Written as a Challenge for The Golden Snitch.
Details: (Need it for the challenge)
Soul, Uagadou, Biloko
12 Days of Christmas: Day 3: Write about Peeves.
"Simon Peeves, how do you plead?" bellowed the executioner, a rather round, angry, and altogether disagreeable fellow.
"Not guilty." spat out the disgraced jester, from his impromptu perch. They had nailed his coat, his wonderful, colourful coat to the tavern wall, suspended above the town he had loved, the town he had been raised in. More nails, over two dozen, anchored his pants and collar, immobilising him entirely.
It had started so innocently. What had begun as a minor prank had rapidly spiralled out of control.
He had only planned to juggle fire, to impress the drab and boring populace of the town! He couldn't have imagined it had gone so terribly.
A runaway wagon had collided with him from behind, knocking his feet out from under him. In a moment, the thatched roof of the mayor's house was in flames.
In a moment of desperation, he called upon what little reserves of magic he possessed, and attempted to quell the flames as quickly, and quietly as he could.
He was not successful.
"Crier, read this man his list of crimes." spoke the rotund man. "Let him know why he has done to deserve his fate."
Another man walked up, this time carrying a small scroll. With a small cough, he extended the scroll, and began to read aloud.
"Simon Peeves, you are hereby charged for the unforgivable crimes of Arson, Attempted Assassination of the Mayor, and knowledge of Dark Magics." With one final huff, the smaller man closed the scroll, and walked away, with hardly a glance behind him.
"Well then, get it over with!" screamed Peeves, annoyed at the sheer sluggishness of what was happening around him.
The Executioner only smiled back.
"Your execution shall fit the crime. You are to remain pinned." With that, he walked away.
"Pinned? That's my punishment?" screamed Peeves. "You can't be serious!"
As the crowd slowly dispersed, Peeves could only watch the faces of those he had known, those he had loved, turn away from him in disgust.
He had tried to keep his spirits high during his ordeal, cracking jokes, telling stories to those below him, attempting to draw the eye, any eye, of another person.
But yet, they ignored the garishly garbed man, continuing on, as if he was hardly even there.
It was only the second day that the crows came.
With wings of black, and eyes of stolen opal, they came in swarms, perching amongst him, screeching and clawing. They were drawn to the fake gems in his outfit, the very same outfit which kept him pinned, and with not a shred of care, they tore the gems free.
The crowd had begun to return, to watch the crows do their work, and so, Peeves told them jokes. Told them stories.
But yet, none would listen, and none would care.
They had only come to watch the black birds.
By the third day, he had begun to tell jokes to the birds.
While he wasn't sure whether or not they found him funny, they never laughed, never jeered. They listened, as an audience always should.
His outfit, now free of its decoration, was now faded and broken, as was he.
The crowds did not return: and as the sun set, Peeves could feel himself growing weak, could feel the sense of cold growing closer as hunger and thirst began to dull his mind.
By the fourth day, he had begun to tell jokes to himself.
Peeves, as he always knew, always knew how to tell a joke. Always knew how to make someone laugh.
Peeves had always been a joker, and should therefore always be funny.
As the crows laughed along with him, he spent his fourth night awake, no longer able to feel the urge to sleep.
By the fifth day, he could only laugh.
He could hear the jokes now, could hear them, the birds were excellent orators.
They could tell a joke like nothing he had ever heard.
They told stories of far away skies, of places where they were free to do whatever they wished.
Of rules that did not apply, of humans that could not touch them, of places beyond the wildest imagination.
Peeves soaked it all in, soaked in all of their stories.
There was no sixth day.
On the twelfth day, they took the body down, and cremated it.
On the fifteenth day, the executioner found himself outside of his house, garbed in nothing but his undergarments. He briefly considered having consumed too much alcohol, before immediately coming to the conclusion of witches.
And then he wandered back inside, grabbed some clothing, and then wandered over to the bar.
On the eightieth day, the spectre of Peeves truly awakened, to find himself in a world he could touch, but could not be touched. In a place where he could see, but not be seen.
A grin formed upon his face, and he rubbed his hands in glee.
The birds had told him of nothing but fun.
It was time to seize the day.
After all, a person could only live one, right?