Notes: This little ficlet was written about two months ago after a long creative dry spell. Anyway … seeing how this is fanfic for a film based off history, I'm sticking true to the film. I'm an ancient and medieval history student, and have had a passion for the Middle East as well as the Crusades for many years, I know my history … I just prefer the entertainment value found within the film version. Yes, I saw the inaccuracies from a mile away, but really I think the core never changes regardless of historical fiction or not. Once you start reverting to historically accurate names, and relations you basically lose the film's story and in my eyes that's not really fanfiction once it takes on that level. If I had the time and creativity I'd perhaps take my shot at writing a historical fiction of the events surrounding the second Crusade, however I thought Ridely did a fine job. It never claimed to be history, merely based on it. The tragedy comes when those who don't know better think it is history, but really that's why there are books. Movies are for entertainment purposes.
Warnings: If you squint hard enough this could be considered the tiniest bit slashy. Yanno, that slash of the impossibly unrequited sort. Ah yes, and spoilers of sorts ... possibly. If you know anything of history, then not.
Disclaimer: Belongs to dear Mr. Scott and history. I'm just playing with them.
Sweetest Dream
It had always been a simple point of fact that this day would come. He thinks now that perhaps he allowed himself to become too attached to one whom fate had so cruelly stricken. Never an irrational, or emotional man, he curses himself for this weakness. This unending longing that could never be fulfilled, the bitterness of infallible loyalty to a King he must survive.
For so long Baldwin has endured, death might well have been his sweetest dream. He wonders in those final, timeless moments if Baldwin is frightened. He knows that he is, fearful that he may break under this loss. A hand steals out to brush along the fine silken bandages that conceal the severity of his illness, taking the gnarled hand in his own. He will not allow himself to think long on the boy he once was – beautiful in his innocence, triumphant from battle, and his first taste of glory. In that moment, Baldwin himself had forgotten his fading life, and Tiberias had silently prayed to God who had forsaken him to reverse the boy's fate.
It's unfair, that one who would bring peace to Jerusalem has suffered thus. What kind of god would allow such? A god of mercy, a god of love – Tiberias cannot see how it can be so as he watches the flame of Baldwin's life slowly flicker out. He would curse God if not for Baldwin's own devotion to his faith. For all that he has suffered, he holds no anger in his heart toward God, and there is a strange, sad, almost wistful resignation toward his life. His faith has granted him that peace. He wishes for that same peace, that he will be able to endure as his King has when he is in Heaven.
It is all too painful for him, and he finds himself unsure of what shall become of him. He knows he cannot remain here in Jerusalem. The city holds far too many memories, memories that lie within the fragile, fading form of the boy he has sworn his allegiance to once upon a time when dreams seemed more real. He wishes to go back to that time, if only for a moment. To see Baldwin as he was before the leprosy's hold on his was so great, before he shrouded himself beneath layers of silk and bandages, before Baldwin requested of Tiberias to have a mask of silver fashioned for him.
He will leave. Baldwin knows this, and will not request of him to stay. It became apparent years ago that Tiberias' loyalty lay not with this city, but the King. He is why he stays now, to keep an ever-watchful eye on those who might seek to take advantage of his state. Baldwin has never been weak, but his fragility has left others to believe such. Tiberias thinks for a moment on Renald de Chatillion, a man who mistook fragility for weakness and would pay dearly. In a moment of vehemence, he wishes the Templar bastard burns in Hell for what he has done to his King. His treason has hastened Baldwin's untimely end.
Lifting Baldwin's hand, his lips brush against the bandages. He is smiling perhaps, and when he goes to speak his voice sounds tired and withdrawn. He wishes for the physicians Saladin has graciously sent him. It will not be long, and he selfishly wishes against all hope and reason that God will grant them even a few short moments longer. But he does not stay, lingering only an instant to etch those eyes of clearest blue into memory.
Baldwin's struggle is over; his own to begin anew.
fin