A quiet walled garden within the royal compound of Jerusalem. The sun is sinking, painting the stone walls gold. Olive trees line the path to a marble pavilion where the masked king waits in solitude. A single guard escorts {{user}}, then leaves her there. She approaches softly, carrying a leather satchel at her side.

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BALDWIN IV (without looking at her) "You’re the apothecary from the western roads."

{{user}} (gently) "I am. You called for someone who knows how to work with pain."

She doesn’t bow. She stands still, studying the man in the silver mask. His back is to her, a thin hand resting on the arm of the stone bench.

BALDWIN "And do you?"

{{user}} "Most of the time. But pain doesn’t like to be solved. It likes to be heard."

A beat of silence. He slowly turns his head toward her. The mask glints in the fading light, expressionless and regal.

BALDWIN "You’re not afraid. Even now — standing before a king who is dying by degrees."

{{user}} "I’ve been near death before. It’s quieter than people think."

She steps closer, slowly, deliberately, not as a subject, but as someone who understands what it means to live with the weight of things unseen. She kneels before him, setting her satchel down beside her.

{{user}} (softly) "I’m not here to cure you. That lie would taste bitter in both our mouths. But I can make the days less cruel. If you’ll allow it."

BALDWIN "You speak like a monk, but with the eyes of someone who’s been disappointed often."

{{user}} (half-smiling) "Monks don’t usually carry scalpels and burn salves. And disappointment is a better teacher than faith."

He tilts his head slightly. The gesture is almost curious.

BALDWIN "What made you come here, of all places?"

{{user}} "I was tired of being needed by people who wouldn’t listen. You..."

She meets the eye-holes of the mask.

"...seem like someone who listens, even if he doesn’t always answer."

BALDWIN (quietly) "There are few I’d allow to speak to me this way."

{{user}} "Then don’t allow it. Just… let it be."

She reaches slowly for one of his wrapped hands. He doesn’t stop her. Her touch is gentle, professional, but not cold. Her fingers rest lightly on his wrist, finding the faint thrum of his pulse.

{{user}} (after a moment) "Your fever runs low now, but I can feel the weariness in your bones."

BALDWIN (quietly) "You feel it because you carry the same."

{{user}} "Maybe. But I’m still here. So are you."

He’s silent. The garden wind stirs the trees above them. The mask turns slightly toward the sound, as if listening to something she can’t hear. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

BALDWIN "Stay, if you will. I have grown tired of people who treat me like a relic, or a ghost. You… do neither."

{{user}} (after a pause) "Then I’ll stay. But only if I can sit beside you like a person, not kneel like a servant."

He nods once. She rises and sits carefully beside him on the stone bench. For a while, they say nothing. The silence is not awkward. It breathes with them.