Chapter Three: The Price of Freedom
The day after King David's death, guards were stationed outside my door. At first, I did not understand why. I had been free to move about the palace before—quietly, unnoticed, like a moth drifting along cold stone walls. But suddenly, two men in bronze helmets blocked my path when I tried to leave my quarters.
"I just need to see my friend," I said. "Tirzah. She should be waiting in the courtyard."
"No visitors," one guard replied, kindly, but with finality carved into every syllable.
"I live here," I insisted. "I served the king. I—"
"You are to remain in your chambers," the guard repeated.
"But why?"
His silence was answer enough. Fear crept up my spine like a cold hand.
"Tirzah," I whispered. "Please. Tell her I'm—"
"Orders," he snapped, and his spear shifted slightly, blocking any attempt I might make to push past him. I swallowed hard.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Tirzah, my anchor in this vast, merciless palace, the one person who kept me tethered to myself, was suddenly out of reach. I felt the walls of the room closing in. The air grew too heavy to breathe. Without her, I was a single flame in a storm. Alone. Vulnerable. Exposed.
Hours later, a servant woman brought food. I tried to speak to her, but she averted her eyes.
"Please," I whispered. "Has something happened? Why am I confined here?"
She hesitated, wringing the edge of her apron.
"Miss… the palace is unsettled. The new king… King Solomon… he is rearranging the women's quarters."
I frowned.
"Rearranging? What does that have to do with me?"
Again, she hesitated.
"You are the Shunammite," she said quietly. "The one who lay in the king's bed."
"I was forced to," I snapped. "I had no choice."
"That doesn't change what you were to him," she murmured. "And that… it changes what you are now."
My mouth went dry. "What am I now?" I asked.
She looked at me with something like pity. "You are part of the late king's household."
"But he is dead," I whispered. "Surely that ends it."
Her eyes fell to the floor. "Nothing ends easily in a palace."
She left before I could ask more.
That night, I sat alone in the darkness, hugging my knees to my chest. I whispered Tirzah's name again and again, as though she might hear me through stone walls. No answer came. Only silence.
On the third day, Solomon summoned me. Two guards escorted me through the palace, though I hardly needed guiding; I had walked these corridors countless nights when I sought even a sliver of freedom. But today, the palace felt unfamiliar. Different. Watchful. People bowed as Solomon passed through hallways. They whispered about his wisdom, though he had barely begun to rule. Others whispered about Adonijah's retreat, his sudden fear. It felt like a kingdom holding its breath.
When I entered the king's chamber, Solomon was alone. He stood near the window, sunlight carving gold around him. He was not as old as my mind had painted him—he was young, strong, self-assured, but with eyes that carried a sharpness I had seen only in Bathsheba.
"Abishag," he said softly.
"My lord," I replied.
"I have been thinking about you." The words chilled me.
"I want to ensure you are cared for," he continued, approaching slowly. "My father valued your presence, even in his weakness. You brought him comfort."
"I did only what I was required to do," I said, trying to steady my voice.
"Yes," he said. "Required. And now you are… complicated."
My heart thudded.
"Complicated how, my lord?"
"You shared my father's bed," he said simply. "You lay in his arms. That places you in a category that no man in Israel can touch without dishonoring him."
I stiffened. "Do you mean… I cannot marry? Cannot return home?"
He did not answer immediately.
"Solomon," I whispered, dropping my formality. "Please. I was taken from my life against my will. I had no choice. Do not punish me for what others forced upon me."
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, I thought I saw conflict in him—real conflict, not the polished restraint of a king. When he opened them, decision had hardened across his face.
"Abishag," he said, "you are too precious a symbol to simply be released."
"Symbol?" I echoed.
"Yes. A symbol of my father's final days. A symbol of the royal house. Any man who marries you would be making a claim to my father's memory—and by extension, to the throne."
My breath caught. "I have no intention of marrying anyone," I whispered.
"Others may intend it for you," he replied.
"I don't want to be part of this," I pleaded. "I want my life back."
Solomon exhaled slowly. "You cannot go back."
The words struck me like a blow.
"Then what am I to be?" I choked out.
His gaze fixed on me—steady, unreadable. "You will remain here," he said. "Under my protection."
Protection. A word with two faces—one gentle, one cruel.
"And Tirzah?" I asked. "Why can't she see me?"
His jaw tightened. "You must be kept apart from outside influences until certain matters are settled."
"What matters?"
He did not answer. When he turned away, the conversation was over. I bowed stiffly and was escorted back to my chambers—back to confinement, back to loneliness, back to the suffocating silence that replaced Tirzah's warmth.
Days passed. Then weeks. Tirzah did not come. I was not allowed out. Servants spoke to me only in short, forced whispers. I began to feel like a relic—an object sealed behind glass for others to observe but never touch.
One night, unable to bear the isolation, I pressed my forehead to the wall and whispered Tirzah's name over and over. Tears soaked the stone. My voice cracked until it was nothing but raw air.
"I need you," I whispered. "Please… please…" But the palace had swallowed her. And me.
The final blow came unexpectedly. I heard shouting in the courtyard. Men arguing. The clang of weapons. A few minutes later, a servant burst into my room, pale and trembling.
"Miss! The king—he has ordered… he has ordered the death of Adonijah!"
I staggered to my feet.
"What? Why?"
The servant swallowed hard.
"Adonijah asked Bathsheba… to request you for him."
My blood froze.
"For… me?"
"Yes. For marriage."
I felt the world tilt.
"He… wanted you," the servant whispered. "And King Solomon saw it as treason. As a claim to the throne."
I sank to the floor.
Adonijah was dead because he wanted me. Because he spoke my name. I was no longer even a symbol. I was a weapon. A threat. A justification for death. And Solomon. Solomon knew it.
That was why Tirzah had been cut off. That was why I had become a prisoner. That was why Solomon would not release me. In this palace, I was dangerous. Not because of anything I did. Not because of anything I wanted. But because of what men decided I represented.
That night, Solomon summoned me again. When I entered, he dismissed the guards. We were alone. He looked tired. Older than he had days before.
"You know why I did it," he said softly.
I said nothing. He stepped closer.
"Abishag… you can never belong to another man. Not in this life."
A tear slid down my cheek.
"Then what is left for me?" He reached out as though to touch my hand but stopped himself. "You will remain under my care," he said. "Honored. Protected. Set apart."
A gilded cage is still a cage.
"Solomon," I whispered. "Please. Don't take the little that remains of my life."
His eyes softened—but not enough.
"This is the cost," he said quietly. "The cost of being who you were to my father."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "The cost of being taken. The cost of being powerless."
He closed his eyes. And when he opened them, the king had returned. Not the man. Not the boy. The king.
"You will stay," he said.
And that was the end of my freedom. I returned to my chambers. They were quiet. Still. Cold. I sat on my bed and looked at my hands—small, shaking, empty. I thought of Shunem. Of Eliab. Of my mother. Of sunlight. Of Tirzah. I thought of the life I had before the king grew cold.
And I realized that the winter never truly ended. It had simply changed kings. I lifted my face toward the ceiling and whispered into the darkness:
I am Abishag.
I am Abishag.
I am Abishag.
Saying it hurt. Not saying it would be worse. Because my name was the only thing they had not taken. Yet.