The Gaze of a King

Epilogue

Twenty Years Later

The air is thick with the scent of incense and the low murmur of hushed prayers. I stand beside David's bed, his breathing shallow, a faint rasp breaking the silence of the chamber. The oil lamps cast long, flickering shadows on the walls, their light dancing like restless spirits. My heart pounds in my chest as I watch his chest rise and fall. He has grown so frail, so much smaller than the man who stole me from my husband so many years ago.

"Bathsheba," his voice is little more than a whisper, but it carries the weight of a promise, a covenant he made with me. His hand, still strong despite the sickness that ravages his body, reaches out, seeking mine. I take it, feeling the roughness of his palm, the callouses that speak of battles won and wars fought. His eyes are closed, but he knows I am here. He always knows.

I squeeze his hand gently, and he opens his eyes. They are clouded now, with pain and the nearness of death, but still, they are David's eyes — the eyes that first saw me bathing in the moonlight, the eyes that once filled me with fear, then resentment, and now... something more profound, more complex. Love, yes, but not the love of youth, not the fiery passion that once burned too bright. It is a love tempered by time, by pain, by mercy and forgiveness. A love that has been broken and mended so many times, its shape is both familiar and strange.

"You remember what I promised you? All those years ago?" he rasps, his voice barely audible over the beating of my heart. "Solomon... he will be king."

I nod, tears blurring my vision. "Yes," I whisper.

He smiles, a weary, broken smile, but there is still that spark in his eyes, that determination that has led armies and conquered kingdoms. He turns his head slightly to the side, where Solomon waits, my beautiful boy.

"Solomon," David breathes, his voice stronger now, as if the very act of naming his son gives him strength. "Come closer."

Solomon steps forward, his face calm, but I can see the fear in his eyes, the uncertainty. He is so much like David, so much more than I could have imagined. He is lean and muscled. His dark hair matching mine, but with the brightness of David's. He bends down, kneeling beside the bed, and David reaches out, his hand trembling as he places it on Solomon's head.

"You will be king," David says, his voice firm, commanding, the voice of a king, of a father, of a man who has seen too much and regrets more. "You will rule with wisdom, with justice... and mercy."

I feel the tears on my cheeks, warm and wet, but I do not wipe them away. I let them fall, each one a prayer, a plea for the future of my son, for the legacy of my husband. I think of how far we have come, David and I, from that first meeting, from the hatred that burned in my heart for him, for what he took from me, for what he did to Uriah, my first husband...

I close my eyes, the memories rushing back like a flood, threatening to drown me. I remember the days when I could not look at him without feeling the weight of my grief, my anger. I hated him then, with a fierceness that surprised even me. He was my captor, my betrayer.

But then... slowly, painfully, things began to change. He was relentless in his pursuit of my forgiveness, but not in the way I expected. He did not command it; he did not demand it. Instead, he sought it with humility, with a brokenness that mirrored my own. He confessed his sins, not only to me but to our God, and he bore the weight of his guilt with a grace I did not think possible. I saw him weep for what he had done, not only to me but to Uriah, to our people, to himself.

And I... I began to see him not just as the king, not just as the man who had wronged me, but as a man capable of deep repentance, capable of mercy and forgiveness. I saw the way he cared for our children, how he spoke to Solomon with tenderness, with wisdom, planting seeds of knowledge and faith in his heart. I saw the love in his eyes when he looked at me, not the desire that first consumed him, but a gentler, deeper love, one that sought not to possess, but to cherish.

Forgiveness did not come easily. It was a hard-fought battle, a war within my soul. But slowly, over time, I felt the hardness of my heart begin to soften. I began to see David not as my enemy but as my partner, my companion in this strange, unpredictable life. We learned to lean on each other, to find strength in our brokenness. Mercy became our language, forgiveness our song.

Now, as I stand here beside him, his life slipping away like sand through my fingers, I realize how much I love this man. Not in the way of stories, but in the way of truth, of reality. I love him because he is flawed, because he has fallen and risen again. I love him because he has taught me what it means to forgive, and what it means to be forgiven.

David's hand falls away from Solomon's head, and he looks up at me, his eyes searching mine. "Bathsheba," he whispers, "I... guide him as you have guided me all these years. He will lean on your wisdom."

I smile through my tears, bending down to kiss his forehead. "I will," I say softly, "You can rest now, dearest. You've earned it."

He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips, and I feel the peace settle over him, over me. I feel the weight of our shared history, our shared pain, and our shared love, and I know that whatever comes next, we have done what we needed to do. We have kept our promise to each other.

Solomon is king, and David... David will rest.