Chapter Text
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Once Upon a Time
There once lived a
Long ago and far away
James huffs and tosses the feather quill out the open castle window. All the drama of the gesture is stripped of course, seeing as it, being a feather, floats majestically into the moat below. He looks down at the small parchment book he’d been writing in, resting on the windowsill. His story was one worth telling, or at least, worth the ink he’d just wasted on its beginning. But then, he supposes, great figures aren’t supposed to write their own stories; they must be valiant in word and deed and someone will admire them and do all the hard work for him. Or, the metaphorical spider in his mind whispers, you can do all those good things, do everything right, and some half-wit will come along and fuck it up– make you the side character in someone else’s story! This thought, of course, came from real world events that had occurred to him. Well…suspected real-world events that would have happened to him. What was he even doing again? Oh right.
James chucks the parchment booklet out the window, where it also flutters unsatisfyingly down into the water. He humphs, loudly and petulantly, and slams the window shut.
James Webbe, also known as Spider (but do NOT call him that), is a very important boy. He’s been told (on good authority) that he is the specialist boy in all the land. The authority? The Queen herself. If the Queen just so happens to be his mother, well… that’s besides the point.
Queen Diana is a very smart and cunning ruler, who is technically a regent, seeing as the actual king is old as rocks yet seemingly won’t die and the prince is– No. We aren’t talking about him.
Anyway, James works very closely with the Queen. Attends meetings with her, manages her schedule and appointments with all the riff raff, devises ways in which she can increase her power (and sometimes this advice is even heeded!), and of course, is a famous court entertainer.
“Oh, is that what you’re calling it these days?”
He spins around, clutching a hand to his chest. He’s so used to being alone that it’s not uncommon for him to…well…narrate. It seems he has an audience though, in the form of Louisa deGuy.
He hasn’t seen her in months, not that he’s really missed her absence. She certainly didn’t miss him.
She's standing in the arched stone doorway to the corridor he’d been meandering down. Her hair is pulled back into two cones, bound with ribbon, resembling an Escoffion. Her mail shirt is covered with a simple wool tunic, and she wears baggy breeches which disappear into tall wrapped shoes. Her hands are on her hips, and she wears the only expression he’s ever seen her give: flat, bored, and unamused.
She looks him up and down,
“Nice outfit.”
He glares.
Louisa tilts her head, eyes narrowing in on specific aspects of his attire.
“Isn’t that, you know, humiliating?”
Yes.
“No.”
Yes, the Jester outfit is humiliating. But if he ignores the fact that humiliation is the purpose of this role, then it's just a job. He has other jobs too, namely being vaguely in charge of the staff and personnel of the castle (though…like…that is also very boring.) After….certain events that unfolded several months ago, he’d been given the punitive role of court jester. The worst part was that no one really noticed a difference, and acted as if he’d always been the jester. Besides this, the only thing humiliating about it was the outfit, to be honest, as he didn’t do all that much entertaining. It was made of fine wool (as befitting someone of his esteem), with a blue doublet, yellow sleeves, red hose, purple poulaines, a green hat and, well, the bells.
“You look like a doll.” Louisa says, stepping into the hallway and nearing him. He will not flinch, nor will he cower, although the chances of her hitting him are always quite high. He stands his ground.
She reaches a finger out and rings one of the bells on his hat.
It jingles.
He glares, stepping back from her, out of reach.
“Why are you here, Guy?”
She frowns at him, not an uncommon response. But what is uncommon is it’s not done with malice.
“You mean you don’t know?”
That can’t be good.
He elects not to say anything, seeing as the only thing he can say is No I don’t know why don’t I know I’m supposed to be informed of everything.
Louisa knows none of this, so she waits for way too long before realizing he’s not going to answer her.
“Right. Um River’s been called back, we just arri–”
“He’s here?!” James squeaks, despite himself. Louisa is shockingly passive at this and doesn’t ridicule him. Maybe it’s the sudden unchecked emotions but her flat-pressed expression has a hint of sympathy to it.
“Yeah, again I assumed you knew…”
She doesn’t so much trail off as James turns and takes his leave in the middle of her sentence. He struts off down the hallway, jingling all the way. And he’s livid.
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He’s always liked bursting into rooms unannounced. There's a thrill to it that never quite gets old. He of course always peeps in to make sure it is (or isn't as the situation warrants) a good time. He does this now, peering into the war room to make sure the subject of his ire was not within. Coast is clear.
Hands on the thick wood, he bursts in.
There's a map on the large table in the center of the room, Diana doesn’t look up from it.
“What is it.” She does not phrase this as a question, as she does not wish to hear the answer, nor does she care.
Sir Duffy stands across the table from her, holding a little horse figurine from the table. He smirks at James, the prick. He approaches Diana.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” He asks, in a completely dignified and not at all whiny manner.
She sighs and rights herself, hands smoothing out the front of her dress.
“Because of the hysterics, darling. I simply cannot deal with them in this political climate.” She looks down at him, in both senses of the word.
“I do NOT–” James starts, louder than he should considering the point he’s trying to make. “I am not hysterical. I wish merely to object at how this information has been kept from me!”
“Noted.”
“Mummy…” He starts. Putting on his saddest little face in the hopes of incurring sympathy (like squeezing water from a stone). “Why does he have to come back?”
She turns back to him, petting a heavily ringed hand over his head. “Because I need someone to look in charge while I focus on winning this bloody war.”
But I could do that. He thinks. He keeps it to himself, as he doesn’t want to hear her say ‘no you can’t’ explicitly. He steps back, huffing.
“Oh please! This isn’t winning a war, you’re just playing with dolls!” He gestures to Sir Duffy, still holding the little horse in his hand. Duffy pinks and sets it down, Diana glares at him.
Very dignifiedly, James spits “I hope you lose!” at them and storms out.
Storming out; that's the only thing he likes better than bursting in.
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This cannot be happening!
He is supposed to… he was never supposed to see… what if– So lost in his head, he turns onto the stairs just as someone is bounding down them. He runs right into their chest, pushing him off balance. James windmills his arms, trying to regain his footing before he tumbles end-over-end down hundreds of steps. A strong arm grabs him by the waist, pulling him forward and away from the yawning chasm of the spiral stairwell. His rescuer pulls him close, bringing them both to the landing where the ground is wide enough for both of them to stand. James splutters, preparing his tongue for the lashing it’s about to do in cursing this foolish oaf of a–
But it’s not a servant, or a knight, or any other regular inhabitant of the castle. James is frozen in place, the hand around his waist and one of his own resting on the chest of the last person in the world he wants to see.
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