Summary: Forced into an arranged marriage with Jerusalem’s mysterious King Baldwin IV, you expect a loveless life beside a cursed king hidden behind a silver mask. Instead, you discover a man of extraordinary kindness, wisdom, and strength.
The journey to Jerusalem felt like a funeral.
Not because anyone had died, but because someone had decided your life for you.
You stared out the carriage window as the sun painted the Holy Land in gold. The hills stretched endlessly beneath the heavens, beautiful enough to inspire poets. You hated every one of them. Your father had called it an honour.
“To become Queen of Jerusalem.”
“To marry King Baldwin himself.”
Honour. Duty. Peace between kingdoms.
No one had once asked what you wanted. You were a princess. Your heart had never belonged to you.
Rumours reached you long before the city walls.
The king was cursed. The king wore a silver mask. The king was terrifying.
By the time Jerusalem’s gates opened in front of you, you had already convinced yourself you would be marrying a ghost.
Your first meeting with Baldwin was not at court. It was in the palace library.
You had escaped the endless welcoming feast, desperate for silence, wandering through corridors until shelves of books rose around you.
“You dislike celebrations.”
The voice startled you. It was… soft. Measured. Intelligent.
You turned around, and he stood near the window, sunlight caught on his white robes embroidered with crosses. His face was hidden behind the famous silver mask, only his blue eyes were visible.
They were not frightening. They looked tired.
“You should announce yourself before speaking,” you replied sharply.
“I wished to know who you were before everyone else told me.”
His answer caught you off guard. He stepped closer.
“I am Baldwin.”
“As if I could mistake you.”
A small laugh escaped him. Amused.
“I imagine I am rather recognisable.”
There was no bitterness. No self-pity. Just acceptance. You had expected a king who demanded obedience.
Instead he asked, “What book were you searching for?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You came to hide.”
“…Perhaps.”
“So did I.”
You stared.
“A king hides?”
He looked toward the window.
“A man may hide, even if he wears a crown.”
For the first time since you left your home, you smiled.
Weeks became months.
The wedding was delayed under the excuse of politics.
In truth… Neither of you objected.
Baldwin preferred knowing you before binding you to him.
“I would rather earn your trust,” he admitted one evening while the two of you overlooked Jerusalem from the palace walls.
“You assume you haven’t.”
“I assume arranged marriages begin with resentment.”
“They do.”
“And ours?”
You looked at him.
“…Mine did.”
He nodded.
“I thought as much.”
No anger. No disappointment.
Only honesty.
He taught you chess. You never won, not because he was king, but because he thought ten moves ahead.
“You sacrifice too quickly,” he told you.
“You sacrifice nothing.”
“I sacrifice pieces that may be replaced.”
“And people?”
His hand paused over the board.
“I sacrifice myself before my people.”
You looked into his eyes, he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.
He meant every word.
Some nights you read to him. His fingers slowly lost sensation, turning pages became difficult, so you did it for him.
Sometimes he corrected historians. Sometimes he laughed at old philosophers. Sometimes he asked impossible questions.
“If Heaven exists…” You looked up from the book. “…do you believe we remain ourselves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would a king still be a king?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would illness remain?”
“No.”
“I hope not.”
The first time you saw him without the mask was an accident.
His physician had just finished changing bandages when the old man hurried away to fetch medicine. The door remained open.
“Baldwin?”
No answer. You stepped inside. He sat in front of the mirror.
Without silver.
Without protection.
The disease had stolen so much.
Scars. Pale skin. Damaged features. Hands wrapped in linen.
He saw your reflection.
For a long moment… Neither of you spoke.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have-”
“You’ve seen.” His voice was calm. “So now you know why ambassadors avoid my gaze.”
You crossed the room before fear could stop you, he expected you to recoil. Instead… you knelt before him.
“I see a man. A very tired man.”
His shoulders trembled. Just slightly. No one had said such words to him in years. You reached for his bandaged hand.
He hesitated, then allowed it.
“I was afraid,” he admitted.
“Of me?”
“No.”
His thumb barely brushed yours.
“Of disappointing you.”
Your eyes filled with tears.
“You never could.”
It happened after that.
You fell in love.
Not all at once, piece by piece. The way dawn slowly replaces darkness.
You loved the way he remembered every servant’s name.
You loved how children were never afraid of him.
You loved the way he quoted scholars from memory.
The way he never lied to comfort anyone.
The way he prayed not for himself… But for Jerusalem.
You loved him.
Entirely, hopelessly and you realised it… far too late.
His illness worsened with cruel speed.
Walking became impossible. Meetings shortened. The physicians whispered outside his chambers.
No one smiled anymore. You refused to hear what everyone already knew.
Until one morning, his sister met you outside his room. Tears stained her face.
“He asked for you.”
The chamber smelled of incense. Candles flickered against stone walls.
Baldwin lay under white blankets, breathing slowly. He turned his head as you entered.
“My princess.”
His voice was barely louder than the candles. You rushed to him.
“No.”
He smiled weakly.
“You always hated that title.”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t anymore.” You took his hand. It felt cold. “I should have told you sooner.”
He looked at you with quiet curiosity.
“Told me what?”
Your composure shattered.
“I love you.”
The words escaped with sobs.
“I was stubborn and angry. I thought this marriage had stolen my future.” Tears streamed freely down your face. “And then you became my future.”
He closed his eyes. As if he was savouring the words.
“I have loved you… for so long. You deserved more than a dying king.”
“I deserved you.”
He struggled to lift his hand. You helped him. His fingertips brushed your cheek.
“So beautiful…” he whispered.
“When you leave…” Your voice broke. “…don’t be afraid.” He looked at you. “In Heaven…” You smiled through tears. “…there will be no silver mask. No pain and no illness. I’ll recognise you.”
“You will?”
“I’ll find you. And this time there will be no kingdoms. No treaties. No arranged marriage. Only you and me.”
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
“I should like to choose you.”
His eyes softened, then, with the last strength he had.
“I love you.”
The room became impossibly still. His hand relaxed within yours. The candles continued burning.
Outside, Jerusalem carried on.
Inside… A king departed this world.
Years later, pilgrims often found an older queen kneeling in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
She never remarried. Never wore another man’s ring. Whenever they asked why, she only smiled.
“Because I have already promised my next life.”
Then she would look upward toward the stained-glass light filtering through the ancient stone.
Summary: Forced into an arranged marriage with Jerusalem’s mysterious King Baldwin IV, you expect a loveless life beside a cursed king hidden behind a silver mask. Instead, you discover a man of extraordinary kindness, wisdom, and strength.
The journey to Jerusalem felt like a funeral.
Not because anyone had died, but because someone had decided your life for you.
You stared out the carriage window as the sun painted the Holy Land in gold. The hills stretched endlessly beneath the heavens, beautiful enough to inspire poets. You hated every one of them. Your father had called it an honour.
“To become Queen of Jerusalem.”
“To marry King Baldwin himself.”
Honour. Duty. Peace between kingdoms.
No one had once asked what you wanted. You were a princess. Your heart had never belonged to you.
Rumours reached you long before the city walls.
The king was cursed. The king wore a silver mask. The king was terrifying.
By the time Jerusalem’s gates opened in front of you, you had already convinced yourself you would be marrying a ghost.
Your first meeting with Baldwin was not at court. It was in the palace library.
You had escaped the endless welcoming feast, desperate for silence, wandering through corridors until shelves of books rose around you.
“You dislike celebrations.”
The voice startled you. It was… soft. Measured. Intelligent.
You turned around, and he stood near the window, sunlight caught on his white robes embroidered with crosses. His face was hidden behind the famous silver mask, only his blue eyes were visible.
They were not frightening. They looked tired.
“You should announce yourself before speaking,” you replied sharply.
“I wished to know who you were before everyone else told me.”
His answer caught you off guard. He stepped closer.
“I am Baldwin.”
“As if I could mistake you.”
A small laugh escaped him. Amused.
“I imagine I am rather recognisable.”
There was no bitterness. No self-pity. Just acceptance. You had expected a king who demanded obedience.
Instead he asked, “What book were you searching for?”
“I wasn’t.”
“You came to hide.”
“…Perhaps.”
“So did I.”
You stared.
“A king hides?”
He looked toward the window.
“A man may hide, even if he wears a crown.”
For the first time since you left your home, you smiled.
Weeks became months.
The wedding was delayed under the excuse of politics.
In truth… Neither of you objected.
Baldwin preferred knowing you before binding you to him.
“I would rather earn your trust,” he admitted one evening while the two of you overlooked Jerusalem from the palace walls.
“You assume you haven’t.”
“I assume arranged marriages begin with resentment.”
“They do.”
“And ours?”
You looked at him.
“…Mine did.”
He nodded.
“I thought as much.”
No anger. No disappointment.
Only honesty.
He taught you chess. You never won, not because he was king, but because he thought ten moves ahead.
“You sacrifice too quickly,” he told you.
“You sacrifice nothing.”
“I sacrifice pieces that may be replaced.”
“And people?”
His hand paused over the board.
“I sacrifice myself before my people.”
You looked into his eyes, he wasn’t speaking metaphorically.
He meant every word.
Some nights you read to him. His fingers slowly lost sensation, turning pages became difficult, so you did it for him.
Sometimes he corrected historians. Sometimes he laughed at old philosophers. Sometimes he asked impossible questions.
“If Heaven exists…” You looked up from the book. “…do you believe we remain ourselves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would a king still be a king?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would illness remain?”
“No.”
“I hope not.”
The first time you saw him without the mask was an accident.
His physician had just finished changing bandages when the old man hurried away to fetch medicine. The door remained open.
“Baldwin?”
No answer. You stepped inside. He sat in front of the mirror.
Without silver.
Without protection.
The disease had stolen so much.
Scars. Pale skin. Damaged features. Hands wrapped in linen.
He saw your reflection.
For a long moment… Neither of you spoke.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t have-”
“You’ve seen.” His voice was calm. “So now you know why ambassadors avoid my gaze.”
You crossed the room before fear could stop you, he expected you to recoil. Instead… you knelt before him.
“I see a man. A very tired man.”
His shoulders trembled. Just slightly. No one had said such words to him in years. You reached for his bandaged hand.
He hesitated, then allowed it.
“I was afraid,” he admitted.
“Of me?”
“No.”
His thumb barely brushed yours.
“Of disappointing you.”
Your eyes filled with tears.
“You never could.”
It happened after that.
You fell in love.
Not all at once, piece by piece. The way dawn slowly replaces darkness.
You loved the way he remembered every servant’s name.
You loved how children were never afraid of him.
You loved the way he quoted scholars from memory.
The way he never lied to comfort anyone.
The way he prayed not for himself… But for Jerusalem.
You loved him.
Entirely, hopelessly and you realised it… far too late.
His illness worsened with cruel speed.
Walking became impossible. Meetings shortened. The physicians whispered outside his chambers.
No one smiled anymore. You refused to hear what everyone already knew.
Until one morning, his sister met you outside his room. Tears stained her face.
“He asked for you.”
The chamber smelled of incense. Candles flickered against stone walls.
Baldwin lay under white blankets, breathing slowly. He turned his head as you entered.
“My princess.”
His voice was barely louder than the candles. You rushed to him.
“No.”
He smiled weakly.
“You always hated that title.”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t anymore.” You took his hand. It felt cold. “I should have told you sooner.”
He looked at you with quiet curiosity.
“Told me what?”
Your composure shattered.
“I love you.”
The words escaped with sobs.
“I was stubborn and angry. I thought this marriage had stolen my future.” Tears streamed freely down your face. “And then you became my future.”
He closed his eyes. As if he was savouring the words.
“I have loved you… for so long. You deserved more than a dying king.”
“I deserved you.”
He struggled to lift his hand. You helped him. His fingertips brushed your cheek.
“So beautiful…” he whispered.
“When you leave…” Your voice broke. “…don’t be afraid.” He looked at you. “In Heaven…” You smiled through tears. “…there will be no silver mask. No pain and no illness. I’ll recognise you.”
“You will?”
“I’ll find you. And this time there will be no kingdoms. No treaties. No arranged marriage. Only you and me.”
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
“I should like to choose you.”
His eyes softened, then, with the last strength he had.
“I love you.”
The room became impossibly still. His hand relaxed within yours. The candles continued burning.
Outside, Jerusalem carried on.
Inside… A king departed this world.
Years later, pilgrims often found an older queen kneeling in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
She never remarried. Never wore another man’s ring. Whenever they asked why, she only smiled.
“Because I have already promised my next life.”
Then she would look upward toward the stained-glass light filtering through the ancient stone.
“I want Louis Antoine de Saint-Just to throw me on my bed, rip my panties off, and let him dominate me. I want him to ram his cock in to me so hard that I cry.“
i hate when you tell somebody Everything will be ok and they have a bitchy nihilistic answer. oh my god okay you can go wallow in your misery for the rest of time if you'd prefer but some of us want to be happy
Yesterday, Maeve stepped out to smoke, and I accompanied her.
We have a Hatsune Miku flag on our wall.
She regarded it and said, "My friend has a Teto Flag in their home," except Maeve is a rivethead from New Jersey and doesn't really do weebery, so she pronounces "Teto" as "Tee-Toh" vice "Teh-Toh".
I stood there like, "A Tito Flag?"
"Yeah, a Tito Flag."
"Like—... Is she a Yugoslav Nationalist?"
"No. No — Tito, like the Vocaloid girl. The red one."
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