A court jester has its special privileges.

He could roam where others had hesitated, speak his mind where others had measured theirs, and laugh where others had bowed their heads in fear. A jester’s liberties were wide, an undeniable fact, but not limitless. He was meant to amuse, to soothe, to distract. To be present without ever becoming significant. And to Phainon, for all of his cleverness, understood better than anyone where the invisible lines were drawn.

He obeyed. At least, he tried with all of his might.

The court adored him. The nobles welcomed his mockery like medicine, for it had allowed them to laugh at their own follies without ever admitting them. Ministers sought out his presence because he could simply lighten the weight of a failing negotiation with nothing more than a well-timed grin. And the king — ailed, tired, and failing like a candle wick drowning in its own wax — kept Phainon near his bedside to stave off the silence that seemed eager to claim him.

But all his duties aside, all the gold-tinged hours spent juggling jest and truth, paled whenever he sees you.

He noticed you like how a man sees constellations, slowly at first then all at once. You, heir to a throne heavy enough to crush even the strongest of spines. You, the kingdom’s quiet hope and salvation, walking with the composure of someone who was raised under the scrutiny of a thousand eyes. You, who had learned at a very young age that affection was a luxury for children without kingdoms to inherit.

He admired you with the depth of a man who knew admiration was all he’d ever been allowed.

(A too playful bow. A joke uttered too close to your shoulder. A grin that lingered too long after you walked away. A gaze that seemed too full of admiration. To anyone else, it merely seemed like a jester’s antics. Typical behavior.)

He supposed that was the curse of his profession: everyone hears him, but no one ever listens closely enough to understand them.

“Your highness walks too quickly today.” He remarked, trailing behind you with exaggerated but small steps, as though struggling to keep up. “If you're not careful, I’ll start to believe you're running away from me. Tragic, really. I’m quite a good company when properly appreciated!”

You didn't look back, not even once. But Phainon, in the slightest bit, caught the faintest tug at the corner of your mouth.

Another day, he found you standing alone on a balcony while overlooking the training grounds, seemingly fixated on the scene before you — of knights training and swords clashing (for a second, his smile falters and unease washes over him but it fades just as quick when he leans against the doorway.)

“Brooding so early?” He makes his presence known with a voice spoken so lightly, as if to not surprise you. “How terribly unroyal of you. Shall I juggle something on fire to lift your spirits or shall I mimic those undignified swordsmanship the knights are doing? I’d also like to let you know I’m very much terrible at staying silent, your highness. Painfully so. So please do not ignore this poor jester. You’d be doing me a mercy by letting me ease your wrath this morning.”

And when you didn't tell him to leave, not even after several minutes, he pretended he wasn't absurdly pleased.

When tonight had arrived, the palace gardens were hushed, bathed in the silver light from the moon. Lanterns swayed from wrought-iron arches, and the atmosphere was frayed with silence. From where he had wandered, Phainon can only assume that you stood as if the world had paused to watch your thoughts weigh themselves across your shoulders. Even the flowers seemed reluctant to move, hesitant to disturb whatever quiet storm occupied your thoughts.

“Well, well, well!” He utters, putting on his grin as he swept into the area with an exaggerated bow. “You look like you're thinking too loudly. I could hear it from halfway across the palace, your highness. Pray tell, is it one of those nights? What seems to ail your pretty self today?”