Pure and white, a snowdrop flower blooms triumphant in the haze of fog this cold winter morning, sprouting unsmothered from the snow-layered earth, above grass long dead and pressed flat by frost.
The flower quivers as a gentle brush of fingers glides over its velvet petals, scattering tiny droplets of mist into the air.
A tender smile curls her lips, a good little snowdrop grounding her heart in faith and hope.
She rests her face in her pale, freezing hands, cheeks and nose ripened scarlet, unbothered by the cold; for the warmth and light after her prayer—
after she caught sight of the flower and knelt before the beautiful promise of God's unending love—shall always shield her.
"If you're a girl," Neva whispers softly, "we'll name you Neriah, which means light—the lamp of God. And if you're a boy," she sighs, her smile deepening.
"We'll name you Revan, meaning to rejoice—the name your father came up with."
"Sister?" a careful voice sounds behind her.
She glances over her shoulder to find one of the soldiers: a rebel of common folk and rising spirit, rough-edged and strayed from God's teachings, in a land where oppression wears a veil of justice.
Yet it was after the week of the cave incident that they joined them, vowing to protect her and the believers, making way in their hearts for the true Light.
"Yes?" she rises to meet him.
He steps forward, a young man with brown, tousled hair, sleep shadowing his eyes, the silver helmet tucked under his arm.
Her brows rise in muted surprise as he lowers on his knees, head bowed in regard.
"I have long desired to offer my thanks," he says, his voice soft, yet trembling at the edges with unspoken sorrow. "If not for Sister, my household would not now live."
"Not me," she says gently.
"All that has come to pass, that you and your family stand here still, is because of His unconditional love."
She smiles as he lifts his head, meeting her gaze. "I am but a vessel of the Father."
He nods, a smile tugging at his lips. Then he rises, standing just a little taller than her. "I am John," he says, dipping his head. "And I can scarcely contain my patience to hear the Word of God."
Neva's heart melts, gratitude filling her at his devotion to the Father, and at the blessing of being the one to share His goodness.
She nods, her smile warm. "Soon, John. Soon."
He bows once more. "May God keep you well, Sister."
"God keep you well," she replies.
Reflecting her smile, he steps into the mist, where a handful of silhouettes swirl through the clearing,
blurred between vivid and fading hues.
The mist parts slowly, revealing red and beige hues that solidify into a woman in a red vintage dress, a black shawl draped over her head, and beside her,
a shorter woman in a thin, wrinkled beige garment, a threadbare sweater over her petite frame, both clutching clay jars.
The woman in the red dress scans her from head to toe,
her nose wrinkling and thin brows creasing in unmistakable repugnance. "What business had a young soldier with a married woman beneath the veil of the fog?"
Neva refuses the question entirely—bitter and foolish as it is. She tightens her shawl, the cold air pricking her face and teasing her loose curls.
But as she makes to pass her by, the woman in red steps into her path. Her pale, pretty face contorts into hideous malice. "We do not want that mute boy, nor your son playing with our children. Keep your bastard child well away from the folk's camps."
A knot tightens Neva's throat. "My son is not a bastard."
A smirk curls her lip. "What, then, should one make of a child born of a rotten womb?"
A sharp pang strikes Neva's chest, numbness spreading through her limbs.
"Orema," the other woman interrupts, stepping in beside her, fingers closing firmly around her arm.
Orema does not heed her. "If God chose you, then He has chosen wrongly."
She points a finger at her, eyes wide with a frozen resentment. "You will bring death upon us all. God forsook us long ago, even as you did forsake your children."
Neva's eyes burn as tears brim at their rims.
Orema steps closer.
"All are blinded to what you truly are. Return where you came from. You have no place here, you slut!"
Neva squeezes her eyes shut as Orema spits in her face.
"Orema," the woman hurries after her, casting a cautious glance at Neva.
"Go rid yourself before you devour us all like the witch you are," Orema scoffs.
She grabs her companion's hand and disappears into the mist.
Neva breathes raggedly, her shivering hands clutching the shawl against her stomach.
Warm tears slip soundlessly down her cheeks.
Then she turns and walks—one step closer, then another—
as bare branches curl like claws, slowly calling, until the thickening fog of the cold, snow-draped forest swallows her whole.