Author's Note

Another warning. This chapter can get pretty graphic, even if I attempt to keep it comedic. Just remember that they are made of dirt and don't really feel half the stuff that happens to them for reasons still unexplained. Just remember, the court do these kind of things to each other for sts and giggles.

Ch. 6 - Marcus vs Hauteclaire! Place Your Bets!

Oh crap, he did.

The ponies in the crowd bursted with excitement. A fight to the death? Whatever kind of play was this!?

Well ponies, this was no act. The Mouse King meant every word of it. He was going to have Hauteclaire and Marcus fight each other to the death for the amusement of the crowds, but mostly himself. Hauteclaire had let his excitement blind him as he did the one thing that was worse than angering the King: he bored him.

As long as the court was working towards the King’s goals or something was keeping him entertained or preoccupied, he was bearable. Doing either wasn’t much of a feat in itself (give him a riddle, offer to play a game of chess, jingle keys), but the moment he felt his time was being wasted...

“Yes, my dear friends, I am afraid it is true. Hauteclaire, my bard, has been so outraged by the interruption that he has challenged Marcus, his own brother, to a fight to the death. And Marcus has accepted his challenge! Oh, ponies, who could have ever seen this coming?” The King fell to his knees. “And there is nothing I can do to talk either of them out of it! What is a poor King like me to do…” A wicked smile grew on his face. “...other than enjoy the show! Are you ponies ready for a performance of a lifetime!?”

...he would steal the show, figuratively and literally. The crowd cheered as all of the ponies were swept up by the King’s charisma; and he ate up all of their attention in turn. He put a finger to his chin and walked in a circle. “But it seems to me that Ponyville doesn’t have a suitable place for such a performance. SO HOW ABOUT I MAKE ONE?”

The King threw his hands before him, and the ground began to shake. Buildings shifted away from the stage as if on the backs of ants. Pegasi bolted to the sky in fear, some taking with them a loved one or two that were incapable of flight; foals hid under their mothers as the earthquake increased in magnitude. The stage shook violently and shifted along the ground as it grew long like a snake and slithered into a circle, entrapping the ponies within a low, wooden ring. Once in position, the stage shot up from the ground and formed rows of seats. Closer rows came up from under the ground the trembling ponies were standing on. The screaming and hollering continued as the stage morphed with its wooden cacophony until the earth and the new structure sat silent.

The King, standing in the center of the coliseum with Hauteclaire and Marcus, looked above where the guest-of-honor seats used to be. There in a new booth sat Porthos, downing his tenth bottle of punch; Godiva, combing a passed out Fluttershy’s tail; a bouncing Pinkie Pie; a shaken Rarity holding Spike the dragon in a death grip; and Applejack holding three foals underneath her while shouting, “I told you they couldn’t be trusted!” to Twilight, who had her wings flared and her horn glowing, but who seemed confused, not angry. Rainbow Dash was already inches from the King’s nose. “WHAT’S THE BIG IDEA, DESTROYING PONYVILLE!?”

The King dropped his manic smile. “Destroy? Why, Rainbow Dash, you hurt me with your words! Why do you still not trust me? I thought we were friends. Take a look around. I’ve only moved a few buildings to make room for the coliseum. You’ll find nothing has been damaged in their new locations.”

Rainbow Dash stared into the King’s eyes. If she was hoping to find anything there, she was going to be disappointed. After her digging turned up nothing, she inspected her new surroundings. What was once a small clearing near town hall had been expanded greatly and in its place was erected a coliseum made entirely of wood. The stands were populated with shaking ponies and exhausted pegasi. Rainbow Dash gave a huff before taking off into the sky.

I knew they wouldn’t trust us so easily.

The King directed his eyes back to Twilight. “Princess Twilight Sparkle.” He gestured to the new building around them. “I hope my last trick wasn’t too dramatic for your subjects. Please forgive me, as I seem to have let myself go a little overboard with the theatrics.” Twilight relaxed her pose before Dash came zooming back and muttered something about everyone and everything being alright.

“But! But…” Applejack was losing steam. “What in tarnation were you thinking!? You scared us all to half to death, you hear?”

The King bowed his head and looked up at the distressed cowpony. “I’m terribly sorry, Applejack. I didn’t think such a display would frighten you. Please forgive me for my inconsideration; I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Stupid King. He did that on purpose.

Applejack’s little sister and her friends, however, seemed to think differently, as they were bouncing up and down and cheering. “Wow! Did you see that, Scoots? That was amazing! Do you think he could build us a new clubhouse?” “Oh yeah! That would be so awesome! With a ramp for my scooter!” “And a stage for performances!” “And a room for Twilight time!” “And a…”

Hauteclaire looked around at the other ponies. Most of them had gotten over the initial shock of the impromptu earthquake and land rezoning and gave an applause for the King’s “trick.”

Twilight Sparkle and Applejack still seemed a bit uneasy. The King took notice. “I promise you, Twilight and Applejack, once this performance is over with, I will put everything back the way it was.” Twilight sighed and nodded.

The King vanished and reappeared in his seat next to Porthos and Twilight in a blink of an eye. In his hands were two mics. He held them both up to his mouth. “OK, ponies! Sorry about that little interruption! Are you ready for the performance of a lifetime?” The crowd cheered in response, still completely oblivious to the fact that what they were going to see was an actual fight to the bloody end (sans blood).

The King threw both mics in Godiva’s and Pinkie Pie’s direction. Pinkie caught one and the other bounced off Godiva’s head, pulling her attention from the recovering Fluttershy. “Congratulations, Godiva and Pinkie Pie! You are our commentators!”

Pinkie and Godiva both smiled at each other. Pinkie wasted no time. “Hello, Ponyville! This is Pinkie Pie, coming to you live from the guest booth!” “And this is Lady Godiva! Coming to you from the seat next to Pinkie Pie and Flutterbutter!”

Their voices came from all sides through loudspeakers in the coliseum. Fantastic.

“Flutterbutter? Who is that, Godiva?”

Godiva pointed to Fluttershy, who was now up off the ground. “Why, Fluttershy, silly Pinkie Pie!”

“Silly? I’m not silly, you’re silly, Godiva!”

“No! You’re silly, Pinkie!”

You’re both loons.

The two crazies continued.

“So, Pinkie! We are about to witness a fight to the death. Have you ever seen one before?”

“Sorry, Godiva! I can’t say that I have. Do you do this often?”

“Why yes, Pinkie! We have fights to the death all the time! We call it ‘sparring’, though. Takes less time to say.”

“Wait, Godiva, are you saying you ‘spar’ all the time?”

“That’s correct, Pinkie! We do it for fun!”

“Fun!? You’ve got to be joking! What do you think, Rainbow Dash?”

Pinkie shoved the mic into Rainbow’s face. “Well, it would explain why there are so few of them,” she deadpanned.

Pinkie continued her impromptu act with Godiva. “Godiva, how do you ‘spar’ all the time if you, you know, die?”

“Oh, it’s very simple, Pinkie! The King’s magic keeps us alive!”

Pinkie gasped. “Godiva! You don’t mean he practices dark magic, do you? TWILIGHT! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY TO THIS NEWS!?”

Pinkie shoved the mic into Twilight’s face, but the flustered mare didn’t have an answer ready. The King, however, had one. “It’s just a trick. They don’t actually fight to the death, it’s just a simulation reproduced with magic. Nothing dark or evil here.”

Yeah, sure, whatever.

Pinkie turned back to Godiva. “Is this true, Godiva!? Is it all a simulation done with magic?”

“That it is, Pinkie! In fact, we die all the time!”

“Wha-wha-what? Godiva! Is that true as well?”

“Why yes it is, Pinkie! Why, Hauteclaire died just this morning. We found him with his head under a stone gargoyle! It was so funny that Porthos almost peed himself laughing!”

“Oh my!”

“I died last night, too! Marcus shot me in the head with an arrow! He has really good aim.”

“Oh my, Godiva, were you sparring last night, too?”

“Nope! He just wanted to see the letter you and your friends wrote but I played keep away! It was so much fun!”

Pinkie Pie was showing signs of discomfort about talking about what may have been a gruesome topic. “Uh… wow, Godiva.”

“Hey Pinkie, did I tell you about the time I died changing my underwear?”

“Why, no you haven’t, Godiva.”

“So there I was, at the top of a very tall stairwell. I’d been running through the rain and mud, and a lot of it got into my armor and soaked all of my clothes! I felt so dirty that I wanted to change! So I stopped in a nearby building, at the top of a very tall stairwell, and as I took off my underwear…”

“Oh, I think I see where this is going…”

“...the whole building exploded!”

“WHAT!?”

“I know! It was a building in a middle of a warzone. I should have known better. I learned a very important lesson that day, Pinkie.”

“Not to change your underwear in a warzone?”

“Nope! Don’t bother with underwear! I haven’t died changing underwear since!”

Even though Pinkie Pie was somehow enjoying the grim skit, the laughter in the coliseum slowly died as the painful jokes about death dragged on. Marcus, just kill me now.

“Ahem.” The King leaned over and made the motion for Godiva to carry on. “Godiva, introduce the fighters.”

“Oh, yeah! Ahem. Ladies and Gentlemen!” (“Mares and Gentlecolts!”) “Sorry! Mares and Gentlecolts! Introducing the fighters! In the green corner: weighing in at around 115 pounds, please give it up for Marcus!” Marcus bowed down, and the crowd cheered.

“And in the blue corner: weighing in at around 95 pounds, Hauteclaire!”

The coliseum was quiet except for some stallion with a cold and a crying foal.

Who brings a baby to a gladiator fight, really?

“Are you ready to see the performance of a lifetime, Pinkie?”

“I sure am, Godiva!”

“But first, let’s hear a word from our fashion expert, Rarity! What do you have to say about the combatants’ clothes?”

Godiva shoved the mic into Rarity’s face. Oh lord. Marcus, just shoot Godiva and me and get this over with. Or just shoot Godiva, that would be nice.

Rarity was a bit flustered, obviously not ready for any kind of fashion inquisition. “Um. Marcus is wearing what looks to be a simple green shirt with a brown vest and a matching tricorne hat. His attire allows him greater freedom for movement. His hat, however, may become more of a hindrance because of its large size.”

Godiva took the mic back. “That’s great! Now do Hauteclaire!”

Rarity flinched as the mic bumped against her nose. “Hauteclaire is wearing a blue cotehardie, a unisex dress that has gone out of style centuries ago--” Pinkie, Godiva, the King, and Porthos all snickered for different reasons-- “tights, and a herigaut, an old style of cape that is also no longer seen outside of medieval fairs. His clothes offer very little freedom for movement as they were made for aesthetics, not function.” Thank you so much Rarity, you’re a wonderful friend indeed.

But she had a point. Hauteclaire removed his cape… HERIGAUT and threw it to the ground. He pulled out his dagger and faced his slightly taller brother. It was now or never.

“Oh! Do me next!”

Guess it’s never.

“Godiva, you’re wearing a deep blue dress that hangs loosely off your body and complements the colors of your fur and eyes wonderfully.”

“Oh! DO THE KING!”

Rarity sighed. “The King is wearing a crown that is made of gold…”

“Wood, actually,” the King corrected, tapping his crown to make a light knock-on-wood noise.

“...OK, wood, and a red cape with a white trimming.”

The King held up a corner of his cape and stroked the white trimming. “It’s made of fox fur!”

“You meant to say ‘faux fur,’ am I correct?” said Rarity.

“Uh… Yeah.”

Godiva was bouncing up and down in her seat. “DO PORTHOS!”

Rarity rubbed the side of her head and spoke as fast as she could. “Porthosiswearingaredtabbardstainedwithpunchoveranindigogambeson,bothofthemcommonlyassociatedwithknightsandroyalty. Are we done yet?”

Pinkie bounced. “Oh! Do me!”

Rarity lifted an eyebrow. “Pinkie, you’re wearing nothing at all, darling.”

Godiva saw an opening and pounced. “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout, Rarity!? She’s sporting her birthday suit!”

Pinkie giggled, turned around, and shook her plot. “Yup! It’s like I’m wearing nothing at all.”

“CAN WE GET ON WITH THE FIGHT ALREADY!?”

Every eye turned to Hauteclaire. He was gripping his ears and was close to tearing them off.

Godiva chuckled. “Oh, sorry Hauteclaire! OK, ponies, are you ready for…”

“Now, hold on a minute!” Porthos stood up and raised a hand. “I will be accepting bets! Marcus vs. Hauteclaire. Odds are 50 to 1!”

Marcus crossed his arms. “Porthos, no gambling.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you halfway. Odds are 25 to 1.”

*TWANG* *SHOONK*

An arrow was protruding from Porthos’ chest.

“Fine. 15 to 1.”

*SHOONK*

“10 to 1?”

*SHOONK*

“5 to 1!”

*SHOONK*

“2 to 1.”

*SHOONK*

Marcus lowered his bow. “No gambling, Porthos.”

Porthos shook his fists. “Dammit, Marcus! You’re no fun!” He picked up a bottle and threw it.

“Iteh!” The bottle clunked Hauteclaire on the back of the head. “Nani o yattoru, kono debu-inu?”

The King rolled around in his seat laughing. “Bwahaha! Porthos! You hit him so hard, you changed his language settings!”

Porthos reached up and twisted his ear. “Tsumaran zo! Kono shiro-nakamushi, hayaku odotte-kure.”

Pinkie turned to Godiva. “What are they saying?”

Godiva scrunched up her face as she started to translate the fight. “‘You have some nerve, you big idiot. Come down here and let’s see you do that again.’” She deepened her voice to imitate Porthos. “‘You wouldn’t last five seconds with me. Go hide behind your brother.’ ‘Shut up, Porthos. Die. Die and eat sh…’ HAUTECLAIRE! LANGUAGE!” Godiva threw her mic and beaned Hauteclaire on the side of his head. “OW!” The mic feedback over the speakers did little to alleviate his growing headache.

*SHOONK*

Pinkie looked at Godiva and pointed to the side of her head. “Um, Godiva? You’ve got something…”

Godiva felt the side of her head and sure enough there was an arrow sticking out. “Oh, that’s just his way of saying ‘Stop picking on Hauteclaire’.” She grabbed the arrow and yanked it out; a couple of flowers were wrapped around the tip. “Hey! My head is full of flowers!”

Magic trick or not, Pinkie felt those cupcakes she had eaten earlier coming back. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

Godiva hummed while she pulled one of the flowers off the arrow tip and put it behind Pinkie’s ear. She then did the same with the other flower on her own ear and dropped the arrow to her side. “The warning shots don’t.”

Porthos was still laughing, slapping his knee and spilling punch everywhere, and the arrows in his chest rattled together with every movement. “Ahahahahaha! Ahahaha...Uh-oh.”

*SHOONK*

An arrow sunk into his left eye socket, and he fell limp in his chair, the chair tipped backwards and dumped Porthos on the ground with a sickening thud. Rarity let out a scream, Fluttershy fainted again, Rainbow couldn’t tell if what was happening was awesome or not, Pinkie stared with her mouth hanging open, and Applejack tried to cover all three fillies’ eyes. Twilight herself was at a loss. “Is… is he going to be alright?”

The King stopped his laughing. “Him? He’ll walk it off in a couple of minutes. Now, Pinkie, if you would please?”

“Hmm?” Pinkie shook herself out of her stupor. “Oh, right. Are you ready for the performance of a lifetime? Well, LET’S GET READY TO PARTY! Hauteclaire, Marcus, are you ready?”

“WAIT!” screamed Applejack. Oh great, now what? “What about stray arrows? This could be dangerous!” OK, good point. Chalk one up for the hick.

The King stroked his chin. “Ah, I see. You are concerned with everyone’s safety. Well, don’t you worry, I have that covered. Look.” He waved his hand and a blue aura briefly glowed over the battle ground. “Marcus, fire several arrows at me.”

Marcus did as his king told him to do.

The crowds screamed and the ponies up in the booth jumped away from the King in shock. The arrows, however, stopped in mid-air where the blue aura appeared and fell down to the ground, still quite a distance away from the booth.

The King turned Applejack. “See? None of Marcus’ arrows can leave the arena. Every pony here is safe. Thank you very much for your concern, though. Princess Twilight, you have some sharp and compassionate friends.”

Sure, just keep buttering them up.

The King leaned forward and motioned Pinkie to continue. “OK! Marcus, Hauteclaire, are you ready?” I’ve been ready for the past ten minutes. Let’s just get this over with already. “FIGHT!”

Hauteclaire and Marcus circled each other and kept a safe distance. The gravel beneath Hauteclaire’s feet crunched with every step, reminding him of the silence that had come over the crowd since Pinkie shouted that one magic word into the mic. The pressure of all the eyes on him and Marcus could be felt on his shoulders, but it didn’t push him to win. No, he wanted to beat his brother for other reasons. “Brother, you always think you’re better than me, don’t you? Well, go on. Kill me. Do it now, in front of all these ponies.”

“Hauteclaire, what has gotten into you, what has? Why are you so angry at me, are you? I’m trying to help you, Hauteclaire, I really am.”

Hauteclaire pointed his dagger at Marcus. “Cut the crap, brother. I’m tired of your waffling! You always say you’ve got my back, but whenever it needs help, you’ve sunk a poisoned arrow in it!”

Marcus spoke low so no one else could hear. “Hauteclaire, I’m… I’m aware what I do may sometimes not seem like it’s in your best interest, it is, but you have to trust me, you must! I’m trying to protect you, I am!”

Hauteclaire snarled. “From what!? Porthos!? Godiva!? THE KING!? I don’t believe you, brother. I don’t need saving; I can look after myself. You don’t believe in me. None of you have! What is it you’re protecting me from?”

Marcus scooted closer. “Hauteclaire, I… I can’t tell you, I can’t. You must believe me, you must!”

Hauteclaire took a step forward. “See? You don’t have confidence in my capabilities, so you are keeping secrets from me! Well, brother, after this, I’m through with you. I don’t want to see you again.”

Marcus dropped his defensive stance and extended a hand towards Hauteclaire. “Hauteclaire, my brother, please. I’ve always looked after you since the beginning, I have. Why would I betray you now?”

“BECAUSE YOU THINK I’M WEAK! ALL OF THEM THINK I’M WEAK! Well, I’ll show them, and I’ll show you by KILLING YOU WHERE YOU STAND!” Hauteclaire raised his dagger and charged at Marcus. The crowd erupted into a frenzy as the first move had been made; Hauteclaire closed in on Marcus and swiped at him, missing only by inches as Marcus jumped back.

Marcus held up his bow and drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. “I am so sorry, Hauteclaire,” and fired.

The arrow flew through the air at Hauteclaire, but with a quick slash, he cut it in two, and it fell to the ground. Hauteclaire closed in again on Marcus, but he had no luck getting within striking distance, as Marcus would jump many yards away to the other side of the arena and the dance would repeat itself. After several arrows had been avoided or knocked out of the air, Hauteclaire stopped and took a deep breath, aimed his face to the ground and let out a huge amount of pent-up rage. “POW!”

A cloud of dirt kicked up and covered the whole arena and some of the stands; the thick fog of dirt, dust and debris prevented any pony or mouse from seeing what was happening. There was the sounds of arrows being shot; a few hit the threshold of the arena and fell to the ground. Once the dust settled, the ponies clamored with excitement and disbelief at what they saw.

In the arena no longer stood two mice, but four. All of them were grey, wore brown hats, vests, and green shirts; the only difference between them was that one of them held a bow and the other three held daggers. The three dagger Marcuses surrounded the real Marcus and circled him, each taunting the Marcus in the middle as they waited to close in for the kill.

“The King loves MY songs, Hauteclaire.”

“Perform a song HE likes, Hauteclaire.”

“Do some knife tricks, Hauteclaire.”

“DO WHAT I SAY, HAUTECLAIRE!”

The one behind Marcus charged; he got halfway before Marcus was able to sink an arrow into its belly. The force of the arrow knocked the fake Marcus onto his back, and he collapsed into a heap of dirt and rocks. The other two charged Marcus, but neither one was able to get close enough to attack, as Marcus jumped away and sank an arrow into each of them before he even touched the ground. Both fake Marcuses fell and dissolved, leaving the real Marcus the only thing left standing in the stadium, scanning left and right for any signs of his furious sibling.

A sudden shift in the ground alerted him, and he jumped away just in time as the ground beneath him exploded and a dagger slashed away inches from his legs. Landing on the other side of the arena, Marcus drew his bow without pulling any arrows; Hauteclaire wasn’t going to pull any punches, so it would seem that Marcus had decided to do the same. Marcus let go of the string, and an arrow materialized in front of him and whipped through the air at Hauteclaire. He ducked out of the way just in time to see that Marcus had drawn his bow again. When he let go, this time two arrows appeared, and Hauteclaire jumped to the side as the barrage continued.

Every second, Marcus would pull and release his bow, and with every twang of the string, several arrows would fly out of nothingness before him. Without having to stop to pull an arrow from his quiver, Marcus was able to keep Hauteclaire pinned down and kept away at a safe distance. A single slip-up, and any one of those arrows could mean the end of Hauteclaire and his stand against his ‘oh-so-superior’ sibling.

No, Hauteclaire would not stay down under his brother’s shadow any more. He would strike him down and enjoy every second of it. Hauteclaire touched the ground with his hand, and the ground around him broke open as more Hauteclaires sprung forth and ran at Marcus.

His attention spread thin between the small army of Hauteclaires swarming him, Marcus was unable to keep the line back for very long. He would take out several Hauteclaires with each draw, but they were quickly replaced by more, and in the chaos he lost track of the real Hauteclaire and had to fall back on the tactic of shooting everything that moved. His volley of arrows took down wave after wave of approaching Hauteclaires, but it wasn’t fast enough to keep them back. When the mob got close enough for the kill, Marcus jumped over them to the other side of the arena, taking a few more down while airborne. However, as Marcus fell close to the ground, the ground where he was about to land on broke as three more Hauteclaires leapt from hiding for their ambush. Using his magic, Marcus was able to push with his legs and jump again in midair to a different location as he fired off three more arrows.

These arrows hit the two Hauteclaires that jumped in front of the third, shielding the real Hauteclaire, who wore the angriest face Marcus had ever seen. Hauteclaire pointed at his brother and roared in anger and disappointment that his trap had failed to snatch his much more agile brother. He threw his dagger at Marcus, but a single shot knocked the flying dagger off its course before Marcus resumed his barrage. As Hauteclaire dodged, he found that the arrows curved in the air towards him; he wouldn’t be able to dodge for much longer. Marcus was going to hit him eventually, and considering how much magic Hauteclaire had already used up in his rage, it was clear that he would tire out before Marcus even used up a fraction of his power.

The crowd was roaring with excitement, as they have seen nothing quite like this before. Perhaps in films and movies (if they had them) had they even seen such a spectacular fight, but this amazing performance before them was so exhilarating that it bent their suspension of disbelief to its limits. Cheers called out for the mouse they wanted to see victorious, and it seemed that all of them saw Marcus as the underdog in need of moral support. They had no idea who really was the powerless one here…

No. No! Hauteclaire was not powerless! He would show them all!

A single voice broke through the roars of the crowd and shook Hauteclaire to his soul. “Hau-te-claire! Hau-te-claire! None can compare to Hau-te-claire!”

Daring to look out of the corner of his eye to the origin of the cheer, Hauteclaire saw up in the booth his lone, pink, bouncing fan. Pinkie Pie was cheering for him, Hauteclaire! A swell of emotions rushed through his mind as he drank in her cheers. Even with his performances before, the rare times he ever got a chance, he had never felt so much sincerity in a cheer. He felt as if this mare truly cared about the outcome; his victory would be her own, and so would his loss.

“Hau-te-claire! Hau-te-claire! You best beware of Hau-te-claire!”

Hauteclaire returned his focus away from the corner of his eye to a frightful sight: a huge cloud of arrows was coming at him from every side. There was no way he could dodge this! In a blind panic, he ducked down and let the earth swallow him up. The ground where he had been standing became pierced with arrows, and the air was heavy with silence as all movement in the arena stopped.

Voices whispered their predictions to those who would listen while eyes never left the patch of newly-planted arrows on the ground. Some predicted that Hauteclaire was slowly tunneling his way over to Marcus, while others claimed that Hauteclaire didn’t make it down in time. A young brown colt walked down the stairs and to the very edge of the arena to get a better look, his tan mother right behind him warning him not to get too close to the edge.

Movement under the pierced earth grabbed everyone’s attention. The dirt that harbored Hauteclaire moved the arrows away, all except for one, as Hauteclaire stood back up on wobbly legs. In his left shoulder was the one arrow that hit its target; already Hauteclaire could feel the effects of Marcus’ dangerous arrows taking effect. Hauteclaire reached up and plucked out the power-syphoning protrusion and dropped it to the ground, not once taking his eyes off the source of the parasite. Hauteclaire had to fight to stand up; he only had enough in him for this one last all-out assault, and if this didn’t work, he was finished.

Marcus, while one of infinite patience, wasn’t one to let himself underestimate anyone, especially when they were on the ropes. With a single pluck of his bow, Marcus unleashed a torrent of arrows at Hauteclaire. The size of the volley made up for each arrow’s lack of power and accuracy as it blocked out the sun.

Calling out the last of his magic, Hauteclaire erected a dome of dirt over him that shielded him from the barrage. Marcus didn’t wait for the dome to come down before he could take another shot and fired individual, powerful, piercing shot after shot through the dome. The arrows pierced through the front and came out the back, turning the dome into a makeshift monument to bad swiss cheese. Focusing his power into a single arrow, Marcus fired a glowing arrow into dome. The arrow didn’t come out the back of the dome, but instead erupted the entire dome into a huge fireball and ejected Hauteclaire copies all over the the arena. Most of them didn’t even have time to regain their senses before Marcus put one straight between their eyes, or in some cases in their eyes.

Ruthlessly, Marcus tore down Hauteclaire after Hauteclaire, aiming to snipe the real one and put an end to Hauteclaire’s rage. One Hauteclaire started running at him as more copies sprung from the ground around him; it was clearly the real Hauteclaire out in the open. Ignoring the copies, Marcus sprayed arrows in the direction of the real Hauteclaire who in turn barked most of them away with his powerful voice; still, several hit their mark, and with each hit on the real Hauteclaire, the amount of copies would fall dramatically. Eventually, it was just the one Hauteclaire before him, advancing weakly against his big brother. The arrows in his arms, legs, and torso slowed his assault to a crawl. Marcus was in no hurry as he drew one last arrow, aimed it at Hauteclaire’s chest and fired.

Hauteclaire took one more step forward before falling to his knees. He locked eyes with Marcus and gave him a look of absolute fury. “Curse you, brother.” His eyes went dull, and he fell face-first into the dirt.

Marcus kneeled down and put a hand on Hauteclaire’s head. “I forgive you, brother, I do.”

The crowd was roaring and screaming like someone had shoved a hornets’ nest in their ears. The noise prevented Marcus from hearing the footsteps behind him until a shadow appeared over his shoulder. In a knee-jerk reaction, Marcus whipped around and fired a single shot.

He hit Hauteclaire in the stomach. Hauteclaire dropped his dagger and fell back, one hand holding the new wound and the other keeping his back off the ground.

Marcus turned back to the first fallen Hauteclaire and found that it had dissolved into dirt, and at the center of the dirt was a glowing fragment: the source of Hauteclaire’s power and the reason why this copy had fooled Marcus into thinking that he had located the real Hauteclaire. Without his fragment, though, Hauteclaire was unable to put up much of a fight or make any more new copies.

Marcus turned to Hauteclaire and drew his bow.

Hauteclaire snarled at his brother.

A shriek broke the tension like a hammer. “A COLT! THERE IS A COLT DOWN THERE!”

“MY BABY! SOMEBODY SAVE MY BABY!”

“MAMA! MAMA! HELP! MAMA!”

Close to where Hauteclaire and Marcus were, the curious foal from earlier had leaned in too far and fallen over into the arena. The event sent panic throughout the whole crowd as screams and shrieks and the foal’s cries built on one another, plunging the whole crowd and the foal deeper into confusion and terror.

Falling back to his savior instincts, Marcus turned his attention away from Hauteclaire on the ground and jumped over to the colt, picked him up, and jumped up onto the edge of the arena. He put the foal down in front of his mother, and just like him, couldn’t resist to bend down on one knee to check him over for injuries.

The colt looked up to him. “Mister, my head hurts.”

Marcus bent over the foal and got a closer look at his head. “Where does it hurt, does it?”

“Right here,” and the colt headbutted him.

The crowd around the colt gasped as the mother came charging and tackled Marcus, sending them both flying over the railing and into the arena. Marcus fell flat on his back and the mother landed on top of him, crumbling into a pile of rocks and dirt upon contact. Seeing his chance, Hauteclaire picked up his dagger used the last of his strength to leap over to Marcus before he could dig his way out of the pile and sink his dagger into Marcus’ throat. As he held the dagger in place deep in Marcus’ neck, Hauteclaire put all his weight on Marcus’ upper body that wasn’t buried in the dirt.. Marcus shook and gargled under the combined weight of Hauteclaire and earth until all struggling ceased.

After all movement had stopped for good, and Hauteclaire jiggled the dagger to be certain Marcus was dead, Hauteclaire fell onto his back. The single arrow still in his abdomen was sticking up into the air and continued to drain the life out of him. The only signs that he was still in the land of the living were the slight movements of his chest with his shallow breathing.

The ponies were silent. There were no cheers. There were no celebrations.

A loud whistle broke the silence. “HAUTECLAIRE, YOU SON OF A GUN! That was BRILLIANT!”

All eyes turned to the King, who was giving a standing ovation. He turned to Porthos, who was now back up in his seat. “Did you see that!? Hauteclaire won! Holy cow! Pay up!”

Porthos grumbled, “You didn’t bet that he’d win,” but handed over a bottle of punch anyway.

The King took a swig from the bottle. “Yeah, but he lasted longer than you bet he would.”

Godiva was bouncing up and down in and screaming too. “HE WON! HE WON! HAUTECLAIRE WON!”

The crowd completely forgot its earlier moral dilemma and began to cheer for the performance, but it left much to be desired.

Porthos stood up and threw out his hands. “Now hold on, we don’t know if that arrow killed him. For all we know, this could be a draw.”

Without getting up off the ground, Hauteclaire reached up and ripped out the arrow protruding from his stomach. He lifted it up for all to see and extended his middle finger before dropping the arrow and his arm to the ground.

This caught Twilight’s attention. “What? What does that mean? I’ve seen Spike do it before, but he has never told me what it means.”

The King leaned over and whispered into Twilight’s ear.

Twilight turned around to Spike. “No gems for a month, Mister Dragon.”

In a flash of light, the King teleported from the booth and into the arena next to the dirt pile with the glowing shard. The King picked it up, walked over to Hauteclaire, stepped on his foot and threw it into Hauteclaire’s propped open mouth. “That was sneaky, you sly bastard! I must say, you fight dirty.”

Hauteclaire felt his strength return, or at least enough to groan at the King’s stupid pun. He felt the King prop him up with his magic. “I present to you, Hauteclaire! My bard! Everyone give him a round of applause!”

The crowd cheered for Hauteclaire, but there was little sincerity.

The King turned to Hauteclaire with a big grin. “I never thought I’d say this, but I think you deserve a raise!” With a wave of his hand, the dirt pile weighing down Marcus moved away. The King bent down and pulled the dagger out of Marcus’ neck. He wiped a hand over the wound and it healed instantly. He kicked Marcus in the side. “Hey! Get up.”

Marcus coughed and shifted about as he rubbed his neck with a hand and stood up. “Wow. That was something, it was.”

Marcus turned to the King. “What was that about a raise, was that? I had a hard time hearing being dead and all, I had.”

The King put his fists to his sides and held his head back. “Marcus, Hauteclaire has beaten you in a sparring match and has proven that he has improved his performance in ‘the game.’ He is getting a raise. You were careless. His raise is coming from you.”

Marcus sighed. “Yes, my king.”

What followed was to be expected given the King’s “sense” of humor. Without a word of warning, the King grabbed the side of Marcus’ torso and opened it like a door to a refrigerator.

All of Marcus’ insides fell out with a sickening plop on the ground. The ponies’ screams of horror mixed with the sounds of retching filled the air as the King began to dig around elbow deep in the guts.

Hauteclaire looked up to the booth. What are they getting so worked up about? It’s just dirt and minerals shaped like organs.

Twilight looked utterly shocked yet also curious. Pinkie looked like she was about to throw up. Fluttershy was passed out again, and her mane was being done up in bows by Godiva. Applejack, her face a sickly green, held her hat over the fillies’ faces, who all struggled to get a look. Rarity was face deep in a bucket. Rainbow Dash was mouthing something like “That’s. So. Sick.” And there was the multicolored serpent again in the seat next to Porthos, laughing and eating nachos. Hauteclaire blinked and it was gone.

The King’s remarks weren’t making things better. “Marcus, you’re still missing your stomach! And most of your intestine. Hey! You got your spleen back!”

Marcus coughed to get the King’s attention. His lungs wiggled in his open chest, and the crowd retched again. “My king, you know that isn’t where I keep my fragment, it isn’t.” Marcus reached up under his hat and pulled out a shard somewhat bigger than Hauteclaire’s.

The King took it from Marcus, scratched off a small part with a finger and handed it to Hauteclaire. “Here you go, Hauteclaire. Happy birthday!”

Hauteclaire rolled his eyes, threw the piece into his mouth and swallowed.

“Oh Celestia, he didn’t wash his hooves!”

The Mouse King scooped up Marcus’ innards. “Man, you have a lot of emeralds in here. You could say you’re green with envy.”

A mare leaned over the railing and blew chunks.

I agree, that was a terrible pun.

The King dropped Marcus’ guts and squealed with joy. “Hey! There’s still some in here!” He summoned up a plate and a spoon, scooped brown and yellow gunk from the corners of Marcus’ torso and piled it on the plate. “Man, it sucks you don’t have a stomach, Marcus, you can’t eat anything!”

Once the King had scooped all he could find on his plate, he ran away holding his prize up high over his head, leaving Marcus to pick up his innards on his own. Oh great, now he’s going to mess with the ponies. Again.

Hauteclaire watched as the King ran back towards the booth. Up in the booth, Porthos was downing another bottle of punch and laughing, Godiva was missing, Fluttershy’s entire mane was now in cornrows, Rainbow Dash was absolutely emotionless, Applejack was frozen in place as well, the fillies had slipped out from behind Applejack’s hat and now appeared to regret ignoring Applejack's warnings, Pinkie and Rarity were fighting over a bucket next to an unconscious dragon (Pinkie’s tongue was swollen and covered in blue dots for some reason), and Twilight looked like she was about to throw up as well.

The King teleported back into the booth and held the plate in front of Twilight. “My Marcus makes the best apple pie! Try some!”

Godiva zoomed back in as well. “Hey, everyone, I thought you might be hungry after such an exciting performance, so I brought a plate of cookies! Here, Twilight, have a cookie!”

Twilight tossed her cookies on the plate.

The King smirked and stuck a spoonful of apple pie gunk in his mouth. “Guess she doesn’t like cookies.”