The jester wearing a crooked grin. A wicked glint in his bright purple eyes. All humanity gone. Nothing left in his soul, except for the want for the taste of blood.
Spending the day in the palace halls he paces around as the guests gather in. The halls, the halls, all bright, all festive, how he blends in. Right in.
'Tis the duty of the jester to entertain the royalty, the king and queen of the land. But a lock of brown hair did catch his eyes, his murderous eyes, wicked bright purples eyes. The princess there stands, the Queen to her left, the King to her right. Trailed to her feet did the dark fuchsia silk, traced with lace and beads and shining beside it the gold of her bracelets and rings, but none did shine as bright as her smile, or as bright as those fuchsia eyes, beautiful eyes, full of love, full of life, soon to be gone.
And so the jester did perform, to the standard he could. The kind and queen, they laughed and applauded and left. Soon alone before him stood, the princess of gold, of fuchsia, of life. And all the love in those shining eyes filled the jester with rage for the things that never could be. So she smiled at him, glistening teeth, and leaned forward and placed a kiss once on his cheek, thanking him for the performance of his, but the warmth that then filled him wasn't enough, he felt being loved, he wanted more love, less rage, more life.
She returned to the hall day by day. The king and queen, nothing they knew. Stealing kisses bellow the stars, they shone in her eyes, her beautiful eyes, shining fuchsia eyes.
She led him back to her chamber one night and there they kissed again, more passion behind each one, more life, he felt it fill his veins, as he kissed her there, it was enough to subdue that glint in his eyes and his want for the taste of blood.
Passion, however, is a dangerous thing. For the jester, it seems, the line between passion and hate is very thin indeed. Soon the line will be crossed and then replaced with those feeling that he had repressed, but the very same feeling he wanted to unlock all along. Rage. Seeping into his very soul. A twisted smile took over the jester's face and wicked was the glint in his eyes.
He ran and left the princess there, standing alone behind the chamber door. The princess soon to learn she trusted too much, the love in her eyes, those bright, shining eyes, looking off into the silent halls.
She would be asleep now, so peaceful, so vulnerable. The creak of the floor boards as he entered in. Awaking her from the much needed rest. She was not stupid, she knew, as fuchsia eyes met purple, the wicked glint, she saw it all. She could not move, nor could she cry out for help. Frozen in place she stared. All love, all life, now fear. And to her love she looked up at as he knelt over her, such rage filling him, from where it came from, she could never imagine, he was broken, and so was she as he sliced off her pretty little head.
How the queen, she did scream, she did cry when morning came and her daughter, once full of love, once full of life, lay motionless on the blood soaked bed. The killer long gone, but the jester still remained. Remained wandering the halls of the palace, forever uncaught, no one suspected a thing. Not one thing.
So the jester, still wearing a crooked grin, and a wicked glint shining stronger in his bright purple eyes, was never content. All humanity gone. Nothing left in his soul, except for the want for the taste of blood.