The Gaze of a King

Chapter Fifty- Two | Saying Goodbye

The wind is harsh today, whipping through the trees like a cruel whisper, and the sky hangs heavy with dark clouds. I stand on the hill overlooking my grandfather's home, the place where he breathed his last, where he chose to end his life. The earth beneath my feet feels cold and unyielding, and I pull my cloak tighter around me, trying to ward off the chill that seeps into my bones.

My father stands beside me, his face set in a mask of grief. His eyes are red-rimmed, but no tears fall. My brother, Machir, is on his other side, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The three of us, standing together, bound by blood and sorrow, watching as the men lower my grandfather's body into the ground.

The Levite priest murmurs prayers, his voice barely audible over the wind, but I catch fragments—words of dust and ashes, of returning to the earth from which we came. I try to listen, to find comfort in the familiar cadence, but all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, the rush of blood in my ears.

I feel numb, disconnected from the scene before me. It is as if I am watching from a distance, as if none of this is real. My grandfather, Ahithophel, the wisest man I ever knew, is gone, and I still cannot believe it. I cannot believe he chose to leave us like this.

I glance at my father, his face turned toward the grave, his lips moving silently with the words of the prayer. He was close to his father—closer than I ever was. I see the pain etched into his features, the lines of grief that deepen with every moment. I want to reach out, to take his hand, but I am afraid he might pull away, that my touch might break whatever fragile composure he clings to.

Machir is a statue, his face hard, his eyes fixed on the ground. My brother has always been strong, always the one to hold us together, but today, I see the cracks in his armor. He was grandfather's favorite, the one who followed him closest, who hung on his every word. And now, that guiding voice is silent.

The men finish lowering the body into the grave, and I feel a pang of something sharp in my chest, something that feels like anger. I stare at the wooden coffin, feeling a scream rising in my throat, but I swallow it down. I want to shout at the injustice of it, at the senselessness of this death. I want to demand answers from a man who can no longer give them.

Why, Grandfather? Why did you do this?

But the wind carries no answer, only the mournful rustle of leaves.

The Levite priest steps back, his role finished, and my father moves forward. I watch as he bends down, taking a handful of earth in his hand. His fingers tremble, just slightly, as he holds the dirt over the grave, letting it slip through his fingers, a final farewell. The earth hits the coffin with a soft thud, and I flinch, a sob escaping before I can stop it.

My father glances at me, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors my own. He straightens, his shoulders stiff, and steps back. Machir follows, his face still hard, his hands still clenched. He takes his own handful of earth and lets it fall, his movements sharp, almost angry.

It is my turn now. I step forward, my legs feeling heavy, as if weighed down by stones. I bend down, my fingers sinking into the cold, damp earth. I feel the dirt crumble between my fingers, and I stare at it for a moment, feeling the weight of it, the reality of it. I want to speak, to say something—anything—to fill the silence, but no words come.

I let the earth fall, watching it scatter over the grave, and I feel a tear slip down my cheek. I bite my lip, trying to hold back the flood, but it is useless. The tears come, hot and fast, blurring my vision, and I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to muffle the sobs that threaten to break free.

"Bathsheba..." My father's voice is soft, hesitant. I turn to him, my vision still blurred with tears. He reaches out, his hand trembling, and I step into his embrace, feeling his arms wrap around me, holding me close. I press my face into his shoulder, letting the sobs come, letting the grief wash over me in waves.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, my voice muffled against his cloak. "I'm so sorry..."

"Hush, child," he murmurs, his hand stroking my hair. "There is nothing to be sorry for."

I shake my head, pulling back to look at him. "He... he shouldn't have—"

"I know," he says, his voice breaking. "I know, my girl."

Machir moves closer, his face softening for the first time since we arrived. He reaches out, placing a hand on my shoulder. "He was a proud man," Machir says quietly. "Too proud, perhaps. But he made his choice."

I nod, but the words feel hollow, empty. A choice. Yes, but a choice that has left us all in pieces.

We stand together, the three of us, a broken family in a broken world, as the men begin to cover the grave with earth. I watch as the dirt piles up, covering the body, and I feel a fresh wave of grief, of anger.

I take a deep breath, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, and try to steady myself. "I wish... I wish I could have spoken to him, one last time," I whisper. "I wish I could have told him..."

My father nods, his eyes distant. "We all wish that, Bathsheba. But he knew. He knew we loved him. Even in his madness, he knew."

I nod, but I do not feel comforted. I feel empty, hollow, as if a piece of me has been buried with him. I turn away from the grave, my heart heavy, my soul tired.

Machir's arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close, and I lean into him, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, the solidness of him. "We will honor him," he says quietly. "We will remember him as he was, before..."

"Before," I echo, my voice a whisper.

We stand together, watching as the men finish their task, and I feel a strange calm settle over me, a resignation to the reality of this loss. My grandfather is gone, and I must find a way to live with it, to carry on.

I close my eyes, sending a silent prayer to the heavens, asking for peace, for understanding, for the strength to endure what is yet to come.

And as the last of the earth is laid over the grave, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders, just slightly, just enough to take a breath, to stand a little taller.

We turn away, my father, my brother, and I, and begin the slow walk back down the hill, back to the world that waits for us.