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"My Lord?"
"Yes Archmage?"
"We need to have a chat."
"Oh! Of course! Lead the way!"
A nod is all he gets before the Archmage - ClownPierce - turns away. Unlike other mages, wizards, whatever his class is called, he doesn't wear a cape nor cloak. Doesn't carry a staff nor wand. Just a simple fit, one made for a jester, covering him head to toe with no skin exposed.
At first, it was weird to Foolish. He's never met one without those items, wrapped securely to their belts or held tightly into their hands at all times. Yet here his Archmage was, carrying neither this or that. Instead, he carried weapons.
Grand and enchanted, runes etched into the handles and blades, expertly crafted and written. The King swears that he sees him with a different one everytime.
(A sword, diamond with poorly done runes, affectionately named "Piercer." He only knows the name for he was one of the few allowed to hold it, to run his fingers across it. He could appreciate the attempt - he's been struggling with making his own tools in this land, poorly constructed and itching to break with every use. He's gotten better of course, with the help of his Kingdom, but it wasn't the leaps and bounds of Clown.
The next he saw was the morningstar, created of ore found only in the hells. When he held it, it was heavy, a shocking weight to something as small as it. He had accidentally poked himself on one of the spikes, a hiss escaping his mouth as he brought up the thumb to his mouth. It wasn't a deep enough cut to let his golden blood escape, but the sting more than made up for it.
Clown simply watched him, or at least, Foolish thinks he did. It was always hard to tell with him. Even if he didn't wear the ever-grinning mask, the King is sure he'd never get an accurate read on the man.
When he had traced the runes of Sharpness, he almost dropped the weapon in shock. 10? 10?! Impossible! Yet here it was, sitting peacefully in his hands, magic humming underneath his finger tips.
When he asked his Archmage, he only shrugged, cocking his head to the side in a way that Foolish has come to learn means amusement.
He can't remember the name of it.)
This time, it's a great axe. It rests in its sheath on Clown's back, almost the entire height of him. And that was saying something! Both he and his Archmage stood at the same height, towering over the others, forcing Ros to build the doors taller than they really should've been. When he'd apologize, she waved him away with a loud laugh and a "Oh don't worry my Lord! It makes our castle that much more grand! And intimidating!"
"Ohh you're right! Then uh, I'm not sorry!" And the giggles of the two would bounce off the unfinished walls.
What was he talking about? Oh! The axe - big, incredible, and tall - was an impressive feat. He almost wished he can reach out and take it, run his grubby, kingly fingers all over it, appreciate the magic that courses through it, an electrical charge rushing into his blood. But he cannot. He remembers what happened the one time someone had taken something of Clown's without his permission-
-a shaking Pangi, who had shrunken in on himself to avoid his wrath. Who had practically thrown the stolen item - items - and turn tailed and ran. And he remembers the way his Archmage had run his hand across the recovered objects before snapping them away to wherever he dwelled. How he had turned to him with a nod and a pat to the shoulder, a touch that lingered a little too long, a little too soft for someone frequently called a demon.-
-so he doesn't dare do it, no matter how much he wishes too. He's been around long enough, too many years under his belt, too many scars among his skin, to know better. So he follows Clown away from the havoc happening in the throne room, far enough away that the only noise that remains is the clinking of the bells on his hat tail, their footsteps on the cobbled floors, and the hum of magic that seems to follow the Archmage no matter where he goes, with or without his weapons.
The door shuts behind the two quietly. Probably with magic, or maybe Foolish had been that lost in thought. He shrugs internally. That was the least of his problems currently, one he doesn't even consider to be a problem in the first place.
"So uh," he fumbles with his fingers, staring into the unblinking eyes of the other's mask. "What'd you wanna talk 'bout?"
"We have a, how do I say... issue, yes that's it, with our Jester."
"Owen? What's wrong with him?"
"Did you not see what he did, my King? Killed, right in front of us all! Despicable, truly despicable. And his own opponent too, does he not know manners?"
Foolish has to bite back his shock. Clown against killing? He must be in an alternate world, or maybe he had gotten replaced by a shape shifter and he never realized. Wow, if that happened, he really was a terrible king- that's not important.
"But- you- what?"
"Must I repeat myself? He made a fool- no pun intended- of us! I think we have a trial-"
"A trial? For why?!"
"No! Are you-" He can't see his face, but the tone of which those words were spat made him shrink in on himself, fingers turning to fidget with the crown upon his head. Clown sighs, shaking his head. The bells jingle, filling the brief quiet. "No, my king, you misunderstand. I'm proposing a trial of Jesters. A true, proper one. Decided not by death, but by the people! The winner becomes our Royal Jester, and the loser, of course, is banished."
"I mean... it's, not a bad idea? But I-"
In a flash, a hand reaches towards his face. He flinches back, a gasp escaping his lips before he freezes. The gloved hand, warm and feather-light, rests on his cheek, and he had to resist the urge of leaning into it.
His eyes flicker between the hand and the mask. The mask, of which, was pushed slightly up, exposing his mouth. He couldn't help but stare, fixated on the way his lips moved around every sound, the sharp teeth, eyes tracing every crack on his lips.
"My King," he all but purrs, lifting his other hand to entomb Foolish's face. "I know what it may seem: 'Clown,' I hear you say, 'this is an utterly foolish idea! Think of Owen and how great of a Jester he's been!' And I would agree. But alas, something must be done. We cannot allow this, this, sin against us to go unpunished."
"I- let me, let me think 'bout this, yeah? And I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
"Of course, of course, take all the time you need."
Silence befalls the two. Neither makes to move, entwined in each other. Or maybe it was just Foolish entwined in Clown, living up to his name. He's sure he'd be the laughingstock of the kingdom, letting himself fall so easily because of a simple touch.
(A touch that feels so incredible on his skin. A warm balm, heating his cold skin, and he couldn't help but relax into it. It was nice - not having to bend down to feel another's touch on his face, not having to tilt his head down just to make eye contact. An equal in every way except a few.
How nice it was. He almost wishes he could spend the rest of eternity here-)
The door slams openly, hitting the wall with a loud thud. "My king, I must- oh! Am I interrupting something?"
"Not at all Ros! What can we do for you?" Clown, somehow, in whatever magical ways he has, had fixed his mask and pulled his hands away from him faster than lightning.
"Just wanted to check in! The others were getting curious as to where our king ran off too, so I volunteered to collect!"
"How wonderful! I'm truly sorry for hoarding him for so long. I'll pass him off to your worthy hands, dearest Architect."
"Why thank you Archmage! I'll treat him with all the care he deserves. Off you go, my king! You have a great many things to deal with."
"Uh, yes of course! Lead the way Ros! We got subjects to subject. Wait that didn't make sense-"
~~~~~~~~
He had been approached by Tubbo and Owen not long after. Foolish can't quite remember what they discussed, something along the lines of Clown plotting against Owen, wanting him gone.
He doesn't know what to believe. He can believe what Owen says, but he knows his Archmage. Has heard the rumors, the stories, the tall tales, the facts, whichever one wishes to believe they are.
("The King of Hell! A demon in jester's cloth! Beware, beware, for he lurks, hides, and preys on those caught unaware. Destroyer of kingdoms, a mage of untold power, always seeking his newest victim.")
Surely it's not true! It might be, stars if he knows, but still. He's been around for a long time, has learned that sometimes blissful ignorance is the way to keep friends close. Perhaps he's living up to the name of his kingdom, to his own name, but he rather be a fool than lose a good friend like Clown to some rumors that maybe have more truth than he'd like to believe.
But he doesn't want to lose Owen. He doesn't want to lose either - he's sure his Archmage would understand if he didn't wish to do the trial, wanted to stay with the Jester they already have. A punishment will come, yes, for he should've never acted without direct orders, but not through banishment.
Community service? An apology to Tommy? Meh, he'll come up with it another day, another time. Maybe ask Clown about it.
Yes, yes, that's a good idea.
His Archmage knows best after all.