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Night had fallen on Saul's palace, but the air remained heavy with the day's heat and the king's growing paranoia. In one of the inner courtyards, away from the guards and spies, David sat alone. His harp lay abandoned at his feet.
He had just spent hours playing for Saul, trying to soothe the monarch's tormented mind, but this time, music had not been enough. The king had screamed, his eyes bloodshot, accusing him of treason before violently banishing him.
“Get out of here,” he said.
A rustle of silk was heard on the stone slabs. David did not start; he recognized the sure step even before seeing Merab's face. The king's eldest daughter approached, draped in a deep blue robe that seemed to absorb the moonlight.
“So, this is where you hide!” she said before sitting down next to him.
“This is not the time, Merab,” he said, running a hand through his hair.
“I’ve been told what happened. I know that since his curse he’s been impulsive and delusional, but, ‘My father is a drowning man, David,’ she said in a calm, almost detached voice. ‘And he’s trying to drag everyone down with him into the abyss.’”
David looked up at her. His fingers were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline. "I only seek to serve him, Merab. And to serve God."
She moves closer to him, a closeness that, in broad daylight, would have caused a stir throughout the court. "God chose you, but He did not spare you the pain of man. You are young, you are the shepherd turned hero... and you do not yet understand that in this house, love is a weapon and talent a condemnation."
David bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his face. The weight of Samuel's anointing suddenly felt like a leaden frame. "Sometimes I'm afraid," he confessed in a whisper. "Not of the battlefield. But of this palace. Of what it's doing to us."
Merab remained silent for a moment. She, who had been raised to be a cold and calculating queen, felt a crack in her armor. She saw in David not the rival of her lineage, but a boy torn from his hills of Bethlehem to be thrown into a lions' den.
Gently, she placed her hand on the back of David's neck. Her fingers were cool, a welcome contrast to the fever that seemed to grip the young man.
"Look at me, David," she ordered gently.
When he obeyed, she saw not the future king, but the raw sadness of the exile. She slid her hands over his cheeks, forcing the contact.
"You can't carry his madness on your shoulders. You've done your duty. Tonight, you're not the king's musician, nor Israel's warrior. You're just here, with me," she said, smiling.
David leaned back against her, resting his forehead on her shoulder. It was a gesture of complete surrender. Merab wrapped her arms around him, holding him close with a protective strength she hadn't known she possessed. She placed a light, almost maternal kiss on the top of his head.
"They all want a part of you, David. My father wants your life, Jonathan wants your soul, and the people want your miracles. But here, in the dark, you have nothing to give."
He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of myrrh and frankincense that emanated from her. For a moment, the palace of Gibea was no longer a prison, but a refuge. Merab stroked her hair, a slow, soothing rhythm replacing the harp's music.
"Stay like that," he murmured. "Just for a moment. So I remember that I am still flesh and blood."
Merab tightened her embrace, staring at the stars above the courtyard. She knew the future would be bloody, that she might be sacrificed for alliances, and that David would ultimately rule over the ruins of his own family. But tonight, she was the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
"I will not let you be lost, shepherd," she promised in a whisper that only the Judean wind heard. "Not yet."