Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2370317.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Christian_Bible_(Old_Testament), תנ"ך_|_Tanakh
  Relationship:
      David/Yohonatan_|_David/Jonathan
  Character:
      David_(Abrahamic_Religions), Yehonatan_|_Jonathan, Shaul_|_Saul
  Series:
      Part 2 of How_Have_the_Mighty_Fallen
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-28 Words: 5226
****** Ambition ******
by lexyhamilton_(ohheichoumyheichou)
Summary
     Takes place immediately after David kills Goliath. He’s 17, has been
     in Saul’s service as court musician for two years, then was sent off
     for two years back to shepherding when Saul decided his bipolar
     treatments were sooo last year. David returns to court via the duel
     with Goliath. Jonathan is ~25 at this time. I really do like David’s
     character, faults and all, and have always wanted to write this
     scenario in David’s POV.
Notes
     Written in 2007, reposted from LJ, AFF.net etc
     Blanket disclaimer on all my biblefic: this is fiction inspired by
     stories and characters in the Old Testament, not any sort of exegesis
     or legitimate interpretation.
I lie here in the Prince’s bed, the Prince’s heavy arm draped over my body, the
Prince’s soft breaths teasing the skin over my spine. Is this not what I have
desired ever since arriving at the palace? Did my body not respond even as I
first beheld Saul’s firstborn, and am I not closer than ever to the throne of
Judea, lying here in the arms of the heir apparent?
I had been anticipating this moment for a long time. Perhaps it was the desire
for this moment to arrive faster than God’s sluggish plan would ordain that
made me throw my life on the line in front of Goliath yesterday morning. For
what are years to God, who sees everything at once, while I, poor mortal,
suffer those same years under the weight of a prophecy that I feel responsible
for carrying out? I risked my life and gained the admiration of the entire army
as well as this particular soldier with whom I lie intertwined.
Many believe that the truly pious put their trust in the Lord and make no
further effort—that the effort is proof of a lack of belief, in fact—but this
outlook surprises me. It is hardly recorded so in the Book. So many miracles,
so many positive forces exerted by God were exerted through the mundane clay
body of a man. So shall I sit on my hands and wait for kingship to fall into my
lap once Samuel has assured me I was God’s chosen? Especially when Saul had me
extirpated from court just as I turned fifteen, as if sensing an oncoming
threat?
I had expected Jonathan to be a stern, imposing opponent to be dealt with. Then
I saw his beauty, his strange Egyptian habits of shaving and taking exercise in
the morning, and I heard the rumors about his strange inclinations. I had never
thought about bedding down with a man, but court life was full of such new
surprises. My heart raced not with envy or resentment but surprising desire.
Jonathan was a stepping stone to gain kingship rather than a barrier, I
decided, and studied him intensively from afar. I thought to own him, to make
him mine and thus gain the throne and gain him as a companion and a body to
make love to. He hardly paid attention to the skinny boy employed to entertain
his father; I, on the other hand, vividly recall each instance he graced me
with a word. He really saw me for the first time only yesterday, when it was
not a lyre but a giant’s severed head in my hands, when I was not a domestic
servant but a soldier.
I carried the head of Goliath of Gath by its coarse mane of dark hair—so large
that its beard trailed in the dust when my arm tired of raising the trophy to
the admiration of the crowd around me. I approached Saul without summon—perhaps
too boldly for a youth who had been little more than a shepherd earlier that
morning.
The King greeted me with an embrace and lifted my unoccupied arm up in
triumphant gesture.
“Hear O Israel, this youth has granted us victory, through the infinite grace
of God,” Saul’s powerful voice projected across the field of soldiers.
The Judeans screamed triumph; the severed head swayed lightly, still dripping
dark congealed clots. I began to search eagerly for the man I wished to witness
this brief moment of glory most of all. There he was, to the left, among the
rabble of troops. How many years had I felt a deep, hot longing to smother this
man in my arms, but for one night press up against the body that housed this
noble soul and wrestle kingship away? And now I was finally the center of his
attention.
Saul’s heavy, ringed hand tousled my hair, as if to underscore my young age.
“Who would guess this young rascal to have such military prowess?” he said
quietly, mostly to me. Jonathan had been out of earshot, and for that I was
thankful. Saul’s hands on me brought back memories I had locked away.
I was fifteen, two years in his services, and he had been growing more and more
forward with me. ‘Sit on my lap as you play,’ he instructed me one day. The
next day I felt his hand creep up and rub my back. Even the kisses I withstood,
my desire to remain in court and in good standing outweighing my aversion.
Until one evening when he pulled me into bed, and I had to tear myself away
from his grasp. He laughed but he was angry. I was dismissed back to my
father’s sorry little village within a few days.
I tried to stand as tall as possible and raised a cheer from the assembled by
lifting up the war prize again.
My victory and the Philistine retreat afforded Judea additional land, and for
the first time the Israelites descended to the shores of the Great Sea.
Jonathan invited me to join him and some fellow soldiers for a dip, but I was
ashamed—I was not adept at swimming, nor did I know how to undress in front of
one I wanted to bed. I watched him a while, laughing as waves crashed against
his body.
The heat was oppressive at that time of day, and I realized that I should wash
myself of battlefield dust if I was earnest in my plans to sleep in Jonathan's
bed that night. I waded in, but found the waters rough, and soon enough I felt
the salt scorch each and every small scrape I had acquired in the short fight.
“I cannot bear the sting of the waters, Your Highness!” I shouted across the
din of the waves when Jonathan questioned why I was leaving.
“Thoughtless of me!” He followed after me out of the water. “You spared us from
fighting and now we laugh at your injuries…”
“Better they provoke mirth than sympathy from Your Highness—for they are more
like blisters from ill-fitting sandals than battle scars.”
“Call me by name,” he insisted, smiling, his voice growing quiet as he caught
up to me on the beach. I could feel him gaze me over, but pretended to pay no
heed. “Will I have a war hero pay me absurd respects when even the squires call
me Jonathan? You are the bravest soldier I have the pleasure of knowing…”
“God guided my hand. I was but God’s instrument at that moment,” I said,
hurrying to put my clothes on again, but Jonathan stayed my hand, walked over
to the rocks where he had doffed off his royal garb and put it on my naked
body, calling out to the other men to listen.
“This youth amazed me earlier with his bravery and ingenuity, but now I am
thoroughly smitten. He emanates the light of God and speaks more wisely than
anyone I know. Let me here declare allegiance with this young prodigy for all
time—for he shall grow to be a great man, and it will be a pleasure to be his
friend.”
This was sudden and I was caught off guard—not knowing what to say or do and
feeling my cheeks crimson. There were but ten or so witnesses to this bold
declaration, and some were inattentive, splashing about in the waters, but I
required no onlookers to feel discomfited. I was uneasy to be clad in
Jonathan’s tunic, even the royal girdle, his bronze sword feeling heavy in a
hand accustomed to the sling or a copper dagger at best.
“All hail Prince David!” One of the spectators shouted, laughing. My heart
thumped in my throat. I was only glad Saul was not present to see this display,
however frivolous it might be in these men’s minds.
Yet Jonathan’s smile held no derision—he was blessed with pristine emotions, I
had noticed earlier. He was happy for me, without the tinge of jealousy or
uneasiness I would have expected from a prince briefly upstaged by a lowly
young commoner. I, on the other hand, was roiling with happiness, pride, and
apprehension all at once, and stood petrified as Jonathan embraced me. The body
I knew so well with my eyes somehow bewildered me when I first touched it.
Later that day, we made a return to the camp. Strangers screamed my name,
tousled my hair, punched my shoulders lightly, and invited me to drink toasts
with them. The girls following the army to cook and take care of the soldiers
were unusually flirty, but I was not about to take advantage when I was so
close to securing my place with Jonathan. He was not insistent, not even overt,
and no one around us would have noticed, but I could glimpse interest in his
eyes, and the furtive nature of this interest made me all the more impatient
for night to arrive.
The army sacrificed several large oxen and prayed at dusk. Someone shouted that
I should lead prayers, the news that Goliath’s slayer had also been Saul’s
musician traveling quickly. I demurred twice, then complied upon the third
insistence. It was the first time I would perform for such a great gathering,
but my voice was not untrained to carry—though it had only been straying sheep
that had heard it as loud as I sang that evening.
I chanted, the army would respond, and for a moment I forgot I was but an
intermediary to Heaven. For a moment, I was drunk with the illusion that I
commanded the army, my voice’s power swelling in accordance.
“Invent us a song!” someone shouted from the crowd when prayers were finished.
“Aleph!” another shouted a letter. My heart pounded. Even a skilled lyricist
cannot always think on the spot, but I was drunk on exhilaration and
immediately began a verse with the letter. The crowd continued yelling out
random letters, and I improvised, the lines of the acrostic pouring out of me
with perfect rhythm, seemingly before I could formulate them in my head. How
could I ever doubt God’s existence, when he spoke through me thus?
Even in my frenzy, I was well aware of Jonathan standing beside me, his
admiration playing like sunrays on my skin. I knew he was in awe of my skill, I
knew I was securing my place in his affections, and I knew that I wanted to
make love to him with a desperation that grew with the mounting thrill of
public performance.
Finally, I ended the song—successfully, without the lousy trailing off that
usually occurred when I was composing in solitude, under no pressure of
thousands of ears. I was growing impatient, and Jonathan looked happy to
oblige, but it was not to be. Saul had suddenly appeared, squeezing me to him
as if I were a child, full of condescension, even as the cheers of the crowd
still rang strong.
“My little lyre-player excelled himself today. Will he join me at the table
tonight?”
Could I refuse? Though never invited to seat myself among them before, I knew
Saul’s table well from the years when I sat in the corner, ready to play if
called upon. The king’s four sons were seated to the King’s left, I on his
right, as guest of honor. Avner, Saul’s uncle and a top commander, sat beside
me—an imposing man of great military achievement, but he liked me and told off-
color jokes the entire meal. Saul’s second son Malkishua was saturnine as
usual. Was he sullen because he was a royal prince without hope for the throne?
He glared at me. An ambitious soul recognizes a fellow one. I did not glare
back only because my accomplishments that day glared for me. Abinadab and
Ishbosheth were near my age and had been friendly to me before I was dismissed
from court, but now neither dared look me in the eyes. Though not all thirty
men gathered there were direct relatives of Saul, I quickly realized I was the
only non-Benjamite present. Gone was my uncontrolled ardor from before—I knew
when to lie low in the presence of the King. Jonathan, in turn, knew when to
avoid arousing suspicion and hardly looked at me throughout the meal though I
was seated across from him.
“I thought to dismiss him, but he returns like the carrier pigeon!” Saul
exclaimed about me at one point during the dinner.
“He returns a fiercer breed of pigeon, seems to me. More like a sweet-voiced
canary turned hawk.” Avner laughed. “He reminds me of Jonathan in his first few
campaigns. Magnificently reckless.”
“Unlike my son, the son of Jesse did ask my leave to entrust life and limb to
God.”
“Would you have let me go, Father, had I asked?” Jonathan said, smiling.
“No, perhaps not. But you must not chastise me for it. Not only are you my
firstborn, but the future of all Judea.” Saul emphasized the last phrase and I
noticed Jonathan’s eyes dart away from Saul’s face as they always did when the
subject was broached. “And though this worthy sapling of a boy faced a great
warrior, you went headlong into a throng of them, I might remind you.”
“To the House of Saul, the bravest and mightiest,” agreed Malkishua,
encouraging a toast.
“Shall we toast deeds of years ago, when our guest of honor excelled himself
only this morn? Drink to David Son of Jesse, I say,” Jonathan suddenly
interjected.
“Try looking for a worthier ally than Jonathan and you will grow old before you
succeed,” Avner whispered into my ear, then took up the toast, heavy arm
slapping my shoulder.
Had I been among my peers, I would have bombarded them with jokes. Here, I felt
as a man in a den of beasts. “I thank everyone assembled and I hope to continue
in the service of the royal family as long as God would allow me.”
Saul sipped from his cup, watching me with eyes too inquiring to feel
comfortable.
The girl serving wine smiled so amiably at me that I drank more than I wanted,
and I soon felt its effects, my movements less graceful and balanced than
usual. My faculties of speech and judgment I clung onto more desperately than
anything else in the company of these men. Old Avner was drunk, wheezing out
long hoarse guffaws at every comment, whether it was in jest or earnest. He
leaned on me, alcohol on his breath, poking at me if I failed to answer his
questions promptly. Malkishua’s tongue had also loosened, though he was in no
better mood, and only vitriol slipped out. I was relieved to look across and
see Jonathan alert as ever, desire glowing soft like embers in his eyes. I have
never seen him drunk and that distinguishes him from the rest of his house—all
prone to fits and tantrums whether from wine or inner demons.
Saul granted us all permission to retire for the night, and I extricated myself
out of Avner’s pawing hands, every fiber of my body aching to finally make love
to the man separated from me by three cubits of wooden table for so long. I
followed Jonathan into his tent slowly, as if it were not my burning will to do
so, still playacting demure resignation. I wondered if he would grab my body as
soon as we were alone, but he lit the wick in a small dish of oil and poured
dilute wine for both of us.
“I remember you left a boy. I was sorry to see you leave so abruptly, without
having had a proper conversation…”
“A prince is not expected to talk to every servant in the King’s house. You had
been on campaign when I was told to pack my things.”
“Father has been worse without your music.”
Jonathan smiled wistfully, running a fingertip around the rim of the goblet he
was holding instead of drinking from it. Was he uncertain that I was as eager
as he was to make love? His hesitation emboldened me to the very verge of
insolence and I broke the awkward pause.
“Are the rumors true? About you kissing your armor-bearer?”
Jonathan looked at me without answering. “Yes,” he finally said, less an answer
than a cagey question of his own posed to me, gaze sharp and challenging even
in the dim light of one candle.
I had no response, but lowered my eyes.
“It was years ago,” he added. “He accompanied me on that famous desperate
mission, up the cliffs, when no one else would have followed.”
“Ah.” I moved my lashes shyly, seductively. “I would have followed had I been
of age and not holed up herding my father’s sheep.”
It was enough. His lips were soon on mine, his arms supported me as we
descended onto his bed—narrow and sparse in furnishings. Jonathan does not live
in luxury even at court, and his military bed is no different than any other
common soldier’s.
“How long have you been a man?” he asked, proceeding to intimacy quickly once I
lay beneath him, throwing off his clothing to the floor.
“Four—” My vocal cords were stiff from the evening’s earlier abuse during
communal prayer, but they locked up entirely when his hands reached under my
tunic, running up along my body. “Four years.”
“Are you frightened?”
“No.”
Jonathan slid the hem of my tunic up to my armpits. “Drunk, perhaps?”
“Not on wine.”
He laughed softly, touched my arms, stroked my legs, my chest, my hips, his
tongue tracing the cords of my neck, the edges of my nipples. The night air
tingled cold against the moist trails he left on my skin, but my body was
heating up from within. I wanted to grab him, to know him, to open the Prince
of Judea up as I did frequently in my dreams. I may be young, but I have bedded
many girls—many older than I. I could not say, however, what Jonathan would
think of that sort of audacity, so I slackened my body and let him govern our
first encounter.
When I was stripped and held close, a sudden fright did come over me. Jonathan
was still courteous, still highly recognizable in the way he interjected “May
I?” before imposing anything, waiting for my nod to continue. And still I
became frightened. Frightened that he would do to me what I so desperately
longed to do to him. The feeling was by no means admirable, and I swallowed it
down. He sensed my uneasiness and slowed his advances upon my body, but I could
not play the wilting flower any longer. When his hand took my manhood, I
reached over and took his—took it with the greed of taking hold of a scepter
before mimicking his motions.
Jonathan looked surprised but pleased. No armor-bearer of his had ever
attempted it, in all likelihood, but fortunately my drive for action was well-
received. We continued this way, breaths growing shallow, and I thought we
would finish together, yet suddenly he pushed me over onto my stomach on his
bed, asking may he?, his desire scorching and insistent against my thigh. Of
course I murmured acquiescence. Of course I did not voice my displeasure at
having my excitement stifled into the coarse bedding, nor my displeasure at the
sounds the oil made as he slipped in and out between my legs, directing me to
clench my thighs together harder. I obeyed his words like a decree from Heaven,
gritting my teeth, only thankful that he had no designs to penetrate. Such was
the life of a prince’s beloved, I mused. My spirits fell. Jonathan seemed far
older, far wiser, taller, and stronger than me, and I was inwardly frightened
by the groans he issued forth several times as he made passionate love to my
legs. It was different than with a woman, and why I was surprised at this I do
not know.
The heat of his organ sliding close to mine, the way his warm breath poured
onto my back at the end of each thrust all made me harden into the bed
underneath me and strange thoughts accumulated amidst the trance of lust. I
distinctly remember wishing that I was not only in bed, under Jonathan Prince
of Judea, but also standing beside the scene as a spectator. I imagined how
Jonathan must appear from the back when thrusting, and I had a burning desire
to be two bodies—to make love and be made love to all at once, to concurrently
engulf Jonathan from all sides and appreciate every aspect of his body. Strange
thoughts, I realized, as I felt Jonathan tense above me, spill forth seed and
settle his shuddering body on top of mine, a man’s weight bearing down on my
body, a man’s flat chest pressing into my shoulder blades, a man’s sexual
organs still heavy, hot, and intrusive between my slippery thighs.
I am brought back to the present when I feel arousal at the memory. Jonathan
shifts and murmurs something in his sleep, eyelids trembling with vivid morning
dreams, already in the antechamber to the waking state.
Am I angry? No, he was exceedingly considerate as soon as the urgency of
release subsided, sloppy breathy kisses bestowed on my neck and shoulders even
as he recovered his breath. He rolled over to his side, my body in tow, my back
still pressed into his chest. One of his hands nursed my excitement back as if
it were his own, as if we really were one body knit together—stroking me until
I thrashed against him with ecstasy. As I lay fatigued in the aftermath of
climax, he left the bed. The candle had burnt out before—I could no longer make
out his form, and I felt a distinct sadness. Would he leave me here to recover
in his tent while he rushed off to do something else? I had abandoned many
young girls with even less ceremony after the act, but I wanted to be assured
of the heat of his body before I succumbed to sleep.
He emerged back from the darkness swiftly, cleaning us both, running a moist
rag over my soiled thighs with more tenderness than my mother ever showed me,
bestowing kisses on those thighs once they were clean, all the while extolling
my wonderful victory that morning, completely besotted with my rash arrogance
in stepping out to duel the Philistine champion. Jonathan is the love of my
life, I reflected, with a measure of awe. I knew that no woman could ever
arouse this same mixture of passion and admiration in me.
Why, then, am I so uneasy to awaken in his arms this morning?
I am not dismayed at him, I realize, but at myself. I have insinuated myself
into his affections for political gain, while he gives his love freely, with no
advantage to him worth speaking of. He is a creature who is noble, handsome,
and too accomplished to concern himself with petty matters like the throne. The
throne. Who cares, in the end? I arrived at the palace four years ago, bearing
Samuel’s secret anointment like a hidden badge, thinking to make a difference
to the entire world, in God’s eyes, in everyone’s eyes, and yet here is a man
who was beyond all this. A legitimate king is not jealous over his kingship.
Was Samuel mad? Is God mistaken? How can I ever reach the same tier of men as
Jonathan, let alone presume to displace him as rightful king?
He breathes in deeply and I sense he is about to open his eyes. I shift under
his arm, turning to look at him, stroking his face. His dense lashes tremble
and he blinks in the light. Seeing me, he gives me an affectionate squeeze,
then immediately clears the corners of his eyes, fastidious as ever. I kiss
him, but he is reluctant.
“My beard is unpleasant to rub against,” he apologizes, scrambling out from
under the covers. He kneels over his shield to see his reflection, and applies
a blade to his face, pouting his lips to stretch the skin of his cheek across
his noble bones. His exposed naked body arouses me painfully, and I am ashamed.
Only an inexperienced youngster would be so insatiable.
“Does it displease the King that you do this?” I ask, having longed to ask ever
since I beheld him. His younger brother is already adorned with a full beard,
yet he disobeys God so blatantly.
Jonathan turns from his task, smiling wistfully. “It was his favorite
displeasure with me for many years. He has given up on it, shifting his scorn.”
“To what?”
“My unwillingness to provide an heir, as he sees it.”
“You do not like women?”
Jonathan puts the blade away, diving under the coverlet, finding the excitement
I had attempted to conceal. “None as much as you.”
My breath hitches as he descends with his mouth upon my torso, circling my
nipple with his tongue, then the other, his hand working my hardening desire. I
climax quickly—embarrassed—when his tongue dips into my navel, strings of it
let forth across his throat and collarbones. He laughs, settling back to clean
himself off. Part of me wishes he would not always hurry to clear signs so
quickly.
“Let me confide in you, lest you imagine me a thoughtless rogue.”
I smirk at his words, he smiles and continues, though there is a profound
melancholy about him underneath that I have noted before. Perhaps this is his
quiet form of tantrum from the House of Saul.
“It is less a disinterest in women than the premonition that I will die soon.
Samuel has seen it as well, from God’s eyes. What will a child of mine do—left
to the mercy of my brothers when Saul is dead? I have no desire for it, though
perhaps I will have to. Respect thy father and thy mother is the worthiest
commandment, and I do not wish to grieve him needlessly.”
I have known all about the prophecy before, but hearing these words of
resignation from one so alive, so worthy of continuing to live on and on, makes
me tremble inside. I embrace him without a word, feeling as if his body is
already cold from such blasphemous indifference toward life, and that I could
perhaps transfer my heat to him, my all-too-ardent will to live and succeed.
“Do not think such thoughts, Jonathan—it recalls the foul spirits of your
father.”
“You cured him with your lyre. What would you cure me with?” He smiles,
stroking my hair—none of the patronizing patting about it, only a lover’s long
fingers combing through. The equivocal gibberish of prophecy governs our lives
completely, I realize with a measure of horror. My prospects were vaulted up
and Samuel’s words gave me the impetus to change life’s route from the
shepherding hills. Yet what ruin similar words have wrought on Jonathan’s
disposition!
Jonathan’s thoughts have run onwards. “Tell me, David, when God made you, did
he endow you with one fault? Bravery, agility, cunning, beauty, voice, an ear
for poetry…” Between each attribute he kisses my body gently. “Where is your
secret failing?”
Lust, my mind immediately offers. You would see abundant evidence of it before
you, Jonathan, if you would care to look. Lust for women, for audience, for
religious rapture, for power. My lust taints everything it touches, even
Jonathan, for it is he who is without reproach, and loves with a clean heart
and conscience.
“I am the one Samuel anointed to be future king,” I suddenly confess, no longer
able to deceive him, for silence is a kind of deception, and Jonathan utterly
disarms me with his effortless candor.
He looks at me, studies me, as if piecing me together.
“Why should the bearer of such good news look so forlorn?” He finally says.
“You have lifted away all my misgivings about the future of Judea.”
“No, no, I would not take your throne-- not after all this. I spill my heart
only to him who owns it, that you might know the foolish pretensions with which
I entered Saul’s services.”
“But you will have the throne. I bestow my claim to it on you, here and now.”
He kisses me, deeply, his angular jaw far coarser than a woman’s even after the
blade, but I revel in the difference today instead of taking fright, rubbing my
smooth cheek against his stubble, finally part from his lips to run my tongue
along his neck, and flick at the Adam’s apple that bobs as he swallows hard.
Jonathan rests back on the pillow, thighs gradually sliding apart so that I
grow even closer to his person. I begin to move, our bodies like two
millstones, our beautiful circumcised organs side-by-side, squeezed between our
sliding torsos, weeping and smearing our skin as I grind against him.
I am in awe of his inward discipline—even as his visage fogs over with want, he
never emits a sound loud enough to arouse suspicion of troops camped around us.
He is calm, mature, beneficently accepting of my dumb, eager, rutting body
between his legs, while I had lain morose and ungrateful last night like the
petulant child that I am. I feel selfish and weak, but he sees something in me.
He has seen my true intentions and did not recoil from me, our bond only
strengthening. I have his blessing to usurp the throne from him. Why is it,
then, that I have suddenly lost all interest in kingship?
Our hands have joined, fingers interlocked, and my hips race to finish.
Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan, I repeat his name, gasping it as loud as I dare
here, with other tents within hearing range, climaxing again though with less
juvenile force than earlier this morning. A streak of it lands on Jonathan’s
delicate face—across his lips and onto his cheek. His eyes squeeze shut, lips
pout, as if to distance the dirt from his person that way.
I lick him clean of my seed. He flinches, staring at me with a slight
disapproval, so I do not push the bounds of our decency further—I do not take
his desire between my lips as I had wanted to do, but work it to completion
with my hands.
We hear the din of morning begin outside and rise out of bed, still perspiring.
We are not equals, but like two notes that harmonize. I want the throne, but I
want to rule jointly, fight side-by-side, know women and father children side-
by-side, enjoy victories and live to old age side-by-side. Never to be
parted—that is my new ambition. Yet Jonathan’s hand abandons mine.
“Leave the tent first. I will follow after you later.”
I do as he instructs and squint in the bright sunlight as I exit, but dream of
the day we no longer need worry about trivial discretion—joint rulers from
Judah and Benjamin, grand, beautiful, and just.
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