Chapter Text
The light from the overhead rig blazed forth brilliantly—not the flickering, feeble glow of the old bulbs I had replaced that afternoon, but a different kind of light, a light that seemed born of darkness itself, born of the memories that had slept within the walls of this kingdom for so long. It was a light both warm and cold, familiar and strange, as though it came not from bulbs or filaments, but from another world entirely, from souls awakening after centuries of stillness. Colors intertwined—red, blue, yellow, violet, orange, pink—all blending into a fantastic painting, a space both real and unreal, as if I stood not on the stage of an old theater, but at the center of a miniature universe where all boundaries had dissolved, where time and space no longer held meaning, where only the most primal emotions remained—the most delicate vibrations—and I, a small creature of flesh and bone, trembling in the vortex of light and shadow, of invisible gazes and wordless whispers.
I stood at center stage, where the light was strongest, where every beam converged upon me as though I were the protagonist of a play whose script I had never read, unsure whether to dance or stand still, to laugh or to weep. The colored bulbs rotated slowly, casting long streaks of light, concentric circles, fantastical spirals. In the brief moments when the red light shone, I felt my blood run faster, heat waves spreading from my chest through my entire body. And when the blue light took over, I grew cold again, lonely, as though standing alone on a distant planet with no one, nothing, only the wind and the fading stars.
I did not know how long I had stood upon this stage, nor when the invisible hand had led me here. I only knew that when I opened my eyes after having squeezed them shut against the blinding brilliance, I was already here, standing amid colored lights, and below me, in the darkness of the auditorium, I heard whispers, cheers, applause—as though an invisible audience sat there, watching me, waiting for a performance whose script even I did not know. But then, from the far end of the corridor, from the thickest darkness, I saw a tall figure advancing toward the stage—slow, graceful, unhurried, like an actor long accustomed to the lights, long accustomed to attention, stepping forth to begin his performance. It was Jester, the two‑meter‑tall marionette with those eyes that had haunted me all these nights, and now, beneath the stage lights, he appeared not as a ghost of the past, but as a true artist, a soul reclaiming its lost radiance, an actor who had waited too long for the performance of his life.
Jester stepped onto the stage, and the moment his wooden foot touched the floor, the lights shifted—from chaotic colors to a dominant red, the red of velvet curtains, of beating hearts, of burning flames. He stood before me, tall, his shadow covering me completely—not a threatening shadow, but an embracing one. For he was here. This kingdom was here. And I was a part of it. His long fingers rose again, this time not to cover my eyes, nor to choke me as Knight had done, but to gently caress my face, from forehead to chin, like an artist examining his work before bringing it into the light.
"You have rekindled our kingdom," Jester said, his voice no longer echoing from the void as before, but clear, like the voice of a soul after many years of storms. "The bulbs you replaced, the curtains you wiped, the floorboards you polished—all of it has awakened memories we thought long dead. And now, when the light blazes, when colors dance upon this stage once more, we remember that we were once performers, that we once captivated thousands of hearts."
I wanted to say that I was only doing my job, that I had no grand intentions, that I only wanted a place to stay, work to do, a reason to live. But the words caught in my throat as Jester's fingers glided down to my lips, pressing gently, as if to silence me, to make me feel rather than speak—because some things need no words, some feelings can only be transmitted through touch, through vibrations, through silent moments between two souls reaching for each other. And I fell silent, stood still, letting those fingers do as they wished, letting that strange and familiar sensation sweep me into a current without end—a current I did not want to escape, did not want to end, only wanted to drift in forever, until I dissolved into the colors, the lights, the souls caressing me from within the darkness.
"Dance with me," Jester whispered, not in words, but by tugging gently at my hand, by his feet beginning to move upon the wooden floor, by spins that drew me into the vortex of the dance. And I—who had never learned to dance, who had never taken a single step upon any stage, who only knew how to drag my feet through empty corridors and dark rented rooms—I suddenly found I could move, could spin, could take long, wide steps, as though an invisible hand guided my feet, as though invisible strings connected Jester's fingers to every joint in my body, and I was becoming a puppet—not a puppet controlled, but a puppet liberated, a puppet alive, a puppet dancing to the rhythm of its own heart.
Our dance had no name, no predetermined steps, no rules at all—only feet gliding across the floor, spins, embraces, and Jester's cold fingers imprinting upon my back, my shoulders, my hips, like a map of surging emotions, like a love letter written in touches instead of ink. The lights changed continuously—red, blue, gold, violet—and with each change, our dance transformed. When the light was red, our steps grew faster, more frenzied, like flames burning. When blue, we slowed, our touches became tender, like cool water flowing over skin. When gold, I saw Jester's face more clearly, every meticulously carved line. And when violet, the shadows lengthened, the darkness thickened, and I felt as though we were melting into each other, becoming one—one soul in two bodies, or two souls in one—and I could no longer tell where I ended and he began.
"Do you know," Jester whispered into my ear—he had no breath, yet I felt his words like sound waves radiating from his wooden throat—"how many years I have waited for this dance? I once danced upon this stage before thousands of eyes, but never once did I have a partner like you. The audiences applauded, cheered, but no one ever stepped onto the stage to dance with me, no one ever let my fingers touch them without fear, no one ever looked straight into my eyes. And now, you are here. You are dancing with me. You are letting me touch you. And that makes me remember that I can still feel, still hope."
Jester's fingers, which had been gliding lightly across my back like invisible threads, suddenly tightened—not to hold me, but as though seeking an anchor, a confirmation that what he was about to confess would not make me run. His arms drew closer, pulling me nearer, and in the crimson glow of the lights, I saw his wooden face—half white, half black, that wide red smile—no longer a mask, but an open letter, every line, every carving, every trace of time laid bare. He lowered his head, his forehead touching mine, a gesture so gentle I felt I was touching a soul, not a wooden body, and he whispered—not into my ear, but into the deepest hollow of my chest:
"Have you ever wondered why dancing?"
I shook my head—not because I did not want to know, but because my throat was locked by an emotion too vast, too near, too nameless.
"Because dance is the only lie that creatures like us can tell truthfully," Jester said, his fingers now moving across my back in a different rhythm, no longer the rhythm of the dance, but the rhythm of a heart telling a story. "Upon this stage, I was once an artist, an entertainer, a jester who made thousands laugh. But laughter is easy; love is not. Laughter can be faked; love cannot. And when the kingdom fell, when the lights went out, when the audience left and never returned, I realized that everything I had ever done—the dances, the tricks, the laughter—was only a way to hide the truth: that I knew nothing else besides being watched. I was created to perform, to adorn the kingdom, to stir the air."
I wanted to say that I understood, that I had been the same, that I knew the feeling of being watched from afar but never being close. But the words choked in my throat as Jester's fingers traced up to my neck—cold yet tender—and I felt him trembling. A wooden puppet, carved from hard grain, trembling beneath his own fingers, as though he too could not control what he was about to confess.
"I have stalked you for a long time," Jester whispered, his voice now no longer sound from his throat but vibrations passing from wood into my flesh. "From the moment you stepped through the gates, I saw you. But not with the eyes of a predator watching prey, as Knight does. With the eyes of one who has seen only darkness for too long, and suddenly a sliver of light slips through the crack of the door. You do not know this—those first nights, when you walked the corridors, when you fumbled in the dark with your weak flashlight, I stood behind the doors, pressing my eyes to those small barred windows, watching you. I followed every step, every sigh, every time you paused and looked around as though sensing someone watching. And I asked myself: could you be the one I have waited for all these years? Would you dare open the doors, dare to look straight at imprisoned souls, dare to touch us without pulling your hand away?"
I remembered those first nights—the vague feeling of being watched, the invisible stares fixed upon the back of my neck, the times I shivered at a wind that did not exist. Now I knew it was no illusion. It was him, Jester, with those crimson eyes, watching me from the darkness—not to threaten, but to wait, to hope, to pray that I would not run as others had.
"The red ball," Jester said, as though reading my thoughts, "you still have it, don't you? On the second shelf, where you placed it your first day. You did not know what it was, yet you kept it. That is how I knew you were different from the others. That ball... was my first greeting to you. A greeting from a soul with no mouth to speak, no hand to wave—only a red rubber ball, the only thing I could roll to your feet without making you flee in terror. It was a conduit, the first thread connecting your world to mine. When you picked it up, when you placed it on the shelf instead of throwing it away, I knew you were not afraid of strange things. You accepted them. And that made me want to come closer to you."
I remembered the red ball, lying silent in the storage room, its redness vivid against the gray dust, and how I had picked it up, touched it, set it on the shelf, never knowing it was a greeting from a soul watching me from the dark. A greeting in the form of a rubber ball—something so childish, so pitiful, it made my heart clench.
"And you opened the doors," Jester continued, his voice no longer a whisper but a release, a letting go after years of suppression. "You entered my room, Knight's, all of them. You saw us, wrote our names on your paper, acknowledged that we exist. And when Knight nearly killed you—I intervened. Knight is a guardian; he does his duty. But I, I am an entertainer. I know how to soothe, how to caress, how to make a frightened soul grow calm. And you, when I touched you, were no longer afraid. You trembled, yes, but not from fear. You trembled from another emotion—one you have not yet dared admit to yourself."
His fingers now rested on my shoulders, pressing lightly, as though sending a message through my fragile skin, and I felt another tremor—not from him, but from me, from the deepest places I had never dared explore.
"I have a secret," Jester whispered, and in his voice I heard something both shy and desperate. "I was made to make others laugh, but inside, I crave punishment. To be controlled. To be tamed. To have a hand stronger than mine grasp my neck and tell me I do not need to perform anymore, that I can simply be myself—even if that self is clumsy, sad, unable to make anyone laugh."
I did not fully understand his words, yet something in the way he spoke made me realize this was a plea from a soul too exhausted to keep performing, and now, with someone before him, he wanted to surrender everything—not to be saved, but to be controlled, to be led.
"You saw Knight choke you," Jester said, his voice deepening as if recalling a distant memory, "and you were afraid. But a part of you, however small, was not afraid. Wanted more. Craved to feel that strength, to be dominated, to be pushed to the edge. I saw it in your eyes, in the way you trembled when I touched the marks on your neck. And I knew—you and I, we are alike. We are both wanderers in the dark, searching for someone to lean on, to surrender to, to live out our darkest desires truthfully."
I wanted to deny it, to say he was wrong, that I did not crave to be hurt, that I was only a desperate unemployed soul who had stumbled into this kingdom. But as Jester's fingers traced the marks Knight had left on my neck, I felt a vibration—not pain, but something else, vague and nameless, like standing on the edge of an abyss knowing one more step would send you falling, yet not wanting to step back.
Jester slowly stepped back, his crimson eyes fixed on mine, and in that gaze I saw a silent plea. He raised his hand to his own neck—the neck of a puppet, where wooden joints connected head to body—and slowly unclasped a collar. A leather collar, black, fastened with a small silver buckle, gleaming beneath the stage lights.
"This collar," Jester said, his voice trembling, "was once part of my costume. An ornament, something to look pretty. But over the years, it became something else to me. It became a symbol of the captivity I willingly accepted. Every time I wore it, I reminded myself that I was made to serve, to entertain, to please others. But now, I no longer want it to be a symbol of captivity. I want it to be a symbol of trust. I want to give it to you—not to imprison me, but to protect me, to hold a piece of my soul, and to... to do whatever you wish with me."
He offered the collar to me, his crimson eyes no longer those of a puppet, but of a being begging, hoping, placing everything he had into the palm of a stranger. I looked at the collar—the fine stitching, the gleaming buckle—and I understood that this was not mere jewelry. It was an invitation, a challenge, a plea to be loved in the way only those who have suffered can understand.
"I do not want you merely to stand and feel," Jester whispered, his fingers pushing the collar gently into my palm. "I want you to take the lead. I want you to attack me, to tighten, to hurt me in the way only you can. Because when you hurt me, I know you are there, truly present, not leaving me in the dark. And I—I will not resist. I will not run. I will stay, no matter what you do, because for the first time in years, I have someone to entrust myself to, someone to love in a way I have never dared love before."
I held the collar in my hand, feeling the coolness of the leather, the weight of the metal, and I looked into Jester's eyes—those crimson eyes looking at me with desperate intensity, absolute trust, and a faint fear that I might refuse, might walk away, might leave him alone in the dark like all the others before me.
And I—who had thought I had nothing left to lose—stepped forward, raised my hands, and fastened the collar around Jester's neck. Not to keep him prisoner, but to affirm that I had accepted his invitation, that I would not run, that I would stay. My fingers trembled as I closed the silver clasp; a soft click echoed through the silent space. And when the collar was locked in place, Jester sighed—a sigh of release, of surrender, of a soul that had finally found safe harbor after years adrift.
The silver buckle made a soft, dry click, like a vow whispered in the darkness, and I felt beneath my fingertips Jester trembling—a vibration spreading from the collar, from the black leather straps, from the small clasp, down his shoulders, his arms, his hands that still rested on me. He was no longer Jester, the two‑meter‑tall puppet. He was only a trembling soul, waiting, placing all he had into the hands of one who had once thought he had nothing left to lose.
Then, before I could gather my thoughts, Jester began to laugh. Not the clear giggle I had heard while replacing the bulbs, nor the mocking laugh from old anecdotes. A different laugh—low, deep, rising from the depths of his wooden throat, a laugh both provocative and surrendering, challenging and pleading.
"You have done it," he whispered into my ear, breathless, his words cold and damp as night mist. "You have locked it. You have taken hold of the leash. But will you dare to pull? Or do you only want to wear it around my neck like decoration, like a new toy?"
I froze. Never had Jester spoken to me in such a tone—both sweet and venomous, both inviting and challenging. His fingers left my shoulders, rose slowly, and grasped my wrist—the hand holding the collar—and he guided me, pulled my hand upward, tightened it, so that the black leather bit into the wood, leaving a faint mark upon his neck.
"Do you know why I liked to stalk you?" he asked, his crimson eyes never leaving mine—like a hunter, yet strangely, in that gaze I saw not a predator, but prey deliberately leaving tracks, deliberately slowing down so the hunter could catch up. "Because I wanted you to know you were being watched. I wanted you to feel those stares from the darkness. I wanted you—night by night, slowly—to grow accustomed to my presence, so that when I was no longer there, you would feel the lack, would grow restless, would ask yourself: 'Where is he? Why is he not watching me anymore?' That is how I taught you to crave. That is how I turned you—one who once was afraid—into someone who actively seeks me out."
I wanted to say he was mad, that I did not crave invisible stares, but the truth—the truth I could not deny—was that every night when I walked into the empty corridor, I waited for that feeling, listened for small sounds, hoped the large hand would cover my eyes again. He had been right. He had turned fear into addiction, and I had fallen long ago without knowing it.
"And the red ball," Jester continued, his voice now like smoke curling through the crevices of my mind, "do you know what it was? I rolled it to your feet on your first day, when you knew nothing of this kingdom. It was a greeting, but also a test. Those before you, when they saw it, kicked it away, left it in a dark corner, or threw it in the trash. They were afraid of strange things. They did not want to touch anything that did not belong to their world. But you—you picked it up. You held it in your hand, felt the softness of aged rubber, and you placed it on the shelf, neatly, as though it deserved to be treasured. That was when I knew you were different. That was when I decided that if anyone was worth revealing myself to, it was you."
He paused, his fingers still gripping my wrist, and I felt him trembling—not from cold, but from an emotion so intense that even wooden joints vibrated.
"And when Knight nearly killed you, I intervened. Not out of pity. Not to play hero. I intervened because you are my prey. I have spent too many nights stalking you, too much time watching every move you make, to let another—even Knight, even anyone—take your life before I have had a chance to... play with you."
He laughed, a soft laugh rumbling in his throat, and I felt his fingers tighten around my wrist.
"Do you know what I thought when I saw you lying beneath Knight's hand, your face pale, your breath weak? I thought: 'So beautiful. Such beautiful prey. I want to see you like this—weak, helpless, but alive. And I want to be the one who brings you back from the edge, so you know your life no longer belongs to you, but to me.' But then I realized—that would be boring. What fun is prey that only lies still and takes it? I want you stronger. I want you to fight back. I want you yourself to be the one who chokes me, who chases me, who turns me into your prey."
He released my wrist, stepped back, and stood before me, the black collar gleaming on his neck beneath the fading lights. His crimson eyes no longer held the gaze of a stalker, but of a beast waiting to be hunted.
"Do you have the courage?" he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, almost a moan from deep within his chest. "Do you dare become the hunter instead of the prey? I have given you the collar. I have shown you how to tighten. Now, show me what you can do with it. Do not be afraid. Do not hesitate. I am not fragile. I am wood, string, joints that have endured centuries of neglect. You will not break me. You will only... awaken me."
I do not know what came over me after those words. Perhaps it was the pent‑up anger from days of being watched. Perhaps it was the desire to prove that I was not merely passive. Or perhaps it was simply desire—a dark, primal desire that Jester had skillfully awakened from the very first touch. I grasped the collar—not timidly, but with all the strength I did not know I possessed—and I pulled.
Pulled hard.
The collar tightened around Jester's neck, dragging him toward me. His feet stumbled on the wooden floor, clattering, and he fell forward—not so much falling as collapsing, like a felled tree, like a beast surrendering. And I caught him, not to lift him up, but to push him down.
He lay beneath me on the cold wooden stage, beneath the dimming colored lights, and I knelt over him, straddling his hips, still gripping the collar, pulling the black leather taut, forcing his head back, exposing his wooden neck with its delicate joints. I looked down at him, into those crimson eyes looking back up at me, and I saw no fear, no resistance—only anticipation, longing, and a strange happiness so intense it stole my breath.
"You like this?" I asked, my voice hoarse, not from exhaustion but from an emotion surging through my chest, one I had never felt before. "You like being pulled, thrown down, pinned beneath a body that once feared you?"
Jester did not answer immediately. He closed his eyes—for the first time I saw him close his eyes—and upon that wooden face, the smile was no longer painted, but real. A smile of satisfaction, of finding, of something completed after years of waiting.
"More," he whispered, his voice weak yet provocative. "Pull harder. I want to feel your fingers imprint upon the wood. I want this collar to be the only mark that reminds me I belong to you."
I tightened my grip. And he moaned—not from his throat, but from his wooden joints, from the strings, from the floorboards beneath him, a moan both agonized and ecstatic, like music played upon an instrument untouched for too long.
"Do you see?" he breathed, opening his eyes, looking up at me with a strange reverence. "You don't need to be afraid. You don't need to hold back. What you do to me is not cruelty. It is truth. The truth that you too have a dark part, a part that craves to hold, to control. And I—I volunteer to be the place where you release that darkness."
He raised his hand, his long slender fingers touching my face, caressing my cheek, my lips—a comfort, an encouragement, a reminder that he was still here, still himself, and he did not want me to stop.
"Imagine," he whispered, his crimson eyes like glowing embers, "the nights to come. I will run, and you will chase. I will hide in the darkness, and you will search. I will leave traces—red balls, soft giggles, fleeting touches—just to let you know I am somewhere, waiting to be caught. And when you catch me, what will you do? Will you choke me? Throw me down? Kneel over me and look at me with the eyes of a victor?"
I did not answer. But my fingers tightened further, and Jester laughed—a breaking laugh, both painful and joyful, both a plea and a thank you.
"You no longer need to wait for me to appear. You will be the seeker. You will decide when the game begins and when it ends. And I—I will only know how to run, hide, and hope that you will catch me—because if you do not catch me, I will be lonely again, and so will you."
He closed his eyes, threw his head back, exposing the tightened collar, and whispered one last time before I finally let go:
"So do not be afraid. Do not hold back. Be the hunter I need you to become. And I—I will be the most obedient prey you have ever had."
"Thank you," he whispered, his fingers resting upon my hand where it still lay upon his neck, "for not running away. For seeing me. For being willing to hurt me, if that means I will not be alone."
And I, with my heart pounding in strange rhythms, with my fingers trembling upon the collar, said nothing. Only tightened my grip further, let my fingers leave their marks upon his neck, let him feel my presence, let him know that from now on, I would no longer be merely the one led, but also the leader; no longer only prey, but also hunter; no longer only the one caressed, but also the one who caresses. And in this endless circle, we would spin together, hurt together, love together, until no boundary remained between me and him, between human and puppet, between master and servant, between dominator and submissive—only two souls who had found each other in the darkness, and never wanted to part.