The Gaze of a King

Chapter Fifty | The Demise of The Wise

The light filters through the thin fabric covering the window, casting faint patterns on the stone floor. I should be resting, recovering from the birth, but my thoughts are restless.

I hear footsteps approaching—quiet, cautious. A servant wouldn't tread so lightly. I stand and hold Solomon closer, ready to call for a guard if needed. Then I see him—a shadow slipping into the room, moving with the ease of someone who knows how to be invisible.

"Zev?" I whisper, barely daring to believe it. He's thinner than I remember, his face more lined, but those eyes—sharp, watchful, and unmistakably his.

"My lady," he murmurs, bowing his head slightly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but I hear a tremor there, a hint of something unspoken. I want to smile, to reach out and embrace, but there is a darkness in his gaze that stops me.

"It's been so long," I say softly. "Where have you been?"

"Here and there," he replies, stepping closer, his eyes flickering briefly to Solomon before meeting mine again. "The world is not as safe as it once was. Not for people like me."

I nod, understanding. Zev has always walked a dangerous path, caught between shadows and secrets. "You risk much coming here," I say. "But I'm glad you've come."

He looks at me, something deep and unreadable in his expression. "I heard about the birth of your son," he says, his voice softening. "Solomon... a strong name for a strong future." His eyes warm, just for a moment.

"Thank you," I whisper, feeling an unexpected lump in my throat.

Zev's face grows serious again, his gaze darting toward the door as if he fears someone might hear. "I bring news," he says quietly. "News you should hear from a friend."

I feel a chill run down my spine. "What is it?"

"It's your grandfather... Ahithophel." Zev pauses, his eyes searching mine as if gauging how much I already know. "He's dead."

I stagger back, my breath catching in my throat. "Dead?" The word feels heavy, foreign on my tongue. "How?"

"He took his own life," Zev says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Absalom disregarded his counsel... his advice to strike swiftly, to kill David while he was vulnerable. Instead, Absalom chose to follow Hushai's counsel. Ahithophel... he knew what that meant. He knew Absalom's cause was lost. So, he... he returned to his home and..." Zev's voice trails off, and he looks away, unable to meet my gaze.

I feel as if the world is spinning, the room closing in around me. "No," I breathe, clutching Solomon tighter against my chest, as if the child's warmth can anchor me. "No, he would never—"

"He did," Zev insists gently. "He saw the end coming, and he chose his own way out."

A sob catches in my throat. My grandfather, Ahithophel—the wisest man I ever knew, the man whose advice was sought by kings. And he's gone. Taken his own life because of a rebellion I wanted no part of, because Absalom, like so many others, chose a path that leads only to ruin.

I feel Zev's hand on my shoulder, steadying me. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I wish there were other words, but—"

I shake my head, trying to push the grief back, to bury it deep where it cannot touch me. "Why?" I ask, my voice breaking. "Why did he side with Absalom? Why did he not stay with David?!"

Zev's hand lingers for a moment, then falls away. "I suppose it was because he was angry," he says softly. "Angry at David... because of what happened to you." His eyes are filled with something I cannot quite read—sorrow, perhaps, or something deeper. "He wanted to see justice done, and he thought Absalom would deliver it."

My heart twists with the complexity of it all. "Justice," I murmur. "Or revenge?"

Zev hesitates. "Maybe both," he admits. "But in the end, it didn't matter. He chose, and... now he is gone."

I close my eyes, feeling a tear slip down my cheek. "I should have seen him," I whisper. "I should have spoken to him..." Regret lodges itself in my throat. For all his scheming and politicking, I never truly made peace with him.

"He made his choice," Zev says gently. "It wasn't yours to bear."

We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of loss hanging between us. Then, slowly, Zev reaches out, his hand brushing against mine, so briefly I almost don't feel it. "I'm sorry, Bathsheba," he murmurs again, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

I look up at him, trying to find words, but all I see is the depth of his gaze, the way his eyes linger on mine, as if he is holding back something he cannot say. There is pain there, a pain that mirrors my own, and for a fleeting moment, I wonder what it is he hides, what it is he feels. But before I can ask, he steps back, bowing his head once more.

"Be well, my lady," he says, his voice strained. "And keep your son close. These are dangerous times."

I nod, unable to speak, and watch as he slips back into the shadows, leaving me alone with the news, the grief, and the newborn child in my arms. Solomon stirs, and I hold him tighter, feeling the weight of the world press down on my shoulders, knowing that I must be strong—for him, for myself, and for all that is yet to come.