Fate | Baldwin IV

christmas

In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the midnight mass had begun. The tolling of the bells faded into silence, and the hymn of the choir rose instead.

The people of Jerusalem had gathered outside the church in their finest attire as night fell, some with candles in their hands, most with nothing but themselves; not all were wealthy enough to afford candles when they were already scarce to begin with. Yet inside the church, they were everywhere. Masses of candles and almost hundreds of flames—including the ones borrowed from the palace and the Templar keep—stretched endlessly, placed along the walls and rows through the nave, the warmth of their light reaching every corner, turning the church into a beacon against the cold winter darkness.

A thick scent of frankincense surrounded us as we entered through the open doors, following Patriarch Heraclius and the royal retinue bearing the banners of Jerusalem. The people outside watched in awe, pushing each other to come as close as they could without being warned by the king's household knights and the Templars flanking us, those with candles shielding the flames with their hands from the wind as they took a nervous step back into the crowd before they were forcefully pushed to the side. Mothers held out their newborn children for a blessing on this night that the Holy doors would open, beggars reached out to desperately hold the hand of the patriarch as he passed by. None, however, dared to reach for the king. They kept their distance from him, not because of their fear of what he was but because he carried himself with the intensity of a monarch, and they wouldn't approach him as easily and carelessly, the same way they didn't approach me. I was the heavily pregnant queen, guarded and untouchable, the most fragile figure in the royal procession.

The crowd inside rose to their feet the moment we appeared at the door, bowing one by one as we passed down the central aisle behind Heraclius. Altar boys had prepared the sacred vessels already, silently waiting for the patriarch to come and take his position before the Cross to begin his sermon.

Finally, we reached the altar, and stood beside Heraclius on the dais while the rest of the royal procession gathered just beyond the Cross, in the designated area reserved for the royal family. Agnes was given the concession to stand among them, next to her daughter Sibylla and her family of three. None were aware of the news from earlier. The king hadn't told anyone of Raynald's disobedience, and I wasn't sure if he wished to make it known at all.

As they settled at the back, my gaze wandered across the vast crowd, truly having a chance to take it all in. The gathering consisted not only of the nobles and the clergy, but a group of humble commoners standing close to the patriarch at the front too. Holy doors were open for all to enter tonight, rich and poor alike.

The patriarch raised the censer and incensed the Gospel as the choir continued their chant, their voices echoing from the dome above. The sound was heavenly, one I did not know I had been yearning for all along. And as I stood there, lost in the divine feeling of it, I asked myself if this awe of mine was simply for the grandeur which I was surrounded with, or was it truly Jesus' presence, as everyone around me believed to be among us in the house of God?

For days, I had been caught up in politics and the threats of the enemy more than ever, unable to rest and connect with the Holy spirit. And with the stress of my upcoming childbirth and the breach in truce, I'd completely forgotten what it was like to take my time to pray and appreciate the beauty around me.

Then suddenly, as I blankly looked over the sea of faces staring at me, I felt a hand upon my belly, gently reminding me to be present in the moment. A slow, grounding touch that made my breath hitch. I turned slightly, and looked up at him—the king in white, standing beside me.

He didn't look at me fully, only out of the corner of his eye—from what I could see from the mask, that is. I expected to hear a witty remark uttered from under the breath or a quick reassurance that all will be well, though I am now unsure of why I would ever need reassurance for something that would obviously never be anything other than well, especially when that something is as holy and joyous as Christmas, but nevertheless—he didn't say anything. Not one word.