Rule of The Crimson Rose | Chapter 2
- Cutie Pie T.T.V.
- Feb 14
- 4 min read
Updated: Mar 6
Tinker stood in the doorway, her posture rigid, her eyes sharp with restrained fury.
The Second Attempt:
“What are you doing here?” she demanded: “You’re supposed to be out there for the ceremony. Despite the war in the spirit realm, life still goes on.”
Rompo remained where he was, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the floor.
“You still have obligations,” Tinker continued, stepping closer: “Ceremonies must be attended. Duties must be fulfilled. Whatever is happening with those ghosts does not excuse you.”
“I don’t want to go,” Rompo said quietly.
They had this conversation before, and were repeating themselves. Tinker repeats herself to manipulate him, while he repeats himself to emphasize he's not going.
Tinker’s expression shifted, brightening with a strange, almost eager anticipation: “And why is that? The Rose will be instating a new Prime Minister beneath him. This is no small event.”
She clasped her hands together as she spoke, her voice quickening:
“The Prime Minister will not rule above the Rose, of course—but he will hold our lives in his hands. And he will appoint a trusted jester of his own. Someone who can deliver good news, bad news, who can jest with him when needed. The jester becomes an advisor of sorts. If he pleases the Prime Minister, he can gain remarkable benefits.”
Rompo finally looked up.
“He can also kill his jester,” he said flatly: “Or banish him. If the entertainment is poor.”
He gestured vaguely at himself: “I’m not very good at entertaining people.”
His voice lowered, stripped of bravado: “Look at me. I’m bland—from my hair to my feet. You’re exciting to look at. I’m… generic.”
Tinker didn’t soften.
“You are boring,” she replied: “Which is precisely why, in times like this—when everyone is on edge—you should make an effort for once.”
Her frustration sharpened: “You cannot keep being a failure like you were last time. The Knight’s Chief Ceremony. All the Nephilim and pure breeds attended to celebrate.”
Her stare pierced him:
“You didn’t.”
Rompo’s jaw tightened.
“Tinker…” His voice trembled—not with fear, but anger.
He drew a slow breath:
“Let me make sure I understand something.”
Silence pressed between them.
ROMPO: “At the last ceremony, if he became overly excited, he was permitted to kill any grown man present as a ceremonial gift. Do you remember that?”
His eyes burned now:
“He is allowed to kill as part of the celebration. I am a twenty-three-year-old man.”
He took a step forward:
“In what world is it a good idea for me to walk into that hall as if I’m not at risk of being murdered by a psychopath?”
Tinker exhaled sharply: “Fine. I can’t force you to do the right thing.”
“The right thing?” Rompo shot back: “Staying home from the Knight’s ceremony was the right thing. Gilgamash was the kind of knight who killed for sport. He treated it like it was woven into his identity.”
His voice lost its edge, turning raw:
“I don’t want the pressure of being a jester.”
“All you would have to do is tell jokes,” Tinker said, impatience creeping in.
Rompo almost let out a hollow laugh, then said:
“Ma’am, I can barely come up with a knock-knock joke. He’ll kill me—and then kill himself from boredom when I’m finished. My jokes make people suicidal.”
The room fell silent, thick with tension neither of them could resolve.
Tinker stood before him, her composure unusually measured, though something in her eyes suggested she had been holding this back:
“Alright, I guess I should just come out with it.”
A short laugh escaped her, thin and unconvincing:
“You have to attend the ceremony. Zandar, our new prime minister, pre-planned who'd be his jester.”
Rompo’s head snapped up, dread creeping into his expression:
“It's not me, is it? I hope not.”
Tinker laughed: “You are his new jester.”
ROMPO screamed: “Impossible!”
Tinker says: “It's not. You're just lucky is all!”
Rompo stared at her as though she had announced his execution:
“If I'm bad, he'll kill me!”
Tinker said: “He can still just fire you as his jester instead of the usual banishment or death penalty.”
Rompo’s disbelief hardened into irritation:
“Do you think I desire the usual?”
Tinker:
“No, yet you'll go regardless.”
“What?!”
The word burst from him, sharp and stunned.
A heavy pause filled the room.
Tinker:
“Guards will come to retrieve you.”
ROMPO:
“What the ram suckle?!”
His thoughts tangled over themselves:
“Wha- I-”
Tinker:
“You'll be at the ceremony. I'm just here to get your consent. You're consent, however, is not required.”
Tinker folded her arms, as if the matter had already been concluded.
Rompo’s anger surged, hot and unfiltered:
“I'm so... Angry. What?! Without my consent, I still have to go?”
Tinker:
“You identify as a Christian of a different denomination in secrecy; Even God doesn't Ask Consent when making you, why do we have to ask consent when hiring you?”
Rompo threw his hands up, exasperated:
“Those are two totally different things! You know that! Christ can't ask someone who doesn't exist for consent! Unless he goes to the future, he can't! And he'd have to make them exist for them to be in the future!”
He paced, frustration spilling over:
“Meanwhile, I chose not to go because the job can cost me my life if I'm not funny! Most people aren't funny!”
His voice cracked under the weight of it:
“I will die! Meanwhile, Anyone born can be anything in the right circumstances, and many people are born in good circumstances!”
Tinker regarded him coolly, her decision final:
“I will give you an ultimatum. You get forced to the ceremony, or you willingly go. There. I'm Done.”
To be continued...
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