#scrivo

My tiktok is full of the Jester guy so my mind came up with a small thing with my favourite guy.

🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚🐚

As he puts on the jester hat, Rafayel thinks of all the things that led him to this moment.

Essentially, he wanted to have fun; just because he had a King to kill that didn’t mean he couldn’t shake his own routine a little bit.

Also, he was tired of doing things in the dark, to slither in and out of castle walls like he was nothing but a mere shadow, there ought to be some fun in daylight murder.

He wanted ligths, he wanted praise, he wanted flare.

And surprisingly, the role of jester gave him all of this things.

Initially, he didn’t think at all about the Queen, she was just a mere piece on the board, someone who he had no interest in, a bit of collateral damage but then he saw you.

And seeing you, the simple act of turning his eyes in your direction changed everything.

At first, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you: he must have seen you somewhere else, must have known you. That’s the only way he could reason with the ache in his chest that you created, as if you’ve carved him open.

But you, you never looked at him.

The King, who now shouldered all of Rafayel’s hatred, laughed at his jokes, at his circus antics, but you.

You never laughed, never looked at him, never smiled.

And even at night, when Rafayel’s could hear the King’s grunt of pleasure, no sound ever came that resembled your voice, which he only ever heard when you were asking something from a servant, quietly, politely, as of you were a lonely bird inside a cage who could't even bear small graces.

Your presence resembled a shadow wrapped in fear, and it was maddening because something inside him told his that you were so much more than that.

And in that moment, a new plan started to form in his head: they payed him to kill the King, but how it would happen was completely up to him.

And as his plan took form, the dreams began: of you, seemingly in another life, a happier one, arm in arm and hand in hand with him, your smile blinding, the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears like gentle bells.

And all of that, he could make it happen, one drop of poison at a time.

Especially at night.

Oh, how he wanted to strangle that man and sit in his place, but you, you would be the one everyone would turn to, point their fingers and accuse.

And he couldn’t have that.

But the poison, slow and reckless, would resemble a simple sickness, and the old age of the King would do the rest.

On the third day of Rafayels gentle administrations, the King falls asleep as Rafayel pulls strands and strands of colour from his sleeve; the King’s hand drops from your tigh and the look of pure relief from your face could make him cry.

On the fourth day, the King is asleep before you enter, and Rafayel sees you take in the room as if you’ve never seen it before, and him, nervously shaking on his feet, waiting for you to look at him,

and you do.

He feels like he’s drowning, but he needs to make you laugh.

As he tries and fails, he slowly but surely see a small smile bloom upon your face, which you hide behind your hand.

He immediately pouts, his features exagerated by the makeup, and you laugh.

He closes his eyes in bliss, the sound exactly as he dreamt it.

And at night, there are no sounds.

It doesn’t take you much time to move out of that room, to finally have a room of your own.

He thinks how easy it would be for him now to enter that room, wrap his hands around the King’s neck and squeeze.

But he doesn’t, he wants to give you as much freedom as he can.

One morning, he brings you flower, your favourites; he has no rational way of knowing they are your favourite flowers, but he does.

You look at him, you smile at him, your face a petal among the flowers.

“Do you like them, Your Majesty?” he asks, hoping to mask the trembling in his voice.

You nod, “I do.”

You have never looked more youthful than in that moment, not a Queen or a Wife to a deadman, but a happy young woman, and to know he was the cause of said happiness made his spine straigten with pride.

One day, he saw you walk into the garden; it was the first time he saw you outside of the castle, your skin glowing under the sun.

He didn’t even try to fight the urge to be near you, he skipped and hopped, bells announcing his arrival.

And you smiled at him.

“Jester.” you said, lovingly, or so he liked to imagine.

“Your Majesty,” he answered, offering you his elbow, “may this simple Jester have the pleasure of walking you around this precious gardens?” he asked, thinking that he would throw himself to the ground if you were to decline his offer.

But you nodded, took his elbow, and he could feel his heart soar; that was your rightful place, next to him: him, who would do anything to make you happy.

Him, who knows you how he knows the bones in his body, who has certainly held you before and will hold you again.

Slowly, your little walks become a habit, and as the King got sicker and sicker, he started to think about your inevitable future: will they force you to remarry? He would never let that happen, he’d paint the castle in red before that happened.

You were a Queen, after all.

But you- the moon to his tides, what did you want?

And as he pulls his hat in each direction, this Jester attire that became like a second skin, he thinks that while he has more than enough blood on his hands to last him a lifetime, he is so scared to ask what weighs on his heart, so scared to know that you don’t see him in your future, not even as a masked baffoon.

But then, he does.

“Your Majesty, may I ask you a question?” he asks, quietly, trying to fight the urge to entwine your fingers with his.

His hand moves closer to yours; he really can’t reign himself in when it comes to you.

You look up at him, bright eyes and utter trust.

“Of course.”

You move your hand closer to his, play with his fingertips, which his when he decides that King will wake up for the last time in his life coughing up blood.

“What will you do after the unfortunate King’s passing?”

Now he doesn’t look at you, looks at your hands entwined together, ponders the lengths he would go to keep them so.

But you get nervous, get closer, grab his hand.

“I want to go away.” you whisper, face inches away from his.

“I don’t want to get wed again, please.”

Rafayel’s face breaks into a wide, wide smile.

“Come with me, then, Your Majesty.” he takes off his hat, and bows.

She takes her gown up in her hands, ready to run, not thinking, and he too isn’t thinking when he’s kissing her, and a small, pleased sound escapes her lips, the promise of eternity.

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@elenascrive