Trapped in an Omegaverse Tragedy

"Once upon a kingdom that had too many laws and not nearly enough sensible people, there lived a prince.

The prince was handsome in the severe, inconvenient manner of statues.

He was also completely devoid of emotion.

Not mostly devoid.

Not emotionally repressed.

Not secretly wounded beneath a tragic childhood.

Nothing.

If a servant announced that the royal treasury had burned down, the prince would blink.

If someone brought him a magnificent birthday cake, he would blink.

If the kingdom was invaded by an army of seven thousand men, he would perhaps blink twice, depending on whether he found the invasion logistically interesting.

The court physicians had examined him repeatedly.

"He has no feelings," one whispered.

"Perhaps they are buried very deeply," suggested another.

"We searched."

And so the prince was declared a mystery by people who were paid to diagnose things.

Then there was the jester.

The jester had been hired because the court needed laughter, although nobody had bothered to tell him that the prince never laughed.

This did not discourage him.

In fact, it encouraged him tremendously.

On his first day, the jester entered the throne room wearing seventeen bells, three feathers, and the expression of a man who had just discovered that common sense was optional.

He bowed.

"Your Highness, I have come to make you laugh."

The prince looked at him.

"I see."

The jester waited.

The prince continued looking.

The jester cleared his throat.

"I am very funny."

"I see."

"I can juggle."

"I see."

"I can swallow a sword."

"That seems medically unwise."

The jester smiled.

It was the first time the prince had ever expressed concern about anyone’s health.

Unfortunately, it was not concern.

It was curiosity.

The jester swallowed the sword anyway.

The court applauded.

The prince did not.

That was how the jester fell in love.

It was not sensible.

Love rarely is.

At first, he decided that the prince simply needed time.

So the jester began leaving little gifts outside the prince’s chambers.

A red rose.

A silver ribbon.

A tiny wooden horse.

A pastry shaped like a heart.

A note that said:

For the most beautiful man in the kingdom.

The prince read every note.

Then he burned them.

Not out of cruelty.

He simply disliked clutter.

The jester interpreted this as mysterious symbolism.

"He keeps my letters," he whispered happily.

"He burns them," said a maid.

"Yes."

"That is not usually a sign of affection."

"He burns them personally."

"That is somehow worse."

The jester ignored her.

He began performing increasingly elaborate tricks.

He danced on tables.

He recited poetry backward.

He wore a dress made entirely of spoons.

He once entered the throne room riding a goat and declared himself the ambassador of a fictional country.

The prince watched all of it.

"Was that funny?" the jester asked afterward.

"No."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"No."

"Did you think I looked handsome?"

"No."

The jester placed a hand dramatically over his heart.

"You wound me."

The prince studied him.

"Would you like me to?"

The jester stared.

Then he laughed.

"Oh, Your Highness. You really are terrible at flirting."

"I wasn’t flirting."

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The prince had discovered something peculiar.

The jester’s affection could be manipulated.

And although the prince could not feel pleasure, he could recognize amusement in its absence.

So he began giving the jester tiny pieces of hope.

One evening, the jester found the prince waiting for him in the garden.

"You came," the jester said.

"Yes."

"Were you waiting for me?"

"Yes."

The jester’s heart nearly exploded.

The prince handed him a rose.

The jester stared at it.

"You picked this for me?"

"Yes."

"Do you like me?"

"No."

The jester’s smile collapsed.

"Then why give me the rose?"

"I wanted to see what you would do."

The jester looked at the flower.

Then at the prince.

Then back at the flower.

"I hate you."

"I know."

"You’re horrible."

"I know."

"You’re impossible."

"I know."

The jester sighed.

"I still love you."

"I know."

And that was the closest thing the prince ever came to a confession.

For several weeks, the prince continued this strange little game.

Sometimes he summoned the jester at midnight.

Sometimes he asked him to sit beside the throne.

Once, he whispered, "Stay."

The jester stayed until sunrise.

The next morning, the prince said, "You may leave."

The jester left looking as though he’d been personally kissed by destiny.

The prince watched him go.

He did not smile.

But something in the kingdom had shifted.

Or perhaps it had merely become more ridiculous.

Then, one morning, the prince summoned the jester.

"There is something I need you to do."

The jester straightened proudly.

"Anything."

"Good."

The prince handed him a sealed letter.

"Deliver this to the western governor."

The jester looked at the seal.

"What does it say?"

"You’ll find out."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Yes."

The jester swallowed.

"Could I die?"

"Yes."

He smiled.

"Anything for you."

The prince looked at him for a long moment.

"That is precisely why I chose you."

The jester did not understand.

That was unfortunate.

The letter contained instructions for treason.

The governor received it, panicked, and sent word to the royal court.

The prince had expected this.

The guards arrested the jester before sunset.

At his trial, the jester stood alone beneath the great chandelier.

"I didn’t write the letter," he protested.

The prince sat upon the throne.

"I know."

The jester stared at him.

"You know?"

"Yes."

"Then why am I here?"

The prince tilted his head.

"Because you delivered it."

The jester laughed once.

It was a small, broken sound.

"So that’s it?"

"Yes."

"You used me."

"Yes."

"You knew I would do anything for you."

"Yes."

The jester’s eyes glistened.

"And did you ever care about me?"

The prince considered the question.

The court waited.

The executioner waited.

Even the chandelier seemed to lean closer.

"No," said the prince.

The jester smiled sadly.

"Of course."

Then the prince added,

"But I did enjoy having you around."

For some reason, that hurt more.

The axe fell.

And that was the end of the jester.

Or so everyone thought.

The next morning, the prince entered the throne room.

A new jester was standing beside the throne.

He wore seventeen bells, three feathers, and an expression suspiciously familiar.

The prince stopped.

The new jester bowed.

"Good morning, Your Highness."

The prince stared.

"Who are you?"

"The new jester."

"I see."

The jester smiled.

"I’ve heard you enjoy roses."

The prince’s eyes narrowed.

"Who told you that?"

"No one."

The jester produced a red rose from his sleeve.

"I simply thought it would be funny."

The prince looked at the rose.

Then at the jester.

Then at the rose again.

For the first time in many years, the prince experienced something dangerously close to curiosity.

Meanwhile, somewhere beneath the palace, the old jester’s head had reportedly been misplaced.

Nobody knew where it was.

Nobody asked.

The kingdom had learned not to ask too many questions.

Besides, there was a new jester.

And the new jester was already falling in love.

The prince watched him carefully.

Perhaps this time, he thought, the game might be interesting.

And perhaps, somewhere beneath the bells and feathers and ridiculous smiles, someone else was playing a game too.

The kingdom, naturally, pretended not to notice.

Kingdoms were very good at that.

It was practically their second greatest talent after producing princes."

Songrik closed the book violently as he threw it in a bin.

Suha blinked from his crib.

"How’s that a bed time story?!" He retorted. "That sounds like some sick person wrote it."

"I am the sick person," Beom said from the doorway.

Songrik was startled and looked at him.

Then he looked away.

It was just this morning that he had kissed man. And found that he was indeed the one he loved.

A part of him, at least.

But that didn’t make it any less awkward for Songrik as it still felt like he had kissed a stranger while still being taken.

I feel like I am cheating on Doha... but he is Doha...?

Ugh!!! I don’t know!!

"You’re a very bad writer," Songrik said, still looking away. "You’d starve if you wrote for a living."

"Good thing I made Sarang write that novel for me," Beom chuckled.

Songrik blushed a little.

Blushed?!

Even he was surprised at himself.

But the way Yoon Beom chuckled after teasing him was identical to Doha.

So much so that he could practically see his face superimposed on Yoon Beom.

"Have fun all you want," Songrik snapped. "You’ve only got three weeks left."

Yoon Beom’s face became very dark after hearing those words.

Songrik panicked a little.

"What? You didn’t think I’d just stay here, did you?"

"... Somewhat yes."

"Well, that’s a no from me."

"That’s sad."

"..."

"..."

"Suha’s asleep. Go sleep now."

"I’m good. I’m not ready sleepy."

"Then get out. I need to sleep."

Songrik kicked out Yoon Beom and shut the door behind him, only to collapse on his knees.

Well, that was close!!!

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