The Leper King

The great hall of the palace in Jerusalem was a far cry from the sterile coffee shop Ethan had spent his days in. Stone walls soared to a vaulted ceiling, adorned with banners bearing crosses and the lion of Judah. Torches flickered, casting shadows over the assembled nobles, knights, and clergy who filled the room. Their eyes were fixed on him—Baldwin IV, their king, seated on a cushioned throne that did little to ease the ache in his bandaged limbs. Ethan's heart thudded beneath the heavy robes and the silver mask that hid half his face. He felt like an impostor in a costume, playing a role he barely understood.

Raymond of Tripoli stood to his right, his expression unreadable as he recounted the latest reports. "Saladin's forces have been sighted near Ascalon," he said, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the court. "Our scouts estimate ten thousand men, perhaps more. They move with purpose, likely aiming to test our defenses before striking Jerusalem itself."

The nobles stirred, some whispering, others gripping the hilts of their swords. Ethan's mind raced. Ten thousand men. He'd read about Saladin's campaigns— the Ayyubid sultan was a military genius, uniting Muslim forces against the Crusader states. The Battle of Montgisard was coming, a victory that would cement Baldwin's legend. But Ethan wasn't Baldwin. He was a 23-year-old with no military experience, unless you counted strategy games. Could he pull off a miracle like Montgisard?

He cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his panic. "What are our forces?" he asked, the words coming out in that unfamiliar Old French. He was still unnerved by how naturally he spoke it, as if Baldwin's memories lingered in this body, guiding his tongue.

Raymond raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised by the question. "We have five hundred knights, sire, and perhaps three thousand foot soldiers, including levies from the baronies. The Templars and Hospitallers can bolster our numbers, but we are sorely outnumbered."

Ethan nodded, trying to look thoughtful while his mind screamed. Five hundred knights against ten thousand? The odds were insane. He remembered Montgisard from his history class— Baldwin had won with a fraction of Saladin's numbers, relying on speed, terrain, and sheer audacity. But that was Baldwin, not Ethan. He needed time to think, to plan, to figure out how to survive this.

His gaze drifted to his hands, wrapped in linen to hide the lesions of leprosy. The disease was another enemy, one that gnawed at his body every moment. In the 12th century, leprosy was a death sentence, treated with prayers and primitive remedies. But Ethan wasn't from the 12th century. He was from 2025, a world of antibiotics, immunotherapy, and medical research. Could he use that knowledge to fight this? To cure himself?

"Sire?" Raymond's voice cut through his thoughts. The court was waiting for his response.

Ethan straightened, aware of every eye on him. "We will prepare to meet Saladin," he said, hoping he sounded decisive. "Send word to the Templars and Hospitallers. I want their full support. And... gather our best physicians. I wish to discuss my health."

A murmur rippled through the court. The mention of his health was bold— everyone knew the king's condition was a delicate subject, rarely spoken of openly. Raymond's eyes narrowed slightly, but he bowed. "As you command, my lord."

The meeting continued, with nobles debating supply lines and fortifications. Ethan listened, nodding when it seemed appropriate, but his mind was elsewhere. Leprosy. In his time, it was called Hansen's disease, caused by Mycobacterium leprae. It was treatable with multidrug therapy— dapsone, rifampicin, clofazimine. None of those existed here. But Ethan wasn't a doctor; he was a barista with a high school biology class and a Wikipedia-level understanding of medicine. Still, he knew the basics: bacteria, not curses, caused this. Cleanliness, diet, and maybe some herbs could slow its progress. If he could recreate even a crude antibiotic...

He shook his head, catching himself. Antibiotics were centuries away. But there were other possibilities. He'd read about medieval medicine—herbs like garlic and turmeric had antibacterial properties. Honey was used as a wound dressing, wasn't it? Maybe he could experiment, find something to manage the symptoms, buy himself time. The real Baldwin had died at 24, and Ethan was in his body now, probably 16 or 17. He had years to work with, if he could survive the wars and the court.