The morning was peaceful and quiet. The king had been gone for a week now; he wouldn't return until next month.
The joker and the princess grew closer with each passing day. Her beauty was her voice, her art her language. He began learning to draw from her, and with every stroke of the brush, their closeness deepened. Every word, every letter, every second stitched them closer to eachother.
One fine night, the joker sat alone in the garden, lost in thought, lost in her. So deep was he in his own heart that he didn't notice when she appeared.
The princess slipped behind him, covering his eyes, her head resting on his shoulder.
He touched her hands and smiled. Picking up his book, he wrote a single word:
Princess.
She puffed her cheeks and sat on his lap.
"How did you know it was me out of everyone?"
He wrote:
No hands are as soft as yours. No hands hold such comfort as yours.
Her lips curved. "Aren't you cocky, mister?"
She turned around to look at the stars and pointed at the half-moon.
"Isn't it beautiful? Incomplete yet beautiful… imperfect yet precious."
He smiled and scribbled:
Looks like a sideways 'U' to me.
She gasped, shoving him in mock outrage, hitting his arm—not to hurt, just to fluster him. He caught her hand, the other slipping around her waist.
"I never hated you so much for being mute until now," she murmured, her cheeks red as roses. "I wish I could hear you say my name."
He leaned closer, his nose touching hers—then suddenly pulled a rose from his mouth.
Her eyes widened. "Two things: first, disappointed. Second, how did you do that?"
He wrote:
Two things: first, I never hated myself so much for not being able to talk. I wish I could say your name, even if it were the last thing I could say. Second, why are you disappointed? I thought the trick was pretty impressive.
She slammed her forehead lightly into his. "You're impossible. I can't decide whether to hate you or love you."
They laughed, eyes locking. His fingers toyed with her hair, the other arm still holding her. Her hand rested against his neck.
"This feels wrong… and yet so right at the same time."
A long silence—warm, not empty.
Finally, she spoke. "If you don't mind, can I ask you something?"
He nodded.
Her fingertips traced the joker tattoo on his cheek. "How did you get this?"
He laughed, but this time but pure sorrow and pain. Looking up at the dark sky, he began to write.
I wanted to be one of them. A bright star. Someone everyone loved. And they did… everyone except the people I called family. When my parents died, I was adopted. They cared for me—until they had children of their own. Then I was a waste of space, an embarrassment. I outshone their kids, and they hated me for it.
One night, they tied me down. They burned and cut my tongue so I could never sing again, never speak without pain. I was fourteen. Then they tattooed this on my face, to mark me forever as a joker—never a star. I hid from the world for years… until I learned if I couldn't make them hear me, I'd make them see me. I performed for attention. And slowly, I realized… making people laugh made me forget my pain.
His tears dotted the page, smudging the ink.
The princess wiped his face. "Why? You were just a child. You didn't deserve this… you deserved to be happy."
He smiled sadly—only to see she was crying more than he was. He brushed her tears away
The princess was broken apart she was filled from sorrow and filled with so much emotions she can't express
He then lifted her into his arms, and carried her to her room. She was too overcome to speak and drifted into sleep, hoping her heart would hurt less in the morning.
The joker returned to his room, heavy with sorrow. Not for his past, but because he had made her cry.
For the joker, there was no "him." Only her… and a mad soul hopelessly in love.
That night, the cold was strangely warm—perhaps even the night felt pity for him.