"When we get there, don't do anything that'll upset me," Neva says as she pulls up the zip of Isaiah's juniper green jacket.
She straightens her back and shifts her gaze to Rhean, who is sitting on the edge of the bed.
Then she says sternly, "Both of you."
Rhean dips his chin.
He avoids her scrutiny, still stricken by guilt at how he acted and hurt someone innocent—succumbed to the grievous spur of the moment.
Neva looks at him, lost in sunken thoughts.
"Come here Rhean," she says in a tender voice.
Rhean slowly gazes up at Neva—and sees her smiling softly at him. He amiably listens to her, climbing down the bed, his little legs forming pitter–patter of steps as he nears his mother.
Neva, holding each of Isaiah and Rhean's hands, kneels down.
Then she carefully, affectionately gathers them both into her embrace.
"Please be good to each other for me."
Isaiah leans in to his mother, tilts his head, and presses his cheek to her shoulder. "Don't worry Mumma. I'll be a good boy," he utters ardously.
Neva smiles and fondles his hair. "Thank you." The crowns of their heads covered with wooly dark hair—are cradled in Neva's hold.
She closes her eyes; and with her heart, she silently prays over her children.
It is after a fairly faraway moment, that she pulls back. She tenderly kisses Isaiah's forehead, then goes on and kisses Rhean's forehead with love.
Neva smiles, looking at her beautiful sons, warmth snuggling her heart.
She pulls the hood of Isaiah's jacket over his head. "But I'm hot, Mumma!" Isaiah whines and attempts to pull the hood back, but Neva seizes his wrists.
"Nuh–uh. It'll be cold out in the open,"
She softly pats his cheek. "You have to be warm."
Isaiah pouts but yields in to his mother anyways.
She turns to Rhean, who is already dressed in warm clothes—and without complaint, looking at her with those shiny, round chocolate eyes.
Rhean dresses himself. He knows better than most his age of children.
He knows how to take care of himself; for he is complied to learn of all things she should have instead nurtured him in this young age.
Neva feels heartsick at the abscence of a mother's care in all these early years of his sour little life.
And when the phase finally unravels—for him to be showered with her love—she instead bemires the peace around him and brings him great pain.
Neva takes hold of his hand, mustering up a reassuring smile as she lightly squeezes his hand.
For them...
And more for herself—that she should overcome this adversity and achieve being a better herself: a wife, a mother, a better daughter.
And for that, she will live and protect.
To connect and share this good word; the beautiful meaning to life for the saved.
"We have to put more layers on you." Neva caresses away Rhean's hair from his forehead, but she frowns at the coolness of him.
Then she cups his ears—and feels them icy.
"You're freezing baby," Neva worriedly grabs his bare hand again, but it is rather warm.
Rhean just looks at her demurely.
Isaiah watches his mother feel Rhean's forehead with the back of her palm.
Then she immediately rises, heading for the suitcase—mostly packed with Rhean's prerequisites.
.
.
.
There lies the shore not far distant.
In the end, after all... a shadow of lush forest is evident to the naked eye.
The Island spans around 200,900 square kilometers, its population steadily declining—fewer than a hundred million scattered accross the land that rises from the darkened sea.
Miraeth, without a spark of lumination to spare from arcing similar to a giant grim creature.
Miraeth prowls nefariously to devour the lone Cataraman boat advancing in a meticulous speed under the inked sky. Bare of radiant celestial bodies to ordain a ray of light over in this murk.
And they stand, watching on the deck.
By the railings.
In the howling of wind and flapping of white sailcloth fastened to the boat, harnessing wind and navigating water, Neva and Rhett stand with their hands intertwined.
The cold, swirling of air pierces their bare skin, fluttering their hair and clothes.
She squeezes his hand, absorbing the Island enlarging... Illustrating to her a mystery of the future. Of her concluding this purpose with a curse—or a blessing.
Rhett glimpses down at her. At Neva, who breathes in shakily, who seems astray and afraid.
The side of her fair face to his enamored eyes. The wind flies, lacing strands of hair and veiling her beautiful face.
He lifts a hand and serendipitously tucks those free curls behind her ear.
Then she looks up at him, her starry eyes threading with his.
His brows crease at the pooling of moisture in those rhapsodic almond eyes.
"We'll be fine Angel." Rhett whispers.
Neva glances away.
The Island in the reflection of her paranoid eyes. "I can't help being scared." She feels her knees weaken, her soul wavering.
Rhett curls a finger under her chin and fastens their eyes.
"I know." He leans in and brushes his lips against hers.
"Whatever it may be, we are facing it together.
We will make it work. So don't be afraid." He murmers over her lips, swiftly planting a delicate kiss on her watercolour lips once more.
There is a wellspring of something about him. In him...
She circles her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, his own hold tightening around her.
Words cannot describe how glad she is to have him.
Ishmael endures the scene enfolding below him.
His jaw hardens and eyes blurs. Every bit and smithers of the love–bearing gestures binding him in needles and blades.
Then the lights go out.
And the smothering scene fades with the darkness. The Cateraman boat merges with the somber night.
Ishmael is in the cockpit with Ace.
And Ace, maneuvering the boat, has turned off the lights to avoid scrutiny.
Based on Ishmael's dispatch, they are heading straight to a secluded shore, in the edge of the forest that cajoles an auberge.
For him, it is both a curse and miracle that they have made it this far.