Narrative #2

The great jester Francois retired with the ingress of nightfall. The air around the great fool appeared to thicken to a viscous fluid, giving his movements grace and keeping his step light. The room was deathly dark, yet the blackest objects were his two eyes, surrounded by a rich mask, blue and gold and heavy on his face.

Francois let out a gentle laugh whilst he danced across his lavish home. Money offered him no concern, evident by the elegance in which his home was decorated and the quality of the fool’s garments he wore, a beautiful mix of red and purple, life and royalty hugging his frame close. The king would want his most favorite fool to live as such, for as the king’s empire continued to grow, so did the fool’s favor in his eyes. The great fool Francois’ mien of mocking majesty entertained the king to hysterics, thus filling Francois pockets to bursting.

“I beg your pardon, friend,” the jester apologized to the darkness of his estate, “the true master fool demanded me to stay late.”

The silence, unsurprisingly, accepted his apology by returning it with still noiselessness.

The bells upon his head jingled in rhythm with the bells on his feet as he skipped towards a single ornate cabinet, a hulking monstrosity of dark wood and elaborate carvings. Its very existence offput even the most gregarious of guests and was avoided out of habit by his many visitors. It was for this exact trait he purchased the terrible thing. There is no secret better kept than one guarded by groundless terror.

“If that man,” he informed the humid darkness, “took the time to look at his own form, he would laugh himself into regicide. I say again, he is the true fool!”
Francois slid open the heavy cabinet, grinning madly.

“Hello, old friend.”

The skull merely returned the jester’s toothy grin, wordless.

He lifted up the boney cranium, holding it in the palm of his hand. Two dark, empty eyes stared back at two equally empty eye sockets.

“That is why I love your company, friend,” he said, “You are a man of few words.”

His laughs carried across the stoic void of Francois’ home, not simply echoing through the open air but instead beating the walls and decorum until they mournfully issuing back the mirror sound of his joy. The great fool twirled about, the ringing bells the only company to his manic laughter, gently placing his long deceased friend upon a red pillow, extravagantly made and totally unused by any living persons, which was placed next to a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Francois lied on his slim belly, his head resting on his hands. With a subtle fluidity he lifted his legs in the air over his back, until they hovered above both his own and the head of his permanent guest.

“Shall you have any wine, this evening, my friend?” Francois asked, grasping the scarlet bottle using only his feet, pouring a glass for both him and his companion. Not a single drop fell onto the tablecloth, though if one did manage escape, staining was not an issue, for the fabric was the same burgundy of the wine.
“Entertaining, no? I believe that fat comedian fermenting in his throne shall be tickled to no end.”

Francois stared into the blankness of the skull’s missing eyes, then said, “You know, it is so difficult to tell when you are amused when you smile so often thusly,” and began to laugh again.

The fool swung his body around, sitting himself up in a more normal manner, grasping the crystal glass. He lifted its rim up to his lips, tipping the contents into his mouth, savoring the taste of the wine as it pleasingly went down his throat, like thin, sweet syrup. Once the glass was again once empty, Francois flung the glass into the air. It spun numerous times, yet without a single glance upwards the jester reached a hand behind his back, catching the glass. He then placed it back on the table besides the dark red bottle.

“What do you think, my comrade?”

The skull rested on the pillow in deathly stillness.

Francois smiled gaily, patting the top of its bone dry head, “It is only because of you I am able to do what normally would terrify me. You bolster me to do what I know should be done.”

A suddenly harsh rain began to pound the world. Far away, Francois heard what could have been the slow rumble of thunder, or perhaps the approach of a billion soldiers in an army’s march.

The fool’s face seemed to drop with the quick departure of his grin, as if the tension of his smile kept his face tied to his skull, and his tone became more solemn.

“Everyday,” he stated, “that tyrannical jelly-man chortles and snorts at silly antics and thinly veiled insults. If I could spit upon him after my routine I would. He deserves no more and much less, my friend.”

Outside, the harsh crack of lightning issued, briefly illuminating his night filled home, yet the bright light offered no reprieve from the stifling uneasiness which was beginning to spread from drapery covered wall to the others.

“For what he did to us. To you. He deserves much, much less.”

Another low rumble rolled across the planet, seeming to shake the very ground.
Francois the great fool leaned over to the skull, placed on its scarlet pedestal of down and fabric, and kissed its crown softly. He leaned over to where its ear once was, and whispered, “Aime, qu'on les loue ou les blame, toujours les grand coeurs aimeront. Joins cette jeunesse de l'âme a la jeunesse de ton front.”

Suddenly, a crash rang out like an accusatory shout. Francois calmly looked towards the large wooden door, where the noise issued.

“Francois the Jester!” came a harshly gruff voice, “Open the door!”

The greatest fool merely reached over and poured himself another glass of wine.
A second crash echoed through his hallowed home as his chamber door crashed to the ground, lying in a heap as if a fallen golemn of wood and metal. Solid soldiers of tinish conformity stood at his stoop. Their armor briefly flashed in the harsh light of a striking bolt from the storm raging.

“Francois the Jester, the king has been slain. There was a bell tied to a lock of his hair. One of your bells, if the hands of the house are correct. Also, on his now still chest laid a crimson rose. Come with us, so we may clear the air of any confusion that you, the great jester, could have any part in this plot.”

Stillness was all that met the Captain’s words, but just as the soldiers began advancing to seize the murderous fool, Francois chimed in, “A rose, you say?”

Humorlessly, the Captain responded, “Yes, upon his chest. Know you anything of this?”

After a final sip of sweet wine, the jester returned, “Yes, and ‘tis a fine parting gift for such a fine actor of majesty.”

“Your jokes have landed you in the noose, fool. We have the king’s murderer, like as not. The people may now rest in peace.”

Laughing as he was led away by the long arm of the deceased monarch, Francois the fallen jester shouted, “It took a fool to save your souls! Dost thou not see the humor in it?” and he continued to laugh until the air was cut out by the firm grasp of the hemp rope which hanged him.

His friend, shrouded in darkness, sat grinning, finding the course of events to be quite entertaining.

To the dead, the world is a funny place.