A DOOR OF DESTINY | LAST PART
The eastern sky was already pale when Lucian jolted upright on his silk-covered couch. Incense burned low beside the carved table, its sweet scent now nauseating, curling in lazy spirals that clung to the dawn light.
Wine, laughter, and pleasure with his friends and women from the night before still rang faintly in his ears, but something heavier pressed upon his chest, an unshakable weight that left his stomach hollow.
Sunlight cut through the lattice window and struck his eyes like accusation. His breath caught, and his fingers clenched into the bedding as memory struck him like a blade, sharp and relentless.
The shore.
He swung his legs down hard, the wooden floor biting his bare feet. He staggered, knocking over a bronze cup. Wine spilled dark against the tiles, yet he did not look back, only forward, driven by an unseen urgency.
A servant stirred at the doorway, eyes widening at his sudden movement, but Lucian was already pulling on his outer robe with trembling hands, knots crooked, hair unbound, and he burst through the doors into the waking city.
He ran, knocking past morning vendors, silk sleeves brushing against baskets of herbs and clay jars. Dust clung to his face, his knees, his pride, and the city itself seemed to recoil from his hurried steps.
His fine sandals slapped stone and earth alike as the city walls gave way to the harbor road. His hair had come loose, clinging to sweat on his forehead. His chest burned, yet he ran harder, as though fleeing an invisible shadow that trailed close behind.
The harbor came into view.
Masts rose like spears against the morning sky. Waves slapped the shore with steady indifference. Lucian skidded to a halt, chest heaving, eyes scanning wildly, catching sight of the crimson banners fluttering above the royal ship.
Guards in lacquered armor lined the deck. And there—standing beneath a canopy—Valerine.
Her posture was straight, robes clean and catching the sunlight like quiet authority. Beside her stood another man, plainly dressed, calm, and unwavering.
Attendants moved around them, carrying baskets and trays, unaware of the storm gathering on the pier.
Lucian’s knees gave way. Stone scraped his skin as he fell forward. His palms pressed into the damp earth, shoulders shaking. His voice tore loose, raw and cracking, carrying across the water.
Lucian (hoarse):
“Valerine! Wait—please! I remember now!”
Tears streaked through the dust on his face, tracing muddy lines across his cheeks. The gulls cried above, wind tugging at his hair, carrying his desperation across the harbor. His tone caught even before it left his lips.
Lucian (desperate):
“Valerine! Please… forgive me. Give me one more chance.”
The wind carried his words over the water. The ship slowed. Valerine turned. Sunlight rested on her face, her robe stirred softly in the harbor breeze. Her expression held no anger—only stillness, sadness deep as the sea itself. Her gaze met Lucian’s, steady and piercing.
She took one slow step forward, hands folded before her, fingers still. The soft creak of rope and mast accompanied the pause, the gulls calling faintly above.
Her voice came in measured pulls—carrying the weight of memory and endurance.
Valerine (quietly):
“Lucian... I stood when the rain soaked my bones. I stood when the storm had no mercy. I waited when hope was my only shelter.”
The harbor seemed to lean in, waves still, salt spray frozen in the sunlight.
Valerine’s shoulders sagged slightly; a shiver ran through her as she drew in a quiet breath. Her tone trembled at first, fragile, before steadiness grew in each word.
Valerine (sorrowful):
“I stood while thunder broke the sky. I waited while the day passed into night… and night into dawn.”
Lucian swallowed hard, shaking his head, crawling a step closer over the slick stones. His hands scraped against them, leaving trails of dust and blood.
A shudder ran through him, and his voice caught in his throat—before it emerged, raw and desperate.
Lucian (pleading):
“I thought I had time. I didn’t know it would end like this.”
His head bowed, breath breaking into sobs, his voice nearly lost to the wind. Valerine’s eyes held him, unwavering, yet her tone remained firm.
Valerine (firm):
“You were given time. You were given a place. You were given a moment... Lucian...”
She turned her head slightly, gaze shifting toward Aveniel. He stood calm, silent, sunlight catching the calluses and labor etched in his hands.
Her lips pressed together for a moment, breath even, eyes steady—then her voice emerged, deliberate and measured.
Valerine (measured):
“But another man came when you did not. Not for a crown. Not for destiny. Not for power.”
Her eyes returned to Lucian, unwavering. She drew in a quiet breath, letting it anchor her words before they left her lips.
Valerine (gentle):
“He came because he saw suffering… and could not walk past it.”
Lucian’s shoulders collapsed inward. His lips trembled, his tone a ghost of a whisper.
Lucian (broken):
“But... I was chosen...”
The words fell apart into the air. Valerine inhaled slowly, her chin lifting as though carrying the weight of eternity itself. Her gaze lingered on him, steady and deliberate, before her voice cut through the stillness.
Valerine (resolute):
“Destiny waits for obedience.”
She raised one hand slightly. Her fingers extended, and the air before her shimmered, light bending and twisting like liquid. A living vision unfolded, an ancient king robed and weary, crown slipping from his grasp.
The figure’s voice rolled over the pier, deep and echoing like thunder over mountains.
Samuel (solemn):
“‘Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.’”
Lucian’s breath hitched. His eyes widened, fixed on the vision, the words piercing him deeper than any blade. The light lingered, a silent judgment of the choices he had made.
Then Valerine gently closed her fingers, the vision folding into nothing, leaving only the faint shimmer of sunlight on the water.
She stepped back beneath the canopy, letting the sunlit breeze brush across her face. Her breath caught slightly, measured, carrying the weight of warning before her words even left her lips.
Valerine (quietly):
“If you miss a step… you miss a life.”
The oars dipped. The ship turned. Water parted, carrying them steadily forward.
Her hand lifted once more—not farewell, but closure. The sails caught wind, crimson banners snapping, sunlight gilding the edges.
Lucian reached out instinctively, arm trembling, fingers grasping nothing but air. The ship moved on, steady, until Valerine became a silhouette against the morning glare… and then she was gone.
The harbor returned to its ordinary sounds—calls, footsteps, gulls crying overhead. Dust swirled from carts, and merchants resumed their morning trade.
Lucian remained on his knees long after the pier emptied, chest heaving, soul trembling.
Eventually, he rose. Slowly. The road home felt longer than it had ever been. The city gates loomed, unmoved by his passing. His house received him in silence; the cushions were cold, mirrors reflecting a hollowed man.
Night fell.
Lucian sat alone on the floor, a single lamp flickering beside him. His hands rested open on his knees. Shoulders slumped forward. Words finally broke from him, barely louder than breath.
Lucian (whispering):
“Lord… I enjoyed the days you gave me… but I did not fulfill the purpose you set before me.”
His lips trembled as the truth he had long ignored rose unbidden in his heart. A shallow breath caught in his throat, the faint quiver in his voice betraying the fracture inside him.
Lucian (broken):
“Delayed obedience… is still disobedience.”
The room grew quiet. He bowed his head until his forehead touched the floor. A low prayer slipped from him, barely more than breath.
Lucian (softly):
“Lord… have mercy.”
Silence answered him. Yet within the quiet, something softened. The lamp flame steadied. The air stilled.
Outside, the city slept. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea continued its endless rhythm, indifferent and eternal.
Lucian remained unmoving, as the night carried his regret upward like incense. The world gently closed around the lesson he had learned too late, but fully learned.
THE END.
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
Aatsujnk
0
0
0
Comments
Post a Comment