One Life to Live - June 8, 2011

It is summer, and the sun has not risen. Only its pale rays have peeked above the hills. The silent city is still sleeping, unaware of the young and tortured soul that wanders its streets.

She is dressed as a beggar, rags and cloth barely covering her shapely form. Once, she was well-fed, but no longer. There are rings beneath her eyes; she has not slept for days. But the dark blemishes do not hide her beauty. Once, many people adored her.

Now, she walks slowly, silently, taking in the peace of her home. She has no roof to sleep under, only that of the vast sky. And so she does not sleep, but walks, always walks, along the cobbled streets of the city. The tall buildings beside her stare down almost guiltily, as if they know that once, they might’ve welcomed her in. As if they know that once, it would’ve been an honor.

But now, their doors will not open for this lovely beggar. And still she walks. She walks up the street, towards the top of the hill, and keeps going. She follows the street until it becomes a road; a road to castle that sits upon the hill.

As she gets closer, she appears to change. She still wears her beggars clothing, but her posture is surer, her face is more confident. Her feet pick up stride, and suddenly, she is a grand lady, walking home to that castle upon the hill. The only mar in the picture is her clothing, but next to her determination, it seems to disappear.

She will not stop this time, at the drawbridge, as she had for months before. No. Today, she will stride across them, finally returning to the place she’d been raised in.

At the gates, the guards need only look upon her face to know who she is. They let her pass, and in their disbelief, they’re left standing. The young grooms in the stable stare in awe at the beggar lady passing by. At the great oaken doors to the stone castle, she does not falter or wait. They swing wide to let her in, and the guards inside mirror those at the gate.

She strides past them all, for finally, she is home.

Up the grand sweeping staircase, past the many doors and halls, to the room she had lived in for so long.

As she pushes open the door, her memories come flooding back. The bed, the windows, the balcony. It is all as she had remembered it, when she walked the streets alone.

Behind her, the door clicks shut, but she cannot hear it. She walks slowly now, as she had on the streets of the city below. On the dresser across the room, there sits the ultimate test.

On a silken pillow, kept hopefully clean, rests a small, but brilliant crown, the crown of a queen.

And, in her beggar’s cloths still, the lady picks up the test. She rests it upon her grimy hair, where it sits perfectly, as if it remembers the days in which it was worn always.

And finally, she has returned.

The woman who had led a nation, who had been loved by all. The woman who had wandered the lonely streets, from royalty to dirt. The woman who returned to her home, and took up the crown once more.

She is a queen, once and forever more. Through life’s strong twists and turns. From necessity to invisibility, she weathered the hills of fate.

From birth to death,
no matter your dreams,
life has its own path,
a wandering stream.

And though it grows rough,
weather fate’s wraith.
It is part of a plan,
the stream’s set path.

Go your own way.
Know what you give.
Remember your deeds.
One Life to Live.

-Quill Writer