The giant, lumbering drunk was behind bars, so why wasn’t Hauteclaire overjoyed?

The unicorn jailer behind his desk at the entrance of the hallway certainly wasn’t, since now he had a large inmate that could rip the cell bars out at a whim. He tried to hide himself behind a newspaper. Maybe if Porthos went berserk, he would pass by the floating newspaper and not bother the pony behind it.

It was unbelievable that Marcus was able to convince the guards that Hauteclaire was only defending himself, and that since Porthos threw the first punch he had to shoulder most of the responsibility. That was like grade-school logic.

Perhaps it was also because Porthos had caused quite a bit of property damage, some of which had been done with Hauteclaire’s body. When a giant rat could smash the foundation of a marble statue into rubble with a single punch, others tended to forget about the small white mouse who couldn’t tear a screenplay in half. (Not that he could. He just had more respect for the art and the artist that made it. If it was truly horrible, fire was a more suitable solution.)

So, after the King fixed the damage done during the deadly dispute, including fixing the statue and all of the fancy chairs and tables Porthos demolished, he was ready to wipe everyone’s minds, but Marcus talked him out of it. Then Marcus worked his magic that put Porthos in jail and let Hauteclaire walk free. Godiva even confiscated Knebryter from him.

Staring at Porthos seated in a tiny cell that didn’t have enough room for him to stand in was nowhere near as enjoyable as Hauteclaire had hoped it would be. Porthos’ shoulders hung limp, and his hands rested in his lap. Porthos’ large nose hung straight down as he stared beyond the floor, never raising his gaze to meet anyone else’s. Ever since he had voluntarily walked himself into that cage, he’d been like that.

“You know, there is a time and a place for everything,” lectured the King. “And if you needed to practice the game or just duke it out, don’t do it in a crowded city square. I mean for goodness’ sake, you were just outside a performance hall! You could have put on a show for all the ponies with your practicing instead of smashing up the plaza.”

Not helping.

Porthos let out a long sigh as the King continued to ramble on.

The grey rat in the grey prison cell in the grey jail made of grey stones and metal was the most depressing thing Hauteclaire had seen in a long while. Certainly he hated Porthos’ guts, but what made him ask such a stupid question to begin with?

Could it be that the King was right and the ponies were actually making them soft? That’s right! The King had peeked into Hauteclaire’s memories. If this was a sign of anything to come, he needed to act fast. He just had to get Marcus away from the King so he could talk to him in private--

“Come on, Haut! We’ve got to get ready to meet the Princesses.” The King poked Hauteclaire in the gut. Snapped back to the reality he was unwillingly a part of, Hauteclaire remembered where he was and who he was with. “It seems your little slap-fight with Porthos made them cancel everything. The meeting has been pushed forward. You’ve only got an hour to work up some kind of apology. I’ll see you at the castle gates in 45!”

--but time was in limited supply.

Only a few steps from the entrance of the hallway full of jail cells, the door swung open in front of the King. If only it had opened a second later, it would have smacked him on the schnauz. Through the door walked a pegasus guard and another unicorn. The unicorn prisoner dragged his hooves as he walked, never looking up from the ground. “I’m telling you, it was a misunderstanding,” he whimpered.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

The two walked to the desk next to the entrance, and the unicorn behind it opened a drawer and pulled out a polished wooden box. With his magic, the guard opened the box and pushed it towards the pegasus. With one wing, the pegasus reached down in this box and diligently pulled out a black ring on a feather, plucked it off with his lips, turned around, and slid it onto the prisoner’s horn. The pegasus pulled out a key and opened the nearest empty cell. The prisoner dragged himself into the cell, and the guard slammed the door behind him; the pitiful stallion jumped at the clang that reverberated off the stone walls. His tear-stained face became visible only for a moment before he turned to the back wall and sunk to the floor.

The King studied it all and smirked. With his hands wrapped behind his back, he walked up to the pegasus guard. When he turned around, the guard jerked his head back in surprise, raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide. Being face-to-face with the King had that effect on people (and ponies).

“Excuse me, my good sir. I couldn’t help but notice you put a ring on that unicorn’s horn. Could you tell me what that’s for?” the King asked with a smile.

“Magic inhibitor. Prevents unicorns from using magic,” said the guard.

The King rubbed his chin. “I see. I also noticed you put it on with your wings. I didn’t know pegasi could use their wings in such a manner.”

The guard shifted a little. “Yes. Takes practice.”

The King smiled even more. “You must have done this a lot. Why doesn’t the unicorn just use his magic to put it on?”

The unicorn raised his eyes from the newspaper he was reading.

“Magic inhibitors are made of material that cannot be manipulated with magic,” said the pegasus. “I must be going.” The guard didn’t wait for a reply before leaving.

The King followed his lead, but before he left, he turned around and pointed at the three court members. “Godiva is very upset with you two. Marcus, stay here and make sure they get an apology ready.”

The door slammed shut. The sudden slam startled the unicorn and he ripped the paper in half. He eyed the mice looking at him before putting the two pieces together and pretending nothing had happened.

Now’s my chance!

Marcus turned back to face Hauteclaire and Porthos. He crossed his arms and didn’t say a thing. Even from underneath the oversized hat, Hauteclaire could feel Marcus’ eyes bore into him. The silence made the sting worse.

The unicorn across the hall sobbed, and Porthos let out a sigh.

With a tug of his ear, Hauteclaire spoke in a tongue foreign to ponies. “Brother! I must speak to you of something of the utmost importance! The King--”

“Hey!” shouted the jailer. “None of that fancy-speak business. Speak Equestrian or get out.”

Hauteclaire huffed and tugged on his ear once more. Before he could speak, Marcus answered, “No. Unless you’re going to tell me what happened between you and Porthos, I won’t hear it.” Marcus’ tic was gone, just like the last time he was angry.

But angry or not, this was something of which he should be aware! “This is more important than a silly apology! You don’t understand, I have reason to believe--”

“It is you who don’t understand, brother,” said Marcus. “Do you know what I had to do to arrange this? It took a lot of convincing, and our reputation is ruined because of what you did. We may have to leave, or worse yet, the King might call off the vacation. You don’t want that, and neither do I. I have to go back out there and explain everything to the Princesses, so we are not going to be discussing anything else until I get my answer.”

“But, but--” You fool! Time is running out. We need to do something right now, or all of Equestria is in trouble! Well, if he won’t listen to me until I get this apology over with, best to get it over with and get to what’s important. Here goes nothing. Hauteclaire took a deep breath, glanced up at the roof, and crossed his arms. “Brother, I’m sorry.”

Marcus didn’t move. Porthos lifted his head slightly and peered at Hauteclaire. The guard had his ears perked in their direction and peeked between the two pieces of levitating newspaper. Even the unicorn suppressed his sobs.

Hauteclaire looked at the unicorn staring back at him. Even when concentrating on something else, he could still feel Marcus’ eyes. The eyes that replaced his stomach with boulders.

Like gravity, Hauteclaire accepted that he couldn’t escape the downward pull Marcus had on him. He turned back to Marcus.

“I didn’t want this.”

“What did you want?”

Hauteclaire opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. The answer glued in his throat. How would Marcus react? Marcus cared little about what Porthos, the King, or Godiva thought of him, but his brother was the only mouse Hauteclaire cared about other than himself. His brother had more sway on Hauteclaire than he possibly realized. Or did he?

Hauteclaire never wanted Marcus to know that.

With another deep breath, the answer finally shook loose. “I wanted to get rid of Porthos.”

Marcus flinched a few millimeters, quite a feat to move a mouse as stoic as him. “Explain.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hauteclaire saw Porthos raise his head even more, his tired eyes clearly visible.

“I thought if I stood up to Porthos, he’d leave me alone.”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak.

“Why would you want me to do that?” Marcus and Hauteclaire turned to Porthos. His head up against the roof of the cell, the giant rat leaned forward and got as close as he could to the two brothers.

Hauteclaire clenched his fists. “What do you mean, ‘Why’? Isn’t it obvious!?”

“Brother, temper,” said Marcus.

Several deep breaths filled Hauteclaire’s chest, and the fire inside dwindled.

“Why do you hate me, Hauteclaire?” Porthos slipped his fat fingers inbetween the bars and pulled himself closer. “Ever since we gained consciousness, you’ve been cold. You avoid me when possible, and when you can’t you bite. Have I ever done anything to wrong you? We’ve been at each other’s throats for so long, I can’t even remember why we started. I thought we could be friends.”

“Friends? Friends? What do you mean ‘friends’?” Hauteclaire stepped to the cage and thrusted his finger at Porthos. “We’re not friends nor will we ever be, Porthos. Or have you forgotten how much you torment me?”

Porthos chewed on his lips. “But, the King, he…”

“THE KING?” spat Hauteclaire as Marcus grabbed him by the shoulders. “He treats me like a filthy mongrel! He sends me on the worst missions. He torments me every chance he gets. He has made my afterlife a living hell! What about the King?”

Porthos flinched back with a loud clunk as his head bounced off the stone roof. The hurt and sorrow in his eyes grew as Hauteclaire stared him down. “Well, I thought the King was just messing around with you. You bit as hard as he did. I thought that--”

“What!? That I enjoyed being harassed? Is that it?”

Marcus pulled Hauteclaire away from the bars. “Hauteclaire, settle down.”

His chest heaved as Hauteclaire’s breathing quickened. He turned around and slapped his brother’s hands away. “Settle down? He’s been tormenting me for years and he had the nerve to ask me ‘Why do you hate me’! He is a fool!”

The unicorn guard put down his newspaper, levitated a spear from underneath his desk and edged towards the door; meanwhile, the prisoner pushed himself into the farthest corner away from the commotion.

“Brother, don’t make me do something I’ll regret. Settle down. Now.”

Hauteclaire’s fists trembled at his sides. His breathing slowed as he focused on his shoes. With a long breath, he closed his eyes.

“Hauteclaire, lad, I don’t get it,” said Porthos.

Without opening his eyes, Hauteclaire answered slowly, “What don’t you get, Porthos?”

“Why you think the King torments you. I thought you two were codding around. Poking each other for kicks, as it were. You gave as well as you took.”

“And why would you think that?”

Porthos sighed. “Because you were his favorite.”

Hauteclaire’s eyes snapped open. As his mind raced, he forgot to breathe. Favorite? Me? That’s a joke! How dare he… why would he say such a thing? “You’re lying.”

“Why would I fib now? He always admired you for your determination. You knew well what you wanted and worked yourself like a dog to get it. You wanted class, so you took care of your image. You wanted to entertain, so you wrote and acted. Even when everyone else thought you rather queer, that didn’t bog you down. The King even gave you the nicest chamber in the whole castle.”

As he turned to face Porthos, Hauteclaire fought to look him in the eye. In his turmoil, he saw that both unicorns in the room had eased themselves ever so slightly. The prisoner was no longer hiding his face, and the jailer had put down his spear. Both of them still didn’t take their eyes off of them.

The small jail cell made it difficult for Porthos to bend down to meet Hauteclaire at eye level. “He saw a lot of himself in you, Hauteclaire.”

For once, Hauteclaire incredibly bad for Porthos. ‘Why do you hate me?’ he had asked. Instead of answering the lunkhead, he had thrashed out at him because he had seen a chance for revenge. How petty. If the King before the exile had witnessed Hauteclaire at that moment, what would he have said? What would he have thought of Hauteclaire?

Could it be that Hauteclaire was wrong? The King had once before had a chance to kill… a chance for revenge. He would have been justified. But he didn’t take it. He forgave those people that had nearly killed Godiva when they first met. He felt his eyes burn as the shame flooded his mind.

He was glad he couldn’t cry.

“Hauteclaire.”

He looked up at Porthos.

“Why do you hate me, Hauteclaire?”

What would the King before the exile have done? He took a big breath and looked Porthos in the eye.

“Porthos, you represent everything I hate. You’re carefree, loud, unreserved. You don’t care what others think of you. You drink, holler, laugh. You get along with everyone and don’t care about social class. You are the antithesis to all I want to be, and yet you have everything I wish I had. Your charisma, charm, affableness. You get along with everyone with no effort at all. Everyone loved you back at home while I was the outcast. At times, I feel like this is karma punishing me.”

Silence. The confession leached all of the will from Hauteclaire. He had never felt so empty, so vulnerable.

So free. Free of a weight that was crushing him for ages.

“Hauteclaire, lad. What do you mean ‘karma is punishing me’?”

The ground looked inviting again. Was he capable of telling Porthos that he had almost robbed him of his life? He clenched his jaw as he worked up the courage to tell Porthos the answer. A pat on his shoulder relaxed his muscles. His brother had his back. There was no reason not to answer.

“Because--” Hauteclaire looked up from the ground “--I robbed you of what you could have been. And even then you turned out so much better than I did.

“Back on the Isle, it was several days after we found Godiva…”

The door to the tavern opened and got stuck halfway on its wooden hinges. Through the opening slipped in the Mouse King. No longer skin and bones, he had gained enough weight to hide his ribs. Considering how he now had the power to flash-fry critters at will, his daily consumption had increased tremendously. He had a huge smile on his face as he turned around and watched his fellow mice come in. One by one, Hauteclaire and Marcus walked in through the door. Halfway through, Marcus turned around and motioned for another to come in. It took a few moments before a fourth, blue-grey mouse followed.

She was hunched over, and large scars covered her torso, leaving patches of visible skin where fur should have been. Every second or so, she would dart her eyes off into a different direction and tighten the grip on her tail.

Taking his eyes off the doe, Hauteclaire turned around and took in his surroundings. Sparse windows covered with cloth let in the faintest of light, barely illuminating the wooden house. A fire pit in the center of the room cast large, looming shadows on all four walls. The red glow of the flames created a warm, comfy atmosphere. The single, rectangular room was large enough to hold about twenty people, but there only seemed to be half as many present. Dressed in rags, the peasants, mostly farmers and shepherds, all stared at the new guests. A few even held tightly wooden crosses that hung from their necks.

Tables of various sizes were strewn about. Some required people to sit on the floor, while others were tall enough for people to stand next to; all of them had a leg or two that was too short or too long. Behind the largest and sturdiest table was a pile of barrels holding all types of vegetables and food. Several of them were laid on their sides and piled on top of each other. Spigots stuck out of their lids. Alcohol, no doubt.

In the farthest corners sat wooden frames covered with a layer of hay and sheepskin blankets. Beds. They were unoccupied.

On the fire pit was a black iron cauldron. From inside came the gurgling of simmering water. The smell of boiled carrots, beets, and meat filled the room and overpowered the smell of fear. Almost.

“Marcus,” said the King, “remind me when I become King to fix that door. My subjects should not have to deal with jammed doors.”

“Will do, my king.”

A woman screamed. Then a man. Then everyone else did before they dove out of the windows. Two men ran to a far corner and grabbed pitchforks before turning back to the King and friends.

The King greeted his subjects-to-be with a smile and stuck out his hand in welcome. “Hello there! I’m the Mouse King. What can I do for you?”

“Leave this place, vile demon!” spat one man.

“You bring a pox upon us. Return to the depths from which you came!” said the second.

The King pulled his hand back and put his hands at his waist but retained his smile. “Well, that’s not a way to treat your soon-to-be King!”

Whether it was confusion caused by the King’s statement, his upbeat attitude in the face of danger, or the fact that a band of walking, talking mice had showed up out of nowhere, the men stared at the King slack-jawed. Their perplexion delayed them only for a moment before one jabbed his pitchfork at the King. The King threw up his hand, and the wooden pitchfork flew out of the peasant’s hands with enough force to knock him back and splinter against the wall.

The King looked at his hand. “Dang. Sorry about that, still learning how to control that.”

“Spirits!” cried the second man. “Demons! Monsters are upon us. A pox. A pox, I say!”

The King huffed. “Monsters!? No, I came to help.”

The second man dropped his pitchfork on the floor with a clatter, ranted some more, and jumped through the nearest window. The first person did the same. The King turned around to Marcus. “See? The door is so bad that they resort to using windows! Terrible. My kingdom won’t have such horrible conditions.”

Doors with faulty hinges shouldn’t be your top priority.

With the tavern-slash-shack-slash-hotel empty, the King saw fit to run up to a table and grab a few bowls. “Sit! Sit! There looks to be plenty for everyone.”

Not ones to turn down a free hot meal, Marcus and Hauteclaire sat down at the small table closest to the fire pit. It took some convincing, but Marcus was able to get the blue-grey mouse to sit down with them, although she kept to herself at the farthest corner.

The King didn’t notice as he grabbed the ladle sitting in the cauldron; just as soon as he picked it up, he dropped it back in. He placed the bowls at the end of the table and pointed at one. The bowl lifted up into the air and floated next to the cauldron. With his second hand pointed at the ladle, it too rose slowly into the air, but the bowl began to wobble and lose altitude. He had to switch his concentration from one floating object to the next while he tilted the ladle and poured the stew into the bowl. Most of it splatted on the floor.

Hauteclaire groaned. “Hey, if you’re going to do that, then do it over the cauldron.”

The first bowl clunked down in front of Hauteclaire. More stew splashed on him than remained in the bowl. Three times more the King filled a bowl and put it on the table. Those times over the cauldron and with a lot less splatter. With his work done, he sat down at the table and inhaled his stew.

Marcus and Hauteclaire ate as well, but with a lot more restraint. They actually tasted what they put in their mouths. The fourth mouse took her bowl and turned her back to the others.

“Rude,” muttered Hauteclaire between bites.

The King gagged on a chunk of beet. He pounded on his chest until the lodged semi-chewed chunk flew out of his mouth and into Hauteclaire’s eye. “Hauteclaire! Shame on you. Let her do things at her own pace. Can you even imagine the trauma she’s been through?”

“You’re right.” Hauteclaire flicked the offending chunk off his face. “If the first thing I saw when I gained an intelligent conscious was your mug proposing me to be your queen, I’d think the world was a cruel place, too.”

The King finished slurping up the stew left in his bowl and slammed it down on the table. “Hey! That wasn’t the first thing I did. It was probably the fifth.”

After wiping his mouth off on his sleeve, Marcus handed his empty bowl to the King, who gladly refilled it using magic. “Well, we know how she felt about that proposition, we know.”

The King lifted an eyebrow. “What, we do?”

Hauteclaire rolled his eyes. “She bit you. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to be with you.”

“Hey, it was a love bite.”

“Love bites usually don’t draw blood, they don’t.”

The King levitated the bowl with a smooth sway of his hand over Hauteclaire and didn’t spill a drop before landing gently in front of Marcus. “Well, we haven’t heard a definite yes or no from Jane Doe. Once she tells us how she feels, we’ll know for sure. Right, Jane Doe?”

‘Jane Doe’ shifted slightly away from the King. Marcus leaned to the side, peeked over her shoulder, and saw that the bowl was empty. He coaxed it away from her and gave it to the King to refill. “I don’t think she likes to be called ‘Jane Doe’ either, I don’t think.”

“Oh, come on! What’s wrong with ‘Jane Doe’?” said the King. He threw his arms up over his head. The bowl full of stew jerked in mid-air and spilled all of its hot contents on Hauteclaire.

“It’s a stupid name.” Hauteclaire wiped his face on a nearby rag. “It’s a name based on a pun. Names are important. Why would you want a joke for a name?”

Marcus took another slurp from his bowl. “I think she should be able to choose her own name, I think.”

“Hey! I named you ‘Marcus.’ I did so because I really nailed that owl that almost took you away. I hit the mark, so that’s why I named you ‘Marcus’.”

The bowl passed over the table and landed by Jane; she kept as much of her back to the table as she reached around and took it.

“Yes, I know that, I know. I like the name you gave me. It is a great name, it is. But ‘Marcus’ is a very acceptable name and not an obvious pun, it is. That’s the problem, that is.”

“It would have been an altogether different matter if you named him ‘Bull’s Eye’,” muttered Hauteclaire as he wiped the last of the stew from inside of his ears.

The King dropped his bowl, which landed on the table with a clonk. Nothing splattered on the table because it was empty. For the sixth time. “Fine, we’ll wait for her to name herself.”

Glad that the King had finally listened to his better half, Hauteclaire brought his bowl up to finish the last of his soup. He shrieked. Something had pinched him on the bottom of his nose and wouldn’t let go. In shock, he pushed away from the table, fell backwards, and hit his head on another table. The stinging didn’t go away. In the very edge of his vision, Hauteclaire saw a grey lump had attached itself to his face, under his nose. He grabbed it and pulled. Whatever it was had latched on tight. He squeezed the furry lump as hard as he could; in return, the lump clawed at his hands and bit harder. With another tug, Hauteclaire was able to tear the lump from his nose, as well as a chunk of skin, and threw it against the nearest wall. It hit with a loud thud and a squeak.

The King roared with laughter while Marcus went up to see what it was. “Oh, oh, oh! I-- Oh man, that was priceless!”

Blood flowed from the underside of Hauteclaire’s nose and over his lips. With one hand, he held a rag up to the wound, with the other he rubbed the back of his head. “What the hell!? Why are you laughing?”

Marcus turned around and lifted up the grey lump. It grew and shrank repeatedly in his hand. A long, fat tail hung from one side and twitched with every other movement. “It’s a rat, it is,” announced Marcus.

“A rat!?” Hauteclaire turned and jabbed a finger at the King. “You knew there was a rat in my bowl and didn’t tell me!?” He quickly returned the hand back to under his nose as he spat out some blood.

“Oh, come on, Hauteclaire. How was I supposed to know he was a biter? I thought you’d notice him and scream like a girl. Well, you did scream like a girl, but I didn’t think you’d be bitten.”

Marcus walked up to the table and sat the rat down in front of the King. The rat laid limp as it struggled with each breath. “My King, can you heal it, can you?”

Hauteclaire slammed on the table. The bowls rattled, and Jane retreated to a corner. “Heal it!? Did you see what that thing did to me?”

The King wasn’t listening. He was too busy inspecting the rat. “Oooh. He’s a big one! At least a foot long, and that’s not including the tail. How big were you guys? Only three inches? Two? He’d make a huge member of my court. Good bodyguard, perhaps.”

Hauteclaire huffed, which he instantly regretted as blood blew down on his clothes. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am! I read somewhere in the Brain that kings and other important people have bodyguards.”

“No!” Hauteclaire leaned forward. “We can’t have a rat. No. We didn’t save any rats before back when we picked up Ja-- her! Why the sudden interest in rats now? Don’t you know what rats do to mice?”

Even when the King shook his head, he still kept that dopey smile on.

“Pull out your Brain. It’ll tell you.”

The King turned to Marcus. “What’s he on about?”

“My King, he does have a point, he does. You never lived in the wild, so you probably don’t know the dangers a rat can pose, you don’t.”

While humming in thought, the King pulled off his wooden crown and held it over the table. With a couple of shakes, an orb almost as big as his head fell out of the crown that barely covered it. He pulled up the Brain close to his face and began to poke it several times, then spoke to it. “Mouse and rat relations.”

“SEARCHING,” the Brain replied in a feminine voice. “HERE ARE THE RESULTS.”

The King poked the Brain several more times and began to read out loud.

“Mice and rats, while closely related on an evolutionary level, do not get along. Both wild and domestic rats have been known to kill and eat mice, most often by tearing open the neck. In 98% of cases, rats will chew through the back of the neck and… eat the mouse’s brain before eating the rest. This act of rats killing mice is called ‘muricide.’

“In an experiment, mice were exposed to rat urine. All subjects showed increased amounts of stress hormones. Yada-yada-yada.

“It is possible for this behavior to be avoided if a rat is socialized with mice from birth.”

The King smiled. “Well, you learn something new everyday.”

If only Hauteclaire could facepalm. “Did you forget what you just read? Rats. Kill. Mice! It’s so common it even has a word for it.”

“Ah! But that can be unlearned!” said the King.

Marcus leaned in closer. “Yes, but it stated ‘socialized from birth,’ it stated. This is a full grown rat we’re dealing with, this is.”

The King tapped a finger on his Brain. “That is an animalistic behavior! With a boost of intellect, he’ll be just like us and not want to eat our brains.”

“No!” Hauteclaire lifted the bowl up with the hand that wasn’t holding a cloth to his nose. “I say we kill it! We’re not risking our lives just because you want to have a big bodyguard. A bodyguard who kills who he is supposed to protect is no good.”

Swiftly, the King raised a hand at Hauteclaire. A force pulled the bowl back, taking Hauteclaire with it. He fell backwards and hit his head again. “OW! Damn it!”

“We’re not going to hurt him! It isn’t right. He’s small (well, relatively speaking) and defenseless, just like you were. I won’t hurt anyone who is vulnerable. A great king never takes advantage of those who are weak or exposed. What say you, Marcus?”

Marcus looked at the rat hanging on to its life. With each breath, a little squeak whistled out of the rat’s mouth. Blood trickled from one side of its head. “It goes against every instinct I have, it does, but I don’t like to see it suffer, I don’t.” He looked back up at the King. “If you were to make this rat your bodyguard, if you were, what precautions would you take that it wouldn’t try to kill you, what precautions?”

The King leaned over the rat, rubbing his temples with both hands. “Well, I’ve been getting the hang of the Brain, and tweaking with the settings. Maybe I could make him a super-rational being, but messing a lot with the living brain can be really tricky. The manual clearly states that adding information is not a big problem, messing with what’s already inside the head has risks. Short-term memory can be tampered with, kind of, but anything deeper than that--”

The hay on the ground was becoming much more comfortable for Hauteclaire. He didn’t bother getting up. “What manual?”

He heard a tap-tap-tap as the King tapped on his Brain. “It’s programmed in here, Haut. I’ve been studying it constantly since I found it.”

Marcus scratched his chin. “Okay, if you don’t think you can change the behavior, what do you think you can do, can you?”

Resting his face in both hands, the King peeked through his fingers at the rat before him. He couldn’t change anything, only add more. What could he do? He peered to the side at the fire pit. Jane had plunged her head in the cauldron and was slurping up the stew. When she noticed she had been spotted, she took off behind a barrel, knocking over the cauldron and spilling the remaining stew in the process. The King chuckled.

Then he stopped, jerking his head up and grinning like a mad king. “That’s it!” he cried.

With a grunt, Hauteclaire pushed himself off the ground and saw the King’s eyes shine like torches. “What? You’re going to make it into a stew?”

The King jumped up. “No! I’ll fill his head with lots and lots of positive things! He’ll be such a happy and naive fellow that he wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a mouse! He won’t know a thing about the bad things in life: taxes, starvation, or even brussel sprouts!”

Marcus nodded. “That might work, that might. Okay, I think we should give it a shot, I think.”

“Not you too, brother!” Hauteclaire pointed at the rat. “There is no way I’m letting a rat into our ranks!”

The King puffed out his chest, pointed the Brain at the rat and gave it a few taps. A light blue glow enveloped the rat, and its breathing slowed. Now asleep, the rat slowly healed under the Brain’s healing function. “Well, too bad, Haut. I’m the King, and what I say goes.”

“A great king listens to his subjects, he does,” said Marcus.

The King’s turned to Marcus, his mouth agape and brow furrowed. “Why, you little… you’re good at this advising stuff, aren’t you?”

Marcus just smiled.

The King turned back to Hauteclaire. “Fine. I only healed him for now, but I’m set on making him my bodyguard. What can I do to make this more agreeable with you?”

If Hauteclaire could have ground his teeth together any harder, he would have had a mouth full of calcium dust. How could Hauteclaire prevent this rat from becoming a nuisance? It was too late to kill it. Smush it under a bowl. Stomp on it. Throw it in the fire. He had almost been killed by a predator once, and he wasn’t keen on risking it again. But what was he going to do? The King made up his mind, and in the week he’d been with the King, he learned that once the King made up his mind, there was no way to talk him out of it.

Stubborn as an ass (and smelled like one, too).

Hauteclaire let out a sigh. “Fine. You can fill his head with all the flowers you want. Just don’t make him smart.”

“So, a basic education, then? What are we talking about?” The King poked his Brain a few times. “High school or college?”

“Can it be lower?”

“No.”

“High school.”

The King poked the brain again. “Alright, and so, skills. Let’s see…”

Hauteclaire crossed his arms. “No. No skills.”

“Oh, come on, he needs to know how to do something!” The King went through a list and read them out loud. “Cooking?”

“No, he’d cook us.”

“Hunting?”

“He’d hunt us.”

“Martial arts?”

“He’d beat us up, then eat us.”

“Brain surgery?”

“No. Nothing brain-related.”

“Rocket scientist?”

“He’ll blow us up with missiles and feast on the remains.”

The King pulled on his ears. “Alright! How about juggling? You have a problem with juggling!?”

Hauteclaire thought for a second. “Fine. That’ll do.”

“Well, okay then, I’ll make him the world’s best juggler,” mumbled the King under his breath. He poked the Brain and moved onto the next section. “Okay, he’s going to know… twelve languages.”

Hauteclaire shook his head. “No.”

Without moving his head, the King looked up from under his brow at Hauteclaire. “You got a problem with him speaking the same languages as us?”

“In fact, I do. If the rat were to turn against us, how could we let each other know that it is feral without tipping it off? The less languages, the better.”

“Marcus, what do you think?” said the King.

Marcus nodded. “An ounce of prevention.”

The King rolled his eyes. “Fine, ten.”

“Three,” said Hauteclaire.

The table wobbled under the King’s hands as he slammed it. Jane jumped out from whatever barrel she was hiding in and hid behind another.

“No, he needs to know at least six. There’s English, French, German, Irish, Norse, and the local language - Manx.”

“Fine. Then six!”

“Eight!”

“Fine! Just do it.”

The King grumbled and poked the Brain some more. “Remind me later Marcus once I’ve become King to fix these wobbly tables.”

This continued for some time until all of the settings were adjusted. With a final push of a button, a bright white flash filled the room. When Hauteclaire could see again, the rat was glowing white, but then the light faded, and the rat was the same as before. The changes that would transform this small rat into a hulking behemoth would happen over the next few days.

Marcus scratched his chin. “I’ve been thinking, I have. If you can teach us skills, if you can, is there a limit? Can’t you just teach yourself everything you need to know, can’t you? Your Brain seems to have limitless possibilities, it does.”

The King shook his head. “Nope, I looked it up. The manual clearly states that skills and information can only be ‘downloaded’ once every six months or so. Downloading taxes the living brain too much, and downloading more than one at a time can mess with your brain. Screw you up real bad. The changes the living brain undergoes need to settle before more can be added. That’s not even counting the changes the body goes through and the massive education crammed into your skull the first time. It took a long time for that stupid ‘wizard’ to perfect the - hey - do you smell something burning?”

Hauteclaire took a whiff. Indeed something was burning, but none of the spilled stew landed in the fire. Up on the ceiling was a growing cloud of black smoke. He jumped out of his chair and peeked out of the closest window. There was a crowd of peasants with torches and pitchforks. One peasant locked eyes with Hauteclaire before hurling his torch through the curtain and onto a patch of hay; its flames spread quickly, engulfing everything near it.

“Crap! They’re burning this place down!”

In an instant, Marcus scooped up the rat and ran to the back window. “I don’t see any on this side, I don’t. We have to go now, we have to, before they spot us!” He turned to the barrels where Jane was last seen. He called and called, but Jane didn’t come out of her hiding spot. “Where is she? We can’t leave her behind, we can’t!”

The King stood up and lifted the Brain above his head. “I’m on it! No mouse left behind!” He poked the Brain, and it beeped as he ran it over each barrel. The beeping grew faster and faster as he moved over more barrels.

“Hurry up!” shouted Marcus. A quarter of the floor had been swallowed by flames as more torches sailed in from more windows. The fire spread up the walls, engulfed the tables, and razed the beds. The black smoke choked Hauteclaire as he made his way over to the window. The smell of burning wool and wood filled the air.

The Brain beeped wildly and glowed green as the King held it above a barrel. “Got her!” he exclaimed as he lifted the barrel with his magic. As soon as the King announced he had found her, Marcus jumped through the window, and Hauteclaire climbed through after him.

“Look out!” shouted the King and a barrel soared out of the window, Hauteclaire ducked just in time to avoid more head trauma. The barrel whizzed between his ears, landed with a crash and exposed the mouse within it. Her eyes wide with terror, her mouth filled with carrots.

Marcus pointed at the woods a short distance from town. “This way!” Jane needed no more convincing to take off with him. The King climbed out of the window, toppled over the window sill, and landed in the dirt with a thud. He got up, dusted himself off, and ran.

“Man, Haut. This has been an exciting day, don’t you think?”

Hauteclaire rolled his eyes and turned to catch up with his brother. The King was right on his tail. “You really need to lighten up, Haut! Look on the bright side.”

“And what would that be?”

“I don’t have to fix that door or those tables any more!”

“...A few days passed, and you know the rest.” Hauteclaire slumped. Confessing what he had done took more out of him than he thought possible. His face and ears burned.

The unicorn in the cell behind him sobbed, but it wasn’t the same as before. It was calmer, as if he was crying for someone else. The guard at his table no longer hid himself behind the torn newspaper. Whether he had forgotten to hold it up or not, his wide-eyed, open mouth stare was clearly visible.

“Oh.” Porthos let his hands slip from between the bars and fall to the floor. “That explains so much.”

Marcus stepped up to the bars. “Everything he said was true, it was. We didn’t know about what to think about having a rat among us, we didn’t.”

Hauteclaire looked up at Porthos and into his eyes. His face twisted and churned as if worms burrowed under his skin. His eyebrows wiggled around as he contorted his face to match the turbulent storm of emotions in his head. He returned a look at Hauteclaire, and Hauteclaire dodged the sharp stare and looked over to the guard. The guard gawked at Hauteclaire for a moment before realizing he was being looked at. He pulled up the newspaper halves and hid his face.

“When I was assigned to be the King’s tax collector,” said Porthos, giving himself time to think between sentences as he looked at Hauteclaire’s feet. “...I thought I was doing a good job. I smiled, the people smiled. I… I thought I was doing well. When I, a bloody massive rat came knocking on their doors asking for taxes, they gave and gave until I, the monster, left. They didn’t like it when I showed off my strength. Lifting cattle, juggling sheep, throwing rocks all the way up the hill and hitting the church bell inside the castle walls. I thought I was entertaining them. They were more concerned about pleasing the beast and living another day than keeping their families fed.” Porthos hid his face in his hands. “And… It makes sense. When the Shield Bearer came and knocked me on my arse in front of the townsfolk, they revolted. They saw I wasn’t the invincible monster they thought I was and turned on me.

“I didn’t notice because I was brought into this world with an unrealistically positive view.” Prothos pulled at the fur on his face. “Naive.” He sobbed. “My perspective of the world, torn to shreds in an instant, and that’s when I began drinking to forget.”

With his hands down, he had a clear view of the one who had caused him his pain. “You slimeball,” muttered Porthos. “You underhanded, self-entitled, conceited coward. A worm, a maggot feeding off the greatness of others, riding on the coattails of those who worked hard to reap their rewards. Walled up in your little world, you don’t give a damn who you step on as long as you get the things you believe you deserve. Once someone has served their purpose, you forget them. Throw them out of your life. Did you ever once wonder why you were the ostracized mouse that no one understood?”

Hauteclaire held his breath.

“We didn’t ostracize you. You didn’t let anyone else get involved. You pushed everyone away because you didn’t see how associating with them would help you. You see friendship as a means to an end - That’s why nobody liked you.”

Enough, how dare he lecture me! “No, that’s not true!”

Porthos crossed his arms. “Oh, really? I happen to know you became friends with a pony named Lyra Heartstrings. Pinkie Pie introduced her to me because she wanted to meet and learn from us. So, tell me something about Lyra.”

Hauteclaire furrowed his brow. “What are you getting at?”

“Just answer my question, you git.”

Hauteclaire sighed. “Fine… let’s see. Her father is a conductor and performs for Celestia.”

Despite the low roof, Porthos leaned back until his head touched it and pointed both open palms towards Hauteclaire, like as if he was showing something.

“What!?”

“Don’t you see, lad? What did you just say?”

Hauteclaire threw out his hands. “I said her father plays for Celestia! For royal...ty…”

As though he was dunked in water, the burning fire to argue died, and instead was replaced with a sinking feeling in his gut. He felt weighed down, as if tied to stones. “Oh…”

Porthos leaned forward. “Hauteclaire, we didn’t hate you. You just kept pushing yourself away and only worked with us when you had to.” Porthos dropped his hands to his lap. “If you think you’re too good for others, then others will think you’re not good enough for them.”

Was it all true? Just as he had said earlier, ‘Why would I fib now?’ His relationship with Spike, was that only because he cared about his closeness with a princess who was close to the princess he wanted to meet? Lyra also had connections. What about Pinkie Pie? He never did speak to her after thanking her for the sweets. She did so much more than just that--the welcome party, introducing him to Lyra, and probably more for him that he wasn’t aware of.

Minutes seemed to pass as Hauteclaire thought it over. Then he remembered the trying matter at hand. He’d deal with this emotional crap later. If Porthos or Marcus wanted to lecture him more, then they could do it later. Hauteclaire had wasted enough time for this. He only had minutes left. He had to act now. He turned to Marcus. “There, we talked it out. Happy?”

Marcus nodded. “You’ve found the root of your problems, you have. Now think of a way to explain that to the princesses on the way to the throne room, now think.” With that said, he turned to leave. Crinkling paper broke the silence when the guard hid himself again.

“Wait, brother!” Hauteclaire grabbed Marcus by the shoulder. “I have something urgent I must talk to you about!”

“Oh yes, you did, didn’t you? Well, what is so urgent, what is?”

Hauteclaire opened his mouth to speak, but before he spit out the first word, he saw that he was being watched by the guard and the prisoner. Everything he was about to say would be heard by outsiders. A more private location could be found, but what about Porthos? If what Hauteclaire suspected was true, he should know about it as well.

What could he do? He had to tell him about the game and his files being viewed, to get Marcus and Porthos to sign into the Brain and look at their files... That’s it! Ponies didn’t have computers, and the mice called the game ‘the game.’ Even if they spoke openly, the ponies would have no idea what they were talking about.

“Brother. I signed into the Brain when Porthos beat me. It must be close, because it was only minutes after the statue fell on me. My memory files have been accessed by user E a few hours ago.”

Porthos and Marcus flinched.

Marcus shook his head while scratching under his hat. Prothos gripped the bars of his cell. “User E? The King? But he respects our privacy! The lad would never do such a thing.”

“You two sign in and check for yourselves. Check who last looked your memories from the past week,” said Hauteclaire.

Silence overtook the jail as Marcus and Porthos looked back at each other. They nodded, closed their eyes, and drooped their heads. With both of their lights out, their bodies swayed back and forth, as if they were sleep-standing. Hauteclaire looked over at the guard and saw just what he had predicted--the guard was eyeing them with his head at an angle and scratching his head with a hoof.

Moments passed. The minutes seem to drag on. Every second, every sway the two made only made Hauteclaire more anxious. If it was really true that the King had been spying on all of them, then it was more than likely that he had already found a reason to put an end to the vacation.

But had Hauteclaire done something to cause this? Was it the fight in Canterlot? No, the King had looked at his memories before that happened. Had he missed a day of practice? Not that he could think of.

A grunt tore Hauteclaire from his thoughts. Porthos lifted his head and opened his eyes. His pupils were like pinpricks, and his breathing quickened. “Lads, he looked at my memories.”

Marcus jerked awake. “Hauteclaire, he has dug around in my memories, he has.”

Hauteclaire pulled at the hair on top of his head. “Brother, Porthos, I have reason to believe the King has decided to play the game.”

“No,” whimpered Porthos. “No. No, no, no! I like it here. Doesn’t he as well?”

Marcus ran his hand down his face and pulled at his chin. “Brother, this is a huge accusation you are making, this is.”

“I know! But when has the King ever looked at our files before? All he’s ever done was grant permission to new coding for abilities. The folder labeled ‘magic.’ He never touched our personal files. He must already have a reason to be suspicious of us.”

Porthos leaned to the side against the wall. “But why? What would he have done for him to do something like this?”

Marcus raised his gaze from the floor. “The promise.”

“Yes! The promise,” said Porthos. “Umm… Don’t get soft, and… uh…”

“Practice everyday,” finished Hauteclaire. “Porthos, Marcus, did you practice everyday?”

Marcus rubbed his neck. “I… have not, I haven’t. I have been too busy working on our relations, I have. Wouldn’t practicing politics count as practicing, wouldn’t it?”

Oh no. Hauteclaire turned to Porthos. “Porthos, you went missing for three days. What did you do during that time?”

He hesitated, chewing on his lip for a second before answering. “I… uh… bought a bunch of toys and went to Manehatten to donate them to an orphanage. When it was too late, I realized I couldn’t whistle for Godiva, so I walked back to Ponyville.”

Hauteclaire and Marcus were speechless. The pause was too much for Porthos. “And… I, uh, beat up a dragon on the way back.”

“What?”

Porthos reached under his tabard and pulled out a large white tooth attached to a string around his neck. “Bloody huge thing, he was. Tried to eat me and another pony, so I beat the tar out of it.”

The jail became so silent, Hauteclaire could hear the jailer drop a pen, which he did when he saw the dragon’s tooth.

“Porthos, how big was the dragon, how big?” asked Marcus.

“Bigger than Applejack’s barn. That should count as training, right?”

Hauteclaire grabbed at the hairs on his chin. “What about Godiva? Did she keep her promise?”

Marcus shook his head. “Without her here, we can’t get an answer from her, we can’t.”

“What are going to do?” asked Porthos.

Hauteclaire turned to Marcus. “Marcus, we don’t have much time. Go ask the guard what time it is.”

As Marcus stared at Hauteclaire, his covered eyes read Hauteclaire’s face. He nodded, then walked towards the guard and started talking. Hauteclaire reached up and pulled out one of his eyes.

“Porthos,” he whispered. “Is there a window behind you?”

Porthos nodded.

Without a word, he dropped his eyeball, which silently rolled into the cell between the bars. Gingerly, Porthos picked it up with his large fingers like a grape and looked back at Hauteclaire. He nodded and threw the eye over his shoulder and out the window.

Outside, the eye fell and bounced on a cobblestone street lined with bushes. The eye rolled under the closest bush, where there was plenty of dirt. The eye focused on the dirt under the bush and a large lump rose out of the ground, slowly took shape, and walked out from under the bush as a fully formed pony with white fur, a curly purple mane, and three diamonds for a cutie mark. The faux pony trotted around to the entrance of the jail.

A nudge on his shoulder brought Hauteclaire’s focus back into the jail.

“Brother, we only have about seven minutes left, we have,” said Marcus.

Porthos pulled on the fur on his head. “That’s not enough time! What are we going to do,” he said under his breath.

“Hold on! I’m thinking.”

“Oh, guard. Could you help me?” A voice rang out, and Marcus, Porthos, and the jailer turned to the door. Hauteclaire didn’t look to keep his eyeless socket hidden.

Porthos let go of his ears. “Is that…?”

“Rarity?”

The jailer walked up to Rarity, his stoic expression returned and he puffed up his chest. “Yes, miss, how may I be of service?”

“Why yes, I heard that a friend of a brother of a roommate of a cousin of a friend of mine has been recently incarcerated because of a misunderstanding. All of his friends are currently tied up, so I came to help him. Do you think you could help me?” Rarity batted her lashes and gave the best doe-eyed expression she could muster. “Please, for me?”

A visible shiver went down the jailer’s spine, and his fur stood on end. “Uh… sure. Do you know what his name is?”

Rarity threw her hoof over her forehead. “Alas, my friend was in such dismay and in a hurry that she forgot to tell me his name. All I know is that he is a purple unicorn with a white mane.”

The unicorn in the cell opposite of Porthos’ perked his ears and jumped up off the floor. “Hey! That’s me!” he shouted.

“Oh, goodness me!” Rarity rushed by the jailer, letting her tail brush up against his snoot. He shivered again and opened his mouth. His tongue lolled to one side.

Rarity put her front hooves on the bars of the unicorn’s cell. “Darling! My friend told me something dreadful had happened to you. I’m here to help you!”

“Oh! Thank you! I’m so happy, it was all just a big misunderstanding. I tried to tell them that, but…”

Rarity slid a hoof through the bars and covered his mouth. “Sssshhh. It’s okay. Now that I’m here, we’ll explain everything and get you out of here as soon as we can.” She turned to the jailer, who was still gaping at her. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

The guard rolled up his tongue and wiped away the drool. “Uh.. Yeah--Yes, miss!” The keys rattled and clanked in his magical grasp as he trotted over to the cell while closing the distance between him and the white mare. He stood on the ends of his hooves and puffed out his chest to look bigger while maintaining a very serious face. All that preening held when Rarity playfully swished her tail against his leg, if only by a thread.

After opening the cell to let the out its occupant, the guard instructed Rarity and the prisoner to follow him, although on the way he did his best to walk beside Rarity.

Once the three were out and around the corner, Hauteclaire reached into his chest and pulled out his shard. He leaned over to Marcus. “Watch the door. Anyone comes, slap the floor with your tail,” he whispered. Marcus nodded and walked over to the door. Hauteclaire turned back to the cell. “Porthos, take this. Change yourself into something small enough to slip through the bars,” he whispered as he handed his shard to Porthos. Porthos took it, concentrated, and changed into a little filly with egg-white fur and a curly purple mane before squeezing out of his cell.

“Now, change into a guard pony.”

Porthos, as a cute little filly, tilted his head with the shard in his mouth. He did what he was told and turned into a unicorn guard, armor and all.

As soon as Porthos’ body finished changing, Hauteclaire swiped the shard from his lips and looked at the window. A trail of dirt crawled in through the window like a bunch of ants. The dirt ants clumped together and took the form of Porthos.

Hauteclaire thrusted his hand at Porthos. “Give me your shard!”

“Huh?”

“Just do it!”

Porthos put a hoof over one nostril and blew. His shard shot out of his nose and into Hauteclaire’s hand. He cringed as he handed the shard over to the Porthos copy. It didn’t seem so happy about receiving it, either.

“Now, go watch the door. Anybody comes, click your hoof twice.”

“Hauteclaire, I forgive you, but I’m still bloody pissed, you conniving bastard.” Porthos saluted and walked over to the door. Marcus turned, and Porthos nodded to him. The two switched places. Already, there was another collection of dirt syphoning in through the barred window and collecting into a single mass. Hauteclaire grabbed a handful of dirt and shoved it in his eye socket, replacing his missing eye. The dirt morphed and molded itself into an exact copy of Marcus. “Give me your shard,” the copy said. Marcus reached up under his hat and handed his shard over; the copy stuck the shard up into his hat in turn.

Hauteclaire took Marcus’ hand and shoved his shard into it. “Change into a guard pony.”

Marcus nodded and focused. His body morphed like clay from a skinny mouse into a fully armored unicorn pony, just like Porthos, then he hoofed over the fragment to Hauteclaire. He threw it in his mouth and swallowed.

“Brother, do you know what you are doing, do you?”

“I’m taking precautions, and kind of making it up as I go. Now, guards.” Guard pony Porthos turned around from the door. “Please escort me and my brother to Canterlot Castle. We have an appointment with Princess Celestia.”

Author's Note

In the next chapter, all of this buildup in the past 16 chapters will pay off.

Some of you are really going to hate me for this.