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impulsivemaiden · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1: The Fool and The Princess

The jester had been at court for nearly a year, and though he had quickly learned the intricacies of pleasing nobles with his antics, there was only one person whose amusement he truly sought. Princess Violet. From the moment she had bumped into him in one of the castle’s long, winding corridors—entirely by accident, her mind clearly elsewhere—he had been ensnared. She had barely acknowledged him, offering a distracted murmur of apology before continuing on her way, but he had not forgotten the way the soft fabric of her sleeve had brushed against his arm, nor the brief glimpse of her eyes, cool and unreadable. From that moment, he had been lost.

He spent months stealing glances, memorizing the way she carried herself—so composed, so untouchable. He learned which books she favored, the kind of music that made her close her eyes as though lost in another world, the small flickers of emotion she allowed herself to express when she thought no one was looking. And so, he performed, not for the court, not for the King, but for her. Each jest, each exaggerated fall, each foolish antic was a love letter written in laughter, meant for her and her alone. And yet, Princess Violet remained unmoved. Regal, sharp-eyed, distant.

The great hall was alight with candle glow, warmed by the hum of noble chatter, the clinking of goblets, the droning voice of the King’s advisor as he read through endless decrees. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, but for the jester, there was only her.

She sat at the King’s right hand, poised and still, her expression unreadable as she listened to the dull business of ruling. Her gown, a deep indigo, caught the flickering light, the gold embroidery a delicate contrast against the coolness of her demeanor. Her long, silken hair rested like halo on her head, shining like spun gold in the light thrown by the sconces and fire places. She was like a statue carved by the gods—flawless, distant.

And he was a fool who could not help but orbit her.

With a dramatic tumble, the jester burst into the open space before the dais, the bells on his cap jingling as he rolled into a theatrical bow.

“My noble lords, wise ladies, and esteemed King,” he declared, spreading his arms wide. “You’ve suffered through an evening of talk—endless, mind-numbing talk! But despair not, for I bring you relief in the form of sheer, ridiculous nonsense.”

Laughter rippled through the hall, but his eyes flicked only to one face. Princess Violet did not laugh. She merely watched, as she always did, with quiet detachment. He felt it like a blow to the chest.

Still, he persisted. He juggled fruit from the banquet table, slipping a pear from the plate of a rather rotund nobleman, who guffawed at the audacity. He mimicked the advisor’s droning voice, his exaggerated impression earning chuckles from even the stony-faced knights. He pulled a dramatic face, leaping onto one of the lower banquet tables and striking a gallant pose as though he were a knight about to slay a dragon. “And lo! The noble Sir Pearbottom faces his greatest foe yet! A beast so monstrous, so foul, that even the bravest warrior dares not speak its name.” He turned, whispering conspiratorially to the nearest noble, “It’s Lady Henrietta’s dreadful singing.”

A loud burst of laughter echoed across the room, nobles chuckling behind their goblets. Even the King smirked. But the princess? Nothing.

And then, when he had all but lost hope—

A smirk. A barely-there, fleeting thing. But he saw it.

His stomach flipped, his pulse stuttering like an unsteady flame. A reaction. A sign that he existed in her world, even if only for a moment. He wanted more.

He straightened, pushing his luck. “Ah, my princess, you wound me! Not even a chuckle? Surely my suffering is worth a smile.”

Princess Violet arched a single brow. “Perhaps you should be funnier.”

The room burst into laughter at her quip, and the jester’s lips parted in a grin. “Ah, a challenge! My lady has a wit sharper than any blade.” He swept into a deep bow, peeking up at her through his lashes. “I shall endeavor to be worthy of it.”

She said nothing more, but there was something in the way she tilted her head, something thoughtful. Or perhaps he was imagining it.

But before he could chase it, the King sighed, waving a hand. “Enough, fool. If I wished for more nonsense, I’d summon the court poets.”

The laughter faded, nobles shifting in their seats, the evening returning to its usual dullness. The jester straightened, bowing deeply, but his gaze flickered once more to Violet.

And then, the miracle happened.

“He amuses the court, Father,” Violet said, her voice smooth as aged wine. “Let him stay.”

Let him stay.

He nearly dropped to his knees at the sound of her words, at the acknowledgement that he had mattered, even for a breath of time.

The King, disinterested, merely waved a hand. “Fine, fine. But if he becomes tedious, you may throw him to the dogs.”

Laughter followed, but the jester barely heard it. He was looking at her, searching for some meaning behind her intervention. But Princess Violet had already turned away, as if she had forgotten him entirely.

He knew better.

As the evening wore on, the court began to thin, nobles filtering out in pairs and groups, murmuring their farewells as they drifted toward their chambers. The hall, once brimming with light and laughter, grew quieter, the clinking of goblets and rustling of silk becoming sparse. The jester, ever the performer, entertained those who remained—a final joke, a flourish of his cape, a last exaggerated bow. The echoes of amusement lingered even as the night swallowed them.

At some point, Princess Violet, without a word or a glance, had vanished. He caught sight of her slipping through one of the side doors, the faintest whisper of silk trailing behind her. His heart clenched. He could not follow—not yet. Not without raising suspicion. And so, with a final flourish, he twirled his cap, offered the dwindling audience a last jest about the King's snoring habits, and swept into a deep bow. As the nobles chuckled and bid their goodnights, he edged toward the door, his pulse quickening. He would find her. Even if just for a glimpse.

Slipping through the side door after her, he moved with the careful grace of a shadow. The corridors beyond the great hall were dim, candlelight flickering against stone as if holding its breath. He spotted her ahead, her steps measured but unhurried, the careful poise of a princess still clinging to her shoulders. But then, when she reached a quieter passageway, the transformation began.

She exhaled, a slow breath as though shedding the weight of a crown that had never left her head. One hand lifted to undo the pins in her hair, letting the heavy locks tumble free. Her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, the regal mask slipping, revealing something more human, more tired—more real. The jester stood motionless, entranced by the rare sight, by the unguarded moment she believed to be hers alone.

His fingers curled at his sides. He should not linger, should not watch. And yet, he could not bring himself to turn away.

She moved to one of the open stone windows, the night air stirring the loose strands of her hair as she gazed out at the gardens below. The moonlight softened the sharp angles of her face, painting her in silver and shadow. For a moment, she was not the princess of the court, not the untouchable figure seated beside the King, but simply a woman lost in thought.

Then, as she turned to continue her path, her foot caught on a crack in the stone. She stumbled—just slightly—but it was enough to make him react. His hand shot forward on instinct, fingers brushing her arm, steadying her. She froze. So did he. A single heartbeat of stillness passed between them before she pulled back, her cheeks warming under the dim torchlight. She did not speak, but in that brief moment, she looked at him—not as a fool, not as an entertainer, but as something else entirely. She flustered by his touch, but she reached a hand up to feel the velvet of his motley for a moment, not meeting his gaze but exploring for her own pleasure. The jester hummed, tilting his head slightly.

"Careful, Your Highness," he murmured, voice low. "The night is full of unseen dangers."

She snapped out of her daze, snatching her hand back as if burned. "Then you ought to be mindful of following me," she replied coolly, turning sharply on her heel.

Violet strode ahead, her fingers still tingling from where they brushed the fabric of his sleeve. Foolish. She should not entertain such distractions. Yet the warmth lingers, unsettling in its persistence. She had spent years cultivating her composure, forging a mask that no one—not her father, not the court, not the countless noble suitors who sought her hand—had been able to breach. And yet, a fool in bells makes her falter. It is unacceptable.

She clenched her jaw, willing herself back into the role she was born to play. This is nothing. He is nothing. A momentary lapse, already forgotten.

The jester, however, could not so easily dismiss it. He remained frozen in place, staring at the space where she had stood, his heart pounding a rhythm he did not quite understand. She had touched him. Not in jest, not in passing, but deliberately. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers against the velvet of his sleeve, the hesitant press of her curiosity. The princess—always so poised, so distant—had lingered. Had indulged in the texture of him. And then, just as swiftly, she had retreated, her voice sharp, her spine straight, as if she could will the moment out of existence.

But he would not forget. He could not. For all the games he played, for all the laughter he spun from nothing, he knew a truth now that he had only suspected before—she had noticed him. Perhaps she had always noticed him. And that knowledge burned like a secret against his ribs, something wicked and wonderful all at once.

That night, in the solitude of his chambers, he lay on his small cot, staring up at the wooden beams above him. His room was modest, tucked away in the servant’s quarters, but it was his—a narrow bed pushed against the stone wall, a wooden chest at its foot, and a rickety desk cluttered with ink-stained parchment and half-finished sketches. The air smelled of old paper, wax, and the faintest trace of lavender from a bundle of dried herbs someone had tucked near the window to keep the draft at bay.

His heart still thundered against his ribs, the weight of the evening pressing into his skin, hot and unbearable. Her touch had been fleeting, yet it burned. The warmth of her fingers, the soft glide of her hand over the velvet of his motley—it had been indulgent, deliberate. Not the touch of a princess granting favor, but something exploratory, something forbidden. He could still see her, standing beneath the moonlight, hair tumbling free, fingers grazing the velvet of his sleeve. The way her lips had parted in that brief moment of shock—the unguarded hesitation in her breath, the way her fingertips had traced over him as though committing the texture to memory. If he had dared to step closer, to close the space between them, would she have let him? Something unspoken.

His pulse refused to settle. He exhaled sharply, pushing himself upright, hands running through his hair as if the motion could erase the memory. But it was useless. It clung to him like a curse.

He had to draw her—capture the way her lashes had lowered, the pink that had bloomed across her cheeks when she realized what she had done. The tension between them, heavy and aching, begged to be put to parchment. His hands trembled with the need, not just to recreate her, but to relive the moment, to bring it closer, to hold onto the sensation of her touch just a little longer. His fingers, ink-stained and trembling, traced over the beginnings of a portrait.

A woman in indigo. A smirk on her lips.

And a fool who had already lost himself to her.

#fiction writing #Jester/Princess #for my Summer #personal

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