The Gaze of a King

Chapter Fifty- Three | The End of Rebellion

The palace is quiet tonight, an unsettling stillness in the air as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. I sit by the window, the flickering light of a single lamp casting long shadows on the floor. The cool breeze slips through the open shutters, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city—muted, hushed, as though even Jerusalem senses the grief that hangs over us like a dark cloud.

I clutch a shawl around my shoulders, trying to focus on the rhythmic breaths of my son, Solomon, who lies sleeping in his cradle beside me. His small chest rises and falls, his face peaceful in sleep, innocent and untouched by the troubles that plague the rest of us. I envy him for that peace, for that oblivion. I close my eyes, listening to the silence, waiting. Waiting for news, for something—anything—that might tell me what is happening beyond these walls.

The door creaks open, and I turn to see David standing there. My first instinct is to run to him, embrace him, and tell him how much I've missed him. The separation between us was almost unbearable as he left to fight the rebellion Absalom raised against him. He looks... broken. His eyes are red, his face ashen, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world presses down upon him. He stares at me for a moment, and in that gaze, I see a pain so deep, so raw, that it takes my breath away.

"Bathsheba," he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I... I don't know where else to go."

I rise from my seat, my heart aching at the sight of him. "Come to me," I say softly, holding out my arms. "Come."

He moves toward me slowly, like a man in a trance, and when he reaches me, he collapses against me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his head burying itself in the curve of my neck. I feel his body tremble, feel the heat of his breath against my skin, and I hold him tightly, my fingers threading through his hair.

He is weeping. David, the warrior, the king, the man who has stood against armies, who has faced giants—he is weeping like a child, and my heart shatters for him.

"Absalom," he chokes out, his voice breaking. "My son... my son is gone."

I tighten my hold on him, my hand stroking his hair, his back. "I know," I whisper, my own tears welling up in my eyes. "I know, my love."

He pulls back slightly, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders, his eyes searching mine, desperate and wild. "They told me... they told me he's dead," he says, his voice shaking. "Joab... Joab struck him down, even after I begged him... I begged him to deal gently with Absalom. My own son, Bathsheba. My beautiful boy..."

I nod, my throat tight with my own grief. I have no words to soothe this pain, no comfort to offer that could possibly ease the agony in his heart. "I'm so sorry," I murmur, my fingers brushing the tears from his cheeks. "I'm so, so sorry."

He shakes his head, a low, anguished sound escaping his lips. "I should have stopped this... I should have..." His voice breaks again, and he clings to me like a drowning man, his fingers digging into my arms. "I should have been a better father... I should have loved him better... I should have..."

"David, no," I say firmly, my hands cupping his face, forcing him to look at me. "You did what you could. You loved him as best you knew how. This... this is not your fault."

He closes his eyes, more tears slipping down his cheeks, and he leans into my touch, his breath ragged. "But I wanted to save him," he whispers. "I wanted to bring him home... to make things right."

"I know," I say softly. "I know you did."

He trembles in my arms, his grief pouring out of him in waves, and I hold him close, letting him lean on me, letting him find whatever comfort I can offer. I feel his pain as if it were my own, a deep, searing wound that cuts through my heart.

He pulls me closer, his head resting against my shoulder, and I feel his tears soaking into my dress. "I would have given anything... anything to save him," he murmurs. "To have died in his place."

I press my lips to his hair, closing my eyes against the rush of tears that fills them. "I know, my love," I whisper. "I know."

We stand there for what feels like an eternity, wrapped in each other's arms, the only sounds his quiet sobs and the soft breaths of our son. I can feel the tension slowly draining from his body, his grip loosening, his breathing evening out. He is exhausted, I realize—beyond exhausted, broken in a way I have never seen him before.

"Come," I say gently, pulling back just enough to guide him toward the bed. "Rest with me."

He nods, his eyes still glazed with pain, and allows me to lead him. We lie down together, his head resting on my chest, my arms around him, holding him as tightly as I can. I stroke his hair, whispering soft words of comfort, praying that somehow, someway, he will find peace.

He sighs, a heavy, shuddering breath, and I feel him begin to relax against me, his body still trembling with the remnants of his grief. I press a kiss to his forehead, my heart aching with love for this man, for the depth of his sorrow, for the burden he carries.

"I'm here," I whisper. "I'm here with you, always."

He nods, his eyes closing, his breath slowing, and I feel his body finally start to settle, his head heavy on my chest. I hold him close, my own tears falling silently as I watch him drift into a restless sleep.

And as I lie there, holding him, I pray. I pray for strength, for wisdom, for comfort. I pray for David's broken heart, for his lost son, for the family that has been torn apart by this terrible, tragic war.