(Three days later)
In the hush of a late, closing autumn afternoon, the forest is a breathing sanctuary—a symphony of birdsong, soft burble of a stream, and giggles of children.
The forest is bathed in the faded gold of a waning sun.
Shafts of mellow light filter through the tall canopy of green, yellow, orange and red.
The emerald water glides in murmurs, its rippling surface catching fragments of sunlight that shimmer in silver glints.
The trees lean close, draped in dew and dappled gold. Moss-softened rocks rest along the stream's edge, worn by time and silence.
Ferns and white wildflowers unfurl by the banks, their fronds glistening in the slanted light.
Neva stands at the edge of the clear stream, wringing out water from a myrtle green T-shirt, the fabric heavy and dripping as sunlight dances across the ripples below with a soft plink.
She sets the last of the laundry into the hand-woven wet linen basket, perched on a broad, sun-warmed rock beside her.
She straightens her sore back with a soft sigh, hands resting on her hips, breath rising with the quiet mist.
She trails her gaze to her daughter, perched on a mossy rock by the riverbank, chin resting on her drawn knees. Inaya's eyes are distant, drifting toward the boisterous boys splashing in the deeper part of the stream.
Rhett is knee-deep in the current, hands poised with quiet focus, trying to catch a fish bare–handed—but to no avail.
Rhean and Isaiah swirl around him like restless shadows, trying to be stealthy but splashing loud enough to drive every creature away.
Only Adam remains still, silent and watchful, careful not to ruin the snare her husband's hands are shaping in the current.
"You're scaring the fish away," Rhett groans, shaking off another failed attempt, water dripping from his arms.
"You'll never catch a fish with them around," Neva calls out, amusement soft in her voice.
Rhett glances back at her, water dripping from his elbows, and gives a helpless shrug.
She smiles. "It's getting colder. Let's go home."
"We're not done fishing, Mumma!" Isaiah protests, his brows drawn, water running down his cheeks.
Rhean nods, defiant. "We have only caught three little ones yet!"
"It's your fault for disturbing Dada," she says, tucking a shallow wooden tray—with a sliver of soap, a tin of soft detergent, and a washing brush—onto the laundry basket.
"But, Mumma—" Isaiah starts to protest.
"No buts. You'll catch a cold. Climb up the shore," she says, scooping Inaya into one arm, the other steadying the laundry basket against her hip.
"Gotcha!" Rhett suddenly exclaims, as a rather large fish thrashes in his grip, spraying water in silver arcs.
The children gasp, wide-eyed.
"We got a big one, Dada!" Rhean squeals, splashing towards him, eyes shining.
"We did," Rhett laughs, steadying the catch with both hands, pride gleaming on his soaked face.
Neva chuckles at the commotion below as she climbs the bank, Inaya resting against her shoulder, the basket snug against her hip.
By the time Rhett ushers the boys up, half-drenched and victorious—Neva sets the basket down and unknots the hem of her slightly damp, faded pigeon–blue dress, letting it fall from her waist to her ankles in gentle folds.
She glances down at the quiet figure in her arms. "You wanted to play too, Naya?" she asks softly.
Inaya lifts her gaze, wide doe eyes glistening. She shakes her head and nestles her face against Neva's shoulder.
"You just recovered from a fever," Neva murmurs, brushing a few curls from her daughter's brow. "We'll join them some other time, okay?"
Inaya nods against her.
"Mama! Look!" Rhean calls out, running toward her with the creel, water already pooling at the bottom.
He reaches her, breathless, and proudly lifts their catch. A grin blooms across his face.
Neva chuckles and ruffles his curls. "Very good," she says, making his smile stretch even wider.
"Can we have fish for dinner today?" Rhean asks, eyes shining.
"Fish for dinner then," Neva replies, her smile soft.
"Fish curry?" Inaya pipes up, her voice small and hopeful.
Neva meets her daughter's eyes and nods, smiling. "Whatever you babies want."
"Rhean, wear your shoes," Rhett says as he approaches, his half–soaked pants folded up to his knees, one hand holding the boy's muddied sandals.
"Go wash your feet," Rhett says, setting the water sandals down on the dewy grass.
Rhean slips them on and wanders along the stream's shallow edge, the fish basket clutched tightly in his hands, never once letting it touch the ground.
"Now that I know I belong here too," Rhett says, crouching to rinse his hands in the cold, clear water, "I think I would've made a fine fisherman."
Neva smiles, her voice soft with affection. "Well, you are still a fisherman. Or rather... a fisher of men."
Rhett looks up at her, water trailing from his fingers. A soft laugh escapes him as he straightens.
"Mumma, should we catch a crab?" Isaiah asks, tugging at her attention.
He and Adam are crouched at the stream's edge, eyes wide with wonder as they watch a small crab scuttle across a slick, mossy stone.
"Not today," Neva says. "And don't just go grabbing it—it knows how to pinch."
Neva suddenly gasps as a few droplets of water sprinkle across her face—Rhett grins at her, flicking another light spray her way with a playful hand.
"Rhett!" she exclaims, laughing softly as she wipes the moisture on her cheeks, careful not to jostle the sleepy child nestled against her shoulder.
He chuckles and steps closer to her, eyes twinkling.
"I'll get back at you," Neva warns playfully, glancing down at the damp spots blooming across her prairie dress.
"Sure," Rhett murmurs, stealing a quick kiss from her lips before she can protest. "Let me carry the laundry."
Neva smiles, a soft warmth rising in her gaze. "Okay."
Isaiah taps Adam's shoulder and points toward the narrow trail winding through the trees. "We're going home," he says softly.
Rhean climbs up the bank, the fish basket still in hand, and joins them.
The jubilant boys take the lead, their footsteps light as they follow the small trodden path through the forest that leads back to their cottage.
Apphia had mentioned this stream.
Tap water at home is used sparingly, even though the cottage has a hand pump.
In Miraeth, most villagers don't have the luxury of owning a washing machine.
And even if they did, no one would lend one to her now—not since the promised child of prophecy has fallen from their favor.
There was no shortage of food or drink before, but as the days pass, the villagers' change of heart grows more visible.
Laundry never ends for Neva—especially with little children—so she came here, to the quiet water, and the children followed, eager to play.
---
By the time they reach home, the sky has already begun to darken.
Neva glances upward, balancing the now-empty woven carrier to her stomach after hanging the clothes to dry.
"I hope it won't rain tonight," she murmurs to herself.
"They'll reach tomorrow?" Neva asks, turning toward Rhett, who's resting on the steps leading to the entrance.
He meets her gaze and nods. "They should be."
"We should get some clothes to blend in better if we're going to travel," Neva says, walking toward him.
"We'll ask someone we trust to trade us some money for gold," he says as she settles beside him and sets the basket down.
She nods and exhales, listening to the crickets chirping as the world turns blue.
He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her closer.
Her gaze drifts to the guards stationed beneath the shadows of the trees.
"We're not alone," Neva whispers, though she doesn't pull away.
"I don't care," Rhett murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to her neck.
"Things will only get messier from here, won't they?" Neva murmurs, a soft sigh leaving her lips as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.
He hums against her neck, the sound low and steady, vibrating gently beneath her skin.
"But we're in His safe hands," he murmurs, breathing in her soft, floral scent. "That's all that matters."
"Yes," Neva smiles, lifting her gaze to the sky.
The neon moon hides shyly behind feathery clouds, while the kaleidoscopic stars glitter brighter across the darkening heavens.
The laundry won't wet and rot tonight—the sky is clear.
Fresh air rustles through the trees, making the damp clothes flutter where they hang to dry.
It will not rain.
Nor will their souls weep and rot,
for their faith runs deeper,
and their purpose burns clear.
"That's all that matters," Neva echoes in a whisper.
The darker the world becomes,
the brighter the blessings shall burn.