I’d suffered thousands upon thousands of bitter lashings from the tongue of Prince Blueblood, and yet for the longest time I placidly nodded and smiled whenever that vile serpent slithered his way into my life. You must be wondering why and how I had the great restraint and patience to not redden the white of his cheek with a strong and well placed hoof strike for his belittlement's. It was not a matter of honor that kept me from it, nor was it the fact he was nephew to our beloved princesses, these facts did not concern me at all. So why put up with him then? Well, to put it bluntly, I simply desired not to stoop to a level that either matched, or went lower than him. What was that? Why was I being mocked by an arrogant and spoiled brat? Sadly it was the result of a downward economic spiral that hit our fair nation. My dear Fleur and I were of the nouveau riche and we’d enjoyed the lifestyle that the vast quantity of wealth had brought us. Once the economy took a hit, so too did our wealth. We’d never fully recover from this terrible disaster. As for the Prince, he thought it a bit of fun, at least for him, to deal a verbal blow to the nouveau riche who’d lost either everything or a large sum.
So the verbal whippings continued for quite sometime. Much of his slander was of a juvenile caliber, I’ve heard of colts barely out of their diapers who could form more articulate libel, so these were ignored. However, in one particular instance, he had managed to spew from his sewer of a mouth an insult of such unmitigated vulgarity, that even those present besides my wife and I were stunned into utter silence. He had, with such audacity, flung this insult towards my dear beloved. That sniveling, arrogant, pompous, self entitled little bastard, had the GALL TO DARE INSULT MY DEAR WIFE AND BRING HER TO TEARS, AND IN FRONT OF THE EQUESTRIAN ELITE NO LESS?! Oh I should have just rushed right up into his face and unleashed the entirety of my rage onto him until he was NOTHING...BUT A BROKEN, CRYING PILE OF GELATINOUS FILTH THAT WOULDN'T EVEN BE FED TO PIGS!
...Forgive my outburst, my friend, it seems that even after all these years, that one day will forever remain a deep crater within the very fabric of my soul. He could insult me personally, he could insult my loss of wealth, he could even insult the damage to my legacy, but on the day he insulted my wife, he went too far. It was on that day I swore his slight against my beautiful flower would be avenged. Understand this, by no words or by deed had I given the Prince any suspicions to my true motives. I merely wore the same smiling mask I always wore in his presence. The fool had no idea that this smile was at the thought of his assured demise in this life and the next.
The Prince, though somehow garnering a reputation that demanded both respect and fear...how does a mincing, primadona, little BASTARD COMMAND RESPECT LIKE THAT?! IT JUST…*ahem*, sorry. Despite this...undeserved reputation, he possessed one fatal flaw. I imagine it must be difficult for you to comprehend that statement, but the simple fact is that even the nephew of Celestia is not invincible. No, this stallion who fancied himself among the gods had the greatest Achilles hoof; he was a slave to the bottle. To give you an idea of how much he enjoyed his drink, he could drink the griffon’s god Thorvald under the table. Bait for the trap would be easy enough to acquire, my only problem was choosing the time and place to do the deed away from prying eyes.
As it would turn out, luck was in my favor for this endeavour, as the Carnivale season had commenced the week after the...unforgivable incident. Ah, I can still remember the festivities...the smell of many horderves like shrimp pleasantly marinated in a decadent cocktail sauce, to the loud boom of fireworks, and the lovely masquerade ball. This was a time of joy for many of Equestria’s upper crust; for two weeks in the spring, they’d come from everywhere to socialize, dance, drink, and on this night...yours truly would set his plan into motion.
I remember that Celestia’s sun had begun to descend over the horizon, the sky was turned into a magnificent hue of orange and pink, while Luna’s nighttime gems were preparing to sparkle and dazzle. I was calmly walking amongst the writhing mass of ponies, my eyes moving to and fro, searching for my prey. After what seemed like half an hour of searching, I located him, the fool. He was, rather appropriately, donning the motley of a common court jester. The costume’s colors were contrasting green and purple, the motley itself seemed to hug his body, and adorned on his head was a cap and some bells. He was cavorting and raising goblet after goblet of a red liquid, which could have been any number of the fancy red wines he had stored in his own private cellar; a better description for his vast collection of wines would be an ocean of many colors and tastes that he could easily drown in.
After a few more goblets, he staggered over towards me and nearly tripped into me. I managed to catch the drunken stooge before he could knock both of us down, and smiling the same pleasant smile, I spoke to him.
“My dear Prince, how fortunate for you I was here to prevent an embarrassing incident. Celestia knows your reputation would have been in tatters. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you, my liege. You see, I’ve acquired a pipe of what is believed to be De Grave, and I have some suspicions.”
“How…*hic*,” he replied, his breath reeking of a mixture of Pinot Noir and Cabernet Sauvignon. “A pipe of De…*hic*...Grave? In the middle of Carni…*hic*...val? Impossible! You jest dear Fancy…*hic*...Pants.”
“I have my suspicions, and like a common fool, I paid the full price for it without having consulted your expertise first.”
“De Grave?”
“I have doubts.”
“De Grave!”
“And my doubts must have satisfaction.”
“De..*hic*...Grave!”
“I see that you are presently occupied, my good Prince. I’ll see if Hoity Toity can confirm or deny my suspicions. If any an eye can tell one wine from another, surely he…”
“That overrated, pompous old wind…*hic*...bag couldn’t tell De Grave from common apple cider.”
“I hear that his taste of the finer things is a match even to your own.”
“I’ll tell you if you got…*hic*...De Grave or some common cheap…*hic*...hick wine. Let us go to your vaults and see…*hic*...about this De Grave.”
“Oh my liege, I couldn’t possibly impose upon you this trivial task. I shouldn’t distract you from your current affairs. Hoity…”
“I’m not presently engaged to any sort of commitments…*hic*...come, let us not dilly dally.”
“My dear friend, it is not the task that troubles me, but the dampness of my vaults. You’re more vulnerable to catch cold in your state.”
“Bah! A cold is of no consequence to me. You’re in need of a true…*hic*...connoisseur. This De Grave, or whatever wine it may…*hic*...be has been imposed on your person. And as for Hoity, I tell you his taste is not as sophisti…*hic*...cated as mine. You’re in better hooves with me.” And with that, he and I proceeded to my villa on the outskirts of Canterlot.
The servants were no where to be seen in the villa. I’d given them the night off so they might enjoy merry making in the spirit of Carnival. Such wonderful ponies, they deserved a night of fun. I fetched us a pair of torches and we proceeded to cross a few rooms before we approached the archway leading down to my vaults. We crossed down a long and winding stairway. It took a while to reach the bottom foot of the staircase, as Blueblood’s gait was very unsteady; I had to practically carry him like I was a crutch until we had arrived at the vaults. The ground was moist and damp, and the air reeked of a musty odor.
“The De Grave,” Blueblood spoke, clumsily walking while the bells on his cap jingled. “Where is…*hic*...it?”
“It’s farther in the vault,” I replied, “My dear Prince, I insist that we turn back. The dampness of these vaults will have you catching cold.”
“Ha! I shan’t be catching…*hic*...a mere common cold…*ugh!*-*ugh!*-*ugh!*.” He found it impossible to speak for a few minutes.
“I told you this would happen. Come dear Prince. We must return. You are a stallion to be missed. I couldn’t bear being responsible for your illness. Besides, I have Hoity…”
“Bah! A measly cough won’t be the end of me. I’ll not die of some common…*hic*...*ugh!*-*ugh!-*ugh!*-*ugh!*...affliction.”
“As you wish, my Prince.” I wrapped an aura of magic around a small bottle in the wall and levitated it to him. “Here, a taste of Sherry might aid in defense of the dampness.” His own magic aura yanked away the bottle and he brought it to his lips.
“A toast…*hic*...to Carnival…*hic*...and the joy’s it brings.”
“To your good health and long life.” He emptied the bottle in a breath and tossed it aside. He wrapped a hoof round my neck and we continued on.
“These vaults…*hic*...they’re quite vast,” he spoke.
“I mirrored these vaults after many of the most noble Equestrian family’s.”
“Remind me again what your crest was…*hic*?”
“A hoof in a field of gold, crushing a viper, who in turn sinks his fangs into the hoof.”
“And your motto?”
“Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“Wonderful…*hic*.”
We continued down deeper into the vaults, the sounds of his drunken hiccuping and coughing reverberating off the walls. As we strode deeper and deeper down, I had continually given the Prince many more wine bottles; Medoc, Merlot, and some Burgundy. After what seemed like hours, we had reached the more secluded part of the vault. The air was smothered in the scent of musk and decay. We had arrived to find a niche in the wall. While seemingly not ornate and rather small, about three feet wide by five tall, it would prove serviceable to my intentions.
“The De Grave rests within,” I spoke, “As for Hoity…”
“He is an…*hic*...idiot,” he replied as he entered the room, I of course following close behind. As he drunkenly stumbled around looking for the De Grave, I took the opportunity to levitate some old iron chains and shackles that laid within the niche. Poor fool, never knowing that the only De Grave in this place would be his own.
As I secured the chains and locked them tight, I spoke to him in a concerned manner.
“My dear friend, I pray thee we must return. No? As you wish. I’m afraid I must leave you.”
“The De…*hic*...Grave,” he replied, having not recovered from his drunken and bewildered stupor.
“Yes...the De Grave.” I exited momentarily to fetch the supplies of brick and mortar I’d placed in advanced. I delicately began the laborious process of laying down mortar and brick, tier by tier, building up a strong and sturdy wall. As I finished laying down tier three, I heard the rattling of chains, the jingling of bells and grunting. I looked to see the fool trying to shake loose his bonds. I stood there, bewildered as to how he managed to sober up, when I had ensured he be so drunk he couldn’t even stand on his own four hooves without a crutch. I continued laying down mortar and brick, reaching the sixth tier of the wall. The Prince soon started to plead and scream for aid. I could only smile at his attempts to summon help. I replied, aided, even surpassed his own screams in volume.
Hours passed me by and the task was near completion. There remained only a single brick to lay into the wall and the serpent would be out of my life forever. As I laid the mortar for the last brick, I could hear soft whimpers coming from within the nearly completed wall, then what sounded like...laughter...very shrill and weak laughter.
“An excellent jest old bean. He...ha...ha...ha...he...he, Bravo sir. Well done. We’ll be sure to share in this laughter in the villa over our wine.”
“The De Grave.”
“Yes...ha...ha...he...he...ha, the De Grave. The hour is late, should we not be heading back? I mean what of dear Auntie Tia? And the others? Surely they must be worried? Let us head out.”
“Yes...let us head out.”
“For the love of Faust, Fancy Pants!”
“Yes...for the love of Faust.” To these words, I heard not a reply.
“Blueblood!” No answer.
“Blueblood!” Still no retort. I slipped the torch in through the small space before finally sealing the last stone in place. I could only hear the jingle of those bells he wore. As I turned to depart, a strange...sickness...overtook my chest. It must have just been the damp air of the vaults, yes...that what it was. Just a reaction to the dampness, nothing more.
Well my dear friend, you now know my greatest secret. I’m sure I’ll answer for it in the next life, but maybe, just maybe...I might yet still not face judgment for it. It has been a long time...fifty years to the day, and the poor fool still hangs there. One last toast to the fool before my departure. It’ll be a fitting toast, and in the spirit of this toast, let it be a glass of De Grave.
