#koh

[baldwinkisser]

if leprous crusader king that died 850 years ago why boyfriend shaped

[ann-hedonia-999]

The fact that 20 years later a side character who was in the movie for just 10 minutes is not only infinitely more popular than the lead but also has an active and devoted fan base proves how special he is 🤍

[ranminfan]

Jerusalem has come.

I liked the muted version

[chocolateneckoafpersona]

WEDDING BELLS

The bells of Jerusalem rang so loud the stones themselves seemed to vibrate. The whole city, noble and commoner alike, crowded into the great square, filling every balcony, every rooftop, every step of every staircase. Flowers showered from windows. Banners in gold and white fluttered from the towers.

It was the day they had all waited for. The day the young king married the woman who had stolen his heart long before he ever wore a crown.

Inside the courtyard of the palace, I stood at the top of the long steps leading down to the open square where the ceremony platform waited. My dress was simple for a queen, cream and gold, embroidered by the women who had raised me, but it looked like something sacred.

When the trumpets sounded, the crowd silenced as if the world held its breath.

I stepped forward. The moment I appeared, a wave of sound rose like thunder.

“Isabella! Isabella! Beautiful Lady!” “Our queen!” someone shouted from somewhere deep in the crowd, making laughter ripple everywhere.

I flushed, but smiled, that bright, warm smile that made people feel I was one of them. I lifted a hand and blew a kiss toward the noise, which only made the cheering grow even louder.

But my eyes were fixed ahead. On Baldwin.

He stood beneath the arch of woven olive branches, dressed in white and silver armor polished for the occasion. The sun lit his brown hair, the golden mantle across his shoulders, and the quiet, steady pride in his posture.

But when he saw me approaching, slowly, gracefully, step by step, something in him softened visibly. His lips curved into a smile meant only for me.

When I reached him, he took both my hands immediately, his thumbs brushing lightly over my knuckles. I brushed his hands too carefully, first signs of his illness started showing in his hands.

“I think the people like you more than their king,” he whispered, eyes playful.

I raised a brow. “Should I be worried this marriage is only political?”

He leaned in just slightly. “Not political. Desperate.”

I laughed under my breath, squeezing his hands. “Desperate for what?”

“For you,” he whispered, softly enough that only I could hear.

The High Patriarch stepped forward, lifting his staff. The crowd fell silent again, though me and Baldwin never once looked away from each other.

The priest spoke, but we barely heard him. Our world had narrowed to two sets of hands joined tightly, and two hearts pounding enough to fill our ears.

“Do you, Baldwin, son of Amalric, take this woman, Isabella, to be your lawful wife, your partner in rule, your comfort in sorrow, and your joy in life?”

Baldwin looked at me with such tenderness it almost broke me.

“I do. With all that I am.”

My breath caught.

“And do you, Isabella, take Baldwin, King of Jerusalem, as your husband, to stand beside him, to counsel him, to honor him, and to love him all the days of your life?”

I swallowed softly and said, without hesitation:

“I do. With my whole heart.”

The priest handed us two rings, gold, carved with the sigils of the families. Baldwin slid mine onto my finger slowly, reverently. When I slid his onto his hand, my thumb lingered on his skin.

A murmur passed through the crowd at the intimacy of the gesture.

“By the grace of God,” the Patriarch announced, “you are husband and wife. King and queen.”

Baldwin didn’t wait. He cupped my face with both hands and kissed me, deeply, fiercely, lovingly.

The crowd erupted. Cheers shook the heavens. Women cried. Men hammered fists on shields. Children shouted our name.

When we finally pulled apart, both breathless and smiling, we stayed forehead-to-forehead for a moment, lost in our own world.

Then Baldwin whispered teasingly:

“Face the people, my love, before they think we’ve forgotten them entirely.”

I laughed and slipped my arm through his. Behind us, attendants placed the crowns, heavy, radiant, onto our heads.

“Long live the King and Queen!” “Long live Baldwin and Lady Isabella!” “Isabella, you are too beautiful! Marry me instead!” someone shouted again.

I grinned, tossed my hair lightly, and blew another kiss to the troublemaker. Baldwin glanced at the crowd, smirking.

“Careful,” he called out in a playful warning, “she’s mine now.”

The laughter of the city rose like music.

┄ 

The celebration took place in the central square, lit with lanterns and lined with tables overflowing with bread, roasted lamb, fruits, dates, honey cakes, and wine.

Baldwin and I walked among the people, not above them, talking, laughing, sharing food offered by villagers, dancing with children. My hand never left his arm.

As evening fell, musicians began to play, and Baldwin pulled me gently into the center of the square.

“Dance with me, my queen.”

“Always.”

We moved together easily, effortlessly, my hand on his chest, his hand at my waist. The people cheered every time he twirled me, every time I laughed.

“Lady! Beautiful Lady!” someone shouted again.

I looked over, laughing, and made a playful bow of my head.

Baldwin raised a brow at the crowd. "You keep praising her like this, and I may start getting jealous.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

“You? Jealous?” I looked up at him teasingly.

He leaned closer. “Of anyone who looks at my wife the way I do.”

My heart melted a little at that. Wife.

┄ 

At last, the celebrations faded. The people drifted home. The palace grew quiet again.

Baldwin led me to our chamber, warm, softly lit by fire, the table set with fruit, wine, sweet pastries, figs dipped in honey. I laughed softly.

“They prepared a feast for two.”

“They know my wife eats as fiercely as she fights.” he said, lifting a grape to my lips.

I bit it, smiling.

We settled by the fire, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing wine and fruit, speaking in low voices, laughing softly, whispering everything we hadn’t been able to say in public.

My head rested on his shoulder.

“We don’t have to feel guilty anymore,” I teased. “About… all the things we did before this.”

Baldwin grinned against my hair. “God will be relieved, I think.”

“You’re hopeless...” I slapped his arm playfully.

“Hopelessly in love with you, perhaps.”

I blushed, leaning up to kiss him softly.

That kiss deepened. His hand slid gently along my jaw, mine around his neck. The world grew quieter, smaller, warmer. The fire crackled as if in approval.

When he whispered, “Come here,” and lifted me in his arms, I laughed breathlessly against his throat.

He carried me to the bed, still kissing me, still smiling against my skin.

Nothing more needs to be said. We lay wrapped in each other, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on my arm. I kissed his collarbone sleepily, and he held me closer.

“Wife,” he whispered, trying the word out.

“Husband.” I smiled drowsily.

He exhaled, content. “Sleep, my heart.”

And we did, tangled together, safe, warm, and completely ours.

[tobeahundred]

They Say Partridges Sing Only For Forgotten Kings

Chapter Four: Only Owls Keep a Ledger of the Night

Lessons in Tyre: how to rule, how to negotiate, how to shave your head after a failed infiltration.

Lessons in Acre: how to grind mustard, how to manage cats, how to hold a grudge.

Baldwin and Cecilia are learning fast, just not the same things.

There was something about Tyre that made even a prince feel small. The journey had been a wet one now that winter had deepened its hold on the Levant. Their retinue left a week after Baldwin’s father had set out for Nablus, with William keeping his constant watch on his ward. Najm had been eager to stretch his legs on this trip; an eagerness that Baldwin well shared, even as the rain came and went in grey curtains across the hills. From Acre, they’d skirted the River Belus, and the Samariyeh hills had rolled beneath their horses without care or concern. They spent an hour crossing through a rivulet near Achzib (now higher than it ought to have been), where Baldwin watched a family of ducks try to peck at them as they passed. These birds usually migrated south to the Levant come Autumn, drawn to those temperate coastal waters where winter rains turn marshes into lush feed, and this year’s rains had been particularly generous. Baldwin considered going in for a closer look only to find that one duckling in particular seemed intent on making itself a problem. He couldn’t stay long to observe though, Abul’Khair had urged them all onward despite Baldwin’s great fascination. It was imperative to reach the city before the sun would set, with the rain already arriving ahead of schedule and running cold beneath their cloaks.

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Title cards illustrated by the talented @beruruionee

[moethh]

who up balding they win

[chocolateneckoafpersona]

I STILL LOVE YOU

The corridors of the palace were silent when I returned. The air was heavy with the warmth of the desert night, and every torch along the stone walls seemed to flicker in anticipation as I passed. My steps echoed softly, the silk of my gown whispering against the marble.

It had been months, too many months, since I had last walked this path. All the time I have been away helping my father felt like eternity without him. Too many nights of letters unanswered, of wondering what face my husband now showed to the world… or if he showed any at all.

I heard about the iron mask, the gloves, the stillness. When we parted he already wore a veil to hide hald of his face where the ilness got to him. But it seems it only got worse.

When I reached the end of the long corridor, the guards straightened. Two Templar knights in white cloaks barred the door.

“His Majesty is not receiving visitors,” one of them said gently, though his tone carried the steel of duty.

I lifted my chin, though my voice was soft. “He will.”

They hesitated, glanced at each other, then stepped aside, after all none dared to refuse the queen. The door opened without ceremony.

Inside, the chamber was dimly lit. Candles burned low on tall iron stands, their flames bending with the faint breeze from the open window. The scent of myrrh and smoke lingered in the air.

Baldwin stood near the far side of the room, his back half-turned. The silver mask caught the candlelight like a mirror, and for a moment, I saw my own reflection, pale, trembling and uncertain, in the cold gleam of it.

He did not speak right away. When he finally did, his voice came muffled and distant through the mask.

“Bella…”

I smiled faintly, though my heart ached at the sound of him calling my name. I crossed the room in three slow steps, as if moving too fast might break something fragile between us.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day,” I said softly. “They kept telling me you were busy. Or resting. Or… unavailable.”

He turned then, fully. The mask was exquisite, smooth, expressionless, terrible in its beauty. Beneath the candlelight, the hollows of his eyes looked like deep wells.

I took a slow step closer. Then another. The air felt heavy, almost sacred.

“When I left,” I said, “you still showed your face. You smiled. I remember you smiled when you kissed me goodbye.”

He lowered his head slightly.

“When you left,” he murmured, “I still had a face that could be kissed.”

“You still have one,” I whispered.

He gave a sound, not quite laughter, not quite grief. I reached for his hand. He hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. Then he let me.

My fingers closed around the leather of his glove, warm beneath. I squeezed gently, as if reminding him I was real. That we were.

“You didn’t write about this,” I said, my voice steady but low. “The mask. The gloves.”

“No,” he replied “I didn’t want to.”

I looked up at him, really looked. The iron hid his face, but it couldn’t hide the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath seemed measured, careful. I tightened my grip on his hand.

“I don’t care,” I said, for me he was the same man as before his ilness got worse.

He shook his head once.

“You say that now. But you haven’t seen me. Not like this.” His voice roughened, “I see how people look at me when they think I can’t tell. Fear. Discomfort. Pity...” A pause, “I don’t want that from you.”

I stepped closer until there was barely any space between us. "I'm not scared of you,... I don't pity you..."

“You won’t,” she said firmly. “You never have.”

“I can’t even touch you properly anymore,” he said. “These hands—” He lifted them slightly “They’re not what they were. I can’t give you what I used to. I can’t—”

I squeezed his hand harder. He laughed quietly, a hollow sound.

“It is I who pity you now. You deserve more than this broken thing I have become.” he said.

“Enough,” I whispered, he fell silent. “Do not speak that way, you are not broken.”

A long silence followed. The wind stirred the curtains, and somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled.

Slowly, deliberately, I lifted his hand between us and looked at him, searching his eyes.

“May I?” I asked, nodding faintly toward his gloves.

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he nodded.

I exhaled softly, almost reverently, and began to unfasten the leather. My movements were careful, unhurried, as if each second mattered.

When the glove came free, I didn’t react. I simply held his bare hand. Cradled it. My thumb traced the skin gently, naturally, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. His breath caught.

I removed the other glove just as tenderly, brushing my fingers over his knuckles, his palm. Then my hand rose. I stopped just short of his face, of the mask.

Then I said, almost in a whisper, “Let me see you.”

He froze. The room itself seemed to still.

“No,” he said, barely audible. “You do not know what you ask.”

“I do,” I answered. “And I ask it because I love you. Because I have missed you, not this mask, not the king... you.” My voice wavered, “Please.”

For a moment, Baldwin said nothing. Then I saw his shoulders rise and fall, a long, weary breath. Slowly, he nodded.

I lifted my hands. My fingers brushed against the cool edge of the mask. The metal felt foreign, lifeless, nothing like the man beneath it. Cool. solid.

I lifted it away with infinite care. Baldwin closed his eyes.

When the mask came away, I drew in a breath. The candlelight fell gently across his face. Pale, scarred, the marks of his illness visible, cruelly so. But his eyes… his eyes were still my love’s: blue and clear, full of sorrow and pride.

He turned his face slightly, as if to hide.

“Now you see,” he said, his voice raw. “This is what remains of the man you married.”

But I reached out, my hand trembling only once before I touched his cheek. The skin was uneven, rough beneath my fingers. Still, I touched him as I always had, tenderly, reverently.

“There you are,” I murmured.

His eyes opened, searching my face desperately. “You’re not afraid?” he asked.

I leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“No,” I whispered and touched my forehead with his.

“You are still him,” I whispered “Still my husband. My king. The man I chose. The man I love.” My voice trembled just slightly, “You don’t become a stranger just because your body is hurting.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, I thought he would step back. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned faintly into my touch.

“You should not do this,” he murmured.

“Why?”

“Because I am afraid to feel hope again,” he said “I was so afraid you’d look at me and see only this.”

I shook my head gently.

“I see the boy who surprised me in a quiet place,” I said “the king who chose mercy, the man who still looks at me like I’m home...”

A tear slipped from beneath the iron’s absence. I brushed it away with my thumb. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered.

The silence that followed was heavy, but no longer cold. I moved closer, close enough that I could feel his breath, the faint tremor of him. My hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, and I drew him gently into an embrace.

For a long time, neither spoke. I felt the slow, uneven rhythm of his heart beneath the layers of cloth and armor. He held me as though afraid I might vanish.

He let out a long, unsteady breath, part sigh, part release.

When at last he drew back, his eyes glistened faintly in the candlelight. He looked at me as though seeing me for the first time in years.

“You make me believe,” he said quietly, “that even a dying king can still be loved.”

I smiled through my tears.

“Not can,” I said “Is.”

[ranminfan]

Baldwin whenever someone makes a huge mistake and he has to be there in person.