The two sconces, left and right of the chamber door, still hold the remnants, and the last glimmer of their flames. From time to time, an unsteady glow glances off the blade of Goliath’s sword.
I have been lying here, under it, for ages, it seems. Even so, it is going to be a long wait till morning comes. I raise my head from the pillow and set the crown on my head, letting myself feel its weight—and my own vanity—one last time.
It is then that I tell myself that there is a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot.
I unfurl the scroll and—without reading what is written in it—I scribble down my own thoughts. With waning strength I prop myself up, trying to catch a glimpse of what lies out there, beyond the sheer curtain that billows, time and again, over the far window. I strain my eyes, trying to detect a shape, a hint of color.
Perhaps, before the edge of the sky starts turning pale, I will raise myself up, somehow. I will sneak out of the palace before the guards wake up, telling no one that I am heading off to a new adventure. This time, what I seek will be entirely different.
It will be redemption.
Before leaving this place I will take off this heavy thing, and let it roll into the corner.
This crown does not define who I am.
I will find my way out, away from here, out the gate and down the stairs, into the courtyard and beyond. There stands my golden chariot. Its design, which is of Hittite origin, is renowned for having four spokes, and for being pulled by a team of horses. Looking at it used to stir me into thinking that one day, when my time comes, I will ascend to heaven in it, leaving a blazing trail of fire beneath its wheels.
That was such a lovely, awe-inspiring thought, especially when combined with another: I used to imagine my trusty soldier, Uriah the Hittite, standing there in the chariot.
I could just see him, waiting for me to step in and take my place by his side before he lifts his whip, cracking it to ignite a sudden flash. Then the horses would bolt into flying away, manes burning, tails flaring amidst a shower of sparks.
I could just see him, waiting for me to step in and take my place by his side before he lifts his whip, cracking it to ignite a sudden flash. Then the horses would bolt into flying away, manes burning, tails flaring amidst a shower of sparks.
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