CHAPTER 179: CHAPTER 179 - THE WEDDING 3

September 18th, 1181 - Jerusalem (sort of)

The instant the vows ended and the prayers began, silence seemed to deepen in the Holy Sepulchre like the intake of breath before a thunderclap. Baldwin, King of Jerusalem, and Constance, now crowned his queen, knelt side by side before the Sepulchre of Christ. Around them, the flicker of torches and candles wavered against stone walls that had witnessed countless generations of devotion. Priests murmured prayers, knights stood with hands clasped upon their sword-hilts, noblewomen bowed their veiled heads.

And then — light.

It began as a shimmer, subtle at first, like sun refracted through glass. Then it thickened, brightened, until Baldwin could no longer see the marble floor beneath his knees. Constance’s hand twitched against his, startled. The air grew still, as though all breath had been stolen from the room.

The priests’ voices faltered. The candle flames froze in place, neither rising nor guttering. Pages mid-step remained as statues. All the motion of the world—every whisper, every shifting robe, every human heartbeat but their own—was stilled.

Baldwin’s breath caught in his throat. He raised his head and looked around.

The congregation was locked in place, as if painted into existence. His sister Sibylla’s lips remained parted in awe, but no sound issued forth. The Patriarch’s hand was raised in blessing, yet it hung suspended as if carved from stone.

"What...?" Constance’s voice trembled, the only voice that moved in that frozen silence. She clutched Baldwin’s hand. "What has happened?"

Baldwin swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs. "Time..." His voice cracked, still hoarse from the vows. "Time has stopped."

The light around them grew, gathering, enfolding. It was not the harsh glare of midday sun, nor the flicker of torches—it was something purer, whiter, yet filled with a thousand hues, like all colors hidden within it. Their bodies felt weightless, drawn upward without their will.

The stone walls of the Sepulchre faded into mist. The great dome dissolved as if it were no more than shadow. In its place stretched an expanse too vast to be called sky, too intimate to be called earth. Baldwin’s vision swam between stars that glimmered like living jewels and meadows of light that rolled as though they were seas.

Constance’s hand gripped his more tightly. Her face, pale yet resolute, turned upward. "Where are we?"

Baldwin opened his mouth, but no answer came. He had thought himself ready for mysteries, had long endured visions in fever-dreams, but nothing prepared him for this.

And then—

The light condensed. Before them, not far, appeared a shape. Not a man, not a woman, not a form bound by flesh, but a Being enclosed in light itself. It shone so brilliantly that Baldwin felt his eyes water, yet it did not burn. Instead, it was like looking upon the essence of sunrise, eternity in a single breath.

The weight of presence alone bent Baldwin’s knees. Without thought, he knelt. His body obeyed not out of ritual but compulsion, as if his very bones recognized this majesty.

Beside him, Constance too fell to her knees, lowering her head. Her voice trembled: "My Lord... is this...?"

Baldwin whispered, scarcely daring: "God."

The Being’s radiance pulsed softly, not with sound at first, but with a warmth that reached into marrow, into thought. And then, words. Words not merely heard by ear, but spoken into the soul itself, each syllable carrying weight enough to shake mountains:

"You have come as I willed."

The voice reverberated through the vastness, yet it was not thunder—it was gentleness clothed in infinite authority.

Then the voice came—not like the voice of men, but like the weight of oceans and yet the gentleness of flowing water.

"Rise, Baldwin. Rise, Constance. You kneel rightly, but I would speak to you as my chosen."

Their bodies shook. Baldwin’s heart pounded so hard he thought it might break through his ribs. Yet he obeyed, lifting his head, daring to look again at the light. Constance, pale with awe, followed, though she could not keep her hands from trembling.

The voice continued:

"You wonder why you stand here, beyond time, wrapped in light. You wonder why your marriage is marked with fire and blessing. Know then: I have chosen you for more than crown or kingdom. I have set you both apart for destiny."

Baldwin swallowed hard, his lips dry. "Lord... I am but a sickly man. I have only struggled to hold what little was given into my hands. I cannot—"

The light pulsed, silencing him, not with anger but with authority that could not be resisted.

"Do not call yourself sickly, Baldwin, for I know what you are. You are more than Baldwin alone. The soul within you is not born of this age. You carry the mind of another, drawn from a world not yet come, far beyond the days of your Jerusalem.

"You are Ethan, son of another century. I plucked your soul from death and set it within Baldwin’s flesh. Do you see now why your thoughts are unlike those around you? Why your vision exceeds the men of this time? It is no accident. It is my design."**

Constance gasped, her head snapping toward Baldwin, eyes wide. "Not of this age?" she whispered, scarcely able to form the words. "He... he is another man?"

Baldwin—Ethan—felt his chest tighten. He opened his mouth, but the Being spoke first.

"He is both. Baldwin’s blood, Baldwin’s body, Baldwin’s crown—but Ethan’s mind, Ethan’s memory, Ethan’s will. I have made them one, for my purpose. What you see beside you, Constance, is no deception. It is my work."

Constance’s face flushed, torn between awe, confusion, and a dawning understanding. Her lips parted. "Then, Lord... he is... from the future?"

The light grew warmer, like sunrise through cloud.

"Yes. From a time long beyond yours. He has seen what will be, if men falter, if kingdoms fall. He has carried knowledge that this age does not yet possess. I have given him this, that he might reshape the course of nations."

Her breath shuddered. Silence stretched between them, heavy as stone. And then—her voice broke it, softer now, colored by wonder.

"Tell me... this world you came from. What is it like?"

Baldwin’s lips parted, then pressed shut. His heart raced. He glanced toward the Being of Light, who remained silent, waiting.

"I will tell you," Baldwin whispered, "but not here, not now. When we return, I will explain it all." His hand reached for hers, trembling but steady. "But know this, Constance: though I am not the Baldwin you thought, I am still your husband. And I swear that my love, my loyalty, are true."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded faintly, gripping his hand.

Baldwin’s lips trembled and he looked back to the light. "So... it was not chance. Not my prayers alone. You brought me here. You willed me into this body."

"I did," came the reply, solemn as thunder. "I placed you where you could alter history. For the world to come must not be what it was—war unending, light extinguished, wisdom drowned. You are to plant seeds of peace, of knowledge, of justice. You are to build a realm strong enough to endure, wise enough to guide. What men would call empire, I call stewardship."

Constance slowly reached for Baldwin’s hand, clasping it tightly. Her eyes were searching his face, still half in disbelief, but something steadier began to kindle there.

"My lord," she whispered, "if it is true... then you were sent for this. For all we have begun. For all we must yet do."

The light pulsed again, approving.

"Constance, daughter of Sicily, you too are chosen. You have not been set at his side by chance. Your grace, your courage, your wisdom are the answer to his burden. For he carries a strange fire, knowledge that isolates. Yet you—by your heart—shall bind him to this age, anchor him to love and people. Without you he could not fulfill what I ask. With you, he may."

Her breath shook, tears filling her eyes. "Lord... I only wished to be his wife, his partner. If you call me to more, I will not turn away."

The Being’s voice came again, enfolding them both:

"You are joined not only by vows of earth, but by covenant of Heaven. I have brought you here not to divide, but to unite. Ethan—Baldwin—you know why I placed you here."

Baldwin raised his head, awe hollowing his chest. "To save this kingdom?"

"More," the voice replied. "To shape an age."

The light pulsed, and with it came a vision—not of images, but of weight and meaning. Baldwin felt his mind open, glimpsing threads of possibility: a Jerusalem not fractured but strong, a kingdom not doomed but rising as an empire. Not merely armies and conquests, but schools, libraries, inventions, harmony of faiths under just rule.

"My will is this," said the Being. "That you transform the Kingdom of Jerusalem into a mighty realm that shall endure, that shall bring peace not only by sword but by wisdom. You shall guide men to live in justice. You shall bring forth the flowering of knowledge in this land before its time. The age men call Renaissance—you shall call it forth early. From these stones shall rise light for all nations."

Baldwin’s chest heaved, struggling to grasp the immensity of it.

The voice grew solemn:

"I placed you here because you carried knowledge beyond this age. But I will not leave you with memory alone. What you lack, I will grant in vision. When you sleep, when you need it, you will dream of things yet to be—tools of stone, iron, fire, and thought. Use them for justice, not for vanity."

The words carved themselves into Baldwin’s soul like commandments on stone. His eyes brimmed. "Lord... I am unworthy."

"Yet you are chosen."

Constance, who had listened in rapt silence, now clasped Baldwin’s hand with both of hers. She lifted her face, radiant with tears and awe. "Then we... we are both part of this? This destiny?"

The light seemed to incline, as if nodding. "Yes. You shall be partners. What one cannot bear, the other shall carry. What one cannot see, the other shall reveal. The world shall remember you as more than king and queen. You shall be shepherds of nations."

Baldwin closed his eyes, feeling the weight settle upon him—not as burden alone, but as crown beyond crowns.

And the Being’s radiance grew still, as though preparing for something greater yet to come.

The radiance shifted, deepening like dawn becoming day. The voice that had shaken mountains now grew tender, as though speaking not only to their ears but into the marrow of their bones.

" Rise."

He obeyed, though his legs trembled. The strange weightless floor held him firmly, more solid than stone yet lighter than air. Constance rose beside him, clinging still to his hand.

Then came the fire.

It did not burn as earthly flame, but it coursed through him—first in his chest, then spreading to every limb, every nerve, every hidden corner of flesh. He gasped, choking on sudden warmth that surged through his veins. His skin prickled, his joints ached—but only for a heartbeat. The pain that followed was not decay but renewal, as though centuries of sickness were being undone in moments.

His fingers, long gnarled by disease, began to straighten. The numb patches that had eaten his touch came alive with sensation—heat, pressure, the pulse of blood. His lips parted as he lifted his hands before him, staring in awe. The pale, mottled scars were fading. The flesh, once cracked and broken, knit whole. His hands were strong, unblemished—the hands of a young king, not a dying leper.

Constance gasped aloud, tears springing to her eyes. "My lord... your hands!"

He raised trembling hands. The rough, deadened skin was gone, replaced with smooth warmth. He could feel his own breath upon his skin, his own heartbeat steady beneath. His vision, so often blurred by fever, was sharp as a falcon’s. His chest drew in air without pain. He felt strength surge through him—real strength, the kind he had not known since he took over this body.

He fell to his knees again, overwhelmed. "Lord... you have healed me. You have made me whole."

The light pulsed with calm majesty.

"You were chosen, and you are now prepared. Flesh will no longer betray you. I have made you whole, that you may finish the work appointed to you. Use this gift not for pride, but for service. You are healed to bear a heavier crown."

Constance knelt beside him, clutching his hands, her tears flowing freely. She looked upon him as though seeing him anew, a husband reborn.

Then the radiance turned toward her.

"Constance."

She trembled, bowing her head. "Yes, Lord."

"You have been faithful and true. You have given yourself without reserve to this calling. Know then the blessing I place upon you: you shall be the mother of kings, and nations shall look to your sons for guidance. Where you walk, grace shall walk. Where you speak, men shall listen. The light I bestow upon you will clothe you with honor before peoples and princes alike."

A warmth spread across her brow like the touch of a crown unseen. Baldwin watched as her eyes seemed to shine, her very presence radiant, as though the light of the vision had taken root within her. She looked upon him, and he felt the same—an aura of strength, dignity, and grace poured over her like oil of anointing.

Her lips quivered. "I am not worthy."

The voice thundered, not with anger but certainty:

"You are chosen. Worthiness is not your own, but my gift. Bear it with humility, and the world shall see in you the seal of my favor."

The two of them knelt together, trembling, overwhelmed beyond words.

Then the final command came:

"Go forth, Baldwin and Constance. Rule with wisdom and mercy. Bind sword with plough, crown with cross. Build a kingdom that shall endure beyond the reach of time, a light in lands of shadow. Be strong—but let strength serve justice. Be wise—but let wisdom serve love. Together you shall be a sign of what can be, when heaven and earth are joined in covenant."

The light began to fade. The shimmering floor beneath them softened into stone once more. The warmth ebbed, though its imprint remained. Baldwin still felt the vigor of youth coursing through his veins. Constance still glowed with a strange, holy grace.

And then, with a breath, they were back.

In an instant, the stone floors of the Holy Sepulchre were beneath their feet again. Time resumed. The nobles, clergy, knights, and pilgrims were frozen no longer, their eyes wide with astonishment. Every witness had seen the flash, the miraculous radiance that had bathed the king and his bride. The church echoed with cries, gasps, and the sound of devout knees striking the stone in unison.

Baldwin stood tall, unscarred and unburdened, and he reached for Constance. Her eyes shone with the inner light of the blessing she had received. The entire congregation could see it—could feel it. It was no longer a private miracle; it was a public revelation. God’s favor had descended in full view of the faithful.

"Deo gratias!" cried the patriarch, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Blessed be the Lord, who has shown His will openly!"

Baldwin and Constance knelt together at the altar, praying silently. Their lips moved in unison, asking guidance, protection, and strength to fulfill the destiny now laid before them. Around them, Jerusalem’s nobles, knights, and pilgrims whispered and cried, understanding that something divine had touched the kingdom. They had seen it; they had felt it.

And as Baldwin and Constance raised their eyes, they knew the world would never be the same.