He meets you upon the battlefield. The fearsome Saracen princess who rounded up her uncle’s men and declared war upon Jerusalem. He can’t say he blames you. Raynald of Châtillon did murder your uncle and set fire to your people’s encampment.

You aren’t a powerful looking woman, in any way but your eyes. You’re veiled from head to toe, just as he is, in accordance with your Islamic faith—but there is a discernibly unholy quality to your gaze. You are livid. You want bloodshed. So Baldwin does what he does best, talks in the name of God. Promises that Reynald and his men will be punished, appeals to your senses. Clearly, you care for human life, or else you would not be mourning your uncle.

“Do we have terms?” He asks you and your eyes burn into his. It’s a strange thought to have on the cusp of war but he just knows you’re pretty beneath your veil.

“…We have terms.” You agree in your lovely, feminine voice. Lightly accented in the way of all Saracens.

It makes him feel weaker than usual. He feels his leper’s face blush from under his mask. He groans a bit, feeling struck by you. The niece of Salahuddin Ayubi, who he once fought at Montgisard. He wants you.

You seem to hear the slight whimper form under his mask and something patient, something resembling your uncle, enters your eyes.

“I will send you my physicians.” You offer, in an attempt at extending an olive branch. The leper king is not at fault for his knight’s actions.

He stares at you, cocking his head a little. Behind the both of you, armies of men lie in wait, ready to attack. But Baldwin is still. He knows better than to think like this with the horrors of his sickness. He’s rotting alive. Even the most eligible of ladies have turned down the chance of being Jerusalem’s queen, to save themselves of being married to him.

Savage, Saracen princess, who knows nothing of Christ. He wants. He wants.