— where the more white, purple and pink flowers spark their heart out.
He gets his phone out, second away to call his men, when through the apex of his eye a tiny frame in peach coloured couquette frock possesses the calm in his chest.
She's 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.
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 at him. Through ways of the fluttering butterflies, those tiny legs excitedly racing to him.
She's his little fairy. He chuckles, stooping himself low, arms spread about, catching the petite frame of his daughter in his arms.
He stands up with her in his embrace, her head nuzzled in the crook of his neck. "What is my pearl doing here?" He coos, caressing her hair.
Inaya lifts her head, radiant she shows him the craft that kept her so occupied.
Brows raising, true admiration swims in his 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, rubbing the tip of his nose with her scrunching button one. Her 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.