Fate | Baldwin IV

dealings II

Baldwin's POV

"How much longer must we endure these treatments, Suleyman?" I murmured, eyeing the tray of herbs he had put down on the small table beside the bed. "I've told you countless times, I do feel better already."

"That is indeed good news, sire. Very heartening to hear," he replied as his hands worked the mortar and the pestle for the mixture he was preparing for me, the usage of which I did not yet know; if I had to drink it or wash myself with it, if it was for my disease or my malady. "However, I do not believe we should hinder the process of your improvement by traveling so soon." Without pausing his work, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes. "You wish to travel, do you not?"

"Well, there's no point in staying here. It's been more than a week. The enemy does not return." I turned my head away, toward the window on the other side of the room.

It was a fairly large room that I was given, yet without any warmth from the lack of company and the sense of familiarity that I craved so terribly during my stay here. I longed for the comfort of my home, and my own bed.

"Besides, the scenery here bores me. The only thing remotely entertaining to me is the thought of leaving."

"I understand," he said quickly, "I do—and I wish to leave just as your majesty does, but you do understand that the only reason you feel better now is because you're not on the move?" He dumped the ground herbs into a bowl of steaming water before casting me a brief look as if to emphasize his words. "You lie on a warm bed, in a room with cool air, you're washed and dressed in fresh clothes every day, and you're fed the finest meals..."

He turned his attention back to the bowl as he began to stir the mixture briskly with a silver spoon. "Let us not pretend your improvement appeared out of thin air. If you travel now, you'll be sleeping on the hard ground at night, out in the open with no water to wash yourself and nothing to fill your stomach with other than a few loaves of bread. It will undo any recovery and leave you sick all over again."

Gently placing the spoon aside, he covered the bowl with a muslin cloth to let it rest and finally sat down on his chair near the bed, resting his elbows on the armrest as he looked at me with careful eyes. "And—pardon my bluntness—but your majesty can hardly move. How do you expect to travel like this anyway?"

I shrugged. "I can strap myself upright in the saddle. A little help will do. There's always the litter, too, if nothing works."

He sharply exhaled, and leaned closer in near desperation all of a sudden, agitation rippling through his voice. "You've never had this many issues with your mobility before, sire," he said, forcing his voice down but leaving its intensity intact. "Truly, I am concerned."

"Yes, but I'm not sick," I answered, meeting his stare. "It's different. You know that."

"This is worse than fever—or coughing fits—"

"We both know it was only a matter of time, Suleyman," I cut in before he could finish. He only stared back at me as his mouth slowly closed, shoulders sinking a little.

"We knew that someday I'd lose my movements along with my senses too. You knew it, you told me yourself."

"...It didn't have to come so soon." He withdrew himself, but he wasn't retreating. His chin remained raised, as if he was about to play his last cards. "You've pushed yourself too much, sire. It is the truth. Now you want to travel again. The body can only bear so much."

"I had no choice," I reminded him harshly, holding my gaze. "None of this was my desire. But regret changes nothing." My breath escaped unevenly as I turned away. "I want to go home. Even if it means I lose all my strength. I'll have a cane made. I'll rule from bed if I must. Who are you to tell me what to do..."