I strum the last note of my song, the bells adorning my sleeves tinkling along with my movements. As I look up from my dramatic pose, body folded almost in half in an exaggerated bow, the prince claps, the smallest smile pulling at his pink lips. My heart leaps in my chest like this every time he laughs at the jokes I make for him, every time he enjoys a performance -- the burst of excitement flutters through my veins.
There is only one knight in the room. He is stationed next to the throne, standing so perfectly still id almost think him a statue if he wasnt staring so hard at me I feel like I'm about to combust. His eyes are barely visible through his helmet, and yet the intensity of it has eaten at me throughout my entire performance, made me messier than normal. Its sharp, hot, and gives me a feeling like no other.
Part of me relaxes when his gaze shifts from me to the prince next to him. The prince that is beckoning me closer, asking me more about the song and how I'd written it, but I can barely comprehend the questions when he looks at me almost the same way that knight was. It steals my breath.
I feel a heat grow in my stomach. I ignore it.
My prince, so enthusiastic, and the knight standing unflinching next to him... I can't help but feel my face warm. Thoughts invade my subconscious before I can stop them -- heated breaths, both smooth touches and rougher ones, groans of two different voices intertwined with my own -- its overwhelming. My prince says something else to me.
I force myself to give him a reply. I didn't comprehend a word he said, and so I apologized, and asked him if he could repeat himself. My fingers tremble where they hold the neck of my lute. The frilly neck of my collar feels too warm, too tight. The bells tinkle again, a symphony of light sound that brings me back to myself.
Your question, now one that I can comprehend, is one i almost dont know how to respond to. I can feel your eyes on me, now joining those of your knight, and the feeling leaves me trying not to let those thoughts spill out of my mouth in rhyme.
It gets worse when you touch my free hand, holding it between two of your own.
"You're my good little jester, are you not?"
