A DOOR OF DESTINY | PART TWO
The first light of dawn slipped over the tiled roofs of the imperial harbor, pale gold brushing the stone embankments where fishing boats rocked softly against their ropes.
The city stirred awake in layers—wooden shutters creaked open one by one, a distant bell rang once from a watchtower, and the river breathed out mist into the cool air, carrying the low hush of water against stone.
Aveniel guided his sheep along the outer road, sandals damp against the stones. The animals bleated softly as they reached the water’s edge, lowering their heads to drink.
He loosened his grip on the staff and exhaled, eyes lifting out of habit to scan the shore, alert and attentive, as though listening for something beyond sound.
He paused as the flock drank.
Something ahead broke the rhythm of the morning.
Near the edge of the shore stood a woman.
Aveniel’s steps slowed. Water dripped steadily from her sleeves, darkening the stone beneath her feet. Her hair clung darkly to her face. A robe of fine embroidery clung to her frame, heavy with rain—unmistakably royal even in ruin. The air around her felt still, as if dawn itself hesitated in her presence.
She stood upright, shoulders drawn back, refusing to let exhaustion bend her. No bench. No canopy. No attendants. Only the hush of early morning, the scent of wet silk, and the river mist curling around her ankles.
Aveniel’s brows drew together. His fingers tightened on the staff. His breath slowed as though his body prepared itself before his mind did.
He took a few steps closer, the sheep rustling behind him, then stopped. Something about her posture—straight despite exhaustion, dignified despite loss—pressed into his chest until it ached.
Compassion rose without permission.
He glanced back at his sheep, then again at her. Without another thought, he turned and began to run, sandals slapping sharply against stone as he disappeared into the waking city streets, the sound echoing briefly before being swallowed by morning.
The city gates were just opening when he reached them. Iron hinges groaned. The market was barely alive, but alive enough. His breath burned as he moved through narrow streets already warming with footsteps and murmurs.
Steam curled from a food vendor’s pot. Fabric hung from wooden poles, swaying gently in the breeze. Coins changed hands quickly, softly clinking.
Aveniel moved fast—gathering a wrapped bundle of steamed bread, warm broth sealed in a small jar, dry garments folded carefully under his arm.
He paused only once, lifting a short plank of smooth wood from a carpenter’s stall, paying without bargaining, urgency etched into his movements.
By the time he returned, his breath came hard, chest rising and falling as the morning light strengthened, spilling fully across the harbor stones.
She was still there.
Water dripped from the hem of her robe. Her lips were pale. Yet her eyes—steady, watchful—lifted when she heard his approaching footsteps, cutting cleanly through the soft sounds of river and gulls.
She turned back joyfully to behold the man who was destined to marry her, but was left speechless to see another man instead, hope and confusion colliding silently across her face.
Aveniel slowed as he approached her, breath uneven, shoes damp, presence careful and respectful.
He set the plank gently on the stone, angling it so it rested above the damp ground. He placed the food beside it, and the folded clothes. His hands hovered a moment, uncertain, then drew back as he bowed slightly—not low, not high—just honest.
The quiet seemed to lean in. His voice emerged softly, measured, careful not to bruise her dignity.
Aveniel (calm):
“Please… change into these dry clothes. Sit here. Eat. You’ve suffered enough.”
The words settled into the morning like warm bread breaking open. The river whispered on. The sheep shifted behind him. Something unseen eased, as though the air itself recognized mercy.
Valerine’s fingers trembled as she took the garments, warmth seeping through her palms. The city noises dimmed in the background, and even the mist seemed to thin.
Valerine’s eyes lifted to his face, studying him—not as royalty inspects a subject, but as one soul weighs another. The wind stirred loose strands of her hair, brushing her cheek.
She sat slowly, carefully, as if each movement cost her something. The wood creaked beneath her, grounding her, and for the first time since the storm, she exhaled. Steam rose faintly as she opened the jar, mingling with river mist.
For a moment, there was only the sound of water.
Her gaze lifted again, tracing his face—the lines of labor, the dust clinging to his hem, the concern he had not tried to hide. Her tone came after a pause, quiet but steady, threading through the stillness.
Valerine (quietly):
“Who are you?”
The question stirred the space between them. Aveniel’s shoulders shifted. His eyes dropped to the ground. His hand brushed the callouses on his palm as if suddenly aware of them, then returned to her, steady but unassuming.
The breeze moved between them, carrying humility with it. A soft exhale escaped him, his voice barely above a whisper, gentle and self-effacing.
Aveniel (humbly):
“Just a shepherd.”
The river lapped once against the stones, as though disagreeing. Valerine’s lips pressed together. Her head tilted. Her eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in certainty. She shook her head once, gently, water droplets scattering lightly and catching the light.
Her tone low and deliberate, carrying the weight of quiet conviction.
Valerine (gently):
“No. You’re more than that.”
The air seemed to thicken as she straightened, the weight of her presence settling into the space between them. The morning light caught the crest stitched at her shoulder, revealing its faded but unmistakable authority.
The city noises grew distant, as if held back by an unseen hand. Her voice, though tired, carried authority refined by humility.
Valerine (firmly):
“I am Valerine. A princess.”
The word struck the stones themselves. The river’s murmur swelled, and even the gulls seemed to cry more sharply.
Aveniel froze. His breath caught. He stepped back instinctively, then dropped to one knee, bowing deeply, forehead lowered in reverence as his staff slipped from his hand and clattered softly against stone. His voice, unsteady, hushed, broken by awe.
Aveniel (shaken):
“Your highness… forgive me. I did not know.”
Before his forehead could touch the ground, her hand lifted, firm yet gentle, stopping him. The motion cut through the tension like light through fog.
Her tone, steady, calm, and absolute, as though the word itself carried weight enough to lift him.
Valerine (steadily):
“Rise.”
He obeyed, rising slowly, eyes still lowered. The harbor breeze moved again, carrying the scent of water and beginnings. She watched him for a long moment, then turned her gaze toward the river, where the last traces of storm clouds dissolved into the widening sky.
Her voice carried the ache of hope delayed.
Valerine (softly):
“I came to this shore to meet a man appointed to stand beside me. He never came.”
The silence deepened. Her fingers tightened around the cup of broth, knuckles pale, as though anchoring herself. She drew a slow breath, steadying the tremor beneath her calm, her voice, low, controlled—unyielding without being cruel.
Valerine (firm):
“I cannot return to the palace empty. The throne does not move without obedience.”
Her eyes returned to him, searching, steady, unafraid. Her tone, quiet but unwavering, carrying both hope and resolve.
Valerine (earnestly):
“If you will agree… I would be honored to have you as my husband.”
The city seemed to hold its breath. The river stilled. Even the sheep fell quiet.
Aveniel rose fully, hands trembling. His eyes dropped to his palms—scarred, rough, still carrying the scent of wool and earth—then lifted back to her face, luminous even in exhaustion.
His throat tightened; his voice came out fragile, almost disbelieving.
Aveniel (unsteady):
“Me? A shepherd?”
The weight of destiny bore down on him; his breath caught in his chest. The question broke free on a fractured exhale, disbelief threading his tone.
Aveniel (strained):
“To rule a nation?”
Valerine did not waver. She leaned forward slightly, rainwater dripping from her sleeve to the stone with deliberate rhythm. Her posture was intent, her voice measured and sure.
Valerine (wise):
“‘He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.’”
Valerine’s shoulders eased, her tone followed the breeze—lowered, unhurried, shaped by care rather than insistence.
Valerine (bidding):
“You cared for sheep with patience. You saw a stranger and ran toward compassion, not reward. Such a heart can shepherd people.”
Aveniel’s breath shuddered. Moisture filled his eyes. The words settled deep, stirring something ancient. His lips parted, trembling as he answered, voice barely above the river’s hush.
Aveniel (whispering):
“The Lord said… ‘Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many.’”
He swallowed, the words lingering. His tone steadied, still quiet, but grounded now—spoken from remembrance rather than wonder.
Aveniel (assured):
“It is written… ‘He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.’”
He closed his eyes briefly, the morning light warming his face, his breath slowing as understanding settled in his chest. His voice carried calm conviction, no longer quoting—now declaring.
Aveniel (resolved):
“To be faithful in little… truly does pave the way for much.”
The breeze shifted. Aveniel lifted one hand slowly, palm open toward the sky. Light gathered before it, forming a living vision that hovered like breath made visible.
Within it stood figures of old—shepherds turned kings—David among them, sling at his side, staff still in hand. Their eyes met Aveniel’s, heavy with inheritance.
David shifted his grip on the staff, grounding it against the earth as though remembering where he came from. His voice carried the steadiness of one who had walked long roads before the crown ever touched his head.
David (firm):
“The Lord took me from following the sheep, to be ruler over his people.”
The light pulsed once more, then faded as Aveniel lowered his hand. The river resumed its gentle sound. The city breathed again.
Aveniel turned to his flock. Another shepherd stood nearby, watching in quiet awe. Without words, Aveniel placed the staff into the man’s hands, handing the flock over to him. A nod passed between them—gratitude, trust, release.
The royal ship arrived, its hull cutting cleanly through the water. Guards in lacquered armor disembarked, followed by the princess’ attendances, silk and steel moving in disciplined harmony.
When Aveniel returned, Valerine was standing. Together they walked toward the vessel, banners lifting in the strengthening wind. Silk brushed stone. Footsteps echoed. The gangplank thudded softly beneath their weight as they boarded.
As the ship pulled away, Aveniel bowed his head. Valerine’s hands folded at her chest. Their voices rose together, low and reverent, carried across the water.
Both (praying):
“O Lord, order our steps. Establish the work of our hands. Let us walk in your fear and in your mercy all our days.”
Sunlight widened across the river. The ship glided forward, leaving gentle ripples behind.
On the shore, the city breathed on—unaware that a kingdom’s future had just shifted—while peace settled like dew upon the morning air, clean, victorious, and whole.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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