Chapter Text
“Her Majesty has requested you wear this for the evening’s festivities.”
Silver embroidery glinted under the light, rough and worn hands holding tightly onto thick cotton.
He hadn’t worn white since the day he’d held his daughter for the first time, a day that had seemingly passed a millennium ago. Those robes had been a symbol of life, of good fortune to fall upon them. White for marriage, for life. His love had stood by his side, cradling the life that they’d worked so hard to make, promising her the world as they stood under a tree embellished in blue and gold.
Happiness had been fleeting. One moment, he proudly held his daughter before his sovereign, accepting the congratulations and praise of the court. The next, he had screamed in pain and rage, fire and blood clogging his senses, blood smeared across his hands and the stone beneath him.
Wearing white had once been a blessing. Now it was a curse, looming over him as he held the tunic close. He couldn’t wear this. He couldn’t.
But he also couldn’t deny the Tsaritsa’s request.
The indecision physically pained him, his hands gripping the fabric tighter, fibers straining against white knuckles. Who was he to defy a statement that carried the weight of an order? How could he celebrate life when all he had was death, holding his hand and waiting for the day when he would fall prey to its whispers? Once, he had worn a veil over his face for the lives lost, tiny baby’s breath flowers embroidered into the silken mesh. A decade’s mourning for his daughter, a decade for his love- and hundreds more for the lives he failed to save. He still wore the traditional funerary dress, however it had long since been disturbed by splashes of color as the years lifted the burden upon his shoulders. He had accepted that for as long as he lived, he would honor them, to the point that taking off the attire felt wrong.
But he simply could not defy her orders. Not when he’d devoted his life to her, had placed his heart within her hands, awaiting the day it would be crushed in rivulets of crimson.
“I’m sorry…” He whispered, placing the suit on the bed with care. No, his mourning must cease before he can take up the mantle of a groom-to-be, much less a father. And with the countless lives lost the day his homeland fell… He would never see the day. “I’m sorry, my Adela…”
He couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had never seen her in white, he had never been able to hold her as she took her first steps. Her first year ceremony, her marriage… A decade wasn’t enough to shake the guilt that festered in his gut, eating up into his lungs and making it difficult to breathe. It was his fault. All his, no others could take the blame for something he had foreseen and so clearly called against. “Please,” he had begged, “ this sin is not worth our people! ”
He could’ve stopped it. He could’ve ended it all, killing the puppet sovereign with his own hands. He could’ve fought off the sages, spat in their dying faces, taken the circlet from his lord’s head-
But he didn’t.
His loyalty had been his downfall, his conviction nearly his death.
Even now, he could still see the vortex opening in the sky, could feel the softness of his lover’s clothes under his hands as he shoved them towards shelter.
Her Majesty’s clothes were also soft, velvet as her low voice and conspiratorial smile.
Oh, how he hated the way her and his lover’s faces melded together, so eerily similar but different nonetheless.
“Jester. It is nearly time.”
Ah, Il Capitano. He always had been trustworthy, despite being horribly infatuated with bloodshed. The Captain lingered in the doorway, his face hidden behind the silver veil hung within his helmet, waiting for an answer, albeit impatiently.
“Thank you, Captain.” Pierro murmured, turning from where he watched the white cloth spread over the bed. The silence that hung over the two was nearly as thick as the blood flowing through the thin, exposed veins of Pierro’s forearm, the Captain waiting for further instruction.
“...Are you well, sire?”
What a peculiar question. Pierro deigned not to answer until the heavy thud of footsteps stopped behind him.
“Pierrot. I am not a man to mince words, as you very well know. Grace me with an answer.”
Pierro carefully considered his options. He really did not want to say something was wrong, weakness had never been a good look on him. However, the Captain wasn’t known for being gentle, and Pierro’s strength had declined somewhat over the years. He could still hold the gnoses, still perform his duties and defeat any of the other Harbingers in a deadly duel- but in the face of the new First Harbinger, he was losing his touch. Growing soft, as Dottore would say, he could practically hear the gleeful hiss in his ear.
“I am well. It is of no importance to you, I do not understand why you insist on pressing for such a simple answer.” The bitterness in his voice hung heavy in the air between them, the Captain looking down upon him in unnerving silence. “Do not forget your place, Il Capitano. You may be the First, but you are certainly not the last, and I have plenty of men who’d kill to be in your place. Do not make me regret my decision. ”
“I am merely doing my duty for the Tsaritsa, Jester. You have grown weak, complacent. She worries for your fickle human life.”
She worries.
Pierro’s hands itched to wrap around the crystalline handle of his blade, something to plunge into the Captain’s chest and twist until he was gasping and begging for the pain to stop. But he cannot, he still needs the Captain for what is to come.
“I am well aware. Get out.” He did not waste any time, did not let the cracks in his facade show at the thought of Her Majesty , untouchable and impartial, worrying about him. “Do not make me repeat myself.”
“As you wish, sire.” The Captain backs down in the face of an unyielding and commanding tone, bowing stiffly. “I shall take my leave.”
Pierro didn’t respond, instead picking up the white fabric once more.
She worries.
Did she know the weight of the white? What it meant to him, why he didn’t dare drape it over himself as he so desired to? Perhaps in another life, he could have been happy, standing before the altar once more after he came to peace with the loss that had weighed on him so heavily all those years. But not in this life. He would mourn for as long as it took, until every last damned soul had been atoned for.
Regardless, a tiny voice called to him. A splinter of himself, a whisper in his ear that said:
What if it were only for tonight?
“Ah, my First.”
Pierro didn’t know what had possessed him. One moment, he’d sworn he wouldn’t touch the garment again, the next he was admiring himself in the mirror, whispering prayers for the forgiveness of his people and his kin.
Just for tonight, he begged them. Please, just for tonight.
They did not answer.
The circlet upon his head was heavy. It carried the weight of a past life, a time when he could’ve stopped the calamity that befell his nation. But it also carried the insignia of his queen, a promise of a new life, a better life where he needn’t worry for anything ever again. The conflict in his chest tightened his throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret his decision upon seeing the small spark that lit up her eyes as she beheld him.
“You look absolutely darling tonight…” Her murmur was soft, her usually cold stare softening into a fond gaze, her hands coming up to cup his face. “You should wear white more often, Pierrot. It suits you.”
You should wear white more often.
His throat closed at just the statement, the impossible weight it carried as it settled over his heart, a suffocating blanket that nearly brought tears to his eyes. If only she knew, if only…
“Come, my First. If you are amiable, I would like you to stay by my side this evening. I do get terribly lonely at these functions…” Outstretching her arm, she gestured for him to take it, guiding her advisor through the crowd with care. “I also haven’t had the time to speak with you, my dear. I have missed you… perhaps more than I care to admit.”
I missed you too.
He couldn’t say the words, his throat tightened far too much to allow it. Just hearing her say those words… tears burned at the corners of his vision, furiously blinked away.
The crowd parted as the Tsaritsa made her way back to the throne at the end of the hall, gently pulling Pierro along with her. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t return her words, not while shame and guilt burned in his stomach, paining him to even think about. An unholy combination of elation and dread followed him, conflicting over his desire to bask in her beauty but also hide in shame, for the Jester had never been one to go against his gut in such a manner.
The Tsaritsa sat upon her throne, smiling softly up at Pierro, who still clung to her hand as he stood before her. Realizing his impudence, he dropped to one knee, kissing the back of her hand with as much tenderness as he could muster, seeing her eyes flicker with a buried flame and lips turn up into a gorgeous smile- she certainly wasn’t young anymore, but her beauty transcended the laugh lines on her face, her eyes burning with that small ember so rarely seen. He wanted to see it more, to watch her face light up with that fondness he had come to acknowledge as trust, borne from years of his service.
“Rise, my dearest. Tonight, you need not bow to me.” The Tsaritsa said, her larger hand wrapping around his and pulling him close to the throne. “Come, sit.” Patting her leg gently, she watched him closely, her posture oddly relaxed.
Oh. Oh dear. No, he simply couldn’t- No. He was not close enough to her position by any means, such a place was only reserved for a consort- which he was not.
“Your Majesty-”
“Please, Pierrot. Just for tonight.”
The whole scene felt like a dream, a dream he dared not know to be true. Swallowing thickly, he stepped forward, seating himself stiffly within her grasp. A careful hand settled on his waist, rubbing gentle circles in his side. Oh, how he yearned for that touch to be more, to be-
“Your Majesty, may I ask what I’ve done to deserve this?”
The question tumbled out of his mouth without proper thought. He almost regretted it, feeling the motion of her hand still against him, brow furrowing as she looked upon him. He felt feeble under her gaze, hunching in on himself to avoid the condemnation he faced.
“Whatever do you mean? Is it wrong of me to care for you, Jester? Especially after you’ve been ill?” The Tsaritsa’s tone was genuine, gentle. “I don’t wish for you to push yourself, standing will tire you.”
“That doesn’t matter, my lady. I am more than willing to stand, I have long since recovered.” Pierro murmured, ignoring the warmth of her gaze upon him. He couldn’t look her in the eyes, not with the restless conflict under his skin.
The Tsaritsa was silent for a moment, studying him. She then spoke: “...You are embarrassed, then.”
No. No, certainly not! He wasn’t embarrassed, not in the slightest. It simply felt… wrong, placing himself so blasphemously upon her, the presumption of a position greater than a god weighing heavily on the action.
All he had to do was say that.
“I am not.” His whisper was barely audible over the hubbub of the crowd. “I am merely surprised. You rarely show such favor unless it has been earned.”
“...Perhaps.” The Tsaritsa glanced about the room, eyes locking on a few nobles watching them. “However, I assure you that you have more than earned it. Relax a while, My First. Allow me to show my gratitude for all you have done.”
Pierro nodded, his argument dying on his tongue. He wouldn’t admit how warm he felt when she placed her hands on him, but also the cold he felt whenever he looked down and saw white. It was all too much, his hands trembled from a phantom chill where they rested in his lap. He could feel the hands around his throat, choking him until his eyes filled with water, his breathing raspy and quick.
“Dance with me, Pierrot.”
The request stunned him out of his reverie, the Tsaritsa’s hand running down his side. “You look troubled. Dance with me, it will clear your head.”
Pierro could do nothing more than nod along once again, rising and offering his hand. He’d gone through the motions thousands of times, all devoted to her. The Tsaritsa took his arm, following him down to the main floor. The music quieted, perhaps expecting a speech or announcement. The Tsaritsa did not speak, instead clapping her hands once, the music resuming. Placing a hand on Pierro’s side, she guided him into a slow step, joining the gentle gyre of couples around them. It was easy to get lost in the gentle swaying, Her Majesty’s hands firm and unyielding against the storm that threatened to shake him apart.
A soft chuckle drew him away from his thoughts, the Tsaritsa smiling down upon him.
“What amuses you, my lady?”
“Nothing. I just cannot tear my gaze away from you, my dearest.” The Tsaritsa’s face was radiant, eyes carved into gentle crescents in her fondness. “You would make a fine consort. The crown suits you well.”
Consort?
“I- thank you, Your Majesty.” Pierro barely managed to sputter out, his cheeks heating. He hadn’t worn his mask, the circlet didn’t allow it, and now he was starting to regret the decision. He couldn’t help the flush spreading over his cheeks, his thoughts fleeing in the face of such a compliment. “However, there are better men more suited for consort-”
“No, there are not.” The Tsaritsa interrupted him, her smile still brilliant and bright on her face. “If I had to choose another, you would be first.”
…Death had to be freezing over. There was no way she would say such things, especially before him-
“Y-your Majesty-”
“Hush, my dearest. Focus on your feet.” The Tsaritsa nudged him playfully, forcing him to realize that he’d stumbled straight into her in his shock. “Unless you would like me to carry you?” Her wink was not lost to him, his cheeks flushing even further at the thought.
“That is unnecessary-” He hissed, careful to avoid her gaze. “I was merely distracted.”
“By what? The truth?”
“Please have mercy, Your Majesty…”
“And why would I do that?” A teasing grin spread over his queen’s face, and for a moment, he swore he saw a glimpse of Celestia.
“My lady…”
“I’m just having a little fun with you, my dearest. I’ll stop now.” The mirth in her voice didn’t fade, the small nudge of her hip against his not lost to him. “You’re awfully handsome when you blush, you know.”
…Pierro was going to melt into an embarrassed puddle right there on the floor.
"Your Majesty, please…" He murmured, the tips of his ears turning red to match his face.
"Sorry, my dear." Her tone was anything but apologetic, her hand trailing up his side slowly. "I can't help myself, you simply look too beautiful. White suits you."
White suits you.
"Your Majesty-" Pierro was cut off by a sudden dip, his hand still gripped tightly in her larger one. Scrabbling for balance, frantic hands latched onto her shoulders, the color draining from his face in his sudden fear of being dropped.
At his surprised expression, the Tsaritsa laughed, pulling him closer until their bodies collided. Chest to chest, she swept him back upright, the fear ending as soon as it had begun. Their dance had gone from an awkward distance to an intimate embrace in mere moments… and he couldn't say he hated being this close to his goddess.
Their swaying continued, this time in less dizzying circles, the Tsaritsa’s hand coming to rest on his back.
“My First, may I make a request?”
He couldn’t say no.
“Yes, my lady.” He murmured, the air between them thrumming with apprehension yet to be broken. “Your wish is my command.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. It is not as if I’m going to ask you to die for me, Pierrot.” The Tsaritsa chuckled quietly once more, her breath fanning over his warm ear. “I must ask that you join me after the festivities. I would like to speak with you… privately.”
Oh. He had done something wrong, hadn’t he?
“Don’t look so alarmed, my dearest. It’s nothing grave.” The Tsaritsa reassured him, pulling back to look down upon him. “I will take good care of you, don’t worry your lovely little head off over it.”
Pierro couldn’t help but worry, his body had long relinquished the sensation of calm and peace.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The seriousness of his tone brought a wrinkle to the brow of his queen, quickly vanishing as she pulled him into another spin.
“Calm yourself, Pierrot. Enjoy the festivities, just for tonight.”
The Tsaritsa was even more radiant from afar.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her visage, the curves of her body hugged tightly by gossamer and lace, lips curved into a warm carmine smile. He couldn’t help but be drawn to her from afar, a buzz surrounding him as he sipped on yet another helping of mead- it was as sweet as he imagined her lips tasting, smooth as icy skin hidden under embroidered fabric. He couldn’t help but have another each time his glass emptied, the rich taste drawing him back each time. Or perhaps that was his excuse, the conflict and fear in his gut creating a sudden need for a distraction. The dance hadn’t worked, scolding Dottore for grabbing Pantalone’s ass in public certainly hadn’t worked, and the Captain had made matters worse once more.
So Pierro had fallen back on an old friend of his- alcohol. He had abstained for some time, the role of the Tsaritsa’s advisor demanded so much that he rarely had time to indulge. But now… he needed something to take his mind off her words.
White suits you.
How? How could she say that so casually with the weight it carried? He wasn’t allowed to wear white yet, he hadn’t mourned enough! He hadn’t atoned, he hadn’t given enough for his Adela, for his love, he would never reach that happiness he so desperately desired despite everything-
“My First? What troubles you, my dear?” The Tsaritsa’s words were suddenly in his ear, her towering figure akin to a ghost under the harsh blue lights of the hall. “You’re crying…”
Oh. Oh no.
“I am-” Pierro’s voice wobbled far too much to be dignified, vision blurring as he reached out. “...Nothing.”
“You are nothing?”
“No… no.”
The Tsaritsa’s brow furrowed in concern, heavy hands falling on his shoulders. “Look at me, Pierrot. What’s wrong?”
“M’nothing. Just thought…”
“Thought what?” The more he mumbled, the more concerned the Tsaritsa appeared to be, her brow furrowing as she reached up to wipe one of the tears from his face. “My dearest, you’re worrying me.”
Oh. No, he couldn’t make her worry… Making her worry was bad, if she was worried it meant that he was doing something wrong. He was disappointing her, wasn’t he?
“...Sorry.” He whispered, his gaze falling to his feet. Like a child chastised, he refused to meet her eyes, more tears dripping down at just the thought of her being disappointed in him, a knife that cut deeply into his gut and twisted itself tightly up into his chest.
“Whatever are you apologizing for, darling? Talk to me, Pierrot.” The Tsaritsa urged him once more, glancing about and diverting any gazes that latched onto his pathetic and wilting figure.
“...I want to go home.”
Home? Did he even have a home? He couldn’t remember. Home made him feel sick when he tried... He just wanted to lay down, his head hurt… People were looking, he needed to get away-
“Pierrot, breathe. You’re alright, darling…”
Steady hands, cupping his face. Eyes like stone, full of an emotion he had never seen before. The world, spinning with the ache behind his eyes…
“Take me…” He murmured, leaning forward into her grasp. “‘m so tired.” The burden extended beyond his aching joints and burning eyes. He couldn’t say it, his mind was too scrambled for that, but his chest ached at just the thought of seeing himself in the mirror, something so inconsequential but rapidly approaching.
“I know, my dearest. I believe turning in for the night would do you some good, does that sound alright?”
Pierro nodded, feeling her arm wrap around his side.Yes, laying down sounded nice…
“Come, let’s go dress you for bed.”
Without argument, he followed, her hand sliding down to guide him by the hip. The crowds faded in and out, bowing and disappointedly shaking their heads when the Tsaritsa spoke, her words distant. What was she saying? He couldn’t tell. His vision spun, his balance lost as he fell into her side, eyes closing by themselves. The darkness was nice, warm.
“Oh, you poor thing.” The sympathetic murmur made something in his chest stir, the squeeze of her hand around his hip spreading the warmth that bubbled up in his stomach. “Walk just a little further for me, else I have to carry you…”
Oh, being carried sounded nice.
Pierro wouldn’t ask for it, he couldn’t. But maybe if he stood there with his eyes closed for long enough…
“You really want me to carry you?” The Tsaritsa’s warm chuckle made his own laughter bubble up in his throat, pressing at his sternum in its desperation to escape. “Fine, but just this once.”
Steady arms supported his back and hooked under his legs, hefting him up into the air. Keeping his eyes closed, he let his head fall against the junction between the Tsaritsa’s shoulder and chest, relishing in the support and safety her grasp promised. The aroma of lavender accompanied her comforting presence, underlaid with the faint scent of smoke and alcohol, so painfully familiar that he found himself nuzzling closer. His drunken stupor had not only frayed his nerves, but had also seemingly elevated his desire to be close to her. He wanted her smooth skin against his own, needed her reassuring and sickeningly sweet whispers in his ear, else he might die from the neglect.
The groan of icy doors came from nearby, likely his chambers. The Tsaritsa’s stride slowed as she came to stand beside a familiar bed, gently setting Pierro down on the mattress. He felt almost like a baby, his head feeling a lot better now that it was resting against something soft, the ache in his joints easing. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger…
“May I undress you, Jester?”
As if she even needed to ask.
White fabric was pulled away from tense shoulders, reminding him that he had been wearing it. He had violated the very principles of his people, had torn his oath from his shoulders and shattered it into pieces. It stabbed deep into his heart, forcing a gasp from his throat, the Tsaritsa’s hands stopping on his chest, prepared to pull away.
“Pierrot? What’s wrong, darling?”
He couldn’t speak. His throat closed, painfully tight as water filled his vision, the sharpness of his queen’s features blurring and fading before him. He didn’t dare reach out, he did not deserve the comfort she offered.
“My dearest First… Please tell me what troubles you. I hate to see you in pain.” Cold hands cupped his face, thumbs wiping away the tears that tumbled down his face. “I respect your silence, but you worry me with your tears. Please, my dearest.”
Please.
The affection in her tone hurt more than the pleading.
“...violated my duty…” The rasp was so quiet it was nearly drowned in the roar of the silence in his ears, his heart aching like it was being torn from his chest by an invisible hand. “...was supposed to mourn them-” His words were cut off by a sob, gut wrenching and loud. He couldn’t stop the shaking that consumed his body, the cries that pushed past his throat and tore from his lungs, leaving bloodied and raw wounds in their wake. The alcohol was taking its toll, running through his veins and tearing down walls that had stood against the icy claws of Harbingers and members of the court since the beginning.
The Tsaritsa had never pushed him to speak on his experiences, had never prodded into a failure that cut so deep the wound had begun to rot and fester within his mind. Sometimes he wished she would, just so times like these wouldn’t tear him by the seams and gut him ruthlessly.
“You didn’t violate any duty, my Pierrot.” The Tsaritsa whispered, hands trailing down his face to run through his hair. She opened her mouth to speak again, only to be cut off by Pierro’s whisper:
“I did- The white…”
“White?”
The Tsaritsa glanced down at the fabric under her hands, thinking for a moment, before the awful reality seemed to crash over her.
“Oh, my dear… I’m so sorry.”
He couldn’t fault her, not when he’d chosen to obey her command.
“This is my fault, my dearest First. I wished to see you dressed in my colors out of selfish desire, I did not consider that it would hurt you so.” He hated how saddened her voice sounded, how hesitant her touches were, hands tracing over his cheeks. “My ignorance of your customs… Oh, my darling, I’m sorry. So sorry…”
Arms enveloped him, bringing with them the fragrance of flowers. The comfort of smoke beneath it, a promise that she was still the same goddess he knew, twined around him, his tears soaking into her shoulder. He couldn’t bring himself to be angered, the rage in his chest had extinguished long ago, only sad that he couldn’t please her with something so simple. He didn’t know how long he stayed there, but it was long enough for his cries to calm, for his thundering heart to rest.
“Let’s take these off you then, sweetheart. I’m sure we can find something black for you.”
Sweetheart?
Pierro nodded feebly at the proposition, ignoring the way his cheeks turned rosy at being called “sweetheart”. Tears still came, but they were fewer, warm and wet on his cheeks.
“You still look incredibly handsome in black, you know.” The Tsaritsa interjected, pulling the fabric down around his shoulders. “It is a part of you. White may suit you, but black carries your soul upon it, has become your claim. I cannot envision you without it.”
“You… envision me?”
“Often. But let’s keep that a secret between us, hm?” Mirth once again twinkled in her eyes, her hands ghosting over his chest to pull the tunic off the rest of the way. “I’m not exactly shy, but I would like to keep my affections for you private.”
Affections?
“Favoritism is seen as weakness in the court. Surely you know this by now?” Her tone continually teased him, fingers pinching his chest playfully. “But privacy is one thing I am privy to, and the court doesn’t have to know.”
Pierro’s brain wasn’t quite catching on to her words, his mind muddled from the alcohol and sudden surge of heat to his face at the pinch. Nodding along, he let her shuck off the rest of his garments, not caring that he was nearly nude before her. She’d seen it before, it wasn’t as if he had anything to hide.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but his inebriated brain conveniently forgot.
“Arms up, dearest.”
Smooth cotton slid over his forearms, dragging against scarred skin. The Tsaritsa’s hands were careful as she dressed him, treating him with fragility reserved for few, her hands occasionally lingering upon his chest, where a star-shaped scar rested, carved over his heart.
“Beautiful…”
He swore that the whisper was a hallucination, his mind finally fried from the effort of maintaining cognisance. There was no way the Tsaritsa had leaned down, placing a tender kiss upon that scar, hands running up his sides lasciviously, fingernails scraping lightly against battered and worn skin.
“Your Majesty…”
“Hush, Pierrot. Let me take care of you.”
Who was he to say no?