Seventeen Preferences & Scenarios

Imagine 7 (part one)

The jester is there again, traipsing through the crowd with a teasing smile and gorgeous, feline eyes that sparkle with mischief.

His motley is well-tailored rather than comically loose, and made of black and royal purple. On his hands are slim white gloves, and his high boots of the same colour click elegantly against the floor.

The traditional cap and bells seldom grace his head, often replaced by a flat black cap at a rakish angle, adorned with a single violet plume. Earrings dangle from multiple piercings in his ears, the silver and diamond of the earring occupying his left lobe winking in the light of the ballroom when he turns his head.

However, his hair is the most attention-drawing part of his appearance. Nearly white and elegantly swept away from his eyes to reveal his forehead, it both complements the dark tones of his motley and draws attention to the gentle tan shade of his skin.

He hasn't noticed you yet, though that's bound to change with the track record of the past few nights.

She is here again, the jester thinks fondly.

Clad in glorious jewel tones, with gentle touches of a colour he can only describe as rose quartz, you shine brighter than the moon itself in his eyes.

Long white gloves draw attention to your bare upper arms — a daring choice that draws the eyes of many. Many of the ladies in attendance proudly display their collarbones and cut their necklines low, but he's noticed that flowing sleeves are the fashion these days, not the sleeveless cut you've opted for.

It suits her. The jester pulls his lower lip between his teeth, knowing full well he is staring, but unable to stop.

Jewels wink from your hair, earlobes, and throat — sapphire blue, pale pink, and the cold silver of diamonds.

He glances at the great clock against the far wall, smiling at the early hour. There will be enough time for him to speak with you tonight.

"Lady y/n," the jester greets you from behind, his voice soft and smooth as velvet. "A pleasure to see you once again."

"His Majesty hosts balls so often, and it would be very rude of me not to attend," you reply, turning to face him. "You are almost certain of seeing me."

The jester hums, tilting his head with a slightly furrowed brow. "Are you displeased, Milady?" he inquires.

Your answer catches in your throat. The jester's attention to you is flattering, certainly, but the way he behaves around you is like an old friend, and you two are certainly not friends.

"I don't even know your name," you parry.

A rueful smile curves the jester's lips. "Nor I," he murmurs, and with that cryptic statement, he tucks a soft pink rose the colour of the jewels at your throat behind your ear and vanishes once more into the crowd.

The jester presses his back against a pillar, his breathing laboured and face flushed.

What possessed me? he wonders. What made me say that?

The court only knows him as the Jester, the King's Fool, a sharp-witted wordplayer with a touch of magic in his blood, and none know his name nor his secret.

What could have brought my defences down so easily? He shakes his head, pressing the gloved fingers and thumb of his right hand to his temples. And why is the shade of the rose I gave her so important?

The jester's eyes have always reminded you of his. Elegant, catlike, with a peculiar curve that turn the corners of his eyes up at the ends and a laughing sparkle. However, the shape of the jester's eyes is smothered in makeup, enough to end the similarity to his eyes, enough to keep you from breaking down whenever the jester looks at you.

You twirl the rose the jester tucked into your hair in your fingers, unable to focus on the petals through your tears. Pink roses, a shade he had lovingly called rose quartz, have pained you since his disappearance.

"Why so sad?" a voice asks behind you.

One of his best friends sits next to you, the embroidered scarlet and gold emblem of his knightly order stitched proudly on the breast of his dark blue tunic. "We were worried for you."

"The jester gave me this," you murmur, handing Seungcheol the rose. "I was caught off guard."

"Joshua used to give these to you, didn't he," Seungcheol murmurs, turning the rose. "This exact strain of roses, this colour." He buries his face briefly in the petals of the rose. "This scent."

You nod, unable to stop a few tears from falling, landing on your sapphire blue skirt. "The jester can't have known that, but..."

Seungcheol nods, handing back the rose. "I understand," he says. He pulls his own handkerchief out of his pocket, drying the tears still in your eyes and on your cheeks. "Don't cry... Joshua wouldn't want you to mourn him."

Your tears thicken at the mention of his name. "Why does everyone speak of him as if he's dead?" you demand. "He is alive, and he will come back."

Seungcheol gives you a sad smile. "I'm so sorry, y/n," he murmurs. "But I'm sure he isn't."

The jester sits above you and the knight he can't help but feel he knows, the picture of a languid, carefree youth. One leg dangles lazily from the roof he sits on, his gloved hand resting on the knee of the other.

However, his mind is whirling with confusion and revelation.

Joshua, the vanished Prince, he realises. My lady was engaged to him. He has been told many times he resembles the prince — some refer to the prince as the dear prince, others the late prince, still others the missing prince. Lost two years ago, Prince Joshua is the reason that many in the court still add black touches to their formal attire.

But why, why does it matter that the jester of all people had given you that rose? Many times he'd seen other members of court — well-wishers, elderly lords, even the king himself — present you with just such a rose, to be met with quiet thanks and you pinning the blossom against your heart or into your hair.

Yet when the jester presented you with a rose, you vanished, isolating yourself and weeping over the blossom as if it were your lost love himself.

The jester slaps his own forehead in exasperation at his slowness. Of course Prince Joshua would give those roses to my lady, he thinks with gritted teeth. I've opened a wound still fresh.

He stands up on the roof, swinging down and back into the ballroom without a single sound.

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uh... hi there? I don't really know what this is tbh,, let me know if I should continue it,,