The jester wasn’t certain, but he could have assumed that to be a coward’s answer. "I’d answer similarly. King or peasant, I believe that I’d rather spend my days in the Kingdom I’ve called my home.” Even though he wasn’t entirely appreciated or particularly liked, a home was a home and he enjoyed the stability of it. Familiar faces, familiar smells, familiar voices– perhaps that’s why he was enjoying this company with Belarius. Although this was an entirely new encounter for the clown, he found it to be akin to an old song; one with lyrics long since forgotten but a tune that sparked memories.
“I confess, your Majesty, that you may have a point, however…” He leaned forward, his elbows propped and chin resting on a bridge he’d made of his fingers. “Are Eleutherians not, in some way, drawn to Freygardians as well? Yes, from my perch atop the highest towers in Freygard I could see candle lights and wondered how it must be to have company in the evenings. Freygardians rest as soon as the sun sets so they deprive themselves of twinkling night skies and wishing stars…” He tilted his head, his cardinal tresses sweeping across his forehead as he moved. “Do you never find yourself fascinated by how the morning sun rises over Freygard and bathes our kingdom in an orange glow? How the wind sweeps through the gardens and carries the smell of flowers through the cobblestone streets… how the music lifts and carries like little songbirds. Do you ever hear it, King Belarius?”
It seemed as though the jester was attempting to charm the other into admitting that it was not so ludicrous to crave the light, just as he found himself craving the darkness (could he ever confess to that?) “This too, is where you sit tonight, Your Majesty.” He, with a Freygardian and Grendel, with an Eleutherian… and for some reason, on this night, it worked. It felt right. Like two pieces of a puzzle– damn, it felt right and the clown sincerely wished that it didn’t. How could he hate the enemy when the enemy himself was as beautiful as an angel? “I’ve never sat with my own King like this. Not face to face. Not like equals.” Never like that. Even when he laid with the Queen, they were never equal. Even in the boudoir, he was nothing but a servant and a fool.
A reason? Most of everything that Grendel did was with a reason. If not with a reason, then some manner of constraint. He budgeted his time, his company, his happiness. A reason to return to this bar? Yes, there had been one but perhaps it was high time for Grendel to admit that Blythe was no more. If he was to continue coming here, he would have to assign a reason. That, or refrain from frequenting this place. There were too many bad memories here.
The jester reeled backward, retreating back into himself. His fingertips brushed the contour of his cheeks. He had freckles? Yes, he supposed that he did… but they were often so faint and unnoticeable. He kept them concealed, hidden like ugly blemishes or nasty scars. He could feel those indigo eyes on him now, locking him up and holding him prisoner in their gaze. Speechless. The jester didn’t have reason to fear the other’s opinion. He didn’t have a reason to worry that Belarius may think of him as ugly, but still, he worried. Grendel felt vulnerable. His skin was exposed to the point of his freckles being visible. There was no mask to hide behind, no painted smile, no slicked back hair, shimmer, no costume or bells. He was only Grendel now, and he was scared to be as such because Grendel wasn’t someone that people were fond of. He wasn’t beautiful, he wasn’t kind, he wasn’t worthy of a King’s company.
“My soup looks like rain water,” he commented to lighten the mood, his lips fashioning a good-natured (albeit uneasy) smile. He discretely brushed his cheek again before reaching for a spoon. “Thank you. I drink the liquor here often, but I rarely eat the food. I always felt as though having a meal here would cause me to stay too long…” The difference in social class was more obvious now. The jester rarely dined with the royals, so he hadn’t been taught their etiquette. He took a bite first instead of waiting for the King. Instead of holding his spoon gracefully between his index and middle finger, he rested the utensil along all four fingers and applied downward pressure with his thumb. He didn’t scoop away from himself, he scooped toward and polite as he attempted to be, he ate the soup as opposed to sipping it from his spoon.
“It’s cold,” he remarked. “What is it that they call cold soup? Gazpacho, right?“ You’ve been given the water that they used to rinse herbs with, Grendel, it’s not as fancy as you’re pretending. As much as he tried to steer the conversation away and retreat back behind his walls, he still had Belarius’ interest. The conversation, the attention, those eyes… they were on him for a lingering moment longer and then melted away. To that, the jester lifted his gaze and watched the other poke at his food, smirking because of how cute and picky he seemed. “It’s not going to bite you,” he teased, a quip that was familiar to him. Royals could be so stubborn with their meals. “Fetching?” he echoed, staring incredulously at the King as he swirled the herbs of his soup in circles with his spoon.
The subtlety of the compliment was nearly lost on the man. His body reacted before his mind could grasp it. A tight strangle around both his heart and his vocal cords caused a cough that he could easily blame on a stray herb. The spoon clicked against the side of his porcelain bowl as he shielded his mouth with his hand and turned away. A single cough had been carefully muffled, but the flushing of his cheeks was not so discrete. “I-I apologize…” he whimpered. “Unexpected spice… hah…” and with a nervous chuckle, he trailed off.
“Elusive? Well then, should I withdraw my line a bit - and let you come to me?”
That had been his cue, hadn’t it? An opportunity wasted. He almost wished that the other could read his mind when he inwardly asked, ‘did you want me to kiss you?’
Would he have liked that?
What a decorated picture he painted - Freygard kissed by mornings glow, these singing streets and welcoming little smells. It almost tugged at the kings curiosity. The last time he had laid eyes upon those charming little homes and farms, they were twisted in a vengeful fire. Envisioning them now, had he been in his right mind - he would have thought them quaint…perhaps. “I’ve not heard it. Not once - but from how you sing it’s praises…I wouldn’t mind listening.”
How would it look? Would the cobblestone be shining, would the castle be glistening? Could the songs on the breeze move him? Could this dove of their’s sway him - touch his heart and bring tears to his eyes? He’d doubt it - but accept an invitation and the company in tow …should it be offered. “Your King…what is he like?” He heard more of the Queen than of her husband. Had Belarius known any better he’d guess the man didn’t exist or, held little to no influence at all. He envisioned a timid man, or one so old he might as well be scratched from the records.
He could hear the jesters words just fine, and hummed softly in affirmation as he raised his utensils to further investigate the quality of the meat he was served. He was always this way - particular with his food especially outside the castle. A small harmless, pout fell over his lips and brow at Grendel’s words - that it wouldn’t bite. “Certainly not, they’ve charred the thing.” Was it inedible? Not by any means, but with another glance at the pitiful ’soup’ across from him, his frown deepened. “Yes, fetching.” He’d repeat, turning his gaze back to the unpainted clown as something seemed to catch in his throat suddenly. “Pardon my reach.” Bringing the shallow bowl nearer to him, his majesty would softly click his tongue. “…this won’t due. You needn’t eat that.”
He’d snap his fingers sharply, setting the bowl back and motioned for the same wenches attention as he stood.
“As a guest in my kingdom, I owe you…at the very least a suitable meal. Come along with me, won’t you?”
