The faces of these men that I recognize so well blur as my eyes begin to sting. Tears stream down my cheeks, unleashing a torrent of emotions that I cannot hold back. These soldiers who served with my father and with Uriah in the King's elite group of warriors called the Thirty have ripped out my heart with three words.
"Uriah is dead."
I didn't believe them. How can the man I loved so relentlessly be departed? But their war worn faces never cracked and their eyes pierced mine with such a ferocity that forced me to see the truth. As I weep in front of them my hand slowly rises to cover my mouth. I grip my lips violently in a vain attempt to suppress the guttural sobs I release in between shattered breaths.
Their somber eyes drift to and fro, never settling, as they do everything they can not to watch me crumble right in front of them. My fingernails tighten their hold on the door and in a moment of rage I slam the door shut. My knees buckle underneath me and collide with the floor. My hands instinctively clutch my stomach.
I struggle to breathe as the weight of the news crushes my chest. I see his face in my mind. The smile he reserved only for me. The way his fingers would absentmindedly sweep a strand of my hair out of my face. I'll never see that smile again. I'll never have the pleasure of his fingers brushing against my skin. I'll never be able to hold him in my arms.
My vision is so hindered by my tears that I do not notice my ladies enter the room until their hands clasp both of my arms. They slowly lift me to my feet and their worried voices ring in my ears.
"He's dead," I say, answering their questions.
"Who, my lady?"
"Uriah."
"How can you do this?!"His eyes flicker up to mine, the corners of his lips pulled into a crooked frown. This small semblance of remorse gives me hope. He strides towards me and I begin to feel small. His lean figure towers over me, his shadow engulfing mine.
As I slowly sip from my goblet of wine, I avoid the glaring eyes burning holes through my skin. King David seems to be unaware of the blazing stares cast my way. He seems oblivious to the shame and disgrace he has publically shown his first wife Michal, by having me sit at his right side. The air is rife with tension.If looks could kill, I would be drowning in a pool of blood at Michal's feet. Her eyes are not the only pair that I intentionally avoid, though. My grandfather sits at the en
I'm drowning in my own reflection, slipping into the void beyond the glass. The red stain on my lips brings out the color in my eyes. The powder on my face darkens the pearl-embellished braids of my hair.I don't even recognize myself. Martha strings another pearl into one of my curls, then takes a step back to admire her work.
Four weeks later...The doors of my chambers creak open. I spin on my heels to find a feeble elderly woman slowly making her way towards me when shaky steps. She carries something within the clutch of her weathered hands. I glide towards her effortlessly, wishing to spare her the trouble of having to cross the distance between us.
The viper locks eyes with me, rearing its head to strike. His tongue slips in and out of his mouth as he releases a low his. I stumble hastily out of bed, plunging gracelessly to the floor."Guards! Help! Help!"My voice bounces off these solid wal
"Stop. I don't want any of this written down," The King snaps at the scribe.His beady eyes widen and he fumbles with his quill. Accidentally, he splatters his bottle of ink onto the harsh throne room floor. When he stoops to clean the oozing black liquid, seeping into the tile cracks, he releases a quiet murmur from his crusted lips.
Ever since the attempt on my life I have been sheltered by the King in his own chambers. My only taste of freedom is when I glimpse a view past these palace walls into the heart of Jerusalem herself. This window has been a solace to me these days.When the King is here I feel suffocated by his presence. When he is gone I am consumed by loneliness. I have yet to decide which of the two is a more bitter poison.
Peering past the smooth marble column, I catch sight of a sculpted warrior ripping through the corridor as if his heels were on fire. Dirt, scars, and sweat cloak his olive-toned skin. I instinctively tug the light silky fabric, draping over my head, closer against my cheek.I cannot risk being recognized. If I am I will be escorted back to the King's chambers. The air in there is stifling. Each breath has become forced and heavy. The walls seem to be closing in on me more and more each day. At