Foolish Words

The sun was setting; torches were lit.

The king's family had been the first to go: his queen, silent and strong, marched herself up to the guillotine and held her children's hands as they died, one after another. Then she was killed herself.

King Scipio was perched up beside the traitor, Rhodon, and forced to watch.

The rest of his court went after. Scipio was surprised to find that many of them had blankness on their faces, the same blankness he felt in his soul after a month under siege.

He was through. His reign was through, and he had no one.

No one but the Fool standing beside him, trembling in silence and holding on tight to the edge of his cape.

King Scipio's court jester had been devoted to him ever since the king found the boy starving in a cell in Baron Ordo's castle, punished for painting a nude portrait of one of his daughters.

Ten years had passed, and the jester was now twenty-two. He still had an innocent face, and the stringy build of a young boy. Rhodon had not even noticed him, and the men who had dragged King Scipio up beside Rhodon had merely laughed at the trembling Fool and allowed him to accompany his master.

King Scipio stood tall, not bothering to wipe away the tears that ran from his eyes. The court jester trembled behind him and tried to disappear.

Oddly enough, the Fool did not fear death.

He was thinking of the torches as they were lit, of the screams of the dying. There was only one family left; Lord and Lady Belcourt, and their three daughters. Since he was this close, the jester could see that the guillotine dulled. It was only the weight of the instrument that allowed for such an efficient rate of murder. It was just as ordinary as a wood-chopping axe, in that respect.

The Fool had been sick so many times, there were nothing but words and poems left in his stomach. From time to time, his king glanced back at him, and the rest of the world seemed to disappear.

There was such care, and exhaustion, and kindness in those eyes.

The Fool knew he was not much in the way of comfort-and his king did not need comfort, he was strong enough to stand alone. It was he, the Fool, who needed to perform for his king, needed in his gut to make him laugh one last time.

He could do it. He'd done it in that filthy, miserable cell when he was twelve. Now he was grown, he had learned much about laughter, about joy, about his lord and master. He would do it here, too.

But he waited for the moment.

A good performance was about pacing, about picking the right light and moment, as much as it was about saying the right words. And the jester trusted enough in Divine Providence to know that the moment would come.

When Lady Belcourt breathed her last, it came.

A hush fell over the gathered army, over the sated guillotine. They were waiting for Rhodon to speak.

"The time has come." Rhodon began.

His voice carried on the wind to reach every ear of his assembled army. The deep, roaring voice sent a chill down the Fool's spine.

So, he was dealing with a professional.

"The time has come to end this reign of tyranny!" Cheers. "of hunger!" Cheers. "of cruelty!"

Cripes, the words were almost straight out of the Emperor Da playbook.

The Fool shook his head ruefully. This was going to be easier than he had thought.

King Scipio glanced back at his Fool in that moment, purely by chance. He saw the jester's expression, and the corner of his mouth turned up.

The Fool's heart leaped.

The sun was setting, in glorious golds and oranges, and a living red that all the blood spilled in the last month could not rival. It wasn’t just the corpses piled on the ground, but the army above them, and the smoking city, and Rhodon himself; none of them could hold a candle to the life in the sunset sky. Let alone the little Fool, trembling behind his master.

“…the fall of your reign, our victory, has brought a new dawn upon us,” Rhodon was saying to the king.

“I beg your pardon, sir.” The Fool swept in front of his king with a theatrical bow. His voice was a polite murmur, but it rode on the wind twice as well as Rhodon’s speech. “But I’m afraid the sun is setting.”

The Fool spread a wide arm towards the sunset-and the carnage beneath it.

The silence was deafening. Rhodon looked down on the jester as one might regard a fly on their repast.

“That must be because your king has not died yet, fool.” Rhodon said, his voice dangerously soft.

The Fool had been trembling in fear all day- but not now. Now he had to perform. He was on a stage, before his king.

He was no warrior. But pretending… at that, he was unrivaled.

“I commend you doubly, great Rhodon,” The Fool spoke louder, filling his voice with admiration. He bowed lower. “For defeating King Scipio if, as you say, the sun is one of his oppressed slaves.”

Rhodon raised an eyebrow. Out of the corner of his eye, the jester saw King Scipio stifle a smile.

“You truly are the savior of this land,” The Fool continued, pressing his advantage. He knelt before Rhodon and took his bloody hand.  “And you shall return it to its former glory!”

Cheers. The suspicion vanished from Rhodon’s face.

 “To freedom!”

Cheers.

“To brotherhood!”

Cheers.

“To plenty!”

Cheers, and cheers, and cheers. The army of murderers around them began to take up the Fool’s cries. The Fool’s chest swelled and his throat opened wide, ready to echo over the thousands of frenzied voices.

“And once King Scipio is dead, the sun will roam where he wishes! He will burn fields and leave cities cold!”

Cheers. Rhodon’s head whipped towards the jester.

“Riches will abound for the crows! There will be feasts galore for all carrion! Wine will flow free from innocent throats! There will be dance, song, and laughter no more!”

King Scipio was shaking his head, chuckling despite the tears streaming down his face.

Cheers, and murmurs, and anger. Rhodon kicked the court jester’s spine and rammed his nose into the wooden planks.

The Fool gasped, choking on his own blood.

“Braver Narr.” Called King Scipio, in their own tongue-the tongue of a people who were dead. “Tapferer Narr.”

Hands were taking hold of the Fool, even as he kept speaking, hitting him, slamming him, pulling him apart. They hauled him upright-one of his eyes was swollen shut, but two sadists forced his eyes open, forced him to watch as King Scipio was dragged to the guillotine and killed.

When his master’s head thudded to the ground, CriCri-King Scipio’s court jester- blacked out.