"Wake up."

A musical voice was my alarm clock instead of the calloused tongue of Meep. I opened an eye lazily—it was still dark outside, and my eyes took a moment to adjust from the darkness of dreams to that of reality. Slowly, a silhouette focused in front of me, though I had to grab my glasses clumsily from the bed stand to distinguish facial features. I blinked a few times, hardly believing my eyes. The two orbs I could barely make out as crimson flashing in the synthesized light of a dying moon and a stillborn sun said only one thing to me:

"Hoshi!"

I meant to stifle my excitement. Granted, I had gone a longer time without seeing a trace of Hoshi rather than the two days I had suffered through, but I had needed her more than ever in those few hours. I wanted to reach out and touch her, to pull her into bed with me for a still-drowsy romp, but from the feeling she was giving me, this wasn't the time. She was already dressed for society rather than the sexily scruffy oversized t-shirt and panties she often wore to bed, and I alertly sat up at this realization.

From what I could decipher in the darkness, she wore a high-ranking royal warrior garb, complete with purple sash, golden breast plate and chain metal. Mentally, I mused at how I had first seen her, such a drastic shift from her appearance now. She had traded slick, sweated, natural skin and swanky wear for skin that was powdered to appear lighter than it was, and a wardrobe that reeked of conformity.

"G'morning, Frank." She leaned forward and gave me a kiss. I tried to approach her lips with mine at this time—and for a second she exuded the aura of the Hoshi I knew, the sloppy, messy faerie with bedroom hair and ripped clothes. But then she was cold again, as cold as the metal that encased her body, and only gave me a kiss on the forehead. "I've got special orders from the Future Queen of Faerieland, the Hono—"

"Why do you all insist on saying her full title? Why not just Fyor—shit!" My griping transformed to something of dread. I still fully remembered my experience yesterday, and I was willing to bet that Fyora did too. An order to be removed from my household at the crack of dawn on the day of a Faerie Queen's coronation could only mean sinister things, especially after spiting her. I wracked my brain for anything I found particularly objectionable about coronations when I had studied them in elementary school. My brain kept slipping from the subject and focusing back on Hoshi, as if to protect me from the truth.

"What's so wrong with the Future Queen of—"

"Yeah, can it, Hoshi. In my house, it's Fyora. Maybe Spoiled Cunt That Will Be a Shitty Ruler, but only when I'm not thinking." Hoshi's nostrils flared, as if she herself had been insulted.

"How dare you say that about our soon-to-be-a-sovereign—"

"I fucked Fyora, ok, Hoshi? And it was a shitty experience. So shut up and let me think!"

Hoshi's mouth closed with a surprised click. The comment had just the effect that I had desired on her. At first, I was afraid it wouldn't work—I assumed that any errant feelings Hoshi had towards me had faded, and been replaced with a love of her work. The steely, serious look faded from her eyes and the old, emotional Fyora came back, complete with lip pursing and teary eyes. Unfortunately for my life, this only further distracted me from remembering traditional coronation ceremonies.

"You what?"

"Nothing! Forget about it. It technically legally didn't happen now."

"You fucked her?"

"Hoshi, look, this isn't about—"

"Don't tell me what this isn't-fucking-about!"

"Look, are you jealous or something? 'Cause you seem pretty interested in Fyora, with all that 'Grand Honorary Bigot' bullshit!"

"What the fuck are you talking about? Fyora's my fucking employer!"

"Hey, that just makes it kinkier for you, doesn't it!"

"Oh, fuck you, Frank, you sniveling piece of shit. I'm gone for two days and you go sniffing around for another piece of ass!"

"Hey, hey, when you sniff around and your nose detects a royal cunt, you don't just turn it down! Especially when your girlfriend fucking disappears!"

"This isn't about me, Frank. This is about your fucking infidelity. Now get back on topic! You fucked her!"

"I didn't fucking enjoy it!"

"Oh, like hell you didn't!"

"What the fuck? She strapped me against her fucking bed! Who does shit like that besides actors?"

"Well, you're the one bringing up kinky shit, I wouldn't be talking, Mr. Bondage-Dick!"

"What kind of an insult is that?"

"A fucking bad one, just like your face to the faerie race!"

"Oh, okay, it's about me then. My personal appearance. Yeah, that has to do a whole lot with how I fucked Fyora!"

"Stop saying that!"

"I fucked Fyora!"

"Shut up, ugly ass!"

"I fucked Fyora and it was so fucking good. She was so white, and bony, and tight, unlike a brown fatty whore I know. Hmmm, who could that be?"

"Fuck you, Frank!"

"You know what, fuck you, Hoshi! You leave my pad for days and don't leave any fucking note, you don't tell me shit about your job, you get all cold in bed nowadays because, I don't know, maybe you're stroking off to Fyora at the castle … fuck, we hardly even talk any more, Hoshi! Sometimes I think you're just using me for board and cigarettes!"

"Well, maybe I am, Frank." Her voice was low and dangerous, and a chill ran up my spine. It was a shiver of fear, a strange feeling, as well as of helplessness and loneliness. I had merely thrown the possibility out there, and now it surrounded me like a thousand ghosts, rearranging the mentality of the past. What if she had been using me? What if I was only a tool to her, to launch to success? Suddenly, a dozen images of Hoshi popped up in my brain—images of Hoshi laughing, crying, across from me smoking, next to me in bed, screaming over me as she came to orgasm. Slowly, the soul was sucked from each of those moments, and I was left fucking, talking to, laughing with, and loving a hollow cocoon, brittle and breakable when I dared cherish it.

I lunged for the bathroom. I needed to get away from the fumes of animosity floating through the room, crowding me from the room's lack of ventilation. I also knew of some appliances in there plugged in to an electric socket, and had a tub that could be filled with water in a brief period of time. I knew the specter of Hoshi would lie in that bathtub, from when we bathed each other and sinned underwater, but I would rather die with a ghost from the past, frail as it was now, than the current demon that stood before me, corrupted with the monarchy's plague.

I didn't get that far. In a movement seen by only the furniture, Hoshi whipped out a blade hiding behind her sash and whipped the flat at the side of my head. She hit a homerun with my temple as the baseball, and I was knocked sideways back into bed, grasping at my forehead and screaming obscenities. Wordlessly, she crawled on the bed towards me, weighing down the mattress with her heavy uniform, and pinned me onto the bed. There was nothing sexual about her position, but rather one of dominance, evidenced by the point of the blade she nearly drove in my neck.

"You're done, Sloth," she hissed. She looked foreign and horrible, as if space had consumed her itself: her eyes were glowing bright red like twin, dying red giants, and among her face only the stars speckling her hair were visible. "You know where you're going, boy? It's called the Coronation Jester. Fyora announced it to her warriors this morning, and it was unanimous."

"Even from you?" I challenged. She didn't answer—instead, she curled her upper lip in a snarl.

"Good-night, Sloth." I hardly saw the hilt coming from above, as I was focused on her retreating face. I saw the glint off the handle from the sparse light too late, and felt the cold crush of metal against bone before Hoshi zoomed out like a television screen and blissful blackness filled the space.

Let me tell you a little something about Faerie Queen coronations: they're not all sunshine and lollipops. And there are definitely no rainbows—at least for the Coronation Jester.

The coronation begins with a parade, headed by a band comprised of the most talented instrumentalists in Faerieland. Generally, the buglers with their long horns are the first in the marching procession, as trumpeters are obnoxious faeries and need to blow air into their ego as often as possible. In the middle are a slew of obscure instruments I knew little about; though I was a keyboardist, I had never delved into the intricate study of faerie music, which turns out to be rather complex. The butt of the band, though, is invariably the bass drums, thunking away mindlessly at the enormous raw hide beasts that hang like pot bellies from their chests.

Behind the barreling sound of the drums usually comes some famous magician that I've never bothered reading about but everyone else has. It still befuddles me how faeries are impressed with magic shows even though they could likely learn and complete the same tasks with little effort, but magicians often have—or had—huge fan clubs in Faerieland. Magicians of parade quality are generally male and generically handsome, and every so often pull a female from the crowd to conjure her a rose. Cue swooning from females and projectile vomit from me.

Next come the various inflatable Petpets, with their real counterparts often wandering in flocks beneath. When a specific balloon passes by, barely held to the ground by string, those who had brought that respective Petpet often lift their darling into the air to praise their parachute god. Curiously, I noticed no large Meepit balloon floating through the air. Poor Meep had no idol, no divine power to bow to—he was a forced atheist.

After the Petpets trailed various organizations for faerie youth and member clubs for faerie adults who had all worked to contribute to the parade. (I always found this contribution frivolous, as Jhudora and I had once hacked into the royal family's financial accounts, wherein Jhudora fainted and I discovered our donations and taxes were pointless excesses.) Lines of faeries hovering just above the ground carried banners in neat little lines, displaying their cause on these standards and often tossing sweets or flyers to the crowd. Children coursed along the curb, pushing and shoving each other to get to the scattered candy, or holding baskets above their head, hoping for a faithful shot from a marcher. Even I recall that excitement as a kid, scavenging for your won property. Though our parades were nowhere near as elaborate (often for only annual holidays), the adrenaline and sugar rush were likely the same.

Then came the athletes and assorted athletic organizations. They came in v-formation and once approaching the height of the crowd began complex acrobatics, all players in various clusters synchronized. They soared like fighter jets across the sky with big, muscular pectorals to flex their wings, maneuvering and barrel-rolling effortlessly. In my younger years, I had desired such an ability with a burning passion—only to have my obsession suffocated with my deficient body.

Then proceeded the final leg of the parade. This included the featured part of the parade: the royal family's warriors, the Faerie Council, the Faerie Queen's higher guards, and finally, an over-sized chariot carrying the soon-to-be-crowned Faerie Princess herself. Hoshi was right in front of the chariot, adorned in full battle armor complete with a helmet that shielded her intriguing eyes. One of her arms was aiding her fellow guards laboriously pull the chariot (whose wheels didn't work so well on cloud, and sunk slightly into it) at the pace the warriors had established. Next to her, as I learned, was Valeane, the other faerie elect for the position of Battle Faerie. Though shrouded by her armor, I could tell that beneath she was muscular and ably built, perhaps more than a challenge for Hoshi's magical and physical prowess.

For, you see, I was behind the chariot. It was an open air chariot, so Fyora could receive the blessing from the crowd, shower in the confetti and flowers that were raining from the sky, and send kisses tumbling down to the common people among the crumpled petals. I was behind her, however, slightly below the podium she stood on like a doll on display, rigid and waving as if she were robotic.

I was forced to watch her painfully wooden acting from a cage connected to the chariot like a skiff. The cage wasn't even golden—it was rusty, and tore at my palms with brownish flakes whenever I grasped at the bars, which was often. Blood accumulated alongside the rust, and every so often I would stick my hands beneath my armpits in pain. I was dressed in a ratty, ridiculous garb that clutched at my wings and barely covered my bits and pieces, left open for attack—which the crowd was all too zealous to begin. As soon as they finished cheering their higher registers raw for Fyora, they turned their thunderous boos towards me in damnation. I don't know where they produced the rotten fruit from—perhaps it was supplied to them—but it pummeled me in the thousands, and soon I smelt of rancid produce. Fyora looked back at me and smirked, and then ordered for my tag-on to be pulled further back so she would not have to suffer my stench.

After a few bouts of swearing and giving the crowds the bird, I figured my task to insult them only further encouraged them and became more demure. Still, they didn't let up their shower of rancid fruit flesh, and eventually I became once more the villain and crazy they wanted locked away in that cage, raving, cursing, and wailing.

It seemed forever until we got to the steeple wherein Fyora's coronation would be, especially with fruit juice dripping down my face. Once we arrived, the guards and Pandora (she had accompanied Fyora in the chariot) gently led Fyora down the steps of the chariot onto a red velvet rug that ran into the steeple. The processional was of an agonizing length, and the steeple was already packed full with faeries, some choosing to sit in the standard floor seats and others dangling from the rafters.

I didn't have a choice of my seat. Once everything was unpacked, everyone of significance was crammed inside and guards began rejecting the entrance of further commoners, my cage was carried in by the scruffiest and most suspicious guard, who tossed me in the corner where a pipe was dripping onto my head seemingly wherever I moved. Occasionally, a faerie would cross my path and aim something humiliating at me and give it their best go, point blank. Most faeries were more shameful, though, and as soon as I was at close range and they could see that, indeed, I was a breathing, thinking faerie, their ridiculed ceased—at least until I had become a hated idol again, distanced by the parade.

Though I was biased against it, the coronation was a gorgeous sight. Fyora was decked out glamorously, appearing like a model of contemporary fashion magazines. Her lighter bangs were curled and hanging down the front with her hair pulled tightly in two buns in the back. Atop her head was a princess tiara like a globe, and her body was decked out in a corset with a shroud, and a veil that trailed behind her. She was far more beautiful decked out and four meters away than she was stark naked and up close, a quality that Hoshi had in reverse. While Fyora was an impressionistic painting, moving from afar but fragmented under scrutiny, Hoshi was—or had been—abstract art: jumbled at first glance, but fantastic and complex seen closely.

While Pandora led Fyora halfway up the aisle, she released her in the middle and Fyora, her face twitching, finished the remainder of the steps alone. She seemed to float down the aisle as if a ghost, and the stark white makeup applied to make her appear porcelain only furthered this impression. Wobbling, she ascended the short flight of stairs to a semi-circle of Faerie Council members, dressed in their solemn, crimson robes.

The head Faerie Council member, a faerie named Unula that had a particular hatred for me and a particularly pock-marked face, stepped towards a podium that sat in the middle of them, nodding to Fyora to come towards her. She was visibly trembling as Unula's orders, seeming to shrink in front of the podium in the face of Unula. Unula smiled kindly down at her as if in encouragement, an expression I'd never caught a glimpse of from that craggy countenance. She split open the book where a crimson marker was caught in the pages, and began the ceremony in a voice that penetrated the ancient wood of the steeple.

While this was the first coronation I had attended, and would likely be my last, I couldn't find the motivation to place all of my attention in it as the rest of the crowd was capable of. Perhaps it was the fact that I was in bondage to the future queen in question, or perhaps it was the citrus burning my eyes—but I think it was mostly the utterly devoted look I detected in Hoshi's eyes. The guards had been required to remove their helmets indoors, and now I could see Hoshi's fair face sprouting from the hated outfit. Her eyes were locked on Fyora murmuring her vows, a sort of swoon etched into her face. I wondered for a moment if it was not me fucking Fyora that had upset her—perhaps it really was Fyora fucking me that riled her to boiling point. My heart rotted like the fruit skins around me in this possibility, deflating me more than all the humiliating wrought on my body.

Directly across from her stood Valeane, her helmet now off as well. I could tell it was her by the distinctive chink in the back of her armor—something she had tried to conceal with smelting, but was still clearly visible. Her hair was a shock of lavender-pink that surrounded her head haphazardly, and when she turned her face towards me slightly I saw her skin was bronze like a goddess. Her eyes were fierce and piercing, especially the gaze she shot at me, the Untouchable. Still, there was something unspoken that was attractive about her—attractive in the sense that she pulled you towards you with a sexual magnetism. She was not a girl you loved—she was a girl you romped around the sheets with until she was clawing at your chest for more. This was all too apparent by the animalistic compilation of her features, feral and ferocious, constantly at bay.

Consciously, I began worrying for Hoshi's fate in battle. I didn't remember my study of the coronation celebration clearly, though I did remember a fight for the next Battle Faerie while the other retired during this reception. The part that concerned me was whether or not the battle ended with the loser's life extinguished. While I had feared that may be my fate as well, my anxiety was more directed towards Hoshi, whether or not she had been the one that sentenced me to this degradation. In retrospect, I would find that love surpasses most things that would otherwise spoil a relationship.

Suddenly, there was a wave of applause. The guard watching me hit me through the bars with a pole, and I redirected my attention (at least my eyes) towards the front of the room. This was a pointless endeavor, as the air had already filled with the bodies of faeries giving a standing ovation, which involved clustering into a flying clump in the air. No matter how much I squinted or tried to use what minimal magic I had, I couldn't squint through the solid wall of bodies, all decked out in their Sunday best. (That was one advantage I had to being the Coronation Jester. It was a steaming outside that day, and to celebrate Fyora's coronation, most faeries had willed themselves into the heavy clothes of wintertime holidays. I, in my revolting peasant sheet, was pleasantly comfortable.)

Fyora gave a speech once the crowd settled down. Amplified by her own magic, she sounded much stronger and confident than she looked. I wondered if she had found a spell which added poise and charm to her speeches, as in person she had not been so compelling. She gave the standard promise of a safe and just kingdom, and to protect Faerieland from any outside threat. (So far, no rulers of Faerieland ever had to deal with anything of the sort; however, every coronation in history, as I've read, they do to calm the paranoid public.)

While she used many elaborate words to decorate her speech and left strategic pause between powerful phrases, it left me unimpressed and a smidge more worried about the future of Faerieland, as if I hadn't had enough mistrust of Fyora's administration already. The ignorant masses, though, evidently thought her speech a masterpiece, and cheered with the alacrity to fill twelve more steeples. I thought the noise would shatter the delicate, clouded glass and spill into the streets, where doubtlessly other faeries who had watched the speech remotely were doing their part to contribute to the racket. Fireworks burst from fingertips in the steeple in celebration, and streamers with an unseen origin poured from the ceiling. Secretly, I hoped the fireworks would catch on the streamers and send the steeple into an unforgettable conflagration. Unfortunately for the Jester, it didn't.

Transport to the reception was crude, and involved hastily getting everyone back into line from the royal leg of the parade. Arranging so many people back into order took a great deal of time and a strong leader, two things which the parade had none. Finally, the mob started off by order of Fyora (now Queen Fyora) to charge forwards, and I was almost left behind until one guard remembered my presence. He levitated me back to the chariot, which was beginning to move, and carelessly chained the cage onto the chariot without bothering to put me back onto the little cart with wheels. Therefore, the ride to the reception became one of ear-blistering pain and trying to avoid being continuously hit by the wheel cart from behind, as it was still haphazardly attached by chains.

The reception hall was contained inside Faerie City; as such, it was the longest group movement I've ever experienced. By the time I was reluctantly levitated inside by a pack of guards, my ears could hardly hear people shouting insults at me. Unfortunately, my skin still was full of sensation, and I could still feel the juice evaporating into a sticky film on my skin and the apples knock me square in the temple.

The party began in an impromptu style. We were in a grand ballroom with a gigantic dance floor in the center, and tables covered with fine linens all around. The architecture was dome-like, the ceiling arched and decorated with an intricate mural of classical art. Every wall and orifice seemed to be lined with wood of elaborate carving, depicting all of the elements: vines for earth, the sun for light, candles for fire, rain drops for water, elegant breezes for air and a demonic faces for darkness. The "royal" element was etched in the midst of the elements, looming over them and seeming to join them underneath its massive crown.

The arched windows were lined with orbs of light that floated and slowly spun, and the glass pane framed the falling day outside. Streamers of pure gold and silver decorated the wall far above, trailing down in intricate swirls and braids to the floor.

Each table was supplied with a glowing centerpiece with a holographic Floud floating around in water (magically conjured) and place settings for eight people. Whenever a table was completed with eight guests, food magically appeared on the plates. Assorted obnoxious faeries squealed in delight at this magical feat, but it only made my mouth water for the glazed meats and fresh fruits and vegetables bordering their plates.

The ballroom was big enough to boast different sections; the dancing and dining hall were in the middle, and on the opposite end seemed to be a mini-stage, performers beginning to warm up on it in exotic costume. I was further from the dining and dancing section and nearer to what appeared to be a mini colosseum in miniature. However, it was opened at either end, allowing an absent crowd to finish the rest of the circle. I wondered in excitement if this would be the place where Hoshi and Valeane would battle, but when I inquired to a guard, he answered with a glob of saliva.

At this thought, I began scoring the crowds with my eyes for a sign of Hoshi, or even Valeane. But even though the crowd eventually dispersed and thinned slightly (but not significantly), I could not spot a shock of lavender or luxurious navy blue. Eventually, I gave up on a thorough search, but still kept my eye open in case they appeared in my peripheral vision.

Eventually, my stomach began rumbling with a savageness. While the rest of the party ate their fill, I sat, gripping at my stomach with the claws of starvation. There were remnants of the fruits thrown at me at the bottom of the cage, but they were mostly rancid and smelled putrid. I hardly doubted they were swarming with disease—but faeries, magical as they were, had no conception of germs.

When I requested food from the guard, I received another strategic spit in the eye. Wiping it out of my eye and handing him some choice words, I turned away from him huffily. I knew my tantrums would do no good, but my reaction was almost impulsive.

After a few more minutes of sulking, I finally managed to put my fingers around some of the fruit flesh on the floor of my cage. I picked at it warily, hoping that some horrible creature would not come crawling out. When it remained still in my hands, I gave it a good sniff, and decided that wasn't a great idea if I wanted something in my stomach. I took a deep breath, and shoved the food in my mouth, holding my nose to avoid taste. It slithered its way slimily down my throat, and I nearly gagged when I accidentally opened my nostrils for air. Still, I managed to force it down, and my stomach became quieter. My stomach seemed content to stay empty if that was the fare I was offering it.