ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART TWENTY THREE
The steady hum of medical equipment blended with distant voices and the soft squeak of trolley wheels.
Outside the ward, a row of plastic chairs lined the wall beneath framed health posters, their edges worn smooth by years of waiting hands.
The air carried antiseptic and faint coffee, clean but weary, like hope stretched thin.
Automatic doors sighed open as Zionel, Elara, and Thaniel stepped inside together.
Their shadows slid across the tiles as they moved down the corridor, passing nurses in crisp uniforms and muted monitors beeping behind half-closed doors.
The building seemed to breathe around them, as if aware of the weight walking through its halls.
Inside a quiet recovery ward, Cassian sat upright on the hospital bed.
His shoulders looked smaller than memory, his frame thinned by sickness and fear, hands resting on a rumpled blanket.
The hum of the air conditioner filled the room, steady and low.
His eyes lifted—and froze.
His breath caught visibly as Zionel came fully into view, alive, steady, watching him with calm, unbroken eyes.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to tilt. Cassian stared as if seeing a man pulled out of the grave.
His gaze flickered to Elara, then back again, confusion tightening his face. He searched her features, struggling to place them, shaking his head faintly as though his own sight betrayed him.
Elara paused near the foot of the bed. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, knuckles whitening before she loosened them. Her eyes softened, holding recognition without pressure.
Zionel stepped closer, pulled a chair, and sat directly in front of Cassian.
The chair legs scraped faintly against the floor, the sound sharp in the stillness, echoing like a line drawn between past and present.
Cassian’s hands trembled where they rested on his knees. His throat worked, a rough breath scraping out before sound finally followed.
Cassian (hoarse):
“Y-you… you’re alive.”
The words broke the silence like glass.
The air in the room tightened; Elara’s breath stilled, Thaniel’s gaze sharpened, and something unseen stirred, as if truth itself had leaned closer to listen.
Cassian’s eyes darted again to Elara, lingering longer now. Recognition flickered but refused to settle.
Elara met his gaze calmly, her presence gentle, familiar yet distant, like a melody half-remembered.
Elara’s voice slipped into the quiet, tender and careful, carrying memory without accusation.
Elara (softly):
“You didn’t recognize me yesterday.”
The sentence hung in the air. Cassian swallowed, his throat working, the machines around them humming steadily as if marking time.
Cassian’s tone rose again, confusion edging into panic, his words scraping out of him as fragments tried to form sense.
Cassian (confused):
“You were… you were the nurse. The one who asked me my name.”
Emotion crested in Elara’s eyes. She nodded once, lips pressing together as she exhaled slowly.
She moved to the side of the bed and placed the food container gently on the tray table.
The lid clicked open, releasing the warm scent of rice and stew, cutting through antiseptic air with something human and grounding.
Thaniel stepped forward and rested his hand lightly on the back of Zionel’s chair. The simple contact steadied the space, like an anchor dropped quietly into restless water.
The room felt held.
Zionel leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees. His hands clasped, then unclasped, choosing patience over haste.
When he spoke, his tone carried weight without force, calm shaped by obedience.
Zionel (quiet):
“We didn’t come here to confuse you, Cassian. We came because the Lord wouldn’t let us walk away.”
The words settled deep. Cassian’s eyes filled rapidly, his shoulders trembling once as if his body recognized mercy before his mind did.
The hum of the ward softened, as though even the walls leaned in.
Zionel continued, his gaze never leaving Cassian’s face, the past moving behind his eyes like a slow-burning fire.
His voice slowed, deepened, carrying the weight of remembered years.
Zionel (reflective):
“There was a time I thought I stood by my own strength. There was a time I believed power meant approval. But the Lord sent a man who refused to give up on me.”
Cassian’s lips quivered. Tears blurred his vision as his eyes shifted toward Thaniel, searching, questioning, afraid to hope.
A shallow breath slipped past him, the words barely holding together.
Cassian (weakly):
“And… him?”
Zionel turned his head and extended an open palm toward Thaniel, the gesture simple, unforced, filled with gratitude.
His tone followed the motion—low, steady, carrying reverence rather than volume.
Zionel (quietly):
“This is Thaniel. The one the Lord sent when we were already sinking.”
Thaniel stood a step back, posture humble, hands relaxed at his sides.
He inclined his head slightly, eyes warm but watchful, carrying the stillness of a man who had seen storms and survived by grace alone.
A measured breath left him, the words following low and unhurried.
Thaniel (softly):
“Grace kept breathing where death wanted silence.”
The words rippled through the room. Cassian broke fully then, tears slipping free and tracing slow paths down his face.
The air felt heavier and cleaner at the same time, as if something long-held had finally been acknowledged.
A nurse passed by the doorway, paused, then nodded gently before moving on. The door eased halfway closed, granting them privacy.
The muted hum of air conditioning wrapped the room again, steady and protective.
Elara stepped toward the small table by the bed and lifted the covered food tray. She uncovered it fully, the warmth rising again, filling the space with the scent of care.
She set it carefully in front of Cassian, her movements deliberate, honoring his fragility. Her voice followed the gentleness of her hands—low, steady, encouraging.
Elara (encouraging):
“Eat first. You need strength.”
Cassian stared at the food, then at her. His lips parted, closed, then parted again. Slowly, he lifted the spoon with unsteady fingers and ate.
Halfway through, he paused, eyes drifting to the remaining portion. Shame and worry collided in his expression as he glanced up.
His breath hitching before the words emerged—thin, frayed, almost apologetic.
Cassian (broken):
“My son… and my wife. I should leave some for them.”
Zionel’s lips curved into a gentle smile. He shook his head slowly, compassion steadying his voice.
Zionel (assuring):
“Eat it all. We’re going to your house together. There will be more.”
Cassian searched his face for mockery, for pity, for judgment—and found none. Tears dropped into the food as he nodded and continued eating.
When he finished, Elara handed him a bottle of juice. His fingers closed around it as though it might shatter.
His shoulders finally relaxed, though tears continued to fall. He bowed his head slightly, the room holding his gratitude in silence.
A broken breath slipped past his lips, words catching before finding their way out.
Cassian (choked):
“Thank you… I don’t know how to thank you.”
Silence settled, filled only by distant trolley wheels and a faint announcement over the intercom.
Thaniel shifted his weight, eyes lifting as if listening beyond the walls, beyond the hospital, toward something unseen.
Zionel straightened. The gentleness in his face deepened into something firmer, grounded in truth rather than comfort.
He rested his hands on his knees again, then lifted his head, eyes fixed on Cassian, compassion and gravity interwoven.
His voice carried the weight of careful deliberation.
Zionel (carefully):
“Cassian… what I’m about to say will sound impossible. But truth doesn’t wait for comfort.”
Cassian looked up, unease knitting his brows, the room tightening again as though bracing.
A tight catch in his throat made his first words come out measured, careful, almost hesitant.
Cassian (uneasy):
“What do you mean?”
Elara clasped her hands in front of her. Her fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed, surrendering control.
Zionel’s tone slowed, each word placed with intention.
Zionel (measured):
“The calamity that fell on your house did not begin with loss. It began with covenant. It was not outside your house.”
Cassian blinked rapidly, breathing quickening, his chest rising and falling against the weight of the words.
Zionel did not look away. His jaw set, shoulders squared, and a calm steadiness threaded through his tone as the words left him.
Zionel (steady):
“Your wife—Seraphina—stood as a gate for darkness. Not as rumor. Not as insult. As truth.”
The sentence struck like a bell. Cassian’s head jerked back slightly, his body recoiling before his heart could keep up.
A tremor laced his voice, brittle and raw, before the words even formed.
Cassian (shaking):
“No… no. Don’t say that.”
His body moved ahead of thought. His hands slid off the bed as he tried to stand, failed, and slipped instead.
His knees hit the floor with a dull thud, sound spreading across the room like a crack in stone. His hands spread out helplessly.
A shaky inhale trembled through him, carrying the raw edge of pleading before he even found his words.
Cassian (desperate):
“Please… don’t slander her. She’s innocent. She’s suffered enough.”
His voice fractured completely. His forehead pressed briefly against the mattress, grief spilling without restraint.
Zionel rose immediately and knelt in front of him, placing a steady hand on Cassian’s shoulder.
The touch grounded him, anchoring him against collapse. His voice carried warmth and calm, filling the small space between them.
Zionel (compassionate):
“We are not here to accuse. And we are not here to shame. You will see the truth yourself.”
Thaniel stepped closer, his tone low, carrying authority without aggression, Scripture moving through him like breath.
Thaniel (solemn):
“The Scripture says, ‘For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.’”
The words, drawn from Luke 8:17, seemed to press into the air itself. Cassian’s hands trembled violently.
His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, searching their faces, fear and surrender warring openly.
A ragged exhale shivered through him, catching in his throat before it escaped.
Cassian (weakly):
“Then… then take me home.”
Zionel nodded once. Elara quietly closed the food container and slung her bag over her shoulder.
Thaniel reached for the door and held it open as corridor light poured in, bright and exposing.
Together, they helped Cassian to his feet. The corridor greeted them again with movement and sound—footsteps, distant voices, life continuing.
Their steps aligned as they moved forward, no longer separate paths.
Outside, a car waited at the hospital entrance, engine humming softly under the morning light.
Without delay, they got in.
The road back to Cassian’s house stretched ahead—silent, waiting, heavy with truth long buried, now stirring, about to breathe again.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
Aatsujnk
Audio Premiere
Word: 0 / 0 (0%)
READY...
Comments
Post a Comment