The Jester walked with aimless steps, his bells jingling softly in the empty air. The Caterpillar's lair stretched behind him, the scent of burnt smoke lingering in his wake. His painted smile did not falter, but his fingers twitched at his sides, curling and uncurling as if grasping for something unseen.
In the dim moonlight, the blood had already vanished into the earth, swallowed like a forgotten whisper. But in his mind, the scene played over and over again—his hands, steady yet shaking, the shadows tightening around the Caterpillar's throat, the final exhale of smoke as his old friend slipped into nothingness. The way the embers in his pipe had died before his own breath did.
Pierrot's lips parted, an exhale—half a sigh, half a laugh.
How strange, he thought, that his hands still felt warm.
A gust of wind carried the scent of something familiar—earthy, rich, laced with nostalgia. And suddenly, the world shifted.
A memory.
The sky was golden, the afternoon sun lazy and warm. Smoke curled in slow spirals from a pipe, painting the air in hazy, dreamlike shapes. Laughter hummed somewhere in the distance, the echoes of a world not yet broken.
The Jester was younger then—his face unlined by grief, his eyes still bright, his steps carrying an energy untouched by sorrow. He walked through the clearing where the Caterpillar always sat, perched lazily upon a thick tree branch, his body relaxed as he took a slow, measured inhale of his pipe.
The young jester hesitated before stepping closer, adjusting the ruffled collar of his costume, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in his sleeve. He swallowed hard.
"Do you think…" Pierrot started, then paused, shaking his head. "No, never mind. It's stupid."
The Caterpillar exhaled, watching the smoke drift upward before speaking. "Since when has that stopped you?"
Pierrot huffed, crossing his arms before finally blurting out, "Do you think she'll like me this time?"
The Caterpillar didn't look at him at first, simply taking another drag before releasing it in slow, swirling wisps. "She?" he asked, feigning ignorance. "Ah, you mean Columbine, don't you?"
Pierrot's face flushed slightly. "I—maybe."
The Caterpillar finally turned his golden gaze toward him, unreadable yet knowing. "And why wouldn't she?"
Pierrot kicked at a loose pebble on the ground, watching as it rolled away. "I don't know. Maybe because she never notices me? Maybe because I try too hard?" He let out a frustrated sigh, throwing his arms up. "I've tried everything—the jokes, the songs, the grand gestures. And yet, every time, it's like I'm invisible."
The Caterpillar chuckled, shaking his head. "So that's what's bothering you."
"It's not funny," Pierrot grumbled.
"Oh, but it is," the Caterpillar mused, resting his chin on one hand. "You, of all people, believing that love is something to be won. That if you perform enough, she'll suddenly see you."
Pierrot frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Well… isn't that how it works?"
The Caterpillar took another pull from his pipe, the embers glowing softly. "Love isn't an audience, Pierrot. It doesn't applaud when you've done enough tricks."
Pierrot scowled. "You make it sound like I'm some fool."
"Aren't you?" The Caterpillar's voice was calm, without malice. "You seek her gaze, but do you know what she seeks? You chase after her light, but do you even know if she longs for the shadows instead?"
Pierrot hesitated. "…I just want her to see me. For who I am."
The Caterpillar sighed, shaking his head. "Then stop trying so hard to be seen."
Pierrot blinked. "That doesn't make any sense."
The Caterpillar gave him a lazy grin, tapping his pipe against the bark of the tree. "Of course it doesn't. The heart of another is like a riddle. You must listen to it, feel it in your bones, understand it in every angle you can. Only then, can you truly understand it."
Pierrot groaned, flopping onto the grass. "You sound like an old man."
The Caterpillar chuckled again. "I've been called worse."
Pierrot laughed, the sound bright and unburdened, as he stretched his arms behind his head and gazed up at the golden sky. "Oh well, what are you smoking anyway?"
The Caterpillar smirked, exhaling another slow ribbon of smoke into the air. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Pierrot propped himself up on his elbows, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief. "Actually, yeah. Let me have some."
The Caterpillar raised an amused brow but said nothing. Instead, he lazily extended the pipe toward Pierrot, holding it just within reach. "Go on, then," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "Since you're so eager to see the world through my eyes."
Pierrot hesitated for only a second before sitting up fully, taking the pipe carefully between his gloved fingers. He studied it, the weight of it, the faint warmth still lingering where the Caterpillar's hands had been. The scent was earthy, rich, tinged with something floral and unfamiliar.
He brought it to his lips and took a deep inhale.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the world seemed to shift.
The trees stretched taller, their branches curling like grasping fingers toward the sky. The grass beneath him felt softer, like clouds had replaced the earth. The sky above darkened—not ominously, but dreamlike, painted in deep purples and blues that shimmered like spilled ink. The wind carried whispers, not of voices, but of emotions—faint echoes of laughter, sorrow, longing.
Pierrot blinked, his breath hitching. He turned to the Caterpillar, whose form now seemed to ripple with the smoke, as if he were both here and somewhere else at the same time.
The Caterpillar chuckled. "Well?" he asked, his voice smooth, unhurried. "What do you see?"
Pierrot exhaled shakily, watching as his own breath wove into the world around him. "Everything," he whispered. "And nothing."
The Caterpillar smirked. "Good. That means it's working."
The next morning, Pierrot stirred, his limbs heavy and his mind clouded with remnants of strange, drifting dreams. The world still felt hazy, the echoes of the night before lingering like a whisper at the edge of his senses. He blinked sluggishly, staring up at the slanted wooden beams of the Caterpillar's dwelling, the scent of rich, earthy smoke still clinging to the air.
For a moment, he simply lay there, caught between sleep and waking, before a glimmer of color outside the entrance caught his eye. A swish of fabric, the gentle sound of laughter—light, musical, and unmistakable.
Columbine.
The fog in his mind vanished in an instant.
Pierrot bolted upright, his heart leaping into his throat. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over the cushions strewn across the floor, and rushed outside, his pulse racing.
The golden morning sunlight bathed the clearing in warmth, the air crisp and fresh. And there she was—Columbine, her beauty effortless, her hair cascading like a waterfall of silken strands, her dress flowing with every graceful step she took.
But she wasn't alone.
A tall figure stood beside her, his arm draped casually around her shoulders, his smirk easy and confident. A nobleman's son, handsome and well-dressed, someone who had never once had to fight to be noticed. Columbine laughed at something he said, tilting her head toward him in a way that made Pierrot's stomach twist into knots.
He froze in place, his breath catching.
She never looks at me like that.
His fingers twitched, aching to reach out, to call her name—to do anything to make her turn her gaze toward him, just for a moment. But before he could gather the courage, before he could make his presence known, her eyes flickered in his direction.
And she saw him.
For one, fleeting second, their gazes met.
Then, with a smirk playing on her lips, she laughed—bright, cruel, careless.
"Look at that weirdo," she said, nudging the nobleman beside her. "Hanging out with that hippie."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
The nobleman chuckled, not even bothering to spare Pierrot a glance. "Guess some people don't know where they belong."
Pierrot felt his breath hitch, his entire body going rigid. His face burned, though not from embarrassment—from something else, something heavier, something darker.
Columbine barely spared him another look before turning away, already lost in her own world, her laughter echoing as she walked off with her companion.
Pierrot stood frozen, his fists clenching, his heart hammering against his ribs.
His breath came in slow, uneven gasps, his vision blurring—not from tears, but from something heavier. Something twisting inside him.
Then, from the depths of that silence, a voice slithered into his ears.
Low. Sinister. Amused.
"Do you want her?"
The air around him thickened, the warm morning suddenly colder, the world pressing in as if something unseen had drawn closer.
Pierrot's breath hitched. His fingers twitched.
Somewhere, unseen, the voice chuckled.
"Say the word."
Pierrot hesitated, his pulse hammering against his ribs. His gaze darted wildly, searching the empty clearing, but there was no one—only the rustling leaves, the lingering echoes of Columbine's laughter, and the heavy weight of something unseen pressing against his skin.
His throat went dry. "Who's there?" he whispered, but the words barely left his lips.
The silence stretched.
Then, the voice came again, curling around him like a serpent.
"Do you want her?"
A shiver ran down Pierrot's spine. His instincts screamed at him to run, to turn back, to pretend he had never heard it. But the sting of rejection, the ache of longing, the bitterness of being unseen burned hotter than his fear.
His fingers trembled at his sides. His lips parted.
And in a voice barely more than a breath, he whispered, "Yes."
The world seemed to still.
Then, the voice, soft as silk, purred in his ear.
"Then come with me."
A gust of wind rushed through the clearing, snuffing out the warmth of the morning sun. The trees seemed to stretch taller, their branches twisting unnaturally, casting long, distorted shadows across the ground.
Before Pierrot could react, the earth beneath him darkened, shifting—no, pulling him downward.
His breath caught in his throat. His body refused to move.
And then, the world swallowed him whole.