A/N: In an effort to keep the reader from becoming confused, I am calling Sibylla's brother, Baldwin IV, Baldwin, while her son, who was named Baldwin V, will be referred to by his other name, Baudouinet, like a nickname.
Disclaimer: The movie Kingdom of Heaven doesn't belong to me. Seriously.
Her son sat before her on the tiled ground, playing with his toy soldier on horseback and grinning at the imaginary world before him, content. There were guards waiting just inside, but Sibylla had insisted upon being allowed time alone with the little King. If they were danger, she reasoned, the guards would be close enough to hear a struggle. She did not want prying eyes upon herself and her son, either, and so she had sent away the servants as well.
It was not a strange thing for Sibylla to ask for such requests. Indeed, she often demanded time alone with her son, and Jerusalem knew how protective she was of him. It was rumored that Guy de Lusignan himself, the boy's stepfather, was not even allowed near without her consent.
They had been out here for several hours, and yet her son did not grow weary, nor bored. He was an easily contented child, and happy just to be in the presence of his mother, whose time had always been demanding, and, strangely, far more so before she became the Regent of Jerusalem. At least now, as Regent, she was able to spend more time by his side. And her attention was solely for him, her Baudouinet, today.
Baudouinet, the name she called him. He had been born a Baldwin, as he would one day be king, but that had never been her name for him. Baldwin had always been her brother, and so her son was Baudouinet.
Sibylla was stretched out across a divan, dressed in fine, warm red clothes and wearing an elaborate headdress. The gown was the color of blood, and it felt fitting to wear it, on this day of all days.
There was a small bottle of poison hidden away in the sleeves of that dress. Oh, the man who had given it to Sibylla had not referred to is as poison; indeed, when Tiberias slipped it into her fingers early that morning, after she had had a night to regret the words she had spoken aloud to him, he told her, for the servants' benefit, that it was, "A painless way to help you sleep, milady."
Tiberias's eyes had been full of compassion, for he knew, as did she, the truth of what that bottle would be used for.
She could only hope that he was right, that it was painless for her son. She would never forgive herself if he was made to suffer in death.
Poison was an art that Sibylla was, sadly, familiar with. The plot to kill her husband and replace him with Balian, had the latter not refused to take part in it, had not been the first. She had almost been surprised, though, when Baldwin himself suggested that one. He had always been against such things, where Sibylla used them to her advantage when she deemed it necessary.
And yet she did not recognize this particular poison.
She forced herself to watch, to smile when her child looked up at her with such bright, joyful eyes, to memorize every inch of this moment, this happy, quiet moment between mother and son, and pretend that her resolve was not slowly shattering longer she watched him.
Sibylla had told Tiberias that she would do this for her son, that she would ensure that his soul was not at risk of hell because of this accursed kingdom that never gave peace, as her brother's soul had been. She had told Tiberias that she was prepared to go to hell herself in his stead.
She would not sit idly by and watch her Baudouinet succumb to the very same disease that had cursed her brother, that had destroyed him and stolen him from her in the end. She could not endure it again, and did not want her son to have to do so, either.
Baldwin's life had been a tragic waste; devoted to a kingdom which had never appreciated his sacrifice, nor his suffering, all in the name of a hard-earned peace with Saladdin that few residing within Jerusalem's walls wanted, but that her brother so desperately understood and craved. And in the end, he had died for Jerusalem, for peace, for Sibylla harbored no doubts that had he not gone to face Saladdin's armies, he would live today.
She would not have the same said of her son; that he had lived and died for Jerusalem only.
But she did not think she could, now that the final hour had come. Did not think that she could kill her own son, her child, her flesh, even if, in doing so, she was saving him.
Her Baudouinet was such a carefree child, lost in his own world, and slightly spoiled, yes, but happy and secure in his mother's love. And that was all that Sibylla had ever wanted for him.
He was so like his father, her first husband, so innocent and kind, and he had the man's light hair, as well. He loved to laugh, and in his laughing make others laugh around him, especially Sibylla, who had found herself doing so less and less over the years. But it was her brother's eyes that she saw reflected in her son's now, where she had never noticed the similarity before.
Would that it was the only trait they shared, and she would have been content.
Sibylla had told her brother once that his eyes were the most beautiful part of him, filled with his soul of compassion. That had been before the leprosy truly took hold.
She had watched as her brother, Baldwin, slowly faded into leprosy, turning from the beautiful, ambitious child of their youths to the quiet, easily exhausted king. He had still been wise beyond his years, still kind when it was merited. He had still been her brother, but then he had not been.
Yet she supposed that was more her fault than his.
"I have missed you."
In the earlier years of her brother's disease, he did not wear the silver mask that hid his disfigurement from the masses. He had endured the whispers at court, the way many who had once seen to call him friend flinched away when he got too near. He endured when his own family began to treat him distantly, pitying but not compassionate. Even Sibylla, his closest companion as a child, had pushed him away in fear.
Sibylla knew how this had hurt him, how he struggled. He had always been close to Sibylla and their mother. She knew how the hushed whispers of what he must look like beneath the cloths covering his skin pained him. But he had never once complained, never once asked them to stop when one word could have silenced them forever.
When his face began to rot with the disease that had started in his arms, Sibylla finally realized what he must have been going through. Her beautiful brother was gone, replaced by a dying man. And children whimpered at the sight of that unmasked face, staring down at them with soulless eyes.
Leprosy had been proclaimed a judgment from God for one's great sins by the Church long ago, but Sibylla knew the truth.
This was a curse, a curse upon the Kings of Jerusalem.
Now, seeing her son also affected, she thought that perhaps it was a punishment for the sins committed by the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and not the kings themselves, for her son was also an innocent. But that made little sense, and so she replaced the reasoning with a slow bitterness.
It had not been so bad, at first. Her brother's slow transformation. A constant sneer twisted his white lips. A sneer that deepened quickly, pulling his skin inward and stretching like a thin line of browning blood up past his nose, cheek, and towards his beautiful eyes. The skin around his face was pale and drawn, tugging at his lips in an attempt to move the skin back into its correct path, disfiguring it all the more. Then the sores had appeared, red and blotchy on his pale skin, and had traveled quickly down his neck.
Those beautiful eyes had been the only thing to remain constant in his appearance, over the years, and had been the only part of him that Sibylla could gaze upon without flinching. She knew that he was in pain, though when he was touched by a sharp pin or knife, he felt none. She could see it in those eyes.
Sibylla would not have that fate for her son.
The whispers had stopped on their own accord, after her brother's first great battle. But the mask had come not long after that.
Sibylla told Baldwin that the mask was beautiful. She had cried afterwards, when he was not there to hear her.
And now her child suffered the same curse of leprosy, for she knew that was what it must be. A curse of leprosy on the innocent, whose only mutual crime was to sit on the same throne.
Her son.
Why? Was God punishing them, for taking the throne of Jerusalem? Hadn't the Pope stated that this was what God himself wanted? Why was the life of her brother not enough? Must her son now also suffer?
It would be a mercy towards her son, as his mother, and she would do anything for her son. So she recited to herself over and over after the thought of what she must do had entered her mind.
It would be better for him to die painlessly now, than for the disease to spread through him until his flesh began to rot and his death was one of pain and loneliness, after years of the same.
There had been no lover in Baldwin's life, no wife to hold close that would not have recoiled at his touch. Must her son also be condemned to such a life; a life so alone?
She could not have that for her son. She, as any mother, did not want to see her child suffer, when she knew that there was a terrible way that she could it before it truly began.
Voicing it aloud, to Tiberias, made tears spring into her eyes. Made every denial she had disappear, replaced by blind terror at the thought of what her son would face.
But seeing him now, happy and completely oblivous to his condition, nor the worry and guilt that tore through his mother, was enough to make her regret her decision, as if she were not already.
He was not unhappy. He sat playing with his toys, toys his father had made him before he died, laughing and smiling, angelic and at peace. Every so often he turned to his mother, confused at the look on her face as she rested on the divan, wondering why she did not spend this time playing soldiers with him or telling him stories, as she usually did.
His flesh was not rotting off his bones. He appeared to be normal, not unlike any other wealthy child living in Jerusalem. Soon, when the time for resting was over, they would go back inside to eat and Sibylla would be confronted by this trade agreement or that document, needing to be renewed by the new leader of Jerusalem.
Baudouinet would perhaps slip away, thinking he had gone unnoticed, and go down to the gardens or to his chambers. Sibylla would go after him, as she always did.
She regretted the years she had spent not really paying attention, not spending every waking moment with him.
Her Baudouinet did not even know what plagued him, and what therefore plagued his mother.
He had laughed while the physicians cut his feet, hoping for a reaction. He was not in pain. He did not even look ill. Sibylla did not even know when the disease had first taken hold of him. Had it been the moment he was crowned King of Jerusalem, or before?
How could she do this? How, when he did not even understand why she made this sacrifice? When she hardly understood it herself?
Unbidden, the image of her darling brother's rotting face flashed before her, when she finally pulled away the mask to reveal what lay beneath. Sibylla did not know what had caused her to do it, to look, when throughout his life she had refused to do so.
It had been so much worse than she imagined, so much more horrifying than how he had appeared before he donned the mask. And she supposed she understood now why he had chuckled bitterly when she told him, on his deathbed, that he was still beautiful, had always been so.
Her Baudouinet was beautiful, now, too, as her brother had once been. Beautiful and perfect in all ways, even as the disease that proclaimed him unclean clung to him.
How many years before that beauty disappeared, somewhere deep inside him where it would never again be recovered?
How many years before his flesh began to sag from his bones like an old man, and then turn purple and red and brown?
How many years before the open sores wrapped around his arms and legs like a faulty cloak, until his hair fell out and his insides began to rot, as well?
How many years before quiet wisdom, gained from years of observing those around him but never engaging with them, was his?
Sibylla stood then, giving her son a gentle smile and picking up her skirts, settling onto the tiled ground beside him and setting aside his toy. She had made up her mind. Or perhaps she had made it up the moment she knew the truth of his disease, and had only just now realized it.
It no longer mattered. She would have him enjoy the last moments of his life, even if it killed her inside to look upon him and know what she would do. What she must do. And she would enjoy them as well, these last few moments with her son.
The bottle of poison secreted away in the pocket of her flowing sleeves felt heavy, weighing down on her, accusing her when her son did not. Could not.
He looked saddened that she had taken his toy, and then decided she would likely find another way to entertain him.
She knew how he loved her storytelling, especially the ones about his father. His real father, not the man whom she had ordered never to come too near her son.
Afraid that Guy would kill him and thus be rid of the person standing between he and the throne.
She could almost laugh at the irony now, for, in the end, it was not Guy that would be her son's demise, but herself. Sibylla, Princess of Jerusalem, who had only ever protected him and loved him.
She wanted to be near Baudouinet now, to look at him and remember every beautiful, perfect feature for years to come. It would, after all, be all that she had left of him.
That and the peace of mind that he did not suffer eternal damnation from this disease. No, that fate would be solely hers, and it was one that Sibylla would gladly embrace, with that knowledge.
She smiled, her voice too soft, but she did not dare speak louder lest the tears hanging at the edges of her eyes overtake her, and her throat caught.
"Do you remember the story of your father?" she asked.
Her son smiled at her. "No," though he did. He never tired of that story, nor any that his mother graced to tell him.
She spent the rest of the afternoon with him, basking in his presence, his happiness, his occasional laughter.
The small bottle sitting in a concealed pocket of her gown slapped against her every time she shifted.
When her Baudouinet finally tired, late in the afternoon, she brought him to the divan and laid beside him. Sibylla held her son close for the last time, singing a lullaby and willing him to sleep before she lost all of her resolve.
She knew, somehow, that she could not do this while he stared up at her, in all of his innocence. She could not do this while he was awake.
If there was one small thing the helpless mother could do for her child, she could allow him to die painlessly, and in ignorance.
She sang to him as he lay in her arms, eyes drooping and yawning after every stanza, snuggled against her. It was a French lullaby, one her mother had sung to Baldwin and she when they were little.
His breathing gradually deepened and evened into that of sleep, and she clutched the more tightly to the bottle clasped in her hand.
He had not seen it before closing his eyes, she was sure, though she had held it all the while she sang and ran her hand through his hair. If he had only glanced up, he would have seen it.
One drop was all that was needed. Inserted into his ear, and he would never wake up. He would be at peace, young and beautiful and free, forever.
There would be no going back once the droplet of poison entered his brain. She knew this, though her terrified mind refused to accept it. Once the poison entered him through his ear, he would be dead, and a piece of her would surely die with him. She was doing the right thing, and damn whatever happened to her because of it. She did this for her son, not for herself.
Sibylla continued singing, forcing back the tears forming in her eyes. She could not afford to wake him. She knew that if she did, she would never be able to prepare herself for this again, would never do what she must.
For his sake, not Jerusalem's. Even if she knew in her heart that Guy would seize power the moment her son was dead, would foolishly go against all that her brother had believed in-would go against Saladdin, it made no difference to her. Her son would be saved.
Enough of her people had died for Jerusalem, and she would have her son die for something else.
The red drop, so like blood it made her cringe, slid into his earlobe, and still Sibylla sang, still she ran her hands through his hair as if this was just another afternoon nap.
The bottle was held fast in her hand, top still open, and she sang through blurred eyes.
She knew the moment he was gone, passed on into the kingdom of heaven. His little body went horribly still in her arms, the soft breathing against her henna covered hand disappearing altogether. His heart had ceased to flutter against her.
He looked to all the world as though he were still sleeping, so peaceful and calm, and she might not have known otherwise had she not felt his little life evaporate herself.
And Sibylla allowed one tear to slip down her cheek, dribble down her neck to her collarbone. More followed after that, and these she could not hold back. Silent tears, staining her pale skin and wetting her son's hair.
As if the skies mourned the loss of the little King of Jerusalem as well, rain slapped in loud, heavy droplets onto the tiles before her, until she was no longer sure whether the wetness on her cheeks was caused by tears or rain, and whether the rain was not heaven weeping with her.
And then Sibylla allowed loud, wrenching sobs to overtake her, alerting the servants that something was dreadfully wrong. By the time they and the guards arrived, the little bottle that held poison was gone, hidden away once more.
Sibylla would never use it again, she vowed to herself.
She had damned Jerusalem, and, in doing so, herself, but it mattered not.
A curse lay upon the Kings of Jerusalem, and she cared not whether it passed to Guy when he was made its King. He would be a far more fitting subject for that curse than her innocent, beautiful son.