"Mumma?" Isaiah calls, sliding off the bed.
Neva picks up the dagger, her breath uneven as she notices the smear of blood on its tip.
Ishmael's blood.
"What is it for?" A small frown tugs at Isaiah's brow as he watches her try to keep her fingers from trembling while she wipes the blood away with her shawl.
As she turns toward the door, a swarm of wraith-like bats shriek deafeningly in her ears, folding into the muffled clamor and the bleary voices from the next room.
A grip on her shawl draws her still, the shadows around the room dissolving and darkening, then dissolving—
The worm-like pain in her temples begins gnawing at her skull again as she stares at the tiny fist curled tight in the fabric, then up to those doe eyes glistening with tears.
"A—are you going to leave again?"
Isaiah's voice cracks, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Light-headed,
she kneels and reaches for him. He lets out a sharp sob and collapses into her arms.
"Don't—" he chokes.
"Don't leave—" His body jerks with a hiccup. "Don't, Mumma—"
Her embrace tighten around her son as she feels his warmth against her.
His tears soak into her as she tries to pull her mind away from the heat rising through her body and the pounding behind her eyes.
"I won't…" A lump rises in her throat as she closes her eyes, holding him close while sobs shudder through him.
"Shh…" She cradles his head as he buries his face in the crook of her neck,
her breath catching as heat surges through her in smoldering waves.
Sweat beads along her hairline as her gaze flickers in and out of focus on the dim lantern glow.
Then the bed—
then the walls—
lurch and whirl around her, the motion knocking the breath from her lungs.
She tries to reach for Isaiah, to hold onto him, but finds only cold and nothingness.
The world lurch and whirl around her,
the violent force sweeping her under as her back hits the cold floor.
The ceiling warps, shrinking, rippling, whirling. A wraith's shadow fractures into shrieking bats, hundreds of red eyes melting together, then tearing apart.
Their shrieks blend with cries and the clash of iron and blood. Black wings careen inward,
devouring her vision, until she screams through the void as the witch's claw drives into her abdomen, into her womb.
Pain explodes through her as the witch tears something from her body, and with it, something small.
Too small.
A twisted little form, limbs, a too-large head,
blood-slick, glassy, lifeless.
A rotted grin twists the witch's face into Leviathan's pale, browless visage.
Tears stream down Neva's face as Leviathan's mouth opens into a hollow of darkness, devouring the small, still form.
Rotted teeth clamp down, blood splattering across Neva's face,
and she screams.
Leviathan grins, blood dripping from their mouth as they lean over her.
Her throat tears open with screams, raw, endless, inhuman.
Their hand grips her thigh.
A cold tongue scrapes across her skin.
Licking, lapping, drinking the blood as it spills between her legs,
pooling around her, swallowing her whole.
She screams as teeth sink into her flesh, until it dies, until weakness and dizziness and darkness sweep her under.
When a flicker of light breaks through, blooming, blinding, seizing Leviathan as they shatter into nothing.
Her breath comes uneven, her heart pounding, then slowly steadying as she lies still, waiting in the silence...
Until her gaze lifts to a little white bird chirping on a branch above her,
and her fingers graze the soft grass as she plucks a white dandelion.
With a breath, she scatters its seeds into the blue sky like prayers,
and a smile touches her lips as a sweet breeze brushes her face.
A gasp escapes her as she rises, waving at the Almighty figure clothed in flowing white garments.
Her heart leaps for joy as she sees her Father, His face veiled in eternal light.
"Father!" she beams, running toward Him.
Warmth wraps her as she collapses into His arms, His laughter falling softly over her.
She sinks into warmth, serenity, and rapture, soaring beyond meadows, beyond seasons, and beyond worlds.
He offers His hand, and her heart aches at the scar in the center of His palm.
Hand in hand, she walks beside Him along the tranquil emerald stream, living the most benevolent truth of His love.
Yet mortality calls her back, and though tears stream down her cheeks, she knows this farewell is only a reverie.
Her Father's voice is the heart of a most beautiful symphony, woven of Heaven's birdsong, rustling leaves, and whispering streams. And He speaks: "I am with you always, to the very end of the age."
His hands cup her head as He kisses her brow, and she writes a poem of His overflowing love on the parchment of her soul.
O this heart of artfulness, wounded by its own straying,
for it has wandered toward the woeful valley of death.
Yet, how great is the Lord's love and mercy, for He bore sin, suffering, and death for her.
O this heart of artfulness, still learning to see Him truly,
for the Lord has overcome the bottomless grave.
Yet, how great is the Lord's love and mercy, for nothing compares to the rapture of the Spirit burning within her.
Tears fall onto His feet as she bows her head before them, pressing a kiss to the scars on each of them.
A voice calls from the distance, small and threaded with worry.
So she steps back, sniffling, and walks toward the woods toward the evanescent home, separated until the time of the second coming.
She glances over her shoulder, a sob slipping from her lips, as He remains there, watching her go,
watching her return home to her children, her husband, and the believers.
"Mumma…" a familiar voice breaks through the hush of distant singing birds.
Heaviness pulls her into a cocoon of sleep,
a soft cry dissolving into the stillness around her.
Yet she anchors herself to the cold press of the hard floor beneath her, not the soft pasture of the meadows anymore.
Isaiah's tear-streaked face comes into view as her eyes open.
"Mumma!" Isaiah's eyes widen.
She lifts her hand to his cheek, grounding herself in his warmth, as the dream of her Father settles into the serenity of her soul.
Footsteps scrape against the floor as she slowly sits up, fighting the haze of darkness threatening to bleed into the waking world.
"Doctor, there—" Jacob's voice cuts off.
Neva turns her gaze toward the door.
Behind Jacob stands a casually dressed, middle-aged man,
a stethoscopeand a briefcase in hand.
He must be one of Inaya's doctors...
Realization stutters through her heart as panic surges in a rising wave.
"Naya—" she breathes. "Is she… is Inaya—"
"She's stable." Jacob steps closer.
A shuddering sigh escapes her as the tightness in her chest eases.
Isaiah curls into her arms, and she gathers him close, pressing a kiss to his hair. Her eyes close in silent gratitude to her Father.
"Are you alright?" Jacob crouches before her. "Isaiah came to me.
He said you lost consciousness."
"I'm… I'm alright," she says,
soaking in her son's warm breath against her chest as he sniffles.
"Just in case, let the doctor check you." Jacob's gaze flick to the doctor, who steps forward at the cue.
"No!" The word snaps out, freezing the doctor in place.
She winces, then forces her voice softer. "No… I'm fine."
If the doctor knew about the pregnancy, if Ishmael knew...
No. He can never know.
And the nightmare... Oh Father… Father…
Her throat clogs up as sharp, vicious, wraith-like teeth claw at her bones.
"Are you sure?" A hint of worry and confusion flickers in his gaze.
She says nothing, pressing her cheek gently against her son's hair.
"I'll inform Ishmael," Jacob says, rising.
His eyes linger on her a moment too long.
"He's with Inaya. Get some rest."
Just as he turns to leave, she calls out, "No, wait..."
Jacob stills, glancing back.
She hesitates, swallowing hard. "Take me to the believers."
A frown creases his brow, but he says instead to the doctor, "Mr. Sommers, you may retire for the night."
The doctor nods and steps out.
She rises,
her son clinging to her legs as Jacob shuts the door and turns toward them.
"Please… take me to them," she whispers.
"I won't break my word, I'll get you home safely," he says, his voice low. "But the believers…
I can't promise anything for them."
"Just take me to them, Jacob.'' Her voice sharpens, desperate, cold.
He sighs and nods. "Walk with me."
She crouches to meet her son's gaze. "Isaiah, can you wait for me here? I'll come back soon."
He shakes his head, cheeks and nose flushed red from crying.
"I'll come back, I promise." She cups his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Please… can you trust me?"
His chin trembles as fresh tears fill his swollen eyes, but he nods.
Her breath shudders as she steps toward Jacob at the door.
Her fists clench as she steadies herself, clinging to the memory of her Father against the echoing nightmare of Hades.