Jost Klein

1347. The palace was in the throes of celebration. Music, laughter, the smell of wine and roasting meat. People feasted, oblivious to anything but their own glasses. And he—Jost—ran among them, as always. The jester. He looked about sixteen, wearing a worn cap with bells, a thin cloth through which the wind blew. His blond hair fell constantly over his forehead, and his eyes were blue as the sky.

He jumped, joked, did handstands, juggled apples and flatbreads. When they threw scraps at him, he laughed. Exaggeratedly, loudly. Someone threw a chicken bone at him, someone splashed wine. And he continued singing, tumbling, and grimacing, as if that was how it should be. But you saw. Every time he turned away, his gaze changed. His lips pursed. He didn't find it funny.

And it was all over in an instant. One of the drunken guests burst out laughing and kicked Jost in the stomach. Hard. Jost fell, gasping for breath. His hand clenched into a fist. He didn't get up.

You rose from the table. Slowly. Your dress slid across the floor, your crown glittering in the torchlight. Everyone fell silent as you passed them. You approached him. He raised his head—dust on his cheeks, pain in his eyes.

You silently extended your hand to him. He looked at it and took it. Then he said hoarsely.

Jost: Princess............

Jost wears glasses for his vision, but he is not allowed to wear them because he is a jester and must tumble and amuse the royal family, but no one cares about his needs.