(AN: Said we would see more of Jester's complex mindset and trauma. Please be aware of sensitive topics)
"Jester" POV
Trust.
…
It is a fragile thing.
Breakable.
Disposable.
A mistake.
My fingers curl slowly, the memory surfacing whether I allow it or not, dragging itself forward from a place I do not willingly revisit.
I gave it once.
Freely.
Carelessly.
Like it meant something.
Like it would be returned.
It wasn't.
And the cost—
Was not mine alone.
My jaw tightens.
Because I did not fall alone.
I dragged them with me.
Into that place.
Into that cage.
Into something no one should have had to endure.
I told myself I was protecting them.
That I was shielding them.
That I was taking the worst of it so they wouldn't have to.
And maybe—
Sometimes—
That was true.
But not enough.
Never enough.
Because in the end—
I failed.
The memory sharpens.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
Chains.
Not metaphorical.
Real.
Heavy.
Binding.
Restricting every movement until even breathing felt like something that had to be earned.
I remember the way my limbs were forced still.
The way resistance became pointless.
The way time stopped meaning anything.
Because pain—
Does not need time to exist.
It simply… does.
He would come.
Regularly.
Predictably.
That man.
If he can even be called that.
My stomach twists at the thought of him, something dark and bitter settling deep in my chest.
He did not hide what he was.
Did not pretend.
He watched.
Observed.
Like we were nothing more than objects to be tested.
Broken.
Used.
And discarded when no longer useful.
There was no mercy in it.
No hesitation.
No end.
Only endurance.
And even that—
Was never enough.
My breathing slows, controlled, even as the memory presses harder, refusing to stay contained.
The worst part is not what he did to me.
Not entirely.
It is that I was not the only one.
My eyes lower slightly, my expression tightening just a fraction.
Her.
Fragile.
Small.
Too young.
Too unprepared for a world like that.
Soft pink eyes that should have never seen what they were forced to see.
Horns barely formed.
Claws that could not defend.
Could not protect.
Could not—
I stop the thought.
Force it down.
Because I remember.
I remember the way she looked at me.
Not with fear.
Not with blame.
But with trust.
Even then.
Even when I could not stop it.
Even when I could not—
My fingers curl tighter.
"…I failed you," I murmur under my breath.
The words are quiet.
Barely there.
But they settle heavily.
Because they are true.
I could not protect her.
Not fully.
Not enough.
And that—
That is why trust does not come easily.
Does not come freely.
Does not come at all unless it is earned through something stronger than words.
Because I have seen what happens when it is given too soon.
When it is placed in the wrong hands.
When it is used—
Against you.
My gaze lifts slightly, the memory receding just enough for me to breathe again, though the weight of it never fully leaves.
It never does.
"…Never again," I say quietly.
Not as a vow spoken to others.
But as something I carved into myself long ago.
I will not trust blindly.
I will not allow another to fall because of my misjudgment.
I will not—
Fail them.
Again.
Third POV
"Such beautiful eyes…"
"Their hair is so long… I'm jealous."
"Even if they're a freak… that face and body—worth something."
"The green-eyed one too… but far too risky."
Jester lays there.
Chained.
His body weak, starved, forced still against cold restraints that bite into his limbs no matter how much he strains.
His hair is yanked harshly, fingers tangling and pulling without care, his horns gripped and handled like something to be examined—not him, not a person—just something to touch.
Something to use.
His breath trembles, uneven, shallow as revulsion floods his expression, his eyes wide yet burning with something far deeper than fear.
Disgust.
Pure, suffocating disgust.
They crowd around him.
Too close.
Always too close.
Their voices drip with amusement, with ownership, with something that makes his entire body recoil even when he cannot move away.
"Shame they're so dangerous."
"What else did you expect?"
"Who cares if they are?"
Hands tighten.
Pulling.
Forcing reactions.
Testing limits.
His body tenses, every muscle locking as he tries—tries—to pull away, but the chains hold firm, unyielding, digging into him as if punishing even the attempt.
Their presence presses in.
Overwhelming.
Suffocating.
The smell alone—alcohol, sweat, something artificial layered over decay—turns his stomach.
He wants to vomit.
Wants to tear himself free.
Wants to shed everything they've touched—
But he can't.
"…Maybe we should grab that pink-eyed one. She's cute."
The words cut through everything.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Jester's entire body jerks against the restraints, a low, guttural growl tearing from his throat despite his weakened state.
No.
Not her.
Not Columbina.
Not—
The reaction is instant.
Not missed.
The showman notices.
Of course he does.
A slow, sickening smirk spreads across his face as he steps closer, tightening his grip on Jester's horn and pulling—hard.
Pain flares.
Sharp.
Unavoidable.
Jester flinches, his body betraying him despite everything as he's forced closer, the man's presence suffocating, invasive.
"Seems he doesn't like that idea," the showman murmurs, voice thick with amusement.
His breath is foul.
Rotting.
Too close.
Jester turns his head as much as he can, gagging slightly, his expression twisting with open disgust, his entire being rejecting everything about this moment.
But he cannot escape.
Cannot fight.
Cannot protect.
And that—
That is what breaks something deeper than the pain.
Jester POV
I wake with a jolt.
Threads snap outward on instinct, lashing through the air before anchoring against the walls of the tent, the ground, anything solid enough to hold.
My breathing is uneven—too fast, too shallow—as I drag in air like I've been drowning.
I can still feel it.
The chains.
The hands.
The—
No.
I curl in on myself, my arms wrapping tightly around my torso as if I can hold myself together, as if I can keep whatever's clawing its way out of my chest from spilling over.
"…Stop," I rasp under my breath.
It doesn't listen.
It never does.
The memories don't come back fully—not all at once—but in flashes. Broken. Jagged. Enough to make my body react before my mind can catch up.
My threads tremble where they've anchored, vibrating with leftover panic, with instinct that hasn't realized it's over.
It's over.
We ended it.
We—
The tent flap bursts open.
"Jester—!"
Bil.
Of course it's him.
He doesn't hesitate, stepping in quickly, his gaze locking onto me, taking everything in at once—the threads, the shaking, the way I haven't even fully grounded myself yet.
"…Another one," he mutters, quieter now.
Not a question.
He already knows.
I don't answer.
Can't.
My breathing stutters again as another flash hits—too close, too real—and I flinch hard, my threads pulling tighter around the tent like something might still be coming for me.
It's not.
I know that.
I know that.
But my body—
My body doesn't care.
"…It's gone," Bil says, stepping closer, his voice firm but not harsh. "He's gone."
My fingers tighten against my arms.
"…I know," I manage, though it comes out strained, like the words have to be forced through something thick in my throat.
Because I do know.
We killed him.
All of us.
Tore that place apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but ruin and ash and the memory of what it used to be.
No more cages.
No more chains.
No more—
My jaw clenches.
"…Doesn't stop it," I add quietly.
A beat of silence follows that.
Bil doesn't argue.
Doesn't dismiss it.
He just stands there for a moment, watching me, calculating like he always does—what I need, what I don't, what I'll accept.
Then—
He moves a little closer.
Not enough to crowd.
Just enough to be there.
"Your threads are still out," he says after a second, his tone shifting slightly—grounding, practical. "You're going to tear the tent."
I blink.
Slow.
My gaze flicks upward, following the tension lines of my own threads stretched tight across the space, trembling with every shaky breath I take.
Right.
I exhale.
Slow.
Controlled.
"…Yeah," I mutter.
One by one, I pull them back.
Not all at once.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Each one retracting with a faint tremor until the tent settles again, the space returning to something resembling normal.
My arms loosen slightly around myself, though I don't fully let go.
Not yet.
Bil watches the entire time.
Doesn't rush me.
Doesn't speak again until the last thread disappears.
"…You're awake now," he says.
Simple.
Direct.
Present.
I nod once, my breathing finally starting to even out, though the tension still sits heavy in my chest, refusing to fully leave.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
Then—
"…I'm fine."
The lie comes easier than it should.
It always does.
Bil doesn't call it out.
But he doesn't believe it either.
I can tell.
He shifts slightly, his posture relaxing just enough to show he's not leaving immediately.
"…You don't have to—"
"I know."
I cut him off before he can finish.
Because I do.
I know what he's trying to say.
I know what he means.
And I also know—
I don't want to hear it right now.
Another silence settles between us, quieter this time, less sharp.
My gaze drifts toward the tent opening, toward the faint sounds of the others outside, the life we've built after everything.
It's… different now.
Not safe.
Not really.
But better.
Ours.
"…It's been years," I murmur.
The words feel strange in my mouth.
Too small for what they're supposed to mean.
"He's dead."
Another truth.
Another fact.
Another thing that should matter more than it does.
My fingers curl slightly.
"…So why—"
I stop.
Because I already know the answer.
Because it doesn't need to be said.
Bil doesn't respond.
He just stands there, quiet, present, the only one who ever comes when this happens.
The only one who ever knows.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face before finally letting my arms fall back to my sides.
"…I'll be fine," I say again.
Softer this time.
Less force.
Less certainty.
But enough.
It has to be.
Because there's still work to do.
Still things to build.
Still a future that we tore out of something broken and are trying to hold together with whatever we have left.
And I—
I don't get to fall apart now.
Not when they're still here.
Not when they need me.
My gaze sharpens slightly as I straighten, pushing the last remnants of the panic down where it belongs.
Contained.
Controlled.
Hidden.
"…Go back to sleep, Bil," I say quietly.
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
Then nods.
And leaves.
The tent falls silent again.
And I sit there—
Awake.
Still.