Chapter Text
Circus. What an intricate, delicate form of art! Starting from the tent and the ropes that hold this colorful sky, to each gesture of the ringmaster's hand and, of course, each performance, – all was saturated with finesse. Some would call it the low of the lowest art, worse than theatre and cabaret and yet, at least to the young king's ear these sentiments had little substance. Even well into his reign, he escaped the watchful eyes of his own guard and viziers undercover to spectate the oh so rare performances in his city.
This one, however, was none like the rest. The tent was crafted with the most delicate silk and gilded with gold and silver, purple stripes criss-crossing and mingling in a beautiful ornament all over, emphasized only more by the ever-present sunshine. It took place at the Bronze Square – the market area for the city folk, in reach for all who would like to visit and would have the means to buy themselves the pass. And so, Baldwin donned himself in a simple dress, covered his shoulders and head with a modest cloak, and departed there.
The circus attracted many spectators and even more looker-ons, hence it wasn't hard for the young king to disappear in the crowd and safely proceed to the entrance. In high spirits, he did just so.
Until someone tugs on the corner of his cloak. When Baldwin gazes down, his eyes stumble upon a little girl, not even in her teens. Her reaction is almost surprise when they meet eyes but still she reaches out a rose from her basket. She splattered out, the black bangs of her hair moving unevenly with every word, “Flowers, kind sir! For the performers, perhaps?”
It was his rule to never speak unless absolutely necessary and yet… He slips out a coin and smiles onto her. “Of course, those are particularly lovely. How much?”
The girl's eyes round further when she grasps the coin lent to her. “Oi-! For that – the entire basket!”
“Just one would be enough,” Baldwin murmurs, taking the rose and turning to walk past. “Farewell, sweet child.”
As all others, he paid the entrance fee and entered the ark of beauty and amusement that was the circus tent. Perfectly lit up with the nearly setting sun, the inner sides of it sparked as if with embers, and the white quartz sand in the ring shimmered like a lake of treasures – dive in it and emerge with the greatest artifacts of olden times!
And so it was for Baldwin. One act after another, a great adventure and a treat unfolds before him – magicians and cyclers, tamers and knife throwers. All so masterfully organized by the ringmaster – a distinguished man of solid age that inspired respect and admiration.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the ringmaster clamours with a blast of fanfare emphasising his words, “Now – the highlight of your evening! Sarmenti!”
To the blaring applause, an acrobat appears on stage. He dons a harlequin costume and wears fitting make-up. A few strands of black hair stick out from beneath his tall cap, framing his powdered smiling face. He nods and bows to the audience while a held up by two thick cords bar is lowered to him.
In a singular jump, Sarmenti reaches the trapeze and holds onto it tight as it rises back to the dome of the circus until his feet level with a tightrope, hung between two anchors.
To everyone's shock, he doesn't walk it, nay, – he dances and prances, as if he was not good thirty feet above the ground but in full safety of a ballroom, save the one-dimensional trajectory of his movements. With the final minuet, he bows once again, summoning a roar of clapping and cheering.
Until the performer falls, the spectators gasping as if at this moment every single one of them shared a breath – only to let it out an instant after. Mid-fall, he gracefully latches onto the trapeze and swings with momentum, flying above the ring, conjuring whistles of approval and relief from the audience.
Then – a miracle. As the acrobat swings, knees cast over the bar so his arms are free, he snatches the rose Baldwin meant to cast to him from his hands. For a moment, their faces are so close that he knows that the performer must have felt the sharp breath he took.
Before the king can even conceive any meaningful thought, Sarmenti is already at the very centre, harnessing the momentum of the trapeze and halting it in a few moments. Quickly he pulls himself up to stand on the bar as if it was solid ground, the rose locked between his slender fingers, and bows to the roaring applause of the spectators – everyone's, including the king.
And yet, when the acrobat straightens his back, Baldwin notices a thin thread of red twirling around the cord he's holding onto. And it borns heartache in the young king's chest.
♡◇♡◇♡
After the end of the performance, Baldwin decides to follow the acrobat into his wagon – to ensure his wounds aren't worth the concern and, just perhaps, to satisfy his own curiosity. He wouldn't admit the latter to himself, of course.
Courteously, he knocks on the wooden door, a diamond-shaped stained window in its middle, to signal his arrival before he announces it with words: “Dear sir Sarmenti! Would you be so kind as to accept me as your visitor tonight? I shan't trouble you further, after I assert your wellbeing.”
The other window – the usual type of it, with lead ornate bars covering the fragile glass – flies open and a melodious, even if snarky and mocking, voice follows.
“Why does my wellbeing concern you, passerby?” Sarmenti asks, still unseen by the king. Then, his gloveless hand appears from the window and makes a shooing gesture. “Go make yourself busy with whatever your business is!”
“Because it is I who you took the rose from,” Baldwin answers assertively, approaching the window in hope to see the host of the lovely hand. “Hence all the trouble it caused should be blamed on me.”
In less than a blink of an eye, where just then was merely a forearm, was the upper torso of the man he sought, squeezing effortlessly through the opening. Quite bemused and amused, he cheers, “Oh, it's you! Ah, I didn't expect you to come ‘round – your kind rarely pays much thought to the folks of my trade.”
“Do not announce me ungrateful for your art,” the young king says through a warm smile, mesmerized by the charming countenance he beheld so close and without the makeup. “I must applaud your performance once more.”
“Flatterer,” the man snorts and waves a head dismissively in the exact way that shows deep care. “Is that all you wanted or-”
“I shall ask once more, dear sir,” Baldwin speaks again, eyes shifting an inch down, bashfully, “Allow me to examine your precious hand – merely to assuage my fear.”
Sarmenti rests his chin on the frame of the window and allows his eyes to half-shut to a more relaxed, yet still piercing asset. "Fine." Languidly, he reaches his left hand in the king's direction. “Examine it to your heart's content.”
The hand, despite being sinewy and callous, was splendid nonetheless – thin fingers and trimmed clean fingernails gave away the artist in the man. And even if the palm lent to him was most tantalizing, the skin at the crook of it was marred with barely closing thorn cuts. So small yet enough to make his own heart bleed.
Swiftly, he unfurls the thin stock scarf from his neck. “Allow me to-”
“Bah!” The acrobat throws his hands up, in surprise rather than in protest. In a moment, when his visitor already starts to lose hope and doubt himself, he adds, a tint awkwardly, “This is… quite unnecessary, really.”
Baldwin replies, his decisiveness kindled anew and his own hands reaching out once more, “It is my fault and therefore I decide what the situation calls for. Here, I deem it absolutely essential.”
“Well, if you insist,” Sarmenti sighs, relaxing once more, even if with less confidence than before. In a moment his wrist and hand are gently cradled by much bigger ones to be wrapped by the promised scarf of quite delicate cloth – especially for a commoner. Yet he pays little notice, for he is quite rapped by the momentary eye contact they share – memorable and precious, as if what they had was a dinner and the meeting of their eyes was them clanging glasses for the first time. But before he can savour the wine of acquiring a new friend, his soul is paralyzed with fear.
Awkwardly he retracts his hand, the light in his eyes fading. “You really must go now. Farewell.”
“Wait!” Baldwin catches the acrobat's very fingertips and utters breathlessly, his brow knit in perplexity. “Will I at least see you tomorrow?”
Sarmenti glances up at him hopefully for barely more than a moment before he casts his eyes down again and shakes his head. “No. Tomorrow we will perform at the Silver square for the noblemen and traders of high rank. You will have no access to it.” He withdraws his hand and wraps it around the handle of the window as he says loudly and insincerely in the way his voice cracks, “Not like I ever want to see your face again, peasant.”
And with these last words the window was shut before Baldwin's face with a sound thud of wood and zing of glass, leaving him alone in a city street not too late in the evening.