#jester (oc)

You grew up.

Given how your childhood had to unfold, you learned early on that silence was safer than defying him and everyone else in the castle head-on. You could learn a whole lot more just by listening rather than challenging those set in their stubborn ways, and so, while others your age demanded to know why, why, why something was the way it seemed, you digested any procured knowledge in silence. You became good at reading faces, body language and intentions.

Courtiers grew fond of calling you shy, and servants spoke of you as a gentle and withdrawn, if not shy, girl. You were easily favoured by the castle as kind-mannered and obedient, even if, deeper down, you did not feel that way. Just about everyone mistook your demeanour as weakness, someone to marry off eventually, because goodness, you were favourable.

Even if all the while, those very same people who watched you grow up and claimed to “know” you, never quite realised that this was intentional from the moment you could not shake off the curiosity of what was down there.

You picked up easily over time, how the guards would shift posts and when and where, and who would replace them on the next assigned shift. You paid extra attention to which corridors were avoided after sunset and which rooms the castle did not care for. Or how, sometimes specifically, the stairwell behind the tapestry was always watched by someone at least, making it the less than favourable route to take.

It was later, more recently, from one of your knights that you heard in passing, who finally shed some further light on the truth of what was right below.

“Just don’t see the point anymore,” your most trusted sword yawned out.

His partner shifted in his armour. “Of what?”

“Of guarding that place,” he followed up. “She’s probably forgotten all about it by now, anyway, so the old man’s just being needlessly paranoid, isn’t he? Besides, prisoners don’t go there anymore, since it’s straight to the yard with ‘em and it’s just empty space.”

You took in the news quietly, trying to make sense of it. If it were empty, then why was there such a big deal being made out of its secrecy? You could not fathom the logic behind the reason, and then, just a couple of weeks later, an opportunity to investigate the space opened up:

A banquet was to be hosted at the castle, which meant that a distraction could be formed. You hated those things even if you pretended you didn’t. Mostly, you just disliked exercising the idea that being confined to this place was anything less than thrilling. You hated talking to others your age who visited, also bearing the crown to where they had travelled from. You ended up not liking a single suitor who was picked out for you, which led you to the reputation that not only were you meek and reserved, but that you were difficult, too.

You’d show enough interest to stop the court from pestering you, sparing yourself the lectures from your father, only for anything beyond to fall flat from the exact moment they might attempt to woo you.

For others, however, it made you highly desirable, leaving you in a complex position.

You were expected to attend this party, too, and your father had even brought up—hope strong in his voice—that you’d perhaps, finally, at your grown age, find someone you liked. This was not on the agenda, though. Early on, you claimed that the noise made you nauseous, and you feigned feeling faint, which allowed you the reason to break away early on.

It was easy enough to avoid your knights, and especially all of the guards scattered around the castle. For the most part, they were all distracted. Your most trusted sword was stationed at the foot of the stairs leading to the banquet hall, ensuring that nobody could follow you, while the second in command was busy stuffing his face.

You, all the while, managed to finally slip past and into the dungeon tower, gulping thickly as you were granted the descent down the winding stairs. You ended up hating the way it spiralled, and so, even if you didn’t truly feel sick just before, you certainly did now.

When you finally managed to reach the bottom of what felt like a passage that spiralled on forever, you finally came to a stop. Cells bearing iron bars filled out the perimeter, but the cuffs and chains that sprouted from the cobbled walls were long rusted with disuse. Each cell was empty, and every gate was open. There was, just as the king had spoken, nothing there.

You turned on your heel to leave, feeling almost… disappointed?

Only then, to have heard the undeniable shifting of fabric—of a breath shuddering out—of a foot scuffing on the stone floor.

You turned around right away, expecting it to be your mind to have been playing tricks on you, only to be met with a life-size puppet now occupying one of the cells, staring right at you. Strange, you thought, you did not hear the door close, let alone the lock settle, but sure enough, it was there. Rich, yet dull fabric clung to their frame, displaying once vibrant colours that were now worn out from time. A ruffled collar sat around their neck, and small bells hung from their hat, ankles and wrists.

This was just… a puppet, right?

You stepped a little closer, taking in the painted smile that was drawn across its face and the dark crescents that marked its eyes, giving it an almost mocking exterior.

Then, their head tilted, causing you to gasp and take a step back.

“Finally,” it spoke, its tone kind and almost loving. “Finally, you have come back to me.”

You didn’t reply as it talked, backing away until you hit the cold stone wall.

“I have been waiting so long for you,” it added anyway. “So patiently. So faithfully.”

You blinked.

“Had the curiosity become too hard to ignore?” it asked, sounding almost amused.

Finally, you managed to say something.

“W-what…” you started, but then cleared your throat. “Who are you?”

The puppet shrugged casually.

“Someone you know, silly,” they replied as if it were obvious. “Don’t you remember me?”

You shook your head in response.

Their smile faltered, somehow, as if it had been erased.

“Then, my, oh my, it has been a long, long, long time,” it said wistfully.

Your head tilted. “What has?”

“Oh! Everything,” they replied, their smile creeping back onto their face. “For you see, once upon a time, long, long ago, I was the court’s jester, lonely and true, and goodness, I was in love with a girl that as fate had it, I could never pursue.”

It folded its hands behind its back, beginning to pace the cell, although its footsteps were quiet and made no sound.

“A crown above and bells below, such stories never end of how one dreams of them doing so,” it went on before abruptly stopping, stepping towards the cell and curling its wooden fingers around the bars. “A princess so royal and a jester so loyal, and yet never allowed to be.”

It pulled at the bars, its voice rising with volume and pitch—

“And so off went my head, rolling clean and spilling red…”

It quietened down just as quickly.

Its voice was now no more than a mere whisper.

A painted tear rolling down its masked face.

“Away went my darling, finding solace in poison instead, as lovers do, when…!all hope is… dead.”

You tried to walk away all the while as they spoke of their tale, the action executed almost by instinct, but no matter how far you would go, all that you felt was cold stone pressing against your back. The realisation grounded you, reminding you that this was all somehow real and not a dream.

The jester’s—the puppet’s—whatever they were—eyes softened as they looked at you, opening the door to the cell effortlessly, as if it had never been locked at all.

“But no fear,” they assured gently, walking up to you, “for souls are such… stubborn things; they wander, and they die, and then, they… come back.”

“What are you—” you started, only for it to keep going—

“Except for mine; I came back all sorts of wrong— a demon, it seems—for loving too deeply, for kneeling too… proud.”

Then, after a pause.

“Unlike my princess, who has found her way back to my heart,” it added, extending its fingers to brush along the trembling skin on your cheek, “back to me.”

You blinked.

“Me?” you asked.

It laughed at your surprise.

“Oh yes,” it confirmed, pressing itself further against you, close enough that you could smell something and distinctly metallic in the air that seemed to cling to it. “You have her eyes,” it observed. “The very same quiet fire within, the same careful light,” then, it lifted a finger, tracing the air without touching you further. “Her wit, her patience, her way of listening more than speaking.”

Its hand rose, and two fingers slipped right beneath your chin, tilting your head upward, and while you gasped, somehow, you did not resist.

“Even her taste for all things vanilla and spice, on skin that never quite sees the sun,” it added. “Tell me, my princess,” they added a moment later, their tone ripe with amusement, as if anticipating hearing your answer. “Have you loved anyone in this life?”

You reluctantly shook your head.

The puppet smiled.

“Right, because your suitors were obligations,” it suggested. “I should imagine that your heart longs for something much more substantial than being married off as mere political fodder.”

You hesitated, not quite too sure. “Well, I suppose?”

The thing in front of you stepped back just once, the courtesy of their actions almost intimate.

“Curious,” it remarked. “But do tell me, princess. Are you afraid of me?”

The abrupt change of topic once again disoriented you and left you feeling even more unsteady on your feet. You could not form a good response no matter how you tried, and yet, still, somehow, you could tell by the way this puppet was acting that it did not mean any real harm. At least not to you.

You ended up shaking your head.

Then, slowly, as if in response to that, its finger elongated, and its bones shifted from wood to something organic, presenting a soft, wet crackling sound. Instead of fingers painted into chiselled spears, it bore now pointed claws. Its eyes darkened, too; the once-painted smears almost glinted as though it had a soul. Finally, its lips parted, tying it all together that beyond its flat mask, there was something more insidious beneath, and it had very real, glistening teeth.

“Even now?” it challenged you.

You gulped thickly and shook your head again.

“And yet,” it whispered, pain flooding its voice, “you still don’t remember me?”

Hurt sparked in its eyes. “A shame, truly, because I waited centuries for you,” it revealed, tilting its head at an unnatural posture. “We were more to each other than mere strangers, just so that you know.”

Before you could stop it, it closed the distance suddenly, pressing its lips against yours. In the brief moment that it connected with you, something exploded within your mind like a memory, giving way to a life that felt as though it belonged to you, although not the one you were currently experiencing.

“Hold onto it,” it pleaded, its tone laced with something longing and aching. “Don’t you dare let go.”

It moved in even closer, daring you to remember more as its fingernails dug into the soft flesh of your skin, its body radiating a heat so unnatural that its puppeted body almost felt real, and despite the fear you felt, somehow, you leaned into the touch—finding that it felt familiar—that it felt right—

“Those suitors that they’ll keep on sending your way will never understand you as I do,” it spoke to you, its touch growing needy. “I know what makes you laugh,” it promised, its hand moving to tangle around your scalp, “of what makes you ache with what you won’t admit to anyone else,” it added. “I know what kind of dreams you have at night and the thoughts you have that make your whole face flush and your body—” it gasped, “ache for things you don’t even understand.”

Its hand was on your breast now, cupping the soft and pliant flesh with such reverence but also possession, the wooden thumb tracing circles around your nipple. You gasped under the pressure, not understanding why your body was leaning into its touch so well.

Then it kissed you once more, and something else surged past—

Revealing you standing in a bright stone courtyard, with sunlight spilling across the decorated floors. You wore a heavier skirt then, and your hair was much longer. There was laughter nearby, and when you turned, someone was bowing dramatically in front of you, their hand taking yours and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

You remembered a painted smile against real skin, matching clever eyes and bells that chimed softly as he moved, looking profoundly ridiculous. But god, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world felt truly magical back then.

Visions flooded you of him juggling fruit just to make you laugh and to purposefully trip over his own two feet whenever he knew you were looking his way. You could feel his fingers brush against yours whenever he handed you ribbons and flowers and trinkets and—

Goodness, you even remembered sneaking into the courtyard at dusk, with him waiting right in the middle with a bundle of wildflowers tucked behind his back.

The kiss deepened, and the memories came in faster; of him dancing barefoot in empty halls as he whispered jokes—crude ones, mind you—behind muffled sleeves; his voice low and quiet—

“I remember,” you finally confessed, and at that, his fingers dipped lower, finding the wetness between your legs as the anticipated recognition had finally surfaced at long, long last.

His words came out breathless after, his eyes locked on yours as he guided himself in between your legs—no longer protesting, and dare he even acknowledge—feel you welcoming him inside. Was this trickery? Or was this something else? It felt right to accept him, whatever it was, to let in the memories—to let him in—to feel him—

“I know you so well,” he promised, “because a stranger would not know what makes you writhe the very same way, nor could they—” he added, pushing himself further in, stretching you completely, “—know how to make your cunt clench like this; no, no, your soul remembers, your soul knows.”

Indeed, you had: you remembered not just of the fleeting glimpses but so much more. From the feeling of him, yes, but also to the devastation that he left behind. You remembered being loved so thoroughly in ways that something arranged could never fulfil. You remembered your wedding night and the look in his eyes as he strummed a wistful tune on his gittern, watching you walk down the aisle. You remembered being taken by someone you did not love, sharing a bed far too large, and on the same night, hating that it was not he who made love to you, dreaming of him the whole time.

You remembered it all; yes, god, yes, from sneaking out of your newly shared bedroom as a queen, finding Patch, your loyal jester, and how he fucked you properly and made you cum, finishing up what the other sorry excuse of a man could not do.

You remembered as he pounded into you—

—As you screamed out his name—

—Not your husband’s, down the hall.

You blinked, your eyes glimmering with reverence and hurt and love and awe as it all came flooding back, your hold on him tightening, returning to kiss him the exact way as before, as he kissed you back—his tongue slipping and catching against yours—his hips sawing back and forth, surrendering to the reunion that he had long been denied for centuries by now.

In turn, your own body rolled in arching circles as he held you up against the wall, even as your form leaned into his—his form feeling gradually more and more human—more and more real—the tighter you held on. You could feel as he stretched you and made love to you in the exact way you liked it, even if in this life, this was something new.

But he was right.

Your soul remembered.

Your soul knew.

“I have waited so long for you to remember,” he shuddered as his thrusts grew rapidly erratic, as his pleasure rose to blinding bliss. “For you to finally have the sense to come here, and fuck,” he gasped, “free me of this curse.”

He then redoubled his efforts, holding onto you with nearly a crushing force, gasping and rasping and yet still desperate for more. He pulled back ever so slightly, his hands coming to reach and cup around your face so that you could see the worship in his eyes.

“Do you love me?” he asked.

“Yes, Patch,” yes—”

Then, after a gasp.

“I always have.”

At the sound of his name, he just about melted away into you, his body succumbing to the recognition alone. He grinded harder into you, catching onto the spot that always made you whine with something primal, that made you come undone, spilling into your core with something that—given his form—should have been impossible, and yet, it wasn’t.

It all tightened from the depths of your core until it felt right to let go.

As he, too, came down from his high, and as you did, too, from yours.

He then asked, perhaps as a promise—

“Will you stay with me, princess?” he asked. “Will you choose me for eternity? Even if it’s dangerous to do so— Even if they’ll find us out yet again, and kill me—kill you—even if it’s wrong, even if—”

“Yes,” you said, seeing genuine and utter hope flood his face.

He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, his voice suddenly light.

“Good,” he murmured, “because I will never be letting you go again.”

You then blinked, being plunged into the darkness, as the sense of something uneasy overwhelmed you. Not too far away, you could hear footsteps rapidly close in from around you, spiralling down the tower. The dungeon was no longer so dimly lit, either, but burning bright with closing in fire, and despite your dress and your body initially being in tatters and bruises and marks—everything else was back to normal—as though it had never happened at all.

Was all of that a dream?

Your knights found you in a hurry, swooping you up and carrying you back up to the surface of the castle.

Your eyes drooped shut, and you fell asleep—

Only to awake in your bed, with your father standing at the foot, his voice sharp with anger and accusation.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, barely giving you time to wake up.

A lie crept out of your lips, the night catching up to you.

“Guess I wanted to rebel just a little,” you meekly admitted. “Stole a bit of the wine and I think I just… wandered away.”

At that, however, his anger softened, coming to look at you like you were just a normal girl, sighing heavily, leaving you be for the time being.

You always did get away with lying too easily.

And as he left, your two knights remained, bursting out laughing from the second that he was out of earshot.

“Next time you want to do something like that, invite us,” one of them suggested.

“Right,” the other said. “Spare us the heart attack, and our heads.”

You smiled faintly, but then, just a moment later, your father had returned, and everyone—including you, of course—straightened up.

“Also,” he spoke. “Another addition to the roster,” he said, stepping aside to reveal another knight. “To keep you in line.”

“But I already have—” you started, blinking between your two swords.

“For your own safety,” he interrupted.

Just as you were about to pout, however, the newest knight stepped in, and you heard his voice, your attention successfully caught, finding that he sounded familiar, like someone you knew far too well.

“Princess,” he greeted you with a nod.

You glanced up then, your words falling flat, catching a glimpse beyond what lay in the helmet: dark hair and dark eyes, glinting with timeless adoration, settled right on you.

“Do you… object to this arrangement?” the knight asked.

Your heartbeat faltered, remembering the promise you made in the dungeon, of the curse that you broke, or worse yet, manifested.

“No, you admitted softly. “I do not have a problem at all.”

He smiled, knowing that he had you forever now.

That you would never slip from him again.