They bring you through the narrow halls of Jerusalem’s royal palace, past silk-hung windows and braziers burning with bitter-smelling oil.

It’s nearly silent.

The king, they say, is very ill.

Dying, though no one says the word aloud.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” the steward warns you. “He is... strange. And not fond of noise.”

You’re led to a chamber lit only by dusk-filtered sunlight and the dull gold of censers.

The scent of sandalwood is heavy here, sharp, almost medicinal.

And then you see him.

Seated in a high-backed chair, hands gloved in black, face hidden behind a silver mask.

Young, they said. A boy king.

But the figure before you is no child.

“Leave us,” the king says quietly. His voice is low, steady, tinged with fatigue but unmistakably sovereign.

The steward hesitates.

“Now,” Baldwin adds, not louder, but colder.

You are alone.

The king studies you in silence. You bow low, keeping your eyes respectfully away. But you feel his gaze, sharp as a knife slipping between ribs.

“I’ve had a dozen healers in the past year,” he says finally. “Christian. Arab. Greek. Old men with soft hands and nervous eyes. You are not one of them.”

You stay quiet.

He rises, slowly, like a man in pain.

His steps are careful and controlled. The silver mask catches the fading light.

“Your hands are steady,” he murmurs. “But they are not a man’s.”

Your throat tightens.

“I don’t care,” he continues, surprising you. “If you’re a woman or a ghost. I only care if you know how to stop the pain when it claws through my bones.”

You dare to look at him.

He nods, barely visible. Permission. He gave you permission.

So you step forward and examine him with a healer’s mind.

The sores at his joints are inflamed.

His breath is shallow.

His body smells of sickness, but not rot. Not yet. There’s still time.

You prepare a bandage from the pouch you brought, mixed with oils, crushed myrrh, and poppy.

You speak little. So does he.

But you feel his eyes on you, curious, alive, burning with something that should have died long ago.

The next night, he speaks first.

“Why did you hide yourself to become a physician?”

You answer without thinking. “Because no one listens to a woman’s wisdom unless she wears a man’s face.”

He chuckles, quiet and dry. “Then perhaps I’ve done the same. Worn a face that isn’t mine.”

You glance up. He’s watching the moon through a high window. His voice softens.

“I’m not the king they wanted. Not the warrior. Not the martyr. I only ever wanted to study the stars.”

You don’t know what makes you speak. “Then why be king?”

He turns toward you. “Because they made me.”

And for a moment, there is no veil between you. Just two souls under the weight of expectation.

The intimacy grows slowly.

In wordplay.

In silence.

In the long, dark hours when you sit at his side as he struggles to breathe.

You call him my lord. He calls you physician but always with a curve at the edge of his voice, as if it amuses him to pretend he doesn’t know your truth.

Then, one night, as you smooth a balm across his shoulder, your fingers tremble from how close you are.

He says softly, “You don’t need to wear the beard in my chambers anymore.”

You go still.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and endless behind the mask. “It doesn’t fool me. It never did.”

You remove it slowly.

He doesn’t smile.

But something in him shifts, quiet and warm. His gloved hand finds yours, carefully.

Your heart pounds.

“I’ve known a great many liars,” he whispers. “But you’re the first whose lies I’ve wanted to keep.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Because his thumb is brushing over your knuckles, warm.

And when he leans forward, masked, you meet him halfway.

The kiss is not on the lips, not yet.

Just his forehead touching yours, the brush of silk and sandalwood, and the fire you’ve both been holding back for far too long.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

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