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There are strings inside him.
Invisible, intangible, unknown to everyone but Jester.
Thickest are those that connect his family — woven together with such density that individual strands can be difficult to parse. Pierrot and Harlequin, bound tight despite their tension. Doctor and Ticket Taker, standing steady at his sides. Himself woven among them, slipping into their lives to strengthen their bonds.
Errant guests have the thinnest threads. Those that became unruly, those that needed his persuasion to calm. These lines are mere wisps of power, meant to weaken and dissolve over time and distance. Jester pays no mind to the moment they snap.
Fools' lines are the most varied. Age, experience, willpower; all play into the ease of molding an unwilling mind into a servant of the circus, but time strengthens the lines until they are unneeded. Ten years Bil has held the same ticket booth operator; their soul is so intertwined with their position that separation will ruin them.
Jester’s mind hums with a constant buzz of information. He’s learned quite well how to tune out the unnecessary and monitor only the four that bind his heart.
Which is why he spares no thought to the string that pulls taut one morning as he’s reviewing documents. No Fool would approach the camping trailer he’s claimed for an office. He sets aside a stack of inventory expenses as the door opens.
“Jes,” Bil says as he enters, “what are your Fools meant to be doing right now?”
“Resting,” Jester answers as he collects another pile of papers. “I have a joint performance with Pierrot tonight that will be rather taxing to them.” He taps his pen on the table twice. “Why?”
“There's a Fool with your mask that's been standing in the pink tent for several minutes.” Bil removes his hat and mask to sit across from Jester, taking the papers from him. “All they've done for the past ten minutes is stare at the table of advertisements.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Jester sighs. He stands, adjusts his hat, and leaves. Bil knows where he left off and what next needs review. The steps of the trailer rattle under his boots, the sound accompanied by a screech of metal on metal. He’ll have to check for loose bolts later; more than once has his family been injured by the steps falling apart beneath them. Half of him wishes to fix it now, but he has an wayward Fool to deal with. “Careful with the steps,” he calls into the trailer.
A single grunt is his reply, heard just before the door swings shut.
Dozens of thoughts whir through his head as Jester makes his way to the pink tent. Sales and expenses, the creaking of the steps, the Fool that somehow strayed from orders, the increasing police presence. Another week should grant them enough profit to move the circus; residents have been exceptionally hostile in their current location.
The bonds within his mind strengthen as he approaches the pink tent. Inside is the low hum of his power, woven around six Fools that still lay in their beds.
The seventh, standing just beyond the tent flap, is not a product of his manipulation. A thread binds them to Jester, just as he is connected to all those involved with the circus. Tugging on the thread reveals someone not under his control — not at all times, anyway.
“Bil warned me of a Fool not doing its duty,” he begins as he ducks through the canvas door of the tent. “But it seems all he saw was a little mouse.”
“Jester,” you say, voice muffled by the mask over your face.
“That’s a good look for you,” Jester tells you, running a gloved claw over the purple diamond painted on the mask. A matching pin sits attached to the folded collar of the pink uniform you wear.
You remove the mask to give him a suspicious glare. “Are you calling me ugly?” you ask.
“You’re no treasure,” he teases, setting a hand on your head. “Now tell me, what’s driven you to dress as a Fool?”
“I thought I’d go out and deliver flyers,” you say with a shrug.
“I’ve ordered you to stay on circus grounds. It’s not safe here.” He frowns, palm petting the curve of your scalp. “This town is too belligerent. Even the Fools have come back to the circus with broken masks and bruises.”
"I’m no treasure,” you snicker, throwing his words back at him. “Doesn’t matter what happens to me as long as I come back, right?”
Concerns over your fragility have caused more than one argument between you and the circus members. Humans are so frail; you need to stay somewhere safe.
To which you always reply that you’re no porcelain doll, any damage will heal, it just takes time.
Jester knows how easily time can slip away. Already you’ve aged — hair has grown and been cut and grown again, lines have deepened at the corners of your smile. Thoughts of time and its all too quick passage deepen his frown.
“Or maybe,” he begins, forcing a grin with way too many teeth, “you were caught before you could escape.”
“I was trying to deliver flyers!” you insist with a stomp. “Everyone at the circus has to earn their place, right?”
“Your place is by my side. Or have you forgotten?” A single finger slips beneath the loose collar of the uniform. Jester’s grin turns taunting as he tugs free the purple dog collar locked around your neck. He uses it to pull you to your toes, bending slightly to capture your lips.
You hum into the kiss, hands gripping his wrist for balance. He's careful not to choke you, even when his tongue dips into your mouth, even as he backs you to the table of flyers that so enraptured y–
You break away with a gasp and scramble to put him between you and the table.
“Pet?” he hisses over his shoulder, an edge of danger to his tone.
“Sorry,” you mumble, pressing your forehead into his back. “There's spiders.”
“Spiders?” Jester turns his attention back to the table.
It’s nothing special — just a cheap folding table bought from the camping section of a department store. Paper flyers are stacked neatly on its white plastic surface, two rows deep. Looking closer reveals ink bleeding across the stacks– no, not ink.
Hundreds of tiny black bodies scurry over every inch of the table. Baby spiders. There must have been an egg sac hidden somewhere among the metal supports of the table. An attempt at closer inspection results in you grabbing his shoulders and yanking backwards. Your strength does little more than annoy him; his irritated glance conveys his question: What do you think you’re doing?
“Don’t...” your voice comes out with a weak tremor. “Don’t get too close,” you whisper. “What if they’re poisonous?”
“Venomous,” Jester corrects, “and have no fear. Their venom cannot hurt me.” He narrows his eyes at the spiderlings. “If they have any venom to share.”
“Maybe they can’t hurt you,” you pout, “but what about the Fools? They’re just humans!”
“The Fools won’t be bothered,” he replies. “They won’t even notice.”
“The spiders will!” you huff. “Can’t you get rid of them?”
“How bold, little mouse,” he says with a sardonic grin, “but killing all the Fools is more trouble than its worth.”
“Jester!”
“They’re spiders, Pet.” Jester rises to his full height. “They won’t bother the Fools so long as the Fools ignore them.”
“The Fools can’t ignore them if they’re covering the flyers,” you pout.
“Give it a few days. They’ll disperse.”
You cross your arms and glare at the occupied cots in the tent.
“Human,” Jester says, power layered over his voice. He curls a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head until your faces is inches from his, but you close your eyes. Your defiance gives him a thrill of amusement — obedience is appreciated, but he does so love to break a rebellious spirit.
“You can look at me, can’t you?”
“You can trust me.”
A sarcastic little laugh falls from your lips. “I really can't,” you say with exasperated mirth. “But I do anyway.” At the other end of a deep inhale, you meet his gaze.
Warmth bubbles in his chest, almost enough to make him feel guilt for what he's about to do. Almost.
Purple glows throughout his vision. A dozen threads spring to light at his feet. Pulsing, twitching, strumming with life. Unfamiliar sensation invades his body as he unleashes his power. The press of a mattress against his back, the throb of a twisted ankle. A sting across his cheek tells him that one of the Fools has met violence.
Four strings burn in other colors, sprouting from his chest instead of the ground.
Deep blue. Vivid green. Shining gold. Bright cyan, splattered with the red of blood.
These he blocks off. He keeps them open just enough to feel the hum of life, but never tries to pry into their minds.
The string that connects you to him is not nearly as strong as those, and likely never will be. Time will steal this connection from him before it ever has a chance to even bloom. He has resisted its growth, begged it to fall, tried to cut it out himself.
Yet your string persists. It’s not quite in his heart, not yet, but it has climbed from his feet to just above his navel. The purple glow of it has dulled and muddied as your favorite color seeps in to take its place. Grasping the string causes it to unravel; separate strands explode out to wrap around your body. As his grip over you tightens, so do the strings.
Jester once asked how it felt to fall under hypnosis.
“Horrible,” you said with a shudder. “Like a thousand bugs that I can never find crawling all over my skin.”
No wonder you once wore mirrored sunglasses every time you saw him. To think that you would so willingly submit yourself to him now….
If your line creeps an inch upwards, Jester pretends to ignore it.
His left arm extends with a flourish of his wrist.
“Hand,” Jester demands, voice tripled with hypnosis.
Your shoulders twitch as his voice washes over you. Jerking muscles lift your hand until it rests palm to palm with his. He twists his wrist so that your palm faces up, then cups the back of your hand. Spiderlings gather over his right hand as he sweeps it across stacks of paper, crawling up and down his glove, dropping to the ground as he carries them to hover above your open hand.
No, not open. Your entire arm trembles, fingers half-curled over your palm as though to protect it.
The glow of purple diamonds in place of your pupils ensures total control. Your gaze has never left Jester’s face, though your lips pull into a tight, anxious line instead of the slack-jawed expression of a servant awaiting orders.
A single spiderling drops from his palm to yours. He shakes the rest of them off before brushing it from your finger.
Drawing his power away from you loosens the strings that bind your body. Each strand retreats until they twist together again; one end at your heart, the other too close to his. The light in your eyes disappears when you blink back to yourself.
Pure fear leaves your body frozen. Not even the tremble remains in your hand. Your eyes widen before squeezing shut as you tilt your head down.
Relief rushes the breath from your lungs when you finally look. “You didn’t–” your voice falters. “You took them off before waking me up? How long did I...”
“A few minutes,” Jester lies. “You were shaking the whole time, even while hypnotized.”
“I guess you want to test that?” you ask with a nervous grin.
“Of course. A fear that transcends consciousness.” He traces the side of your face with gentle claws. “Utterly fascinating.
“Come,” he says, draping his arm across your shoulders to guide you from the tent. “You can help me with the budget for today. I’ll have Doctor capture the spiders. Perhaps he can find some use for them.”
“Thank you!” Your face lights up. “I’ll feel better knowing there won’t be any spiders near the Fools.”
Sunshine blinds you as you step into the day. Jester continues to guide you to the trailer, grip tightening as you try to step away.
“Jester,” you say, and he hums. “I need to change.”
“You wanted to play the Fool,” he taunts, “might as well look the part.”