Hauteclaire and the rest of the court were gathered around a table covered in sweets, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Porthos grabbed handfuls of pastries and shoved them into his maw; just as much ended up on his tabard as in his mouth. Porthos stopped scarfing sweets to let out a huge belch. Among the chewed globs that came out of his mouth was a tuft of brown and white fur. He flicked the hair ball off the table and continued eating. Godiva grabbed pastries one by one and nibbled them quickly out of existence. With each pastry she finished, she reminded the court that they must go say thank you to Pinkie tomorrow. Hauteclaire would pick up one sweet, sniff it, and if it passed the smell test, he would take a small bite. If he liked it, it got put to the side for later; if not, he would put it back in the pile for it to devoured by the other pigs. Marcus ate a single muffin, only enough as a sign of appreciation. The King was recounting his tales of the day between mouthfuls of sweets.

“...so after I fixed Big Mac’s legs and cleared out half the wing, gave them a cure for hoof rot, tonsillitis and horsentery, and performed a successful emergency c-section (“Awww. Pony babies!” chirped Godiva), I learned that there were also some of the pegasuses that we, I mean Hauteclaire, freaked out earlier, so I gave them the old mind wipe and *BOOM*!--” He shoved another pastry into his stuffed cheeks-- “No more paranoia or PTSD! The doctors were rather upset when I did that and started complaining to me about the ethics of doing such a thing; so I turned to them and I said, ‘Hey, are you lawyers or doctors? Because you’re trying my patience!’ Get it? Hahaha! Gaha, Gohoho, *COUGH COUGH* HURRRR.”

The King choked on his half-baked joke. Hauteclaire smiled.

After recovering from his coughing and choking fit, the King continued, “Well, they stopped complaining after they got a wipe themselves.”

Godiva put down the cinnamon roll she was nibbling on. “You only got rid of their nightmares, right? You didn’t erase their memories, did you?”

“Godiva, they’ll be fine. And even if I did mess up, they would have only forgotten the past week at most.”

Marcus wasn’t pleased with this. “My King, you know I have advised you against using that on the ponyfolk, I have. If word gets out about that, they will only have more reason to fear us, they will.”

“You’re saying they don’t?”

“My King, since when have you wanted to be feared, since when?”

The King opened his mouth to respond, but paused. He sat silently for a moment before he threw his half-eaten cherry pie on the table and took off. “Thanks, Marcus, you’ve ruined my appetite! I’ll be in my chambers.”

The court sat still and watched the King stomp out of the dining hall. It wasn’t until a while after they heard the door to his chamber slam that Porthos pointed to the remains of the pie splattered all over the table and broke the tense silence. “Anyone of you lads going to eat that?”

Hauteclaire, Marcus and Godiva shook their heads.

Porthos grabbed a handful and brought it to his mouth, but he stopped and dropped it back on the table. “Yeah, I’m not hungry anymore, either.”

“What was that all about?” asked Godiva. “We were having such a good day today. Why did he get so upset? Doesn’t he like to scare people?”

Marcus straightened up. “He does enjoy scaring the pants off others, but to be feared is... different.”

“What? How is that different than what we’ve been doing…”

Porthos interrupted Godiva. “It’s because, lass, the King has a date with the Princess!”

“Oh, really! He’s got a date with the Princess!? Oh, I wonder if he will get her flowers?What kind of romantic plans does he have for her? OH! That’s why he doesn’t want to be feared by the ponies, isn’t it? Because it would hurt the Princesses’ feelings if the King scared all the other ponies.”

Smooth move, Porthos.

Porthos quickly confirmed her line of logic. “That’s correct, Godiva! How can he woo the Princess if all her subjects are scared of him?”

OK, we don’t need to get her hopes up. “It’s not that kind of date,” Hauteclaire said. “The King has no romantic interests in the Princess. He just set up a formal dinner between two members of royalty to improve relations, not to sweep the Princess off her hooves. He just calls it ‘a date’ because he is… the King, for lack of a better word.”

Godiva’s smile sunk. “Darn. I was really hoping for something romantic. I’d really like to see a pony wedding.”

Porthos leaned over to Godiva. “That’s no problem, lass! We can just find the nearest chapel and ask when the next wedding is.”

“There are no chapels, churches, or cathedrals of any kind here, at least not in Ponyville,” said Marcus.

“Wow, Aquinas would have loved it here, wouldn’t he?”

Hauteclaire and Marcus grew tense the moment Porthos blurted the name of the King’s dead best friend out loud; Porthos, too, the moment he realized what he said. Only after several long seconds had passed and Porthos still hadn’t been set on fire did the three of them let out the breath they held.

Godiva continued to stroll through memory lane. “Yeah… And Gregor would love all the flowers and gardens these ponies have. I don’t know how he would have felt if he learned they grew them just to eat them, though. And I bet little Phil would have liked it here, too.”

Porthos leaned back and drifted off as well. “Aye. I remember how I used to entertain the soldiers. And how I would make bets with them like how I could hit the church bell with a rock from the the town center. Always surprised the greenhorns. Heh. Those were… better times.”

“By entertain, do you mean how you used to chug mead, belch the alphabet, and make noises with your armpits like the big brute you are?”

Porthos jumped up from his chair and raised a fist to slam Hauteclaire, but he resisted, probably because Godiva was sitting right next to him. He set the chair back on its legs and headed out the door. “I’ve got to be up early for chores tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

Godiva jumped up and skipped her way to the door after him. “Me too! Tomorrow I’m going to work with Time Turner! He’s a handsome stallion! Oh, I can’t wait for tomorrow so I can tell Pinkie Pie thank you for...” They could hear Godiva’s chattering as she made her way down the hallway.

It was shortly after that that the dining hall fell into silence. The quiet that hung over Hauteclaire and Marcus was too much, so Hauteclaire picked up his sweets and got up to leave.

Marcus reached out. “Brother, wait.”

Hauteclaire ignored him and continued towards the exit.

“Brother, Hauteclaire, please.”

Hauteclaire stopped. “I distinctly recall saying I’m through with you.”

“Brother, please let me explain, let me. I’m sorry for this morning, I am. I was thoughtless and inconsiderate, I was.”

“Do you really think that is why I’m angry with you?”

“No, brother, I know that, I do. Please believe me when I say this, but what I do and what I have done was because I thought it was the best, please do.”

Hauteclaire turned away from Marcus and headed for the exit again.

“Please, brother. Tell me what do I have to do for you to forgive me, tell me?”

Without turning around, Hauteclaire made his demands. “Tell the King the truth.”

“The truth, is it?”

“Yes, Marcus. I want you to tell the King who really wrote his favorite songs.”

Marcus was silent. He looked at the ground before him and rubbed his hands together before taking a large breath and letting it out slowly. “Fine, brother. I’ll tell him, I will.”

“Good.

“But first,” said Hauteclaire, turning to Marcus, “tell me why you’ve been doing this.”

Marcus took a deep breath. “It’s because, dear brother, the King is angry with you and he doesn’t like you.”

“The feeling is mutual, and that is no secret. He is quite adamant in showing his distaste in me by making a ritual of forcing me to relive my last moments in every world we visit. So why does he hate me so much that you felt you had to lie about who wrote his music?”

Marcus was silent for a long while, but when Hauteclaire started for the exit again, he blurted out an answer. “The King. His mind isn’t all there, it isn’t. He doesn’t know how to deal with his grief, he doesn’t. My mind wasn’t all there either, it wasn’t.”

“So why single me out? What have I done to cause the death of his best friends and the loss of his kingdom? If I recall correctly, I died fighting for him. Just. Like. You. And that was a long time ago.”

Marcus looked to the floor. “There was only so much space, there was…”

Hauteclaire took his sweets to a place where he could enjoy them.

Wherever Hauteclaire took his sweets, he felt the cold tingle of eyes piercing his back. As he walked down long, empty hallways of the castle, he kept an eye out for movement in the shadows.

After finishing his snacks, he walked out into the courtyard and filled his pockets with several handfuls of soil. As he patrolled the halls again, he would drop little eyeballs made from soil in the dark corners of the halls. Hauteclaire’s suspicions proved correct as the eyes caught the faintest movements in the shadows throughout the castle.

We have intruders. I must alert the King.

Hauteclaire headed straight for the King’s room. When he turned the corner, he saw a dim light glowing out from underneath the door. Hauteclaire put his ear against the door and heard voices that didn’t belong to any of the court. It seemed that the King was communing with the spirits again for guidance. Hauteclaire listened to the voices:

“...but to face the stress and spur of difficulty and challenge; to learn to stand up in the storm but to have compassion on those who fall; to master yourself before you seek to master others; to have a heart that is clean, a goal that is high; to learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep; to reach into the future yet never neglect the past; to be serious yet never to take yourself too seriously; to be modest so that you will remember the simplicity of true GREATness, the open mind…”

“Next!”

“The GREAT Society rests on abundance and liberty for all. It demands an end to poverty and racial injustice, to which we are totally committed in our time. But that is just the beginning. The GREAT Society is a place where…”

“Next!”

“I have a dream…”

“You’ve told me that one a thousand times! NEXT!”

Hauteclaire took a deep breath and calmed his nerves. If there was one thing the King hated, it was to be disturbed while communing with the spirits. It was something he did whenever he was in a mood, and if the King truly hated Hauteclaire for one reason or another, well, he would hate this. But what was the King going to do, kill Hauteclaire for good? He’d never stoop that low. Hauteclaire knocked on the door.

“Damnit! I’m in the middle of something!” called the King from behind the door. The other voices suddenly stopped, and there was the sound of rustling of furniture. There was a loud bang of wood. “Gah! Stupid coffee table!”

The door was thrown open, and there stood the King. His fur was a mess, and his crown was crooked. “Damnit, Hauteclaire, what’ya want!?”

“Your Highness, there are intruders in the castle.”

The angry look in his eyes disappeared. “What, really?” He looked around the dark hallway. “I don’t see any… Woah, hang on.” The King closed his eyes in concentration. “Let’s see, one, two… three… four… four. There are four intruders and…” The King looked around the hall again and smiled. “...they’re using magic to hide in the shadows. Oh, those mischievous ponies!”

The King smiled and patted Hauteclaire on the shoulder. “Well done, Hauteclaire! I’m surprised you noticed them. They were even able to slip under my radar. You have been nothing but surprise after surprise since we got here. I knew there was still hope for you!”

The King pulled Hauteclaire close and whispered into his ear. “Have you told anyone else yet?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Well, let’s keep this between us. If Godiva knew that there were invisible ponies hiding in this castle at night, she’d tear the place apart looking for them, and I plan on getting this place looking nice for my dinner with Princess Twilight.”

The King then leaned away from Hauteclaire. “Well, I’ll let our guests know that they’ve outstayed their welcome.” He walked (with a slight limp) to a corner of the hallway that was pitch-black in shadow. “That means you. Skidaddle. And take your friends with you.”

The shadow seemed to move at his command. A blob of darkness quickly darted through the hallway and out the nearest window.

The King put his hands to his sides, puffed out his chest, and smiled with pride. “Man, Haut, I might need to give you another raise!”

“So wait, the Mane-iac is just evil for evil’s sake?”

“Yup, that’s pretty much it, but it really depends on who the writer is,” said Spike as he sat in the library. Hauteclaire was sitting next to him with a comic opened in front of him. Next to Hauteclaire sat Hauteclaire, who also had another comic in front of him; next to that Hauteclaire sat another Hauteclaire with another comic. In fact, every seat at the table was occupied either by Spike or Hauteclaire, and there was only one Spike. Since the chores had already been done, Hauteclaire was spending some time learning about comics. After a bit of reading, he wasn’t sure if they were for him.

“Well, the most popular story is that the Mane-iac was a stand up comedian who wanted to try getting into the mane styling industry, but her husband was sick and needed money for an operation, and because she didn’t have enough money, she made a deal with the wrong crowd and in an accident when trying to escape the Power Ponies, she fell into a vat of chemicals and was dumped into the sewers. The chemicals messed with her brain and hair colors and gave her the powers she has now, turning her into the Maniac.”

Hauteclaire #2 raised an eyebrow. “That’s... somewhat tragic. Still doesn’t support why in this comic--” Hauteclaire held up The Mane-iac: Draconequus’ Advocate-- “the Maniac doesn’t receive a death sentence even after she is tried for the murders more than 2,000 ponies.”

“Well, in that one, it turns out…” Spike started.

“And in this one,” said Hauteclaire #5 while holding up another comic, “the Mane-iac is able to fight toe-to-toe with Mistress Mare-velous.”

“While in this one,” said Hauteclaire #7, “the Maniac can hardly take, let alone give, a punch.”

“And this is just silly,” Hauteclaire #4 chimed in while tapping an open comic (The Mane-iac Follows Suit) on the table in front of Hauteclaire # 3. “Where does she even get the money for all these ridiculous hair-brained weapons and trinkets? Seriously, she has a Mane-mobile and a Mane-gyro.”

“And in this one…”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up! How are you doing that?”

All of the Hauteclaires raised their right eyebrows. One of them spoke. “Do what?”

Spike threw out his hands at all the Hauteclaires before him. “How is it that you can build off one another and you all know what each other has read? And how is it that you’re not fighting over who speaks first?”

All the Hauteclaires put on the same smirk.

One Hauteclaire started his explanation. “Well, you see…”

“...I can do that because…” continued another Hauteclaire.

“...when I copy myself…”

“...or make any doubles…”

“...they can see…”

“...and hear…”

“...and think…”

“...all on their own…”

“...however…”

“STOP IT! YOU’RE DRIVING ME INSANE!” Spike was pulling on those green things at the side of his head.

“Fine. Any copy I make is free to act and think on its own, but we all share the same brain. Thus, whatever I see, hear and think, they can see, hear, and understand too. And vice-versa.”

Spike let go of what were probably his ears. “Wow. So that must be pretty useful, huh?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh! You could be a superhero!”

Hauteclaire laughed. Seriously, I’m more like a villain. “No, no, no.”

“Oh come on! You already have a superpower! And you got a mask, a cape and costume! All you need is a name! Hmmm…”

Seriously, do I look like a superhero? That is the second time somebody said that.

“How about ‘Multiple Mouse’?”

“No.”

“‘Multiclaire’?”

“No.”

“‘Mr. Manifold’?”

“Mr. Manifold… That feels good rolling off the tongue, but no. I’m not a superhero.”

“Oh, come on! You could take me on adventures with you! I could help you when you’re in a pinch with my amazing firebreath!” Spike blew a green fireball into the air.

“You mean like one of those sidekicks?” Wait. Didn’t I already have a sidekick?

“Well, no, but I could be a superhero to fight beside you! Hey, Hauteclaire? What are you looking at?... Hello?”

Hauteclaire sat on the Mouse King’s throne in the ruined castle and observed as several mice labored quickly to put the castle back in order. I still can’t believe that worked, thought Hauteclaire. He pulled out a mirror and observed himself. All I had to do was change my appearance, strut like him, and make a few threats, and boom! The castle is ours again! Now I just have to keep up the act until Porthos, Marcus, and Aquinas bring back the REAL King.

Hauteclaire threw his feet up on the matching red ottoman. This is great! Maybe I should try to make my own kingdom elsewhere.

One random mouse walked up to Hauteclaire. “You know, you could be helping us out.”

“Oh but I am. Can’t you see that I’m keeping the duke’s armies at bay? I must keep up my appearance and act like the King. So get back to work!”

The mouse huffed. “The King would be helping us! He wouldn’t be sitting on his ass and observing himself in a mirror.”

“I’ll have you know that…”

“I don’t have to listen to you! You’re not in charge. Godiva is! She’s the one that forced you to...”

“Why you little!...”

“HAUTECLAIRE! HAUTECLAIRE! You have visitors!”

The escalating fight between the faux King and the mouse came to a halt. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some kingly business to attend to.”

The mouse turned his back and returned to his work while grumbling some rather uncouth statements.

Hauteclaire turned to the mouse that came in shouting. The little runt, even smaller than the King, ran up to Hauteclaire. The large leather satchel that draped over one shoulder smacked the back of his legs as he ran. He stopped, pulled on the collar of his yellow-green shirt and fanned himself off with his matching hat.

Hauteclaire snatched the hat out of his hand and smacked the mouse across the face with it. “Damn it all, Philippides! When you address me in this form, you call me ‘Your Majesty,’ got it? We can’t let anyone outside know that the King still hasn’t returned!”

Philippides snatched back his hat and whined, “I know, I know… Haut--”

“Your Majesty.”

“Your Majesty, there are guests waiting to see you at the front gate. They say they come in peace and want to talk about cooperation, or something like that.”

“‘Or something like that?’ Phil! You’re a messenger! You’re job is to remember what people say! That’s it! How can you screw that up?”

“Sorry, Hauteclaire.”

“YOUR MAJESTY.”

“Sorry!”

Hauteclaire plopped back down on the throne. “I’m not seeing them. Tell them to go away.”

“But Hau… Your Majesty, they’re just like us! And there are only five of them.”

Hauteclaire scratched his chin. “What do you mean ‘like us’?”

“Ummm, they’re not human?”

“Fine, show them in. Then make sure that the guest chambers in the northern corridor are ready, and tell the chefs to fix up extra servings for five more guests.”

Philippides let his shoulders droop. “I have to do all of that?”

Hauteclaire facepalmed before snatching the hat off of Phil’s head and shooing him away with it.

Everything was dark. Hauteclaire couldn’t move nor speak. This was a lovely predicament he now found himself in. He had put on his best performance as King for the guests, but they had seen through Hauteclaire’s disguise. When he showed them to their chambers, they had ambushed him, took his fragment, tied him up, gagged him, and locked him in this trunk. Who were they, and how had they even known about the fragment?

Hauteclaire had to get out. He had to get his fragment back. No, he had to get out of here with his head still attached to his neck. Screw this! Was it really worth it? What hope did Hauteclaire have?

Just then, the lock clattered, and the lid creaked open. Oh crap, they’ve come back to finish me! Oh world, you have been a cruel and unfair mistress.

Hauteclaire closed his eyes and prepared himself to be lifted by the sharp claws that had thrown him in his wooden purgatory, that was until a nasal-y and somewhat annoying voice rang in his ear.

“Hauteclaire!? What are you doing here?”

Hauteclaire opened his eyes and looked up. Instead of some monstrous beast, there was a fellow mouse. Philippides!

“Philippides! They know the King is not here and are setting up an ambush! We’ve got to get out of here while we still can!” said Hauteclaire. Or he would have, if it weren’t for the gag in his mouth.

Philippides reached down to tug out the gag, but the sound of a door opening jostled them both. Philippides closed the lid and scurried away. Hauteclaire heard his tiny footsteps in the darkness of the trunk, as well as the door hinges creaking, much larger and heavier footsteps, and two voices.

“Well, what do you have to report?” said the smooth voice that belonged to the royal guest. The same one that had seen through Hauteclaire’s disguise and sicced his goons on him.

“Your Majesty, I have just gotten a report that the Mouse King has escaped the execution a while ago as predicted and he is quickly heading this way. He should be here soon,” said the rough, scratchy, yet feminine voice of the goon.

“And the Shield Bearer?”

“He gives chase, Your Majesty, but he will be here much later as he travels by ship, not wing. It will still be several days before he arrives. Shall we set up an ambush at the dock, Your Majesty?”

“No. Should things take too long or not play out accordingly, he will be our plan C.”

“What is your plan B, Your Majesty?”

Footsteps approached the chest Hauteclaire was in. The lid was thrown open. Hauteclaire looked up and saw two rats staring down at him. Both of them were tall and gangly. One of them wore a regal crown and a cape in a similar fashion to the King. Everything about him was pointy. His fur, his nose, his ears, his fingers. He looked like he could skewer something to death by giving it a hug. The other rat stood taller than the royal guest; she had on a black hood and tabard over mail that clinked as she slinked about. A long, double-edged pole-axe was hanging off her back.

“The bard?”

“Yes.”

“He’s useless! Let me behead him!”

“Ah ah ah, not yet. The Mouse King loves all his subjects dearly. If something were to happen before I can convince him to share with me the location of the brain, we will use the bard’s life to bargain for it.”

“And the Shield Bearer, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve manipulated him once already, I can do it again.” The royal guest smiled, bearing his pointy, yellow teeth.

“And what if the Mouse King were to see through our plans before the Shield Bearer arrives, Your Majesty?”

“Then I unleash the rats in the walls and kill everything here, and we will search for the brain the hard way.”

The hooded rat bowed low. “Oh great Rat King, you are brilliant as you are brutal!”

The Rat King’s ghastly grin grew. “Yes. Yes, I am. And you are my executioner. You will have plenty of heads to chop off once I get my hand on that brain.”

A knock came on the door. The Executioner closed the lid to the trunk, plunging Hauteclaire back into darkness again.

“State your name and business with the Rat King!” demanded the Executioner.

A muffled voice of a mouse soldier came through. “Our midday meal will be served soon. Does Your Majesty have any special requests?”

“Give me your finest wine. Today is a day worth celebrating.”

“Um… Of course, Your Majesty. And if you’ll pardon my rudeness, is Hau… the Mouse King with you? He wasn’t in his chambers.”

“Oh, I’m sure he went out for a moment.”

“Thank you. Your meal will be ready for you in the dining hall in just a few minutes.”

Hauteclaire was glad that the soldiers had noticed his absence in such a short time. There was still hope for him yet.

“It seems likely that we may have to unleash the rats in the walls soon. Come. Let us watch them enjoy their last meal together.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The door to the guest chamber opened and closed again. Soon afterwards, the pitter-patter of tiny feet on stone and carpet made its way towards the chest and Hauteclaire.
The lid to the chest creaked open again. Philippides reached down and took the gag out of Hauteclaire’s mouth.

“Did you hear that, Hauteclaire!? They’re after the King, and they’re going to kill all of us! We must flee! Get out of here before they come back! I’ll get my things and...”

He plans to kill all of them. Me, my brother, the King… I can’t possibly survive this! I need to get out of here, but… Oh lord, I… I… I’m going to regret this.

“Philippides! Shut up and listen.”

Philippides stopped his incessant crying. “I need you to do something for me. We must alert the King, but I cannot leave this trunk, and no one else must know about this!”

Philippides opened his mouth and continued to whine. “What!? I can’t do anything! Did you see how big they were!? I’m tiny! I’m a runt! They’ll flatten me! We must leave now while we have a chance!”

“Dammit Philippides, we leave now and everyone is going to die, including Gregor!”

“No, he will be fine. Big brother is strong. He can look after himself. Let’s go!”

“God da… Look, Philippides, you want a piece of my fragment?”

This caught Philippides’ attention. “Yes! I do! The King won’t give me one!”

That’s because you’re a whiny little runt that runs away from danger and took the easiest job there was. “Well, you saw the one in a black hood and tabard? She has my fragment. You get it from her while she is eating in the dining hall and bring it to me, and I’ll give you a piece of it. Deal?”

Philippides nodded. “Great! I’ll get big brother to help me and…”

“NO, PHILIPPIDES! You must do this on your own. You can’t tell anyone else, because if the mice start acting strangely, the Rat King will kill us all! Do you hear me? You can’t tell anyone.”

“But… but... Nnnnngh!” Philippides wanted to argue, but he just slammed his fists on the side of the chest. “Fine, I’ll let you out, and you can help me figure out what to do.”

“DAMMIT, PHIL! I CAN’T LEAVE HERE BECAUSE IF ANYONE SEES ME, THE RAT KING WILL KNOW HE’S BEEN FOUND OUT AND WE ALL DIE! Now, close the chest, go to the dining hall, and GET MY FRAGMENT FROM THE EXECUTIONER!”

“Alright! Alright! Just stop yelling at me!” He closed the chest and ran out to the dining hall.

Death, I’d never imagined we’d become acquainted so soon.

After a few minutes that seemed to pass on for an eternity, a loud commotion could be heard coming from down the hall. It sounded as if Philippides had failed in his mission, and all-out war had broken out in the dining hall. Hauteclaire began to say his prayers, as he knew that there was no way he could escape now.

The lid to the chest flew open. Hauteclaire flinched, ready to have an axe come down and finish him.

“Hauteclaire! I did it! I did it!”

Hauteclaire dared to open an eye and took a peek. There was Philippides, gasping for breath and covered with what must have been today’s midday meal. In his hand, held between his thumb and forefinger, was a shining blue fragment. “I got it, Hauteclaire! I started a food fight and I slipped it out of the executioner’s tabard without her noticing! I did it! I did it!”

Hauteclaire smiled. “Quick! Give me the shard!”

“I want my piece.”

Hauteclaire frowned. “You’ll get it once I get out of here, now GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

“I did it! Hauteclaire! I outsmarted them both!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said a familiar voice.

Philippides squeaked in horror, dropped the fragment in the chest and dropped the lid to the chest.

“Wha-wha-wha-”

“What? Aren’t you happy to see me? You didn’t think I wouldn’t feel your hands all over my body? You think you’re so clever by starting that food fight, don’t you.”

The door slammed shut. There was the scraping of some heavy furniture being moved. Most likely to block the door.

“Well, let’s see you outsmart my axe!” The Executioner’s heavy footsteps clanked on the ground as she gave chase. The pitter-patter of Philippides’ little feet couldn’t be heard over his screaming and the sound of splintering furniture.

Hauteclaire needed to get the fragment, and fast, or else he and Philippides wouldn’t leave this room alive. The fragment had fallen in a corner of the trunk. Using his nose, Hauteclaire moved it closer to his mouth.

I just need to hold it to use it and get out of these ropes. Come on…

He did his best to ignore the screams and the smashing that continued outside his wooden prison. When the fragment was finally close enough, Hauteclaire picked up the fragment with his lips.

Got it!

The lid to the chest smashed open, splinters rained down on Hauteclaire’s face. Just inches away from his face was the axe. “GAAH!” The shard fell into Hauteclaire’s mouth and he swallowed.

Oh crap.

“Hauteclaire!”

“What!?”

“You’ve been staring off into space a little bit. I thought you might have gone brain dead or something,” said Spike with a little concern in his voice.

“Why did you think that?”

“You mean you didn’t feel it?”

“Feel what? I don’t…”

The Hauteclaire copies all looked at Hauteclaire, then it became apparent to him. At some point during his his trip down memory lane, somebody shot an arrow into his head. The copies turned into clouds of dust and floated outside the window as Hauteclaire pulled out the arrow and inspected it. There was a note tied to it.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” asked Spike.

“It doesn’t when he doesn’t want them to.”

“How does that work?”

Hauteclaire wiggled his fingers. “Magic.”

Without looking at the note, Hauteclaire tossed the arrow out the window.

“Hey, aren’t you going to read the message? Or did the message contents get magically transported into your brain through the arrow?”

“No, and no. Are these the kind of things that comics make you think of?”

“Hey! They are very creative and tell very exciting stories!”

“Right. But they are so… creative. I mean, an organization of bad guys working together just to spread evil and chaos? That is the silliest idea I’ve…”

“Hey, Hauteclaire.”

“GAH!” Hauteclaire jumped out of his chair. Behind him was Godiva, and she was holding the arrow with the note. “What do you want!? Shouldn’t you be helping Timmy Turner or something like that?”

“Hauteclaire.” Godiva stepped closer to Hauteclaire. “Why are you fighting with Marcus?”

“Wai- Wha- That doesn’t concern you. What are you doing here?”

She pulled out another message from her dress, unrolled it, and read it. “Godiva. Could you please check to make sure Hauteclaire reads the message I sent him? We had a bit of a fight yesterday, and I’m afraid he may still be angry at me. Please make sure he reads the letter. And please tell him I’m very sorry and I will do ‘it’ tonight for him as promised. Thank you. Marcus.”

Godiva rolled up the letter and put it back into her dress. “Why are you two fighting? We are on vacation. Please don’t fight on our vacation. Please?” She tilted her head down and looked up at Hauteclaire with her big eyes.

Hauteclaire crossed his arms. “And why shouldn’t I? He’s been keeping a secret from me.”

“Because he says he’s sorry, and he really means it. Can’t you tell?”

Hauteclaire leaned closer towards Godiva. “He says a lot of things. He’s the advisor. He’s the one who deals with the inhabitants of each place we visit. He knows how to talk and make you believe him no matter what he says. I’m not going to forgive my brother just because he’s got you convinced. And it doesn’t take much to do that, now does it?”

Godiva eyes twitched. “You don’t mean that, do you?”

Hauteclaire crossed his arms and answered with silence.

“You should really consider yourself lucky to have such a great brother like Marcus. He does a lot to look after you, you know?”

“Like lie to me?”

“He would never lie to you! He’s your brother. He loves you, Haut.”

“Well, the feeling isn’t mutual.”

Godiva’s eyes became damp. “Fine, be a jerk.” She dropped the arrow and stomped out of the room.

Spike picked up the arrow and looked at Hauteclaire. “You are definitely not a superhero.”

The little dragon untied the string holding the note. Hauteclaire quickly snatched it out of Spike’s claws. “Hey, this letter is for me.”

“Geesh! What’s got your tail tied into a knot?”

“My brother! That’s what!”

“If you’re going to be a jerk, I don’t want to hang out with you.” Spike grabbed his comics and walked out of the library. “Mr. Manifold sounds more like a supervillain’s name, anyway.”

Hauteclaire let out a “harumph” and returned to the letter that was now unrolled in his hands.

My dear brother Hauteclaire,

First of all, I am truly sorry for what I have done. Tonight, I will tell the King that his favorite songs have written been written by you. Please understand that I did this because I thought it was the best thing to do given the circumstances, but in hindsight, I haven’t made the wisest decision. Hauteclaire, I am truly sorry for driving this wedge between us. We used to get together so well before the exile, and I wish we could go back to the way things were.

I know it is very sudden and you may not want to hear from me, but I have a huge favor to ask of you. I have overextended myself and I cannot fulfill all the promises I have made. Of all of us, you’re our best hope at improving our image and relations with the ponies while educating them about us, our culture, and the world we came from.

This is important, and I trust you will bring us a resounding success.

Hauteclaire, in my place, I would like you to spend a little time answering questions at the local elementary school.

Author's Note

Hang on... There were four spies, right? I saw three at the beginning, where is the fourth?

Oh well.

How you enjoying the story so far? Especially since you finally got a small peek at the court's life before the exile.

I'm working on a few other things at the moment that I can't wait to share!