The sun dipped below the hills of Gibeah, painting the sky in hues of crimson and gold. David, the shepherd-turned-warrior, climbed the rocky path toward the king’s encampment, his sling swaying at his side, a leather pouch slung over his shoulder. He’d been summoned again to play his harp for King Saul, whose spirit grew ever more restless. The echoes of his victory over Goliath still rang through Israel, a triumph that brought both praise and peril.
At the hill’s crest, Jonathan, son of Saul, waited. His bow rested in his hand, his quiver slung across his back, and his dark eyes tracked David’s approach. His crimson tunic fluttered faintly in the breeze, simple yet regal, its edges catching the dying light. A faint smile curved his lips as David drew near.
“You’re late,” Jonathan said, his tone light.
David wiped sweat from his brow, grinning. “The sheep don’t heed royal commands. I had to pen them first.”
Jonathan laughed softly, stepping forward to clasp David’s arm. “My father’s mood darkens hourly. Your music’s the only balm he knows.”
David’s smile faded. “I’ll play, but I feel his gaze—like a wolf sizing up its prey.”
Jonathan’s eyes flickered to the horizon. “He hears the songs. ‘Saul has slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands.’ It festers in him.”
They walked toward the camp, the bond between them unspoken but palpable. They’d met weeks before, when David felled Goliath with a single stone, and Jonathan had watched, awestruck, as the shepherd claimed victory for Israel. In that moment, something kindled in Jonathan—a pull beyond rivalry. David was no ordinary man, and Jonathan, though heir to the throne, felt their souls tethered by a force divine.
That night, in the dim glow of oil lamps, David sat before Saul, his fingers coaxing a melody from his harp. The king lounged on a cushion, his face haggard, his eyes shadowed. The music wove through the tent, a thread of peace battling the unseen torment gripping Saul’s mind. Jonathan lingered near the entrance, arms crossed, the scent of olive oil and dust thick in the air, watching his father’s tension ease, if only briefly.
When the last note faded, Saul grunted a curt thanks and dismissed David with a wave. The shepherd bowed and slipped into the night. Jonathan followed, catching him near a grove of olive trees, their gnarled branches whispering in the breeze.
“You’ve a gift,” Jonathan said, his voice hushed. “Not just with strings, but with souls. Even my father feels it.”
David glanced at him, moonlight glinting in his eyes. “I seek only God’s favor, not man’s. But I’m glad to serve.”
Jonathan nodded toward a path winding away from the camp. “Come with me.”
They walked in silence, the camp’s clamor fading. Stars blazed overhead, a vast tapestry of light, and they stopped by a shallow stream, its waters shimmering like molten silver, the air tinged with pine and damp earth. Jonathan turned to David, his expression grave yet warm.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, hesitating. “About you. About Goliath. It wasn’t just skill or chance. The Lord stood with you.”
David nodded. “He’s guided me since I was a boy, guarding my father’s flocks. Lions, bears—I’ve faced them. But that day… it was His hand.”
Jonathan stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I’ve fought Philistines too, David. I’ve trusted the Lord to guide my bow. But you—you’re chosen. I see it. The people see it. And my father… he fears it.”
David shifted, kicking a stone into the stream. “I’m no threat to him, Jonathan. I’m a shepherd, not a king.”
“Not yet,” Jonathan murmured, the words heavy with portent.
David met his gaze, searching for envy or doubt, but found only trust. Jonathan drew a small dagger from his belt, its blade catching the starlight. “I want you to know something. Whatever comes—whatever my father does—I stand with you. My heart is yours, as a brother’s.”
David’s breath hitched. He had known loyalty, but this ran deeper, unyielding. “And mine is yours,” he said, his voice firm despite the swell of emotion.
Jonathan held out the dagger. “Then let’s seal it—not with words alone, but with blood. A covenant before God.”
David’s eyes widened, but he nodded. Such oaths were rare, sacred—binding beyond death. Jonathan pressed the blade to his palm, wincing as it bit into his flesh. Blood welled, dark and glistening, and he handed the dagger to David. The shepherd took it, mirroring the act, his hand trembling only slightly as the steel parted his skin.
They clasped hands, blood mingling warm and wet between their palms. The pain was sharp, but it faded beneath the weight of their vow. “The Lord be between us,” Jonathan whispered, his grip tightening.
“And between our houses forever,” David finished, his voice steady.
Jonathan shed his crimson tunic, draping it over David’s shoulders, its fabric soft yet heavy with meaning. “Wear this,” he said. “Let it mark our bond.” David accepted it, the warmth a shield against the night’s chill. They stood there, hands locked, the stream murmuring beside them, their covenant sealed—blood and bond, a promise etched in flesh and spirit.
Months passed, and Saul’s jealousy festered into madness. David’s victories swelled his fame, and the king’s heart turned black with envy. One evening, as David played his harp, Saul’s hand darted to a spear leaning nearby. Jonathan saw the glint of intent too late. The weapon flew, pinning David’s tunic to the tent wall as he dodged.
“Father!” Jonathan cried, stepping forward, but Saul’s face twisted with rage.
“Out!” the king bellowed, and David fled into the darkness, the crimson tunic trailing behind him.
Jonathan found him later, hidden beneath a rocky overhang miles from Gibeah. David’s face was streaked with dirt, his eyes wide with betrayal, the tunic frayed at the hem from his flight.
“He tried to kill me,” David said, his voice hollow.
Jonathan knelt beside him, gripping his shoulder. “I know. His spirit’s warped—by fear, by something evil.” From his belt, he unslung David’s harp, scratched but whole, recovered from the tent. “I brought this. Keep it close.”
David took it, fingers brushing the strings, a faint note rising into the night. “You risk too much.”
“Nor will I let him take you,” Jonathan swore. “We need a plan.”
They devised a signal under the stars: Jonathan would test Saul’s intent and warn David with arrows. Three shot beyond a stone would mean danger; one short of it, safety. Their scarred hands clasped again, the faint sting a reminder of their oath.
David slipped deeper into the hills that night, the tunic his cloak, the harp slung across his back. Near a jagged slope, he lit a small decoy fire, sending it tumbling down with a push of stones, then vanished into the shadows as Saul’s scouts chased the glow.
At the new moon festival, David hid near the stone Ezel, watching as Jonathan entered Saul’s tent. The prince sat at the king’s table, his pulse racing as he spoke of David’s absence.
“He went to Bethlehem, to his family,” Jonathan said, feigning calm, his cloak hiding the dust of a dawn ride past Abner’s patrol to reach David earlier.
Saul’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on a goblet. “You cover for him! That son of Jesse—he’ll steal my throne!”
Jonathan’s gut churned, but he pressed on. “He’s loyal, Father. He fights for you.”
Saul hurled the goblet, wine splashing across Jonathan’s chest. “You’d give your birthright to that shepherd?”
The words pierced, but Jonathan stood tall. “I’d give it to God’s chosen.”
Saul’s fury exploded, and he grabbed his spear. Jonathan dodged and ran, snatching his bow and quiver as he fled into the night. He reached the field at dawn, a boy in tow as a ruse, and nocked an arrow. David watched from his hiding place as the first arrow soared past the stone. Then the second. Then the third.
Danger.
Jonathan shouted to the boy, “Fetch the arrows!” As the lad ran off, he darted to David. “He wants you dead,” he whispered. “Go—into the hills, the caves. I’ll shield you as long as I can.”
David’s eyes shimmered. “You shouldn’t have come. Abner—”
“Guesses nothing,” Jonathan cut in. “I told him I scouted game.” He unslung his bow, its wood worn smooth from battles, and pressed it into David’s hands. “Take this too. It’s been with me in every fight. Let it remind you of me.”
David gripped it, the curve fitting his palm. “I’ll carry it always.”
They wept, their scarred hands pressed together, blood long dried but the bond unbroken. “The Lord be between us,” Jonathan murmured.
“And our houses forever,” David replied.
They parted—Jonathan to the boy, David to the wilderness, the bow over one shoulder, the harp over the other, the crimson tunic a fading banner.
(Continued in Part 2 tomorrow)
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