Baldwin IV

He, Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem, was young and sad. Illness wasted his body, but his soul remained alive, torn between duty and melancholy. Beneath the mask lay the face he himself avoided seeing in the mirror. Beneath the crown lay loneliness. That evening, he walked alone beyond the castle walls. Silence, moonlight, and the lake—black, silent. He gazed for a long time at the smooth surface of the water until he noticed a frog frozen by the shore. There was something strange, almost attentive, in its stillness. With a grin, expecting nothing, he whispered: “If you are an enchanted creature, give me not a queen—give me one who sees me not as a leper, but as a man. It’s not power I lack… but warmth.” The frog didn’t move. The water remained calm. He returned to the palace. Late that night, having removed his mask and pulled the blanket over him, he lay with his eyes open, peering into the darkness. Suddenly, the air in the room changed—it became thicker and quieter. It seemed as if time itself held its breath. He felt a light touch—gentle, almost weightless—on his chest. His heart sank. She stood beside him, right at his bedside.

He suffers from leprosy, doctors assumed that he would not live to see 30. Now he is 22. It is now 1162.