A Game of Kings and Pretty Pony Princesses

Three mice and a rat sat around a wooden table covered in empty pie tins, bits of apple pie, paper, and crayons. One of them is busy scribbling away.

“Done!” Godiva announced, dropping the crayon and holding her work up for all to see.

“Ok. Please read the letter back to us, will you?”

“OK! *ahem*

“Dear Pretty Pony Princess,

Hello! My name is Godiva. You met me when I crashed into your building. Sorry about that.

My friends and I are travellers, and we have just arrived here. Everything is so new to us.

We realize that we may have done some bad things, but please believe me when I say we didn’t mean any of it! We just aren’t used to pony society.

We are asking for a chance to make amends and get to know pony society more. We are ready to help in any way to reverse any damage we have done.

There may be only five of us, but we can get a lot done!

I’m Godiva, the Black Knight. I like to run a lot. Nothing is faster than me!

Knebryter (pronounced Keh-NEE-BREE-ter) is my steed. You saw him when we first met. He is always by my side. He says he likes you. He loves tea parties, knitting, flowers, and gladiator fighting.

The big rat with stinky breath who attacked you is Porthos (the ‘s’ is silent). He didn’t mean it. He says that your friend hit him first. Either way, he says he’s really sorry and will apologize when we meet. He is really sweet and super strong.

Then there is Marcus! He is the one with the hat. He is really smart. He is really good with a bow and arrow. He and his brother, Hauteclaire, write songs and they are all lovely. Just don’t touch his hat! I know it looks cool, but he doesn’t like it when anyone touches it.

Then is our King! The Mouse King. He is funny and really good with magic. He used to be the king of a whole island, but a bunch of bad things came and took it away from him. We travel with him and wait for the day we can go home.

And last is Hauteclaire. He is the one with the sun mask. He can be a bit of a grump. He likes to write plays, plays lots of instruments, and can sing, too! But don’t talk about his face. He gets very touchy about that.

I know we caused a lot of trouble, and I am truly sorry. I really hope we can be good friends.

Included is a couple of extra sheets of paper. Write your response on any one of them and throw them out the window! It’s that easy! I can’t wait to hear from you.Sincerely,

Lady Godiva and the Court of the Mouse King”

Godiva put down the paper she was holding. “How was that?”

Hauteclaire was rubbing his temples. “That was absolutely horrible! Marcus! I thought you said we were going to write this thing together. Why is Godiva doing all the writing?”

Marcus leaned back in his chair. “Well, she is the only one who actually got along with the ponies, has had the most time with them, and the King ran off somewhere; so, it is much more likely that a letter from her would elicit a response, it is.”

Hauteclaire leaned forward over the table and pointed to the paper in Godiva’s hand. “OK, but that doesn’t mean we can send that garbage and cross our fingers. They’re going to think we’re a bunch of loons!”

*BONK*

*CRASH*

Godiva’s mace came down on Hauteclaire’s head, which crashed into the wooden table. The table split in two down the middle and collapsed under Hauteclaire. The stone floor cushioned his fall. Porthos clapped his hands and laughed like a circus seal.

Godiva huffed. “What’s wrong with my letter, Hauty? It doesn’t have enough big words for you?”

Marcus went to help his brother up, but Hauteclaire pushed him away. “There are ninety-nine things wrong with that letter, and word choice is one of them!”

Godiva crossed her arms. “What’s the other ninety-eight?”

Hauteclaire stood up and grabbed the letter from Godiva. “Well, one, why am I last? Two, why are you giving Knebryter his own paragraph? He’s a toy!”

Godiva shouted as she covered Knebryter’s ears, “He is not a toy! He has feelings, and you just hurt them!” She petted Knebryter between the ears. “He’s a good boy. Yes, he is, and mommy loves him very much.”

Hauteclaire was about to launch another attack, but Marcus stepped in. He said as gently as he could, “Godiva, we know Knebryter is important to you, we do. But he hasn’t spoken to us in at least five hundred years, he hasn’t. We don’t even know if he is actually able to hear us, we don’t. And since he doesn’t move or speak anymore, he looks like a toy to everyone around you who doesn’t know better, he does.”

Godiva eyes swelled up with tears. “He… He can too hear us.”

Marcus took a deep breath to calm his nerves. What he was about to say may cause the biggest Godiva hissy fit in history. “Godiva, the ponies may also be a bit... put-off, so to speak, by you carrying around a pony head on a stick, they may. You understand what I’m getting at, do you?”

Godiva’s eyes sunk to Knebryter, who was now laying in her lap. Sobs escaped her lips. “So… So I have to leave him here alone? He doesn’t... like to be alone. He can’t move. He can’t t-talk. He is defenseless. It scares him.” She hugged the toy. “It scares me.”

The room fell silent.

Silence was something none of the court were comfortable with. There was always a fight going on, somebody was always recounting highlights of previous games, music was a constant time-waster, and sparring was something they did almost daily. But to sit in absolute silence was something foreign to them.

In all their years together, they had never dove into very serious conversations. They did it to protect themselves from each other, as it was possible that at any moment, one of them could disappear and never return. Such was the nature of their existence. Knebryter was the first one to go long ago. His absence was a reminder of the endless silence that loomed ever over them.

Godiva curled up around Knebryter and continued sobbing. Marcus fidgeted his hat. Hauteclaire took a few steps back from his brother and looked around the room.

Porthos’ eyes darted between the mice and Knebryter. He slapped his knees and stood up. “Marcus, that’s the meanest thing you ever did say.” He walked over to Godiva and rubbed her on the cheek. “Godiva, lass, let me take Knebryter for you.”

Godiva’s tear-stained face turned up to Porthos. “Whu-Why would you do that?”

Porthos knelt down to be as close to eye level with Godiva as he could be. “Marcus here is saying that Knebryter may scare ponies. But you don’t want to leave him alone, do you?” Godiva nodded. Porthos stood up and threw out his arms. “Look at me! I’m a freaking monster! Look at how big I am!--” He tore off his shirt sleeve and pointed at his arm-- “Look at all these scars that cover my body. Imagine how terrified the ponies will be when they see me? What difference will Knebryter make if he were to come with me? They’ll be too busy looking at me, the rat who attacked their princess!”

A glimmer of happiness returned to Godiva’s eyes as she realized just what Porthos was saying. “Oh. Porthos… Thank you!” She threw her arms around his gigantic neck. Porthos returned the hug, took Knebryter from her, and slipped the wooden pony into his belt.

“Porthos, you’re such a suck up,” Hauteclaire said.

Porthos ignored Hauteclaire while he picked up the two table pieces and held them together. He ran a forefinger over the crack, and the table mended itself together. “Now, lass, we have a letter to write.” He turned to Hauteclaire, and his voice dropped an octave. “Right?”

The next hour was spent editing and rewriting the same letter over, and over, and over. After re-arranging introductions, cutting out any drawings of Fluttershy and mentions of Knebryter entirely, changing a few words, and writing the final draft with something other than crayon, the letter was ready to be sent. Godiva walked to the window with sheets of paper and the letter in her hands, and threw them all out into the sky. In the air, the paper sheets folded themselves into many swans and flew off towards the crystal castle in the distance.

Godiva was so happy, she was skipping and humming. “Yay! I can’t wait until we get a response! I’m going to town while we wait.”

Marcus had to stop her there. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, I don’t. We should wait here until we actually hear from them, we should.”

Godiva stomped her foot. “WHAT? Why~? I want to go talk to the ponies.”

Marcus shook his head. “I understand, I do, but they might not want to see us, they might. After all the hubbub you three caused over there, you might want to give them some time to recover their senses, you might. If they are angry with us, we should wait for them to cool down first, we should.”

Godiva stomped her foot and whined. “But I wanna see the ponies now!”

Porthos walked over to Godiva and put his enormous hand on her tiny shoulders. “Godiva, you shouldn’t let impatience ruin your potential friendships.”

“It won’t make a difference,” Hauteclaire huffed. “They’re not going to accept a letter of apology just like that. Friendship isn’t something you can win so easily.”

Godiva’s eyes watered at Hauteclaire’s comment. Marcus stepped forward to his brother. “Hauteclaire, surely you don’t believe that, you don’t.”

Hauteclaire refused to budge. He tried to tighten his grip to his pessimistic beliefs, but the proof that he kept hidden in his pocket was weakening his stance. He needed a distraction. “Hey, where is the King anyway?”

Hauteclaire’s question and wish were answered; he’d soon wish they weren’t. “HEY GUYS! I figured out the language we’d forgotten!”

The King ran into the room holding his CD player. The sight of it made Godiva forget the mean thing Hauteclaire said only seconds ago.

Hauteclaire shook his head. “No.”

“Oh, yes! I can finally sing my favorite songs again!” The Mouse King pushed the play button. Godiva and Porthos cheered.

“No.”

Oh, my god. Becky, look at her butt.

“No.”

“Yes!” The Mouse King had a huge smile on his face.

“No.”

“YES!”

“NO!”

“I LIKE BIG BUTTS, AND I CAN NOT LIE!”

“NO! DAMMIT! NO!”

“So it was English we forgot, was it? Something must have happened back at home to make us forget that, something must have,” said Marcus.

Porthos turned his head, and looked at his backside. "That must have happened the same time my tail disappeared." He gave the stump a little wiggle before turning his attention back to the singing and dancing fool that was his king. “Eh, I’m more of a tits guy, meself.”

“Tits? I have those!"

“Godiva, please don’t lift your dress like that. It’s very unlady-like.”

“...DEEP IN THE JEANS SHE’S WEARING! I’M HOOKED AND I CAN’T STOP STARING!...”

No amounts of facepalming would save Hauteclaire. He had been overjoyed when they forgot English. The King had stopped playing his mix CD since he could no longer sing along. Now Hauteclaire would have to put up with this for the next hundred years.

“Next track! BIG BOOTY BITCHES! BIG BIG BOOTY BITCHES! WOOH!”

Hauteclaire walked out of the room and to the top of the tallest tower.

And jumped.

When Hauteclaire opened his eyes again, he found himself in the throne room. So this is where he must have hidden his Brain.

He got up off the floor and stretched. His new body needed to be broken in. As he stretched and twisted himself, some of the dirt clumps in his skin cracked, and a few pebbles and small diamonds broke free. He shook out his cotehardie and his pants. Loose pebbles, diamonds, and dirt fell out of his shoes as he took them off and turned them over. As Hauteclaire smoothed the wrinkles out of his clothes, he thought, He always hidesit in the most conspicuously inconspicuous places. I bet it’s under one of those thrones.

The King always hid his Brain in weird places. First, he used to keep it in his crown; after that, he tried hiding it in his belly. Now he just hides it all over the darn place. Since Hauteclaire woke up in the throne room, it had to be nearby.

Hauteclaire looked up and saw the deteriorated banners of the sun and the moon that hung above the thrones. He recognized the sun from the queen’s flank, but there was another one with a moon. Must have been the king. Or a rival faction’s emblem. He’d find out later, either from the library or the ponies themselves. If they haven’t decided to chase us out, that is.

Hauteclaire walked outside and saw that the sun was setting. He must have been out for a couple of hours. He walked around the castle until he came to the base of the tallest tower. There lying on the floor was Hauteclaire, smashed against the stone floor. Diamonds and dirt were splattered everywhere. The alive Hauteclaire kicked the dead Hauteclaire and it crumbled into more dirt. Sifting through the remains, Hauteclaire pulled out a shining fragment about the size of his thumb. He threw it into his mouth and swallowed it.

This is why it was always a pain when he died. Not in any physical sense, it was just a hassle. Should he die, everything that wasn’t a part of him would be left behind, his fragment included. After dying, the “dead” Hauteclaire would eventually be revived by the King or his Brain in a new body, whichever got to him first. The first thing he had to do was recover his fragment from his old one. If he didn’t, the King would become infuriated. Hauteclaire never wanted to find out what the King would do if he ever failed to recover his fragment in a “timely manner.” To avoid this, Hauteclaire had developed a strategy to prevent that while playing the game.

Still, death was a great way to get away from reality for a few hours.

He took the mask next. It had survived the fall nicely; no cracks at all. He looked at what remained of dead Hauteclaire’s face. Oh, you used to be the envy of all the ladies. He stomped it into a pile of dirt. There was no satisfaction gained from destroying what he once considered his best, and now his worst, feature.

He was about to walk away when he remembered that there was one more thing to get. He dug through the remains again until he pulled out the drawing Pinkie Pie had given him. He gave it another look over. Did she really mean it?

“Had a nice nap, did you?”

Hauteclaire quickly shoved the drawing into a pocket. “Marcus! Don’t startle me like that!”

Marcus laughed. “I’m sorry brother, but we were looking for you, we were. We got a response from Princess Twilight Sparkle, we did.”

Hauteclaire’s eyebrows squished together. “Twilight what?”

“Twilight Sparkle. She was the purple pony that escorted you from the palace and the princess Porthos attacked, she was.” Marcus laughed even more. “Oh, you should have seen Godiva when she read the letter, you should have. She was so excited that she ran around the castle ceiling and couldn’t tell us what it said, she couldn’t. I had to shoot her with an arrow so we could read it, I had to.”

Hauteclaire was puzzled. “Did you really shoot Godiva?”

Marcus shrugged. “Well, the King was getting impatient, and he started lobbing fireballs at her, he did. So I had to stop her before the King destroyed the letter, I had to. At least Porthos enjoyed the show, he did. Godiva didn’t seem to mind, she didn’t.”

Hauteclaire chuckled. Not at the humorous story, but that Godiva irritated the King. “The King is such a buffoon. What did the letter say?”

“Tomorrow, at noon, they are holding a welcoming ceremony for us, they are,” Marcus said.

Hauteclaire took a few moments to repeat what he had just heard in his head. “You’re serious?”

“Always am, I am,” said Marcus.

Hauteclaire knew his brother was telling the truth, but that was too strange. “Wha- How? How could they just decide to hold a welcoming ceremony for us like that? Don’t they know how much damage we caused, how much we stole already? They probably aren’t aware of just how much we HAVE stolen.”

“You were there when we wrote the letter, you were. We explained that what we did wasn’t intentional and we would like a chance to make up for it, we did.”

Hauteclaire couldn’t process this. “And they believed it?”

Marcus’ smile disappeared from his face. Something that didn’t happen very often, even during the game. “What? Do you think that we were being dishonest? I know you don’t think so highly of the court, but you shouldn’t be like this, Hauteclaire. It isn’t healthy.” Marcus took a step back. “We are meeting them at noon at the edge of the forest tomorrow. You’d better fix those thoughts in your head before then, brother. I don’t want you messing this up for us.” He walked back into the castle.

His tic was gone. Something that told Hauteclaire that he had done something that very few were capable of doing: making Marcus mad.

When Marcus was out of sight and far enough away that he wouldn’t hear, Hauteclaire stomped his dead body beyond recognition.

The blasts of an organ echoed throughout the castle halls. Its fast melody wrapped around every turn and flooded the air with classy anger. Its first voice was accompanied by a second voice that repeated the first with a delay. The pace picked up as a third, more baritone voice entered the argument. The pace continued to quicken as the anger behind the music grew. The music built on itself in complexity until the third voice went immensely silent, followed by the second and first voices with a powerful vibrato and a final volley of chords signaling the end of the song, when applause would be acceptable. And expected.

Hauteclaire leaned back from the instrument in front of him. Playing music was his outlet, and because of how much venting he had to do, there was no better musician than him. He took pride in that.

His King had a wide appreciation for music, but he seemed to enjoy the novelty crap he found on his travels the most. The King did love the music that Hauteclaire and Marcus wrote together, but it was obviously because of Marcus’ lyrics and not Hauteclaire’s musical compositions. The King had the gall to refer to their work as his music, as in Marcus’. Not a collaborative effort, but something that Marcus came up with entirely. Like Hauteclaire just splattered ink on pages and called it music while Marcus slaved for greatness, when the opposite was closer to the truth. To even think that Marcus could consider himself a poet with the crap he splattered on paper was baffling. It was Hauteclaire that would polish these turds until they stank like gold. Gold that was still made of crap. Stinky, crappy gold. And Marcus never once corrected the King on who did all the hard work.

Hauteclaire laid down on the bench and closed his eyes. He wanted to stop thinking about that kind of stuff. A nap might do him good.

Or he could jump off the tower again.

Shortly after he settled down for a nap, he got a rude awakening. Something was digging around in his head. Hauteclaire opened his eyes and smirked. There was another way he liked to vent his frustrations. This way required a “volunteer.”

Hauteclaire made his way up onto the hole-filled roof of the castle under the moonlit night. Well, what little of it was left anyway. There, he came face to face with his new venting buddies.

On the other side of the roof stood several ponies with bat wings and dark blue armor. They surrounded a slightly larger pony with stars in her hair.

An alicorn.

This alicorn, however, didn’t strike Hauteclaire as much as the sun queen; even if he was in the mood, he didn’t think he would have been very impressed with her anyway. Where the sun queen was disarmingly warm, this one was cold and isolating.

He’d have fun taking her down a peg.

Hauteclaire threw open his arms. “Hey, big, blue, and batty. It appears to me that you failed to take proper care of yourself. Did you know you have lice the size of hail in your mane?” That got their attention. “I’d come over there and slap some sense into you, but I’m afraid of the putrid smell a horse like you with such poor hygiene may reek of. I bet the dead jump out of their graves just to escape your stench. You must be the life of the party at funerals.”

The bat guards remained stoic, but their eyes betrayed them. The alicorn herself got wide-eyed, if only for a fraction of a second.

A guard stepped forward. “Do you know just who you are addressing? It would be wise for you to…”

Hauteclaire cut him off. “Oh, I’m well aware of who I’m addressing. A couple of intruders who came to dig up some dirt. So it would be wise for you to bugger off before I dig up some dirt. For your graves.” Hauteclaire pulled out his dagger.

The bat ponies began to get restless. Hauteclaire enjoyed watching their inner turmoil surface. The alicorn’s horn glowed faintly, and that feeling came again in Hauteclaire’s head.

“So, you’re the dirt digger? Well, too bad!” Hauteclaire laughed at the looks on their faces. “That’s right! You’re powers are useless! You. Can’t. Read. My. Thoughts!” Hauteclaire tapped his head. “You can’t! You are incapable! There is nothing here! Nothing!”

It took a moment for Hauteclaire to realize what he just said. A quick mental kick got him back on track. “Go back to whatever hole you crawled from and cry in your filthy stable! I’m going to be the bigger mouse and let you go with just a slap on the wrist. If the King knew you were here, though, I don’t think he would have been so... forgiving.”

With a glow of its horn, the alicorn and bat ponies turned into shadows and whisked away into the darkness of the night. Hauteclaire relaxed his stance when he could no longer see them and sheathed his dagger.

Hauteclaire was satisfied, but he had really been hoping for a fight. He looked over to the edge of the roof where the intruders had stood moments ago. Up climbed another Hauteclaire. The new Hauteclaire looked over at the old Hauteclaire that had just driven away the intruders with his verbal assault.

Old Hauteclaire gave new Hauteclaire a look of satisfaction before collapsing into a pile of dirt: clothes, mask and all. The remaining Hauteclaire, the real one (and not his dirt double. They were quite useful for toying with others.), pulled out his dagger and slashed at the air. “Darn, I was so hoping for a fiAEEEYAAAH!”

A roof tile under Hauteclaire’s foot slipped, and he tumbled down off the roof onto the next one below him, rolled down the steep incline, and bounced against a stone gargoyle before hitting the ground with his face. Shingles rained on his noggin.

Hauteclaire picked himself up, his hand on his head as he fought off the dizziness. There was a bump on his head. He felt it out. It was the handle to his dagger. Hauteclaire sighed and pulled it out.

Almost as if summoned, Godiva came running around the corner. “Hauteclaire! You too?”

“What? What do you mean?” said Hauteclaire.

Godiva was running in place and constantly checking her surroundings. “I think this place is haunted! Strange things have been happening! Porthos fell through a trap door; a chandelier fell on Marcus, and a bookshelf, and a suit of armor, and Porthos; and the King’s bed flipped with him on it, and he was thrown out the window and landed on Marcus! What happened to you?”

That must have been that alicorn’s doing. Better not tell Godiva about that. “I fell from the roof.”

Godiva swapped her nervousness with confusion. “What were you doing on the roof? That’s not ghosts, that’s just stupid! You should know better, Haut-sauce. But be careful, I think we have angered something we shouldn’t have! Like the ghost of someone who used to live here.” She ran back around the corner she came.

Hauteclaire brushed the dirt of his clothes. “Oh, please. There is nothing I can’t...”

He was cut short by a stone gargoyle to the head.