Sentio

Lily Severn

Footsteps echoed through the alabaster hallways, as silken skirts rustled in accompaniment. The ferns and palms lining the corridors whispered in the slight breeze, warm and gentle. The sounds of life continued beyond the fortress's walls, but in this place of clean white stone, lavender incense and golden tapestry, it was silent.

A woman approached a rather small and unobtrusive wooden door, with gilded patterns inlaid. She slowed her steps as she approached, though she did not seem hesitant. Clad in burnt orange and bright red, her dark hair caught up in a silken blood red wrap, she intertwined her pale, slender bejeweled fingers, then finally raised a fist to knock on the door.

A soft voice, the very embodiment of dusky sunlight and soft silk, whispered from within, " Enter, Sibylla."

Sibylla closed her piercing green eyes, heavily lined in black ocher, and opened them slowly as she opened the door. The room before her was dim, lit by candles that smelled of cinnamon and jasmine. The wide windows were open, but the golden curtains hung over them obscured the sunlight. Mahogany tables were filled with textbooks, scrolls, maps, and globes, of celestial charts. Quills and parchment were stacked neatly, though there was the occasional spill of ink on crisp clean papyrus. A bed, soft and the color of flax, was on the farthest wall, covered with thin sheer curtains.

A man sat with his back to her, next to an intricate chess table, cloaked in white and pale blue. A hooded shroud lay over the back of his head, down to his shoulderblades, but when she entered he did not turn to present his face.

" Baldwin..." she whispered, coming forward. She pressed a thin, trembling hand to his shoulder and murmured, " I am here."

He turned, with a face not of flesh and porcelain skin, as would be expected of such a delicate man, but of wrought silver, etched with elegant silver markings. Blue eyes, startling in their beauty and clarity, met hers. She could hear the smile in his voice, though his lips were concealed.

" My beautiful sister," he whispered, his voice slightly muffled beneath the mask. She had remembered it as always being soft, like wisps of cloud. Today it was tinged with a slight rasp, a thin rattle of the throat. He reached a heavily bandaged hand toward her, and she kissed it gently, grasping it lightly and gazing into his eyes.

" Reynald will not soon forget the wrath of Jerusalem," Sibylla murmured.

" Reynald is a pompous and violent man; his wealth and his anger keep him here," Baldwin said. " None dare oppose him, save me." He turned to face the window, closing his eyes, seemingly grasping for any slice of sunlight to fall upon him.

Sibylla sighed, her eyes welling with tears one moment. She blinked them away the next. " It is not healthy for you, to take affairs such as his into your own hands." She gazed down at them, one fingerless, the other so bandaged and layered in gauze and cloth she could not tell. She did not have the ability to so boldly ask him about his illness. " Let Tiberias do it. He has dealt with Reynald before, for many years. He knows the best ways to counter such a man."

" Countering the crass with the cultured? You speak of a losing battle, Sibylla," Baldwin said, laughing lightly and facing her now, tilting his head.

Sibylla pulled the other chair on the opposite side of the chess set closer and sat in it, facing her brother. Her face was haloed by the sunlight.

Baldwin whispered, his eyes open and bright, " My vision may be failing, Sibylla, but I should like to feel the sun."

Sibylla paused. " Could you not...?" The question hung in the air like the humid heat, suspended above the sands.

Baldwin sighed, his thin frame lifting and then falling. " No, sister. I could not do that even for you." He coughed lightly. " They say this is a curse." He was silent for a long moment. " A curse."

Clearly the encounter with Reynald had taken its toll on him; he breathed shallowly and heavily, he moved slowly, his eyes were glazed with more than the blindness of one afflicted. She could feel the energy seeping out of him, like the ebb of a tide, lapping at the golden sands.

She remained silent, sitting there beside him, allowing him to take his time. He had always been an articulate man, talented in the ways of speech and language, and had an affinity for making allies even among his enemies. His appearance--or lack thereof--had never deterred him from pursuing negotiations. He had met Saladin many times personally, and had not weakened his resolve despite his obvious physical weakness. Saladin, as many other men did, treated him with the utmost respect, instead of the contempt Jerusalem's court had rather expected.

His voice was quieter now. " What have I done to merit this curse?"

The wind murmured among the trees outside, far below.

He turned to her. " Was I a bastard child? A misbegotten heir?"

Sibylla bit her lip. " Baldwin, no, never..." She remembered him as a striking boy, tall and lean, with raven hair and stunning azure eyes, thin lips which curved ever so slightly in a knowing, almost wistful, smile. He had the same nose and jawline as her father, the same strong countenance with the air of sophistication and chivalry. " You were a blessing to us."

" I have acted as I have, as my fathers have, in the name of Christianity, yet I have sought to remain true to my own virtues. I have defended the land of our fathers for years...what...what did I do...that defied doctrine or legality?" His breathing was labored, and it seemed that he could not bring himself to weep.

" Baldwin, brother, please...you must understand, you have not earned this...illness. It was not given to you for illegitmacy or an inability to rule; you have done so with honor and dignity. You have preserved what may have been lost. Is there not honor in that?" Her eyes searched his mask, pretending it was his face. Freckles dotted his cheeks just below his eyes, prominent in the summer months. Just there, below his ear, the tiny scar from his days of youth, pretending to battle the servants, but with real swords.

" What is honor in the face of such a death?" Baldwin whispered. " I live as many men do not...I cannot see a rising sun, see the faces of the men I command, behold the beauty of one's eyes in clarity."

Sibylla watched him, for though he did not move, save to draw in a labored breath, she knew he struggled within.

" I do not catch the scent of warm sands on the breeze, nor perfumes or the salty sweat of battle...I cannot feel a woman's touch, the silken robes which embalm me, coarse jewels or goblets...I barely taste wine, bread...there is no pleasure for me here, no sustenance."

He took a deep breath. " I cannot read the texts which I once worshipped with scholarly insight, I cannot decipher the words upon the page...I cannot grasp instruments to make my own beliefs known...I merely spill the ink and mar the parchment...what honor is there in the inability to perform the greatest duty entreated to all of us; to edify lives? I cannot pass my judgments and beliefs on through my voice, it barely carries to your ears...it taunts my own, like a lover's breath."

She knew he had reached the crux of his agony. Love. He would never know it, as other men would.

" If I was to unsheath my hand, and press it to a woman's porcelain face...the horror in her eyes would be one I would not be remiss to be blind of," Baldwin said softly. " The sores, the lesions, the blood and humors that seep from me like poison...to have them removed for a day would be paradise. I will never feel softest lips upon my own, Sibylla. No woman would gaze upon this face. No man would dare respect it."

Sibylla moved closer, holding his hands, though it made no difference.

" I am not who I once was."

He turned his head, gazing out at the sun he could barely see.

" Will God recognize this as the face He made?"

At these words, a low keening sound, pale and almost weightless, drifted forth from his throat. He sounded as though he was suffocating, struggling for breath, gasping on his own lungs. Watery rasps permeated the heavy sighs, and she realized this was the sound if his weeping. He was too weak, too frail, too defeated in his own spirit to weep properly, if there was such a way. He laid his head back, lifting his hands to his mask and pressing them.

" I cannot feel this...the metal will cut me, and I may bleed, but it is my body, this failing, diseased body, which responds, not the man inside of it." He sobbed once, a clogged, mangled sound.

Sibylla lifted his hands from his mask, sorrow in her eyes. " Baldwin, no." Her voice broke. " Do not believe that because you are not who you once were your soul has changed. Do not. You are beautiful, my brother." She stroked the mask lovingly. " You are beautiful."

Baldwin reclined further back. " I am selfish, Sibylla."

" Selfish?" Sibylla hissed in a pained whisper. " You are a man who has not tasted selfishness." Inwardly, she winced at her choice of words. Nevertheless, she plunged deeper. " You ask for nothing, you demand nothing, you require...nothing. We love you, we care for you, this is not the mark of a selfish king. It is a mark of a selfless king. A brave, noble king, who sees his people as people and not underlings, who sees the righteousness of his crown."

" A king does not weep, does not beg for that which he does not have. He does not long to change God's plan." Baldwin's tone was bitter. She had never heard such a self-deprecating diatribe.

" And what shall you tell the people of Jerusalem when the battles rage on? When they continue and more blood is shed?" Sibylla asked softly. " Will you not be a king then?"

Baldwin shook his head. " I will rule as I have, my fair sister. But I fear I am not long for this world."

Sibylla pressed a hand to the side of his mask, which was smooth and cool. " God shall heal you, my brother. He shall make you more beautiful than you are."

Baldwin said softly, looking up to her with his sad, watering eyes, " Your sight is clearer than mine, Sibylla, and you can see beneath this mask, while in truth I am the one beneath it."

Sibylla bent to kiss his thin metallic cheek. " It is a womanly gift, to see that which cannot be seen readily by others."

Baldwin was silent, his shoulders drooped.

" Baldwin?"

He continued to sit quietly. Finally, he murmured," What will it feel like...Sibylla? What shall it feel like to die?"

She knelt before him, her gaze piercing through the mask like stars through the night sky. " It shall feel like sleep, Baldwin. A deep sleep, soundless, and sweet, and warm." She rested her head upon his shoulder, unafraid of the disease physicians claimed could be spread through breath. She did not believe in many of the lies they told her to protect her.

Baldwin sighed. " I fear I shall not feel it when the shadow falls upon me, Sibylla."

Sibylla curled her thin white fingers around his silken glove, with the damaged hand beneath it. She lifted it to his chest, which was thin and rising and falling slowly. She pressed it to his vestments, above his heart.

" Do you feel this?"

Baldwin nodded slowly. " Yes."

" This is your heart beating, the blood racing through your veins. This is your life. It does not wane yet.'

Baldwin closed his eyes, letting his hand rest upon his chest limply. " I feel as though I am in a dream...it is warm, it is soft...peaceful here. I cannot hear the singing of swords nor the rising anger of voices."

Sibylla nodded. " It is calm, my brother. It is calm and well outside. The sun will not set for an hour yet."

Baldwin nodded sleepily.

She rose, whispering, " Why did you summon me, Baldwin?"

He looked up at her, and inhaled gently. " I wanted to be reminded that I was human. I needed someone to speak to who would not wrap me in silks and bathe me in salves. I am treated as...as something inhuman. Breakable and fragile.'

Sibylla smiled sadly. " You are the strongest man I know, Baldwin. Yet even the strongest men must rest." She opened the door and gestured to his physicians, who had waited outside patiently, yet appeared distressed. " His Highness the King of Jerusalem will retire anon," she said regally, addressing the bearded and velvet-robed men.

She closed the door, and walked to the window, gazing out upon the glistening river in the distance, a ribbon of ice-blue, the men and women working below in vibrant reds and whites, the sands which roiled into the distance. She returned to her brother, who was breathing shallowly.

" Jerusalem lives on, my brother."

Baldwin whispered weakly, though with a tone of resolve, " I am Jerusalem."

Disclaimer: Any characters, quotes, plots, settings, and other items of interest that are recognizable are property of the writers, directors, and producers of "The Kingdom of Heaven". They do not belong to me. Copyright infringement is not intended in the writing, posting, or reading of this fic.