Chapter Text
He had always loved the parade, when he was little, parades from another nation, but nonetheless, parades. Sitting in the castle window, watching for hours as performers of every shape and size walked down the cobbled streets, singing praises to the king and showing off their skills which they traveled to perfect. In glorious swirls of colors unlike anything he had ever seen, aside from the royal robes. With such grace and grandeur, he thought ‘surely there could be nothing better than this.’
The yellow Jester, Impulse, as he was called, knew better now. He knew why they held such a parade here, he knew the secrets of the carnival wagon, the trap doors of the giant moving houses, he knew the statues were hollow and the insides were dark and damp. He knew it all.
But he was a sentimental fool, and he still loved the parade.
“Come come my king! They are bringing the elephants in!” The jester tried to stir his master, but the man stayed unmoving, sitting at his desk. Oh, how Impulse hated to miss the elephants, what he wouldn't give to be in courtyards now, watching the beasts as they walked past. “My king?”
The king remained unmoving, staring blankly down at his desk, he was a very large man, standing at least two heads above the average countryman, and he was broad like an ox, made of muscles and strength, twisted together in thin idyllic form. The desk was barren of any papers or notes, for once, as he had meticulously packed up each one, late in the night, and pinned open envelopes to the wooden framing of the room, tucking each paper and contract away. It was another one of his moments. He wasn't… all there.
“My king- the elephants.” Impulse kneeled beside the chair, trying to gently capture the attention of his master. For all his efforts, all he got was the heavy red eyes, lazily flicking to meet his. So it was time to try again, not as a servant or entertainer, but as a friend to the king. Lord knows he did not have many.
“Etho, They want you there, to see the elephants act. They always do. Come on, or we will miss them, and I certainly don't want to miss the dancing bears from the beer hall this year.”
The king finally seemed to come to himself. He stiffened in his chair, straightened his back, and looked down at Impulse, worry lines etched deep on his face, a furrow in his brow that never fully left. “The elephants are here?”
“Have been for a while, Sire. Now if we could get going-”
“Of course, of course, let's get going.” Etho's movements were slow and lethargic, his hands trembling as he buttoned his overcoat, long and flowing, a trail of crimson that lays over his gray robes, his hair gleamed, bright and brilliant without illumination, a halo of pure white for a crown of red and gold. But his breath wavers as he dons his mask. The gray fabric, embroidered with golden thread- resting snugly over his jaw. He hates it, he hates what's under it even more. Thank the heavens that Impulse had never minded it. He was, after all, the last living person besides Etho to ever see his face. And Etho was very fond of keeping it that way.
Impulse pulled on his own overcoat, bright yellow with checkers, and slung his lute over his shoulder as he led Etho from the royal quarters. Putting on a jovial face as he led the king down winding halls and grandiose stairs, to the courtyard. He was, after all, the king's personal entertainer, and had to make their arrival known, now if only he could get the guards to do a little dance when they walked by…
“Impulse,” Etho stopped him, at the doorway to the courtyard, he stood just out of sight behind the half open wooden doors, “Do we have any news of the Firewitch?”
“None I have heard, she evades us again, Mi’Lord, but this will confirm it for us, perhaps.”
“I would very much like to see her again, Impulse.” There is an air of threat in Etho's voice, and Impulse knows he is not the one who should be revealing that hostility, he also knows Etho can't help it. He is distressed, he is so very deeply distressed.
Impulse hums, gives him a smile, and steps through the doors, a roar of noise greets him, and he merely brushes it off with a bashful smile. What can he say, he is a favorite, but his job is to lead around their directionally challenged king- being a top class entertainer is his side hustle, basically.
But the roar for the king is louder, with no competition.
“Remember, squint a little so they think you are smiling.” Impulse nudged him, a quiet whisper to the side as Etho stared blankly for a second.
“I am smiling.” He is almost indignant.
“And it never reaches your eyes, squint.”
They stand at the top of the stairs, watching as the parade walks around the courtyard, and moves into the royal gardens, where the carnival is set up, and the performers are ready to go to their tents and rest before the celebrations begin.
It is beautiful, it is grandiose and bold and shining with an air of enchantment. Etho can see past the castle gates, at the street, filled with people in their finest clothes, dancing and singing as they know the celebrations will be open to them soon. The castle will open its gate, let the townsfolk in for a feast and dance of the ages, light the sky with fireworks and fill the air with music and laughter and for a moment, there will be no masters, no servants, no kings and so subjects and a world teeming with celebration.
Etho watches the last of the caravan move into the gardens, the last juggler picks up his pins, the last food boy hands out his wares, the last knight leans to whisper to a lady, and the last dancer tightens her laces.
He stares, with empty eyes, down the street of dancing people. Impulse knows this gaze.
One more thing.
Is she there?
Etho waits, as he does every season, as the parade goes by and people file from the street to the courtyard and the music and shows begin, Etho and Impulse wait for the final cart. She had not been seen in many years, but still, Etho always waits to see that old rickety cart, with its shoddy wooden dragons and its tired red mare, he waits for the Firewitch.
“Impulse, do you think..?”
The jester shakes his head, “It's getting late, I don't think so my lord.” he sighed, hoping just as much to see what Etho was begging some absent gods for. “But look up, my king, the star is burning, you hear that little star at night, down under, Doc has taken great care of her, and when the star comes out, oh my king-” Impulse clapped a hand on his kings shoulder, they had been close for so long, this was not a jester and a lord, Etho had to remind himself, this is his friend, his guide, “yes my lord, when the butchers Star is in the sky, the witch will come, if not before.” he gives Etho a nudge, and disappears into the door, trying to egg his king to follow, but his king needs only a moment more.
Under the hot sun, the fading light of sumer, the Firewitch does not come. With the endless wind rustling his robes and hair, and the feeling of his loathed mask weighing him down, Etho retreats to the castle, to ready himself to make his speech and walk among the people and be their king again, but he waits, he wants, he thinks endlessly of the Firewitch, looking back out windows and doorways as if he could maybe catch a glimpse of her wobbly cart from so high up in his towers, maybe he could see her on the horizon, see even just the little banner that hung from her post. He stops at his chamber window, looking over the endless field and forest, and he dreams of when she will return to him, return what she stole, return to his side, dreaming of her standing by him once more.