Acrid smoke—sharp as a spear—stabs through her nostrils.
The distant bellows of animals, the crackle and pop of fire, the roaring rush of wind…
Sweltering heat scorches her body.
Her weary form curls against the dirt.
Beads of sweat gather on her forehead, trail down her chest, soaking the thin fabric clinging to her flushed skin—nearly making it see-through.
Her chest rises and falls in rapid, labored breaths.
She's suffocating—air scarce, lungs burning.
Neva gasps and rolls onto her side.
She coughs—once, twice—then again, clutching her chest as if to still the pain pressing in tight.
She writhes, moaning as her skin chars.
Helpless—burning in contact with the ablaze ground.
Tears prick from the stinging smoke in her eyes.
Her head swims, vision muddled as she peers through yellow fire filtering through thick, hazy clouds of smoke.
Trees blaze above her, sparks spinning wild in the wind—flaming bushes and scorched nature all around.
A ghastly heat flays her skin.
Neva crouches, hands braced against the dirt, barely holding up her trembling frame.
Her face dips down. She coughs—again.
Nails claw at the dirt...
She tries to stand, but her wobbly, weakened knees give out.
Tears stream down her reddened cheeks.
Confused, she clutches her head, a sharp ache slicing through her skull.
Mire coats her skin. Her mouth fills with the taste of fumes, ash and soot gritting between her teeth.
Then—
A distant voice.
Familiar.
Calling her name.
She tries to answer—but no sound escapes her.
Neva chokes on her breath.
She covers her mouth, trying to shield her airway with trembling hands.
It is a wildfire.
And she's in the middle of a burning forest.
Blurry eyes catch the silhouette of a lamb.
Faint and white—emerging through orange fumes and flaming bushes.
The pure white lamb has deep coherent eyes—and they are blazing with fire.
But she knows—this glow is for a different eludication and not of the burning forest reflecting in those steady eyes.
They burn with clarity—a light of deeper truth.
The lamb sprints forward...
Through the smoke.
Through flying sparks of fire.
And toward her...
Smoke fills her lungs.
Unconsciousness claws at her.
She forces her eyelids to stay open.
And like an illusion... the white lamb disappears into the smoke.
Her eyes begin to close again.
A dry cough aches her chest.
That same familiar call.
Another dream...
She sees him—
Running toward her.
His face—she can discern it—flushed, covered in a cloth.
She's falling into the void.
Hot...
Hot...
Heat floods every part of her.
She needs water. A soothing breeze.
An open space, wild and green...
To bathe beneath a cold, fresh waterfall—
With him again.
Strong arms wrap around her body.
A call—
Calling her name.
Again.
Still distant.
She is picked up.
Limp body cradled in his arms.
Arms and legs boneless.
She slits her lids open, catching a glimpse of his pained eyes—eyes that mirror the fire inside.
Deep, dark brows knit together.
And she knows. She is home.
She is safe, and so she lets the ripple of slumber caress her—
Gliding deeper into the ocean.
But the distant voice calls again.
A different voice.
Growing closer...
Someone shakes her.
"Neva," a gentle pat on her cheek.
She tries to open her eyes.
But the burst of brightness forces them shut again.
A sigh of relief follows.
The rustling of leaves… the carooning of birds.
Serene silhouettes of trees ripple shadows on the cold ground.
The bitter scent of grass. A fresh breeze swirling…
No blister on her skin.
She slowly opens her eyes again.
Adjusting to the rays of light, she catches the azure sky through the agape of trees.
A familiar face hovers over her.
A frown forms.
She reaches up, her gentle fingers brushing his cheekbone.
A shiver of delight flickers through his eyes…
He leans in closer.
A faint smile on his lips. "You're not him," she whispers.
His delight crumbles. His face withers.
Ishmael.
He shares the same features.
And yet… they're so different.
Her soul sees through him—clear and true.
Those eyes, this face… they don't mirror her own.
Not like her soul did with Rhett.
She begins to pull her hand away,
but he clutches it,
holding her there.
A pleading gaze anchors her.
He is so plain. So unadorned.
He doesn't stir the waves within her
with just the rivet of his eyes.
He can't overwhelm the heart with love—
unlike that mysterious familiarity.
Unlike with the wonder,
the beauty of two souls sacredly woven as one.
He's not the one she needs.
Neva finally frees her hand—with force.
"Love," Ishmael calls.
She doesn't reply.
Instead, she sits up, eyes scanning her surroundings in dazed confusion.
The forest.
The burning forest.
But there are no flames.
No smoke. No heat.
The wildfire was a dream—warning.
She looks again.
The tracing, the sway of the trees,
the curve of green bushes lining dirt-worn paths...
This place is the parallel to the forest from her dream.
Same outline.
Same eerie stillness.
Her breathing grows shallow, heavier.
"We were in Miraeth, weren't we?" she asks, glancing at him.
He stares at her—silent.
The wind threads louder through the trees.
Birdsong rises like a taunt.
Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, reckoning to further force her toward the edge of her patience.
And then…
he nods.
Reluctantly.
"How can that even be possible?"
She presses her hand to her forehead, dazed.
Him being here is proof of it all.
She's sure of it.
The realism of what she beheld—too vivid, too precise—urging her to believe—forcing to believe.
She has to find Rhett.
Neva stands up immediately, eyes locking onto the two-story courtyard house nestled in the north—its high walls just visible through a slit in the woods.
Then—
a grip on her wrist.
She looks down, then up.
Ishmael.
Eyes glossy. Holding on.
"Please, love,"
He swallows hard.
"Come back to me. This time… I'll make everything right."
Neva's eyes turn cold.
"On what bearing? On what relation do we share a home?"
"You're my wife. I'm your husband."
"A marriage with no uphold or truth?"
She harshly yanks her wrist free, sharp and final.
"I don't accept it."
Ishmael's gaze drops to her bare ring finger.
His own wedding band glints in the light—but it didn't have the pair anymore.
He feels a splinter—a tightness in his chest.
Neva turns away, already searching for a path toward the courtyard house.
Ishmael stays rooted—feet pressed into the dirt where he woke after the abstrusity of Miraeth.
Miraeth…
A sudden flicker of hope sparks in him.
Small, but alive.
His eyes follow her retreating figure,
fading into the trees.
He looks at her faring back—
an ethereal frame glowing as she walks through the shadows of tall pine trees.
Each step crunches against dry, fallen leaves—soft with mold and time.
Her long raven waves bounce gently.
Light brown curls—laced with gold—glow copper under flickering sunrays, cascading down her waist.
A gust of wind flutters her thin white dress, carrying the soft floral scent that lingers in the air.
He remembers the silk of her hair slipping through his fingers…
the tranquility he feels brushing through those curls.
The warmth, the feeling of heaven in Neva...
"I will take you to Miraeth."
Neva seizes.
Ishmael jogs toward her—light, quick thuds punctuated by the dry, aperiodic crunch of leaves beneath his feet.
"I lived fifteen years in Miraeth," he calls out. "I can help you."
She turns as he nears, his pace slowing—each step now careful, hesitant.
Her gaze meets his, laced with doubt… and indifference.
"We'll find another way. Without bothering you," she says flatly and turns on her heel once more.
"That island is a prison," he calls after her.
"The moment you step in, trouble is all you'll face."
She doesn't heed him—and continues on her path, unbothered.
He has no choice but to follow behind.
"I doubt you can even reach there," he says, voice sharper, "not without the ocean decaying your dedication."
He grips her arm, forcing her to face him.
Uncertainty flickers across Neva's features—anxious, unsettled.
"You'll bring death upon yourself," he growls through clenched teeth, "and the twins."
Neva frowns.
"I'm not even sure if I want them along."
She breaks free from his stiffened grip, her skin tingling with a faint ache—she presumes a print of redness will be left on her skin.
He frowns in return.
"So you won't take them?"
"I have family and friends whom I can trust," she says firmly. "People I can entrust them to, Ishmael.
The truth is more promising than you made me believe otherwise."
His jaw tightens.
"And how long do you plan to burden them?"
"Don't forget—my adversaries remain," he says.
"Revengeful and seeking to ruin everything I've ever loved."
Neva lowers her eyes.
He's not wrong.
Bringing the twins, involving her family… she would be endangering them all.
God, why does trouble never cease for me?
"Surrender yourself," she mutters.
"I'm sorry?" Ishmael tilts his head, voice laced with mockery.
She lifts her gaze—sharp, unyielding.
"Pay for your sins."
Ishmael only sneers.
Neva grits her teeth and turns.
Her strides grow long, hurried—driven—until she reaches the clearing that leads to the pavement.
She huffs, frustration burning through her, as his footsteps draw near behind her.
"You'll be caught the moment you show up with me," she seethes.
"Are you worried for me?" Ishmael teases, light and unbothered.
She spins to face him.
"Never."
"I'm worried about the strain my children would be exposed to."
Her voice trembles at the edges.
There could be violence. Blood, even…
She doesn't want to imagine it—the danger reaching her children.
The horrors it could follow.
His face darkens.
"I'm not going anywhere without seeing them," he says, voice low.
He misses them—truly aches for the warmth, the softness, the life of his children.
Neva exhales, her eyes dimming with quiet despair.
Then—
a sudden squeal cuts through the air.
The sharp whine of an engine.
Her ears perk, head snapping toward the sound.
Across the clearing, beyond the pavement near the lone house nestled in the woods—
a grey Aston Martin glides toward the courtyard house.
Her heart stimulates—
beats thumping wild in her chest at the thought of who is to reveal beyond.
She takes off on her feet, lifting her dress as she scrambles up the slippery, grass-covered incline toward the flattened street above.
Her hands press into the earth, smearing with dirt as she climbs.
She reaches the pavement, breath sharp and ragged.
"Neva," Ishmael calls behind her—
But she's already sprinting toward the Aston Martin.
The car slows, engine purring low as it rolls to a stop.
A smile blooms across Neva's face.
She waves, hope flickering bright in her chest.
They see her.
Whoever sits behind the wheel—they see her now.
Her heart thunders louder with every step, anticipation flooding her chest as the car door flings open.
She nearly stumbles in her reckless rush.
Then—
he steps out.
A face her heart calls.
A face etched in disbelief.
Solace and worry swirl in the warm eyes of her beloved.
"Rhett!" Neva cries out.
Rhett's weak strides slowly become faster—
until he's eventually running toward her.
A fleeting race to get to her.
Tears stream down Neva's face.
She thought she'd never see him again.
His expression peels off every other emotion.
Enraptured. Trembling. Crumbling to just take her in his arms.
This distant long…
And going on and on—bleeding into forever.
And when she collapses into him,
strong arms immediately wrap around her.
Her feet lift off the earth.
He squeezes her into his embrace—as though he could fold all the missing eternity into this one embrace.
A whimpering Neva tightens her arms around is neck.
Rhett trembles—and he prays gratitude with his shivering body.
Unbreathing and heart soaring as his face buries in the crook of her shoulder...
And Ishmael stands there.
Frozen.
Legs numb, stranded in the middle of the road.
Bare. Absent.
His eyes sting,
His chest burns—
the ache spreading, sharp and poisonous—numbing him.