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Chapter Text

5 of April, 1185

To the Archbishop of Tyre.

William, today I write to thee with a heavy heart and ill news. The King has shown no signs of improvement. Despite the doses of coriander have been constant, the fever has shown no signs of backing down. However, it is the lack of effect that praying has that has me really concerned. The chambers of the King are always filled with people, and the prayers do not stop, day or night. Yet, the fever persists, and so does the King’s pain, everyday a bit worse than before. Some of his majesty’s vassals are hopeful, for the wailings and cries of the King decrease everyday. Thou and I know, however, that sometimes pain can exhaust those who are illed by leprosy and with fever. I fear our majesty’s aches have not but increased in severity, rendering him tired and speechless.

His leprosy, as thou may guess, gets worse everyday as well. Being bed-bound has not helped the king’s wounds, for they have gone black and rotting, like a fruit left for too many days in a humid environment. The oils administered to his wounds have done little to help him, furthermore they seem to hurt the King greatly, for he complains and sometimes even screams when administered to his lesions.

The day before yesterday, his majesty summoned the high court to appoint the now declared prince Baldwin V a regent, and Raymond the III of Tripoli was chosen. His majesty was only able to speak for a few minutes before he became too exhausted to continue the ceremony. He slept for the rest of the day, and after he woke up the burden of all of the years of his rule finally crept up on him, for now he only lays in bed, breathing heavily and sleeping randomly. Every time he falls asleep I fear to approach him and find out he has finally been called to the Court of the Lord. He persists, however, no doubt worrying about the future of his kingdom. Mentally, he is still as strong as he has ever been, altho he hasn't spoken since the ceremony, and I worry sometimes that he will lose his bright mind to the pain.

I fear he will not survive the week, my dear archbishop. I beg that thou visit him, for I think the presence of thee would make him recover his strength. I pray to God that he does.

I expect thee to come soon.

Abu Al-Khair

Royal Physician

Chapter Text

The stench of the room was unbearable.

He couldn’t smell it himself, for he was used to the odors of his decaying flesh, but could imagine the faces of his servants, vassals and priests around him: how they twisted, wrinkled and turned as they surrounded his bed; he could hear their footsteps shy as they approached him, and the haste of their garments as they left the royal grave-to-be, and he could smell the air polluted by myrrh and sweet oils trying to mask the odors of his flesh. Despite Baldwin himself having requested the incense, for it was one of the only pleasures his crippled senses could experience, he found the current smell to be too pungent, too painful for his sensitive nostrils. Clearly they were overloading the air with it, masking the smell of death as much as possible. He would’ve liked to order someone to take the smell away, but found himself too weak to speak.

Baldwin tried to move to escape from the sheets which had grown sticky with blood and plasma, but could only lift his torso lightly, falling limp again on the bed. He grew frustrated, releasing a sigh. He wished he could enjoy the heat again, as when he was a child and ran through the desert, hot breeze hitting his skin and his legs and his arms as he ran towards the immensity of Jerusalem, but back then Baldwin’s legs and arms worked, and he could smell without feeling pain, and see the desert and feel the hot sand on the soles of his feet. Now all he could feel was his torso and his head, as if his extremities had been quartered and the rest of his body forced to live in shame, his arms and legs now mostly nothing but blunt weight that prevented him from moving properly. Baldwin tried to get away from the unbearable sweat and stickiness again, this time failing completely, and only managed to painfully stick some of the linen threads to his open sores. He grunted again. The room was too hot, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

A voice rang out in the eternal darkness that lived past his eyes. It belonged to a young boy, probably not older than fourteen, and it was asking him if he was alright. He felt hot, sticky sweat slide down his forehead as he opened his chapped lips. For what? Baldwin didn’t really know. He always tried to save his servants from the danger of touching his diseased skin, so it wasn’t to beg the boy for help to move, nor was it to beg for water, for he wasn’t particularly thirsty at that moment. Despite his uncertainty, his mouth just remained uselessly open, unable to close itself, muscles tight around his jaw. The King of Jerusalem felt a cold hand touch his forehead, and almost recoiled at the sudden invasion.

He’s feverish again - Baldwin heard the boy say to one of the shadows that had been with him for the past days. Ever since he had appointed Raymond of Tripoli as a regent for his young nephew, he felt as if his vassals, friends, and even his trust-worthy court doctor Abu Al-Kahir considered him dead already, for they spoke of him only on the third person, as if he was nothing more than a sick beast that God refused to put down; nothing but a breathing and sometimes talking corpse that occupied a bed too large in a room too small. But I am a corpse- he unwillingly thought to himself - and I do not know why God has punished me with this rot.

Someone lifted him off the bed, and despite the action caused his wounds to ache profusely, he was also relieved to be in a different position. Baldwin heard water, and then he felt it in his mouth. Someone was holding him from the back as the liquid struggled to travel down his throat, not a word uttered to him, not a single warning given. Only brief and unintelligible exchanges between his servants, whispers coming from the darkness that dwelled past his bed. His current pain caused him to think about the book of Chronicles, and the same sickness endured by King Uzziah, brought upon himself by the heretic acts he committed in the temple of the Lord. Ever since he was told he was a leper, he always compared his situation to that of the King of old, but could never comprehend what was the sin he himself had committed to be punished in such a horrible manner, to be cursed just as Uzziah had been. He was only nine when the doctors had discovered he had leprosy, and for the life of him couldn’t figure out what horrible sin a child that age could commit for it to be punished by it. He didn’t consider himself a saint in the slightest, especially after he inherited the throne, but he had always tried to be a good lamb and a good warrior to the Lord.

His servants laid him back in the bed, and his wounds again stuck to the fabric. He did not feel as uncomfortable this time however, for the searing heat had been replaced by a shiverish cold, the tremble of his body welcomed with open arms after days and days of being tortured by the desertic sun of April, by the unbearable smoke that polluted the already hot air. Steps approached him, and someone touched his forehead again, but following the intrusion, Baldwin heard nothing more than a long sigh, and immediately recognized the voice of his court doctor. 

          - His fever is getting worse. 

          - Do thou consider his lordship will get better?

…

          -I do not think so.

Lying in his bed, feverish, the pain refusing to subside, Baldwin prayed for the prognostic to finally be true. He had never wished to die before, despite his obligations as King weakening him with every passing day, but the last three weeks had been too much already, worse than any other episode of fever he had had before, worse than that time he contracted Malaria, worse even than when he had gotten blind, his leprosy finally reaching a peak that had rendered him unable to cope with the kingdom, to cope with his own flesh anymore. 

All he wanted in those moments was to go to sleep forever, never to wake up.

          -Thou want it to finally be over, don’t thee, your grace?

The voice startled Baldwin, for it belonged to someone who couldn’t possibly be in the room. He couldn’t physically get up, but in his mind he did. In his mind, clouded by fever and by the slow shadow of death covering him, he could see everything around him. And the room with the bed too big, and the area too small, the room he knew like the palm of his hand, forever fixed into his memory as the last time he laid eyes on it, there were no servants, no vassals, no court hovering over him like vultures. There was only him, and sitting in a chair in the corner, the ghostly figure that had spoken to him.  

          -William?

The chronicler nodded. Just as the room, he looked exactly as the last time Baldwin had seen him, a couple years ago: he had the same white beard, conquered by white hairs, the same kind eyes, the same blue veil. In his mind Baldwin looked at him and felt a slight trace of envy, for he would never grow to be old and wise like his mentor.  In a strange way, the King remembered when he was a child under his tutelage. Baldwin felt a strange feeling of intimidation at the apparition of his mentor. He didn’t know if it was his expression: serene but with a hint of smugness, or if it was the fact that clearly William could not be there. His heart fluttered at the thought of the apparition being an Angel that had finally come to get him.

          -Thou are not really here.

          -Thou is not either, your grace. It seems thy disease has finally caught up with thy mind. 

Baldwin smiled bitterly. Lost in the trance, it was impossible for him to know if his real mouth was also contorted, if his real mouth was too mumbling words or if they were just in his head. 

          -It was about time -said Baldwin- Thou and I knew that this day would eventually arrive sooner than later. I only hope it would’ve been sooner.

          -Thy death wish sounds almost heathen, my lord. Thou have been more lucky than any other person with thy condition, and will be remembered as such. Dying sick on thy bed is just God’s will. 

          -I know that -said Baldwin, his sore covered chest moving up and down with difficulty, mask sticking to his face as if it tried to smother him- but I still wish God’s will would’ve been done sooner. What is the purpose of having me here, dying in my bed in the most indescribable pain if there is no more chance of recovery? I don’t want to believe God to be cruel, William. But even if it makes me sound like a heathen, I do believe he is extending my demise just out of spite. 

Baldwin saw as William of Tyre got up from the chair and approached the bed. The chronicler sat in it, and with care he started to remove the veil that covered Baldwin´s face. The king couldn’t see, not even in the delusion, the extent to which the disease had affected his features, but as his mentor slowly cradled his face, moving his hand up to his forehead, the king felt as he touched foreign bumps, valleys and holes that were not there before, as if he was moving his hand through the rocky surface of Jerusalem itself. However, in his imagination, William of Tyre did not see his deformity with disgust or fear, just as all of the others had seen him before he went blind; his touch was soft, and the look in his eyes caring, with a tint of sadness. Baldwin leaned into the touch, desperate for an inch of comfort, feeling again as he did when he was a child, still not cursed by his disease, when his only concerns were his books and the aristotelic teachings of the prelate. The king coughed as he tried to speak, finally recovering his voice in a hoarse but soft manner.

          -I am no more than a glorified soldier, William. My strength has always depended on the sword, despite thy best efforts to exercise my mind. This broken body has always been my weapon, and I have used it to exhaustion to protect the people of the Holy Land; even when it has done nothing but decay over the last few years. I wish I could be a holy man like thee, and take God’s punishment with grace and wisdom, but the truth is that I’m nothing but a broken vessel, with nothing on the inside. My emotions get a hold on me often, and I lose the patience thy and God have tried to teach me. I'm just tired. 

          -Does his majesty really think that his multiple victories against Saladin’s army, and the stability of this kingdom are products only of the sword? Did thou not use thy mind to conjure military strategies, public policies and achieve a thriving kingdom? Are his majesty’s ideas, values and courage driven by the body? Thy were and will always be my best student, Baldwin, and thou are mistaken to think that thy greatest strength is your body. Thy have always relinquished and thrived in the kingdom of thought.

Baldwin smiled weakly at the words of his mentor. Not necessarily to his adulations, but the fact that William of Tyre had called him by his name made him happy. Altho in his youth the title of King had made him feel extremely proud, and wore his title like it was the most important thing in the world, he had now grown tired of it, along with the duties that it implied. He missed being just Baldwin. He stared at William and wished he could still cry, but even in the realm of dreams his eyes were dry. William smiled at him sweetly, and touched his feverish forehead again. 

          -When this kingdom is actually governed by the sword thou will realize that I speak the truth, your majesty. When men like Guy of Lusignan reach power, men who truly are glorified soldiers reach the throne, thy will see from heaven in the fall of Jerusalem that I’m in the right. So please hold on until God calls you to his side, by his own will. Promise me thy will do that.

Baldwin stared at William of Tyre with heavy eyes. Leaning into the pillows he nodded. 

          -I promise, William. After all, I swore to protect this kingdom until my dying day. I just don't see my use here, lying in this bed.

          -Thy use, your majesty, is merely being alive; for your life is what hold this kingdom together. 

Baldwin felt William's touch begin to fade, his mentor growing increasingly dense, as if swallowed by a thick fog.

          -Must you go, William? -muttered the king, chapped lips wrinkling in sadness. 

But his mentor did not answer, and before he knew it, William of Tyre was gone, Baldwin’s hallucination had ended. He was again unable to see, feeling everything and nothing at the same time as the returning stench of the room attacked his nose again. The visit of his mentor, however, be it caused by the fever or by some sort of miracle left him satisfied and calm, despite he was still extremely uncomfortable, despite the room still smelled, despite the vultures and the whispers were back, despite he was still in the limbo between death and a life with leprosy. 

The King turned his head around and fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

5 of April, 1185

On that night, the moon was on a waning crescent, and underneath its dim light, Baldwin V played with a small wooden camel and a crucifix. Standing on the entrance to the room, arms crossed over her chest, his mother Sibylla of Jerusalem observed his playtime in silence, and only intervened after a severe cough interrupted the child’s play, rendering the camel still on the floor, on top of the cross.

She shushed his cough away as she carried him to the enormous bed, fitted more for a king than for a child. But of course, her son technically was a king, and she could do nothing but wince at the thought. As she laid him with care in the bed, the cough refusing to abandon little Baldwin’s lugs, Sibylla couldn’t help but to notice the eerie similarities between her son and her brother; not only in the comparison between their names, or their looks before his brother’s illness ate away at his face and body, or the burden that had been inherited to them, but also in how little Baldwin writhed and squirmed in the bed, unable to stop his cough, as if their names were cursed with the evil of illness. 

Little by little, the young regent’s cough came to a halt, falling asleep in the arms of his mother. Sibylla didn’t move from the bed, despite being trapped in a position where one of her legs was going numb. Nowadays, there weren’t many occasions where she could be alone with her son, for he was always under the watchful eye of her granduncle. As she caressed the sweaty blonde locks of his boy away from his face, she cursed her brother under her breath for bestowning the burden upon her son and not upon herself, for said burden didn’t only included a kingdom that was in the brink of destruction and invasion, but also the inevitable worsening of little Baldwin’s condition. 

A cloud covered the moon and the room fell into darkness, as the dethroned sister of the king fell asleep next to her son.