Apphia, looking relieved more than she's dazed, slowly moves toward Neva, the little boy walking quietly beside her.
Neva's lips press into a tight line, her eyes growing misty—gazing at the older–looking Apphia.
Despite the passage of time etched into her features, Apphia wears the same gentle face—although the elapsed of ages has worn her than the Apphia she remembers.
"What is going on here?"
Neva's attention shifts to the source of the coarse voice.
A tall, broad–shouldered man strides toward them, a deep frown shadowing his thick, bushy brows.
He appears to be in his fifties, strands of white hair streaking through both his hair and beard.
He wears a brown robe beneath a blue cloak, a long leather scabbard—dark and worn, hanging from his waist.
Rhett steps forward, positioning beside Neva in a protective stance.
"Papa," Inaya calls softly to her father.
Neva watches as Ishmael lifts Inaya into his arms, while Isaiah stands close by, his presence steady.
"Rhean," she murmurs, spotting the boy standing a little farther back.
She extends her hand.
Rhean steps toward her, letting his mother to gently hold his smaller hand and draw him close.
"What have you outsiders come to seek here?" the man asks, his voice distant but loud and firm.
He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, expression calm and unreadable.
"We come in peace," Rhett replies.
"We are in need of a shelter. Might your village find it to show compassion and offer us a roof for temporary stay?"
The man lifts his chin up, his grim stare fixed on Rhett. "By merely stepping foot into this village, you have condemned its people to death. And now, you ask of us to tie the noose around our own necks?" he rebukes, his voice firm and authoritative.
His eyes darken.
"Leave before we cast you out by force," he warns, his hands drifting toward the hilt of his sword.
Neva swallows nervously, instinctively reaching for Rhett's wrist and clutching his jacket.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rhett notices Ace slyly reaching behind for the pistol secured in a holster.
"Ace," Rhett signals, drawing the agent's gaze.
"Don't," he says.
Ace silently lowers his hand in response.
Rhett turns back to the man.
"We are not a threat, as you can see—we have children with us," he says calmly, his tone persuasive.
"You foolish outsiders know not a thing," he seethes.
"Zebedee, the child has just come back home and brought companions with her," Apphia finally speaks, her voice directed at the man.
Neva glimpses a subtle shift in the man named Zebedee's previously overwrought expression.
"They will be provided with the house in the forest. They do not need to know—until the right moment."
"Is she the one?" Zebedee asks, his analyzing gaze settling on Neva.
"Verily I say," Apphia assures, her voice warm and sure.
She smiles at Neva. "We shall welcome the child of prophecy—with hearts open wide and spirits eager to receive,"
Zebedee releases his grip on the sword. "If she is the one the messenger has called us about, lead them to the house we have prepared," he declares, his tone flat but final. "Show them our way of life."
Neva gazes at Zebedee, relieved yet dazed. A lump rises in her throat, tightening with the weight of revealation, punishing her to breathe and swallow, pressing heavily on her chest.
Then she feels his warm hand on hers, his fingers lacing gently with hers.
Neva glances up to meet Rhett's reassuring eyes.
Although comforted, million thoughts rummages her mind—anxious, questioning, swirling perception of the divine intervention weakening her knees.
"Thank you. We will be forever indebted to you," Rhett says to Zebedee.
"It is only the right thing to do." Zebedee responds flatly.
He turns his gaze to Apphia.
"Take them to the house.
Ensure they settle in. See it to that they cause no imperilment to the village—lest they desire unpleasant consequences."
"I will come visit once I've arranged to erase any trace of their travel."
---
Their path lies beyond the village, winding through the lush greenery of the forest.
Apphia leads the way, accompanied by the boy who appears to be around Rhean's age. They tread an untrodden path, with the others quietly following behind.
There is countless unanswered questions stirring within Neva, her curiosity blazing.
She yearns to uncover every hidden truth—desperate to quench this growing thirst for fulfillment.
A heavy silence settles over the group, broken only by the occasional crunch of dry leaves and twigs beneath their feet—and the faint whisper of the forest.
Wildflowers creep around the forest floor, while white and yellow butterflies flutter over them.
And a distinct blend of bitter, earthy grass and sweet floral notes drifts through the air.
The breeze is chillier. Overhead, the sky shifts to sombre hues of blue and grey, as veins of blinding white lightning flickers through towering, vertical clouds. A distant rumble of thunder soon follows, shaking the ground beneath them.
"Watch out!" Rhett exclaims, alarmed, grabbing Neva's arm and halting her step.
Neva gasps—just in time to catch a glimpse of a snake with its brick–red body marked with zigzag patterns, slithering swiftly across the path into the underbush.
Her heart hammers in her chest. She had been only a step away from trampling it.
"Saw–scaled viper," Ace says, catching up to them.
"Step carefully," Rhett warns.
Neva purses her lips and nods.
"Rhean," Rhett calls the boy walking ahead, just behind Apphia.
He halts and turns to look at them.
"Wait for us," Rhett says.
But instead of waiting, Rhean runs toward them.
Apphia stops and turns as well. "Is everything good?" she asks. The boy beside her glances over his shoulder.
"Yes, everything's fine," Neva replies.
"We are almost here. Be mindful of your steps." Apphia says and continues heading forward.
Rhean smiles as he reaches his parents. Neva mirrors his smile and holds his hand—Rhett does the same on the other side.
Rhean walks between his parents, all smiles, adding little delighted jumps to his steps.
For his parents are here with him—holding his hands, here to catch him from falling—guiding, protecting him.
And behind them, this tender portrait of a family does not go unnoticed by the little girl in Ishmael's arms.
"Papa?" Inaya asks softly.
"Hmm?"
"Why won't mumma be with us?"
Ishmael glances at her, his chest tightening at the sight of her confused, sombre doe eyes.
Beside him, Isaiah looks up, expectant of an answer from him too.
But Ishmael says nothing.
He can't bring himself to answer. So, with a numbed heart he averts his gaze at Neva.
She shares a soft smile with him—and together, they watch their son with quiet adoration.
Nature seems to bless the scene: the greenery and kaleidoscopic wildflowers is the backdrop, and butterflies flutter around them, painting the perfect family portrait.
A portrait she weaves after she had torn his own and left it bleeding—and him agonizing.