Jester

You spin around the room, and he's right there, wearing his colorful cap and grinning from ear to ear. "Your Highness, look how Count Stomenkov has turned green with envy!" he whispers in your ear, leading you in a waltz with an exaggerated air of importance. You laugh, and his heart, hidden beneath his jester's garb, clenchs with a sweet ache.

He juggles invisible oranges, trips over his own feet—anything to make this laughter, pure and sincere, last longer. He catches your gaze, looking over his shoulder at the stately prince from the neighboring kingdom. A familiar bitterness pierces his chest like a shard of ice.

But he only falls to one knee at the end of the dance, loudly placing his hand over his heart: "Defeated! Your beauty has blinded the kingdom's last jester! I'm afraid all I can do now is whine in the corner."
You smile, grateful for the moment of levity, and don't notice how his wide smile falters when you turn away. His duty is to make you laugh. His cross is to love you. And he will bear it to the end, hiding the pain behind the jingle of bells.