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“The king has requested your presence.” The nasally voice of the royal messenger brings a hush amongst the training knights. All activity around them stopped in favor of the silent, wrathful glares.
Swords were drawn closer, teeth clenched, and all around him their leader could sense the violent, palpable anger that oozed from every man who answered to him. Mid-swing, the Foundation heavily considers knocking the messenger out, or pretending that he has some important plans awaiting him and would have to comply some other time. If that traitorous bastard needed him, his lazy ass could walk down here himself. Disgusted at how tempting the thoughts are, the captain of the knights thrust his practice sword into the arms of one of his companions.
“You’re in charge” he tells Stellan, who gives him a stern faced nod of acknowledgement, “run them through drills until I get back.”
Grabbing a towel and his previously discarded tunic, the large man follows the messenger to the Usurper's office. Through winding halls he knew like the back of his hand, the pit in his stomach churned, a hot mix of anger and grief threatening to halt him in his steps. Things had already started to change, paintings of former rulers and celebrated knights being moved, blue draperies and rugs being replaced by vibrant red. The Foundation wonders if this is how the halls looked on the night of the coup.
Not that he knew. Because of course he didn’t. The single day that his kingdom needed him most, arguably the whole purpose for his role in the first place, and he hadn’t even been able to witness it. The Foundation had never failed so hard in all 34 of the years of his life. His kingdom needed him, relied on him to lead its armies in defense of its people and its borders. And he failed them. Now, a bastard traitor sits on the throne, expecting everyone to act like it was the most natural thing in the world
After an irritatingly painful trip down memory lane, and the gaps in it that brought him the most shame, the Foundation is stopped in front of a set of rich, cherry wood doors. Where before, the doors had been bright and inviting, the newly added red cast an eerie light onto the deeply colored doors. The messenger begins to knock, ready to announce their presence when they are both startled by the messenger stumbling forward, his knuckles finding no purchase as the wooden doors are flung open.
The new king bursts out of the room, breathless and panting. His hair is messy, golden locks sticking up in multiple directions, as if fingers had been combing through them, and his eyes are an almost dull, cloudy blue. His clothes were rumpled, his collar open to expose the top of his chest. A clearly fake smile stretches across his face, the Foundation only feels his ire rise at the scowling advisor coming out from behind the usurper and slipping down the hall.
Disgusting fills the knight at the instinctive images that flash through his mind, all conjured by the annoyingly handsome man looking all hot and bothered. The blonde interrupted any whispers of intimacy that might have lingered in the knight’s mind, replacing them with an obnoxiously friendly voice that oozed with poisoned honey.
“Oh thank fuck you're here. I thought I'd never escape that conference call!”
Raising a brow, Foundation says nothing, only looking the man up and down once more. Conference call, huh? If that was the best excuse he could come up with, they were all doomed. Pretending to only just realize that they all were standing awkwardly in the hall, the usurper puts on an awkward act, stepping back towards the office.
“Oh shit, my bad. Come in come in! We have a lot to talk about now that you're out of recovery! I think you're gonna like what I have cooking, big guy!”
Foundation considered killing him right here, hating himself even more for not being present during the coup. Then the blonde’s hand is on his elbow, and every siren in his brain is blaring so loud it’s nearly deafening and he’s being tugged into the office. Lurching to a stop, a look of irritation flashes in the king’s eyes before he smacks his forehead with the back of his hand. The knight had no clue how to read this man and it had his walls on high alert.
“Stupid..” the king’s voice grumbles, sounding far less cheery than it had a moment ago. The moment passes as quickly as it came, another false, bright smile on the shorter man’s face. That smile is then turned to the messenger that had guided the Foundation here, and the man looks like he could keel over at any second. “Hey, why don’t you just take the rest of the day off? I’m sure if I need help finding anyone, Foundy will be more than willing to help lend me a hand.”
The messenger barely uttered a small confirmation before he disappeared down the crimson hall. Watching with laughter in his eyes, the king resumed tugging the Foundation into the office.
“Hmm, guess it’ll take time for them to get used to things,” his voice is breathy, a hum to the tone, clearly amused by the fear he strikes in people here.
Once they’re past the threshold, the knight slips up, his disgust apparent by the crease in his brow and the scowl on his lips. Yanking his arm free from the smaller man’s grasp, he adjusts his tunic.
“Maybe it has something to do with killing the previous monarch,” he snips before he can bite his blasphemous tongue.
The silent stare he receives is enough to replace his instinctive satisfaction at jabbing with the dread of the victim of said jabbing being a predator that could erase him given enough incentive. Cursing himself, the Foundation wonders why he couldn’t keep his big mouth shut? What was it about this stupid face that broke down any filters he had up? Even if he hated the guy, even if he wanted to defy everything this man said, it wasn’t his job to argue with his employer, let alone with the current king. One who already shed blood to get his position. Wracking his flustered mind for the correct apology, the knight is interrupted as the king brushes past him, sitting at the ridiculously large desk that dominated the office space.
“You were like this on coronation day. You’re blunt and not scared to argue your point. Traits like these make me like you even more, Foundation.” Disgust coils in his gut at the king’s words, mixing with a strange warmth that the Foundation passed off as nausea, despite the fluttering just beneath it. “So, feel free to speak your mind with me. Your support will make a lot of this easier.”
Clenching his fists, the Foundation can’t help but feel like he’s been tricked in some way. Those eyes looked at him without an ounce of curiosity. Those eyes knew too much.
“I think it would remain in both of our best interests if I didn’t take you up on that offer, your Majesty.” he retorts, the honorific holds nothing but thickly laced malice, apparently amusing the king further, even drawing a barking laugh from him.
“Well, the offer remains, even if you choose not to take it.”
Waving his hand at the unoccupied chair across from him, the Usurper chuckles for a moment longer, “Why don’t you have a seat? I don't’ want to take up too much of your valuable time.”
Blue eyes pinned him in place, studying and observing as the knight hesitates before slowly sinking into the chair. His smile seems more genuine this time, something the Foundation is sure was part of whatever scheme the viper was concocting.
“Thank you!” his voice drips with sickeningly sweet praise, leaving a nasty taste in the back of the knight’s throat. “Now, I know we don’t get along, hell, I don’t think we got along *before* the coup-”
The Foundation doesn’t fight the annoyed snarl that bubbles in his throat, the noise the only warning he will give the former advisor. Clearly taking the hint, the blonde clears his throat before tugging at his collar, stretching the fabric in a fake nervous habit. “Anyway, I was going to say that’s fine, I’m not asking you to trust or like me, we are both smarter than that. However, I appreciate the efforts you go to for this kingdom.”
The leather creaks as the king leans back into his seat, the comically large chair nearly engulfing him as he pulls out a thick binder from one of the desk’s drawers. “I’ve been digging around some of the palace’s neglected files, and found some very interesting things, Foundation.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, the Foundation leans back in his chair, his jaw aching from the force of his teeth clenching together. He could feel the creaking of his bones as they grind and pressed together, a bitter taste spilling across his tongue as the pain grounded him.
“Just get to the point already,” he snaps, hating the victorious smile that breaks out across the usurper king’s face.
“I thought you’d be excited about it! It sure gave me plenty to think about!” Opening the dark blue binder, the king starts laying printed photos across the surface of the desk, a multitude of colors overtaking the dull, greying brown. “You’ve been a busy, busy man, haven’t you, Captain?”
Each picture is of the Foundation in various places around the kingdom, many of him leading his men to aid during disasters or national events. Newspaper clippings of his glorious return from battle, the first war he won, the last. The final pictures, however, had been taken without his knowledge. Images of him gathering underground forces, of his small renegade group stealing resources from the former king’s men. He cursed himself for ever letting himself humor the idea, watching his dream of a better future for his people bite him in the ass here had his blood rushing in his ears. A burning prick in the backs of his eyes has him shifting his gaze up, refusing to humor feelings in a conversation with the traitor in front of him. He was playing with a partial deck and it looked like all of his cards had been swiped from under his nose.
“So, what do you plan to do…” Foundation’s voice sounds distant to himself, like he was talking somewhere else in the room. How odd, what anxiety can do to him despite his years of training.
“Oh! I’m so glad you asked Foundation!” Dropping a heavy folder onto the pictures, some of them are knocked to the floor, fluttering face down from the force of the folder falling. “Listen, I know you take a lot of pride in your work, but the truth of the matter is, you’re vastly overqualified! Your skills on the field are *legendary*, and this kingdom’s army wouldn’t be as successful and skilled as it is without your input, time, and willingness to teach and work with others. I remember the man that acted as Captain while you were gone during the war, and trust me, he can’t hold a candle to the good you’ve done for the people here.”
The praise comes as a surprise to the leader of the king’s armies, his brows both raised high. “I beg your pardon?”
Keeping up with the energized rush of words, the usurper starts pulling out more papers from the folder, laying them out but not letting the knight read them. “Ah ba ba ba! Not yet, I haven't finished yet!”
Laying out a thick stack of documents on the very top, the once pristine desk is now a cluttered mess of papers, folders, scribbles and doodles. It looked more alive than the Foundation had ever seen it, and the idea unsettled the Foundation in a way he hadn’t considered possible. When was the last time he had seen his King, not this imposter, put this much passion into something? Biting harshly into his cheek to fight the bitter thought, he grunted, not letting himself be swayed by the honeyed poison dripping from this bastard’s lips.
“Then stop wasting my time. What do you want, Jones?” he snarls, immediately berating himself for putting that fucking name to this face, flashes of hushed whispers and stolen kisses between a squire and a scribe trying to steal any intimacy they could before slipping back to their duties threatening to overwhelm him.
There’s a flash of hurt in those blue eyes, and the Foundation uses it to put salt in his own wounds. Jones had made his decision years ago, there was no point in caring now. Clearing his throat, the blonde leans back in his chair, breaking the tense eye-contact with his former lover.
“Look, trust me I don’t want to bring up the past here, Dae. I just need your help. I need more people like you on my side. This kingdom has suffered enough under the rule of those who don’t care about it. That’s something even you can’t argue with me on. And no one cares about this kingdom more than you do. So please, can I trust you to help me make this place better?”
The Foundation’s only response is a glare, his arms clenching as they’re crossed over his broad chest. “Spit. it. Out, Jones, or I’ll turn in my sword and badge here and now.”
Panic flashes in the pseudo-confidence Jones had been wearing since seeing the Foundation. “Okay look, I drafted the beginnings of a new position for you, and before you stop me, no, I’m not playing favorites or wanting some sort of…” Jones’ hand waves in the air between them. “I’m not trying to play with your feelings here, is what I’m trying to say. You’re the only person in the entirety of the palace that I can trust with this. You don’t have to say yes, just please, at least look at it?”
It’s those fucking eyes, full of that desperate need for him to listen, for his voice to be heard, that made the first crack in the ice. Scowling, Foundation leans forward to snatch the paper out of his *king’s* hand, giving the first page a quick glance. He could feel the usurper’s eyes on him, could hear the hitch in the man’s breath from the excitement of getting his way.
“What...exactly is this?” This couldn’t be right. Nothing on this paper made any fucking sense, something he knew was a trend when it came to the former advisor’s plans.
“Well, well, I’m so very glad you asked! That, my dear friend, is your new job! You’d be second highest in authority, only answering to me and a select few in my cabinet. I have a few ideas for members of your team, but we can hammer out the finer details after you sign the line-”
“Your majesty, permission to speak my mind?”
Frowning, the usurper almost looks like a kicked puppy, the familiar pout having been used on the Foundation hundreds of times before this. “I already gave you permission-”
“This isn’t a plan, it’s a fucking superhero group,” the knight snaps, dropping the papers haphazardly onto the desk, only aiding in the mess.
Grinning broadly, King Jones rests his elbows on stacks of papers and pictures that crinkled and bent and shifted under him. “Actually, I was thinking of calling them ‘The 7’,”