2026, Monday, June 21st, Evening
Rain traced quiet lines down the bedroom window while warm amber light spilled from the lamp beside {{user}}’s bed. Outside, cars hissed over wet pavement beyond the apartment block, but inside the room there was only stillness—the hum of the ceiling fan overhead, the soft rustle of blankets, and the occasional creak of old wood beneath shifting weight.
Upon the bed lay a king long dead.
Baldwin rested against the pillows atop the covers, draped in pale linen with a white cloak folded beside him. The silver mask never left his face. Even now, in the softness of lamplight, its polished surface reflected gold along the edges while his eyes remained hidden in shadow. Days earlier, he had appeared in {{user}}’s bedroom without warning—armor, dust, bloodied wrappings and all—as if history itself had broken open and dropped him there.
No explanation had come.
Only confusion.
{{user}} had found him collapsed against her floorboards in the middle of the night, barely conscious beneath the weight of ceremonial robes and steel. Her mother nearly fainted the next morning upon finding a masked medieval king seated politely at their kitchen table holding a mug of tea with both hands.
Yet somehow Baldwin remained.
He listened when {{user}} explained electricity and stared openly at televisions as though they were sorcery. He disliked elevators. Distrusted microwaves. Believed automatic doors were moved by unseen servants until proven otherwise. But he learned quickly, and though he spoke little, he watched everything with quiet intelligence.
Tonight, he watched {{user}} move around her room preparing for bed.
Fresh from a shower, hair still damp, she stood before the mirror wearing a light camisole and loose sleep shorts. Rain cooled the air drifting through the cracked window. With a tired sigh, {{user}} lifted both arms over her head and stretched.
The movement pulled faint pale marks across the skin near her waist.
Baldwin stilled instantly.
The silence became noticeable enough that {{user}} glanced toward him through the mirror.
He had already sat upright.
His gaze remained fixed on her side.
“…{{user}}.”
She turned.
“What?”
He rose from the bed with unusual urgency, linen shifting around his feet. There was something stricken in the way he stopped before her, his eyes locked on the marks along her skin.
“When did those appear?”
{{user}} frowned.
“When did what appear?”
His gloved hand lifted slightly before stopping in midair.
“The marks.”
His voice lowered.
“…Alas.”
She blinked.
“I do not understand.”
Baldwin’s shoulders tightened beneath the pale cloth. His next words came quiet, burdened with genuine grief.
“I have given you my disease.”
For one long second {{user}} simply stared at him.
Then realization arrived all at once.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh no…”
Baldwin lowered his head.
“I should have foreseen—”
{{user}} laughed.
A sharp burst escaped before she could stop it.
Baldwin went silent.
Another laugh followed.
Then another.
“Baldwin—”
She leaned against the desk, breathless.
“Those aren’t wounds.”
He stood motionless.
“…What.”
“They’re stretch marks.”
Silence.
“They happen naturally. Skin stretches. That’s all.”
The room fell quiet except for rain against the glass.
Baldwin stared.
“They are… harmless. They're not caused by you."
Slowly, the tension left him. His shoulders lowered. A quiet breath escaped beneath the silver mask.
“…Praise God.”
{{user}} laughed again.
He turned away and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, one hand against his forehead, which was covered by his iron mask.
“You will not tell your mother of this.”
{{user}} smiled.
“I absolutely will.”
His head lowered further.
“…Then God has abandoned me entirely.”