ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART EIGHTEEN
The curtains were half-drawn, unmoving, their fabric heavy with stillness.
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Above, the ceiling fan turned slowly, its uneven hum dragging through the air, as though it too had grown weary of the silence.
The air inside the mansion felt heavy and stale. There was no laughter, no echo of staff moving about, no low hum of activity.
A house once filled with voices now stood hollow, its size only amplifying the emptiness.
Zionel lay on the bed, his back pressed into the mattress. His lips were dry, his throat aching, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets.
Three days. No food. No water. His stomach burned, but worse than hunger was the silence pressing in on him from every wall.
Elara had dismissed everyone days earlier—maids, guards, attendants—leaving only the two of them behind.
Outside, the compound lay deserted. The gate was locked. The intercom remained silent. Only the distant sound of passing cars reminded him that the world beyond the walls still moved.
Each time she cooked, the aroma drifted faintly through the hallway before fading away, never reaching him.
Plates clinked in the dining area. Water ran. A chair scraped the floor. Life continued—just not with him.
That morning, she had dressed carefully. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble as she walked out, posture composed, expression practiced.
She told the church leaders Zionel had travelled suddenly, apologizing through a calm smile. Another minister was assigned the pulpit. The lie rolled easily from her lips.
Now Zionel stared at the ceiling, faint shadows from passing clouds sliding slowly across it.
Thaniel’s voice echoed again in his thoughts—not loud, not forceful, not accusing, but steady. Unrelenting. Truth spoken without fear. His chest tightened.
Slowly, painfully, he rolled to his side and let his feet touch the cold floor. His knees buckled, but he steadied himself against the bed frame and lowered himself to the ground.
The room held its breath. Only the soft whirr of the ceiling fan remained.
His head bowed. His shoulders trembled. His lips moved, barely shaping sound. The stillness thickened as his broken whisper pushed its way into the room.
Zionel (broken):
“Lord…”
The sound barely carried, yet the air itself seemed to lean closer, the shadows along the wall deepening as his breath faltered.
A tremor ran through his chest before his voice surfaced again, heavier this time.
Zionel (ashamed):
“…I drifted.”
The fan hummed overhead. The house stood unmoving, as if listening. His throat tightened as he swallowed. With a faint shudder, his confession continued.
Zionel (regretful):
“I forgot that altar.”
His palms pressed firmly into the cold floor. The tiles bit into his skin as though grounding him in the moment. His tone gathered strength, not in volume but in sincerity.
Zionel (sincere):
“I asked for grace once. I asked to serve you faithfully.”
Silence filled the room—thick, weighty. His eyes squeezed shut, face contorting as though memory itself burned. His words returned, edged with painful honesty.
Zionel (repentant):
“I chose speed over discernment… applause over obedience. I loved comfort more than correction.”
Pain rippled through his limbs as he shifted, joints protesting, breath uneven. From the depth of his chest, a plea rose.
Zionel (pleading):
“Forgive me… cleanse me… restore me.”
He paused. Slowly, he lifted his face. Tears slid down his cheeks, splashing softly onto the tiles. His voice softened, carrying a tenderness that contrasted the ache in his body.
Zionel (interceding):
“And Elara…”
The name lingered in the air, stirring the stillness. With a quiet urgency, he continued.
Zionel (earnest):
“Touch her heart. Deliver her. She is not beyond your mercy. Break every covenant she entered in darkness. Please, Lord. Do not let her perish.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and charged, and for a long moment the room seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting on heaven itself to answer, the stillness trembling with a quiet, profound hope.
The afternoon light dimmed, inch by inch, surrendering to evening. Shadows stretched across the walls as the sky outside deepened into blue-black.
Much later, the front door opened. Her heels echoed across the tiles—measured, unhurried. Perfume drifted down the hallway.
Plates clinked in the kitchen. Water ran. A chair scraped. She ate alone.
The bathroom door opened and shut. The shower hissed, then fell silent. She emerged with her hair wrapped in a towel, skin carrying the faint scent of soap.
Without a glance in his direction, she lay down on the bed, pulled the blanket halfway over herself, and turned her back to him.
The fan creaked once.
Zionel shifted. With effort, he turned toward her. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes were clear.
He lifted his hand, hesitating, before resting it on the mattress between them. His lips parted. The quiet stretched, then his voice reached out, fragile yet deliberate.
Zionel (soft):
“Elara…”
The name floated toward her back, unanswered. The room remained still, shadows clinging to the corners. He swallowed, drawing in air with effort, and pressed on.
Zionel (tender):
“I love you.”
Her body shifted sharply, irritation cutting through her movement. The air tightened between them. His next words came hoarse, yet anchored.
Zionel (steadfast):
“No matter who you are… or what you’ve done. I will not leave you.”
She turned abruptly, eyes flashing, anger flaring against the dim room. The air seemed to hold as her lips parted, the threat already trembling at the edge of her voice.
Elara (angrily):
“Keep quiet. One more word and I’ll plug the iron and press it on your stomach.”
The fan hummed on, indifferent. Zionel did not flinch. Slowly, he pushed himself up on one elbow, movements weak but deliberate.
His gaze rested on her—unafraid, unaccusing. His voice returned, low and calm.
Zionel (calm):
“If leaving me hungry makes you happy… even without water… I am content. But you will not burn me.”
Her jaw clenched. The darkness in the room seemed to press closer. Elara’s reply cut cold through the air.
Elara (cold):
“What makes you think I can’t do exactly what I said?”
She scoffed and sat up abruptly, the mattress shifting beneath her. Zionel’s tone followed, weighted with urgency.
Zionel (pleading):
“Please—repent. Break the covenant. You do not belong to darkness.”
Her brows knit, disbelief cracking her anger. Her throat tightened, a sharp inhale catching just before her voice slipped out, fragile but edged with steel.
Elara (defensive):
“What? How do you know I have a covenant with darkness?”
The ceiling fan groaned faintly as his answer came, steady despite his weakness.
Zionel (firm):
“What matters now is not how I know, but that my love for you is to break that covenant.”
He lifted a trembling hand and pointed gently toward her chest, his finger hovering without touching. His tone dropped, intimate and knowing.
Zionel (quiet):
“Because your heart reacts when you do evil. It beats faster. You feel it. That is not who you are.”
Her breath hitched—just once. The air shifted, heavy with something unseen. He continued, each word measured.
Zionel (revealing):
“You wanted to rise from low to high… and they told you the price. But God never asked for blood to promote his children.”
She stared at him, lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face. Though his breath was shallow, his voice held firm.
Zionel (hopeful):
“God loves you. He is ready to free you. To write our story again.”
The room seemed to slow as his final plea fell between them.
Zionel (devoted):
“Elara… you are my view, my mind, my heart. Come back.”
Silence fell. The fan hummed overhead. Outside, a car passed, its sound fading into distance.
Elara stared at him. Anger thinned into confusion, disbelief softening into something fragile.
Her eyes filled, yet she did not look away. The atmosphere trembled, as though unseen forces leaned in. At last, her voice broke through.
Elara (shaken):
“Your words… they touched me.”
She looked down, fingers curling into the blanket, shoulders beginning to shake. Her confession followed, raw and uneven.
Elara (conflicted):
“I didn’t want to hurt you. Seraphina kept pushing me. Harder each time.”
Tears spilled freely now, her body trembling as the weight of it surfaced. Her lips quivered, a shaky breath hitching in her chest before the words tumbled out.
Elara (tearful):
“I love you. I truly do. I just… I had no choice.”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Zionel reached out, his hand weak but sure, and she took it. Their fingers locked together, warmth breaking through the cold space between them.
His whisper carried reassurance.
Zionel (gentle):
“It’s okay.”
They cried quietly, foreheads touching, fingers interlocked. Sobs slowly gave way to faint, trembling smiles.
Pain and relief tangled between their breaths, the atmosphere easing as though chains unseen had loosened.
After a long moment, Elara wiped her face and rose quickly from the bed.
She helped him sit, pulling the glass table closer. Her movements were hurried now, purposeful. Her voice carried urgency.
Elara (determined):
“I’ll get you food and water.”
She rushed to the kitchen. Pots clattered. A burner ignited. The smell of warm food filled the hallway, pushing back the stale air.
Minutes later, she returned, carrying the tray carefully.
The instant she stepped into the room, she froze.
Her eyes widened.
The tray slipped from her hands. Plates shattered against the floor. Food scattered across the tiles.
Zionel’s body lay still.
He collapsed backward onto the bed, eyes closed, lips pale, chest unmoving.
A scream tore from her throat, ripping through the house and into the night.
She rushed to him, dropped to her knees beside the bed, shaking him, calling his name again and again.
Elara (panicked):
“Zionel! Please!”
Fear flooded her veins. With trembling strength, she dragged him from the bed, hauled him through the hallway, out into the compound, and into the car.
The engine roared to life. Tires screeched as she sped into the night, tears blurring her vision, hands locked tight around the steering wheel.
Sirens wailed somewhere far away.
By the time the hospital lights swallowed them, the night had fully settled.
She stayed until morning—pacing cold floors, praying through sobs, refusing to leave his side.
The air around her felt stripped bare, heavy yet strangely clean, as though darkness had been interrupted.
She did not attend the dark gathering that night.
And in the quiet aftermath, something unseen had shifted.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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