(A month later)
The little girl spreads her wings,
But the bud to bloom swithers in the storm—and withers away...
An ethereal frame in the earth,
So pristine and pure—untouched above the tips of the fingers.
Life is a poetry—of incomplete and imperfect letters.
A fighter. A daughter. A lover. A wife. And a mother.
World whirls by, and we drift along...
A strumphius soul, swimming through the deep.
And suddenly—
Serendipity sparks the breath of life...
The sky is azure and bright.
The daylight charms new beginnings.
A kaleidoscopic sunset sky,
Embraces the emerald, marmoris sea.
The orphic breeze swirls round the two heavenly frames...
Sprinkles the angels the mystical embers.
The orange and red autumn leaves showers, Binding two souls...
Neva's igniting soul to the flame of her mysterious man.
He stands there, so close...
And just like that,
Roots sprouts deep throughout the soul.
A floweret kind of love—blooms unhurriedly.
Reverie in their thoughts.
Smyster embraces the days...
The feathers in the wings of a newborn love flutter.
Over them, flies the clouds, carrying— Overwhelming euphoria.
A home is found...
The divine vows thread the sacred bond of two souls for eternity...
All of his is hers... And all of her is his.
Made from each other,
Made for each other...
The blessing for their everlasting love.
A seed is sown in the heart of her core.
Their little sunshine,
The bud of love—is home.
The seasons of apricity,
The whiles of seatherny.
The beautiful feath of a warm little family.
How is she to abandon them?
As she stands there, shrouded in white, her face flickering through a sheer veil, before a man in a splendid black tuxedo.
For he was the storm brewing in the distance,
Sparing her not a breath of light—
Thrashing forward in a mayhem of torrents.
He crumbles her castle to debris,
Burns the portrait of a sacramental love.
"Sam Ishmael, do you take Neva Evara Noe for your lawful wife,
to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse,
for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"
The priest's voice trembles in his white robe lined with gold over a black vestment, the Bible open in his hold.
"I do," Ishmael replies, steady, his eyes devouring her ethereal form.
She stands like a dream in lace, bathed in the soft glow of cathedral light.
A sheer veil trails behind her, her off-shoulder gown hugs her form, its floral embroidery cascading into delicate opera sleeves.
The skirt flares into a flowing train, pooling like a silken tide at her feet—graceful, timeless, and ethereal.
His breath catches. His heart is enchanted.
His Neva.
His bride is breathtaking.
"Neva Evara Noe, do you take Sam Ishmael for your lawful husband,
to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, until death do you part?"
The priest's words drift.
Ishmael gently squeezes her hands in his—the silence drawing too long.
She slowly lifts her eyes.
Soulless.
Cold.
Gazing through the man she stands beside…
Searching for the one she loves.
Perhaps…
If she could live in the illusion of him being her husband,
She could endure another day.
But his features do not speak to her soul.
Nor does his soul carry her home.
She once feared those eyes—
That coarse voice shuddering her.
His rough hands corroding her.
A cold heart, a clouded demeanour...
He can never take her husband's place.
"Neva Evara Noe—do you take—"
"Rhett," she whispers, as if breathing the name would summon sanctuary.
Her lips tremble, but her voice—fierce in its stillness—cuts through the suffocating air.
The priest blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
Ishmael yanks her forward by the hand.
When their chests collide, her world narrows to the hard line of his jaw.
His fingers seizes her hair—tangling in her braids, clenching tight.
He scans her face for a moment—gaze darkened, jaw trembling with cold rage.
"What did you say?"
Her eyes burn, brimming with tears, as his fingers tighten around her braids—
Tightening around her soul, her faith, everything that once called her home...
It was a beautiful autumn afternoon when they first met.
"I want to go to home—to Rhett." Her voice is soft. Clear.
He wrenches her by the roots of her hair, forcing her chin up to meet his dark eyes. She flinches as the thorns of her crown pierce her skull, bile rising from the numb sickness pooling in her stomach.
That golden morning, they were wed in the church garden.
"Look at you, so adamant. Calling out some other man while standing as my bride—carrying my children."
His breath is hot, seething.
The euphoria of her newborn curling against her chest.
He loosens his grip. Takes a step back.
And then—
The muzzle of a gun presses to the priest's head.
Her brows knit. The deafening roar of gunfire ringing in her ears.
"Say the words," Ishmael commands.
The priest stammers, barely holding the Bible steady. A prayer to avoid bloodshed caught in his throat.
Neva cannot bring herself to speak.
Tears stream down her face, her whole body trembling in a helpless revolt.
She belongs to Rhett.
She always has.
She will always do.
The sacred of their marriage—as he said he meant the vows, she's destined to it too. Each phrase is secured with love and honor.
Her heart drowns—knees trembling, dragged down by heavy chains of truth.
A gunshot shatters the air.
The priest screams—
Clutching his bleeding thigh, crumpling onto the altar floor.
Screams roar with the sea.
Metallic blood stings her nose.
Blood spills over holy stone.
Blood dyes her hands crimson.
Another shot.
Neva shivers, blood splattering on her white gown. Her fists clench, nails dugging into her palms.
"Say. The. Words."
A broken sob escapes her.
She cannot.
She cannot.
She could never.
She could nev—
Ishmael grabs her arm, dragging her toward him. His breath pollutes the space between them.
He leans into her ear:
"Will the lifeless bodies of your aunt and uncle make a good wedding gift?"
Pain explodes through her head.
The ocean flames again.
And when she finally murmurs the words—
"I do"—
a tear trails down her cheek, her soul turned to ash.
It's over.
She's poisoned.
She's shivering.
She's nothing.
She's an illusion framed in this reality.
"There you go. Father Matthew. Go on." Ishmael says.
She's a soul not of this shell anymore.
With a single glance, the priest is dragged up by one of Ishmael's men.
The priest stammers the final rites.
"Wh–What God has joined, let no one put... asunder…"
---
Neva lies awake.
Curled into herself, naked beneath the sheets.
Bruised.
Unmoving.
Aching.
Ishmael has long left,
Leaving her to rot in the grave he calls a bed.
She stirs, drags her battered body to the closet, and dresses.
Her eyes fall to the slight curve of her womb—four months.
This bump is larger than when she was growing her son.
She caresses it. Then flinches—
As though she's burned by her own touch.
She hates them. Hates them.
They crawl beneath her skin.
Make her want to rip her soul away from her flesh.
She hates every trace of him.
Then—a flutter. A tiny movement inside.
She freezes.
But her bleeding heart carries no warmth.
She walks through the dark, silent mansion—her legs wobbling slightly.
But with each slow, serene step, the weight in her chest lightens.
Out on the terrace, she closes her eyes—
The September air brushing her face.
She's draped in a white vintage dress.
Her long onyx hair floats with the wind.
Moonlight shines on her skin. And she glows more as this night deepens.
The stars shimmer.
A novalunosis to her barren eyes.
The forest below whispers mystery.
She breathes.
The thread of fate and destiny is arcane.
This world is strange.
But her bloom withers.
She's tasted only fragments of life—
But with Rhett, she had it all.
Their little family is engraved in her heart.
Everything she has had with her soul lover,
She embraces them all.
She stands atop the railing.
And a slow smile rises to her lips.
She never mourned—because she lived in the latibule of her Eden.
She is selfish. Weak.
She broke promises. Shattered fate.
But she has bled enough.
She closes her eyes.
And her soul prepares to fall from grace.
She exhales.
Her foot curves as it slowly slides from the rail.
She's utterly euphoric—as her leg reaches for the wind.