He hung there, pierced and balanced on his own lordly lance, like some awkward scarecrow in the rage of a storm, awaiting the birds of prey to land and feast upon a life fast slipping behind him. His own servant had refused the mighty sword of Kings with which he had begged to be slain, and just as he, this King had spared the Amalekite, now he too understood in full the torment of being spared. His own sword, which he had offered to the shepherd, but my, wasn't it so very large for the boy, and he couldn't wield it, it was a king's sword, it was the sword he should have taken in his own hand against that Goliath, and stopped this festering sore so long ago, but too late, now dying, to ponder the mistakes and failures of Gods work, and that of mere Kings.
This wound was mortal enough, but not nearly so quick, and he viewed with a detached sadness the slaughter as it unfolded around him, and the crest of Gilboa was now a plateau which the vile Philistine would hold, so much closer now to heaven then he himself, even in his dying breath. His army deserted ...or massacred, those that remained to fight; he hung there alone, merciless, lingering, praying for an end to this vision to a God who had forgotten him.
"divine justice, what a funny animal", she thought from her perch atop Moreh, and watched as the ranks parted to make way for this man in armor, aflame in the gilded light of that hot summer sun.
The Amalekite...just as it was meant to be, and just as it had been denied, all wrongs now made right, and God's justice would be her loss this day atop Gilboa, but she had told him as much, and she could do no more, for even a fallen King has his dignity to hold, and she new his choosing before he knew it himself. Here atop Gilboa, two men meet again, and there will be no sparing of souls this time. He was a towering giant of a man, even broken, hanging on his lance, he commanded a respect that his own God denied him...and this one, this man he had known and spared before, this cause of his own downfall in the eyes of god, this loss of Kingdoms and places in heavan, all came to not in a knowing look between two atop a long forgotten hill rising up in the desert. The king bowed his head, and bid him a good cut, and darkness fell once more atop Gilboa.
She turned from her glass and went back to the solace of her incense and perfumes, the warmth of furs to shelter the cool of her heart. No more prophets, no more Kings...She pondered a long moment, and uttered a quiet thought.
"it's hard to be wanted" and closed her eyes.

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