Rodion Schweitzer had the good fortune of leaving his estranged family, extensive debts, and world at a relatively convenient time.
As professor of Economic History at Novosibirsk State University, his paycheck was not particularly large nor in any way commensurate with the debts he had accrued in the course of pursuing his passions. While his father had urged him to follow his dreams, while he had still been a ‘functional’ alcoholic and married to Rodion’s mother, his father had not had the misfortune of growing up under Yeltsin (let alone those who came afterward). While a doctorate in Command-Economy Economics had been conducive to productive employment in his parents’ day, Rodion had had the misfortune to have been born a decade too late for him to have made anything but an academic career of it. His enthusiasm for German, the language of his forefathers, had been sufficient to earn him useful experience abroad. However, the Germans already had more than enough experts in his field. Even if he was an ethnic German, and therefore entitled to some measure of citizenship in their fine country, he had no desire to sweep floors for them when he could retain his dignity as a Doctor (albeit of a deeply outmoded field) and pursue his passions.
Or so he had told himself. Frankly, for some time now he had found himself wishing that he had stayed on in Frankfurt, or at least somewhere that wasn’t backwater Bavaria or so-trendy-it-hurt Berlin. Unfortunately, his beloved nation’s utter lack of sense in foreign relations had put an end to the possibility of him doing so for the foreseeable future. He thought it deeply ironic that Germany – of all places – should see fit to consider a man suspect for no reason bar the sins of his estranged father.
Of course, all of that was in the past now. Presently he was confronted by – or should he say, he was confronting? – a chest-high purple cartoon horse wearing dull steel barding. Or more accurately, he should say that it was a winged unicorn with a glowing horn and a startlingly human-like expression of contempt, which rapidly contorted into rage as the glow brightened to the point where it became uncomfortable to look at... and then fear as it winked out. Panting, the animal stepped back and took to the air. It spat out a demand, or possibly a query, in what he was pretty sure was English. If he had to guess, and he did, it was probably something to the effect of ‘What the hell are you?’
As far as smatterings of foreign gibberish went, it wasn't too hard to decipher. He'd met enough English-speakers for him to have picked up a couple of words, and his German could give him hints about the meanings of others. The rest was just tone-of-voice – assuming, of course, that he was reading its facial expressions, tone of voice, and inflection correctly. It was a talking horned and winged horse, after all. He felt very proud of himself for puzzling the creature’s words out for all of about three seconds, whereupon he realised that he might well have no way of actually talking with the creature. If his lack of communication provoked hostility, he didn’t particularly like his chances. While it wasn’t as tall as he was, it probably weighed more and had more muscle-mass. It also had that great big spike on its forehead. As if that wasn’t enough, the creature had wings and good airspeed. And the forest really wasn’t dense enough that it couldn’t follow him if it wanted too.
Plus, he was pretty sure that most horses were faster than humans on-foot. Or at least, faster than him. He’d been a beanpole when he’d left for Germany, but the beer – oh, the beer! Russia truly was a primitive and benighted land in some respects – had ‘fixed’ that particular problem at the cost of leaving him with a bad case of ill-fitting clothes. Also he tended to shit himself at the first sign of real trouble. He could only thank God, or whatever Gods were watching, that he hadn’t actually done that just a moment before. He’d kind of expected it, frankly.
Anyway, the Pegasus-unicorn probably wanted an answer. He could probably answer in English, but frankly he didn’t trust a language he only knew, what, twenty words of? He composed himself, taking a neutral stance, and stuck to German. “Hello. I am Rodion Schweitzer.” He bowed, having suddenly decided upon politeness or what he hoped passed for it in American(?) unicorn-Pegasus culture. “Who are you?”
“Queen of The Horseland and a Lunar Nightmare am I,” she declared with an American accent and iffy grammar. The accent wasn’t too strong, but frankly her ‘r’s sucked. Rodion was very proud of having fixed his own, and he often found himself holding it against other foreigners when they hadn’t done likewise. He felt that doing so now would be particularly unproductive. Besides, he supposed he should be glad that an American - or so he assumed? - actually knew a ‘foreign’ language. Hell, most people back home couldn’t really claim that. ‘Belarussian’ didn’t count as a foreign language anymore (as of last century)! Or at least, so he had argued. Vociferously. On many occasions.
“What are you?” she repeated. He realised that he had no idea what she actually meant by that. Given that he had never seen a Pegasus, unicorn, or Unicorn-Pegasus (Unisus? Pegacorn?) before he supposed it was probably a species issue. Still, he didn’t want to make assumptions. “I am a German-Russian.”
She frowned for a moment, then cracked a small smile. Which showed some very sharp teeth. Ergo, her species were omnivorous... or predatory. “So, all German-Russians are this handsome?” Flattery. A good sign! Probably. He smiled, with no small measure of genuine relief at the more casual turn.
“No, your Majesty. And are all Queens of Horseland this… captivatingly beauteous?” Seeing her smile, he could not resist adding, “And so very well-armored? I’m a big fan of the helmet, the engravings are very fine.” She looked a little confused towards the end, there, but seemed to have puzzled it through in the end. Probably. She had caught his gist, at any rate.
“Actually, the helmet is very light. It is not my best work, but I like it.” Before he could work out just how she had reached that particular misinterpretation, he sensed a change in her mood. “Upon you, my magic does not work. You are immune to magic?”
Naturally, he had no idea how to answer that one. He decided to be honest. “I don’t understand. I never even considered the possibility that magic might be real, until I saw you flying before me with such small, but very… shapely! Yes, very, shapely, wings...” Her mounting trouble understanding him gave him pause. He got him the feeling that he ought to simplify his language a little more in future. He was obviously not talking to a fluent speaker. “Your plumage is very fine,” he added, though it came out almost as more of a question.
Yep, her expression made it perfectly clear that he definitely needed to keep it simple. ‘Plumage’ was not exactly a common word, after all. Though for all he knew about flying-magic-horse language proficiency, perhaps it was. It would make sense. Abandoning the flattery, he spoke quickly to clear up any erroneous conclusions she might well have drawn. “What I meant to say was, that I didn’t know magic was real until just now. I don’t know if I’m immune.”
Her horn glowed again. It stopped, then started again. And again. She frowned.
She grinned, unsettlingly, and her horn glowed once more. A moment later, something – a pebble, going by the weight – hit his back.
“Yes. You are immune! But not unstoppable.” A thought seemed to occur to her, and she grinned. Then, her grin widened into a leer, and for a fraction of a second it seemed as if a dark look flickered across her features. Then, she smiled near-beatifically and spoke with calm authority. “All of Horseland is in danger. To kill me, terrorists will try to use dark magic. Rodion, will you help us? We could use your help.”
He thought back to her expressions. She was clearly very satisfied, if not gleeful, at the prospect of his aid. He thought the issue over a few seconds more, then realised that he was being rude.
“Excuse me,” he said, sitting down. “I feel a little dizzy all of a sudden. I didn’t have breakfast today, and I still don’t know where I am, or how I’m going to get to work today. I have a lecture at twelve, and it was eight when I left…” He managed to say that more-or-less on autopilot. He knew fine well that he wasn’t anywhere near Novosibirsk Oblast anymore. It was too warm for that, if nothing else, and frankly the whole forest smelled, and its trees looked, very different. Quite apart from the fact that it was the middle of the night, for God’s sake! At least the moon was out. And freakishly large, and bright, now that he actually had a moment to look at it.
Still, it bought him time to think. She wanted his help. If he really was immune to magic, as he seemed to be, then it stood to reason that she should want to improve her odds against her attackers. But then, did she not have guards?
Nodding along to her words of assurance, he noted that they were indeed alone. She may well be desperate for help, then.
‘She’.
The Unicorn-Pegasus may well be desperate for help.
The Unicorn-Pegasus Queen of Horseland.
She had landed nearby and was saying something reassuring about her honorable conduct as a ruler when he couldn’t help but laugh. It was all so…. surreal. He couldn’t help it.
To her credit, she didn’t seem offended - or at least, not after a brief flash of irritation - so much as puzzled. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not taking this as well as I thought. This all seems very, unreal. I think I might need to lie down…”
He almost-involuntarily flopped onto his back.
Okay.
Okay…
Okay, he had to get through this. Somehow.
Okay…
The Horse-Queen came into his field of view, and sat down beside him. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I'm fine,” he lied. He still had half a mind on working this thing out. You only met someone for the first time, once.
And the whole ‘terrorist’ thing had sounded pretty urgent. Not like some abstract, far-off thing, but immediate. Pressing.
He forced himself to focus.
Okay…
Okay. So the Queen obviously needed him. And maybe he could be of use to her.
But, did he need her? At all? The problem was, asking as much would make it seem more like he was helping her out of self-gain and not altruism. Which was true, but it wouldn’t help his position. He couldn’t just straight-up ask her how dangerous they were, either. However, the fact that they were out to kill her – well, the allegation that they were – was a pretty big clue. So… he could probably assume that helping her was probably a good thing for him. She’d owe him a pretty big favour, perhaps one big enough to get him back home. Or at least find him the nearest embassy. Not that, of course, the embassy would be very helpful, but it'd be a start. But what were the risks? He had to find out, but he also had to be subtle.
“I still don’t understand. Where am I? Where's Russia?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Russia? As in 'German-Russia?' I don’t know. Is it an old country?”
An odd question, to be sure. Still, one his cousins had asked him if Germany was real, once, or just a made-up place where the bad guys are from 'like Mordor'.
"Yes, Russia is very old."
"A thousand years old?"
He got a sinking feeling. "...no, but many hundreds." A thought occured to him. "Maybe... Novgorod? Kiev? The Kievan Rus?" She shook her head. He could feel his hopes fading rapidly. “Is it even on this continent? Is this America?” At her quizzical look, he corrected himself. “North America?”
Oh, hell. “Is this even on earth?” Or maybe magical winged horse-unicorns just had a different name for it? "How many planets are there in the solar system?”
She looked at him as if he had just grown an extra head. Then, she seemed to realise that perhaps it was not such an unreasonable question after all. “You ask me, how many planets there are?”
He nodded.
“One.”
He took advantage of the only-mostly-feigned despair at that revelation to have another good, long think. So he wasn’t on earth anymore… probably. WAIT A MINUTE. "Are you sure there is only one? Do you have telescopes?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, there is only one. Yes, we have telescopes."
Oh, great. He was on an alien planet. Surrounded by aliens.
Okay.
Okay, he could freak out later. He needed to get back. Probably. But if he wanted to get back? Her being on his side was probably a damned good idea. Or, maybe it was the only way he could get back.
“How could I even have got here? I don’t remember…”
“I know not. We have gates to other planets. Magical gates. But they are usually closed. When this is over, I will help you.” Well then, he needed her help if he wanted to get back. If. Frankly, now that he really thought about it? He wasn’t sure if he did. Then again, his brain was still half-fried. But if he wanted the option, he definitely needed her help. Probably. Still, she’d told him nothing about the risks. There was no sense in his mother getting a corpse, after all, when he could have lived a full life in Horseland as a…
…his mind blanked.
….he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
The problem, again, was that he had to be subtle. Fortune may favour the bold, but it did not favour the honest. “I can protect you from their magic,” he said, carefully studying her expression while trying not to look as if he were doing so. Not that he had any idea if she could really read his as he was hers. “But can you protect me from them physically?” At her puzzled look, he struggled to think of other ways to put that. “Can you protect me from stabbing? From hitting?”
She chuckled, darkly. “Of course! These terrorists,” she spat the word “are common folk. They are fanatics, but they have no training. They are small. They…” she ran her eyes over his body. “They only come up to your middle. They are only as tall as my belly. There are only three for you to handle. I can protect you, if you can protect me,” she declared proudly.
Well, he knew all he needed to… or at least, all he could weasel out of her without being too direct.
…
…well, he hadn’t really tried to weasel anything substantial out of her. Not really…
He found himself wondering just what the hell he could get away with. And then, an utterly mad - but undeniably amusing - notion struck his fancy. He was already grinning from the sheer ridiculousness of it when he proposed the notion.
…so to speak.
“Sounds good to me! Just as long as I get your hand in marriage and a ticket home,” he declared with the biggest shit-eating grin he could muster. She seemed shocked. Then, she unleashed a rich contralto laugh. Her voice was quite… sonorous. It was also somewhat deafening, adding a certain measure of pain to the otherwise surprisingly pleasant experience of bearing witness to it, the but that was neither here nor there.
When her laughter finally subsided, she spoke. “The first pony brave enough to suggest that to me, is you. But I refuse. You are… not to my taste.”
He feigned incredible hurt, with difficulty. This was his first time being called a "brave pony", and he suspected that he may still be feeling a little hysterical - it wasn't that funny. She stuck her tongue out at him. “You are too handsome. And you are too tall! My stallion cannot be taller than me.” She sobered up. “A ticket will be given to you, if I can find it. And I will always have uses for German-Russians like you.” He found himself truly wondering if it was his familial combination of ethnic Germandom and cultural Russian-ness that gave him his magical immunity, or it was just a Russian trait. Or a German one. Or, more likely, one general to all humans. Still, now was probably not the time for such subtleties.
Buoyed by her evident good sense of humor, and his perennial bad habit of pushing his luck, he spoke up again. “A ticket, German-Russian usefulness, and the job of General Secretary of Horseland.”
She raised one eyebrow. “‘General Secretary’? You are also the first pony strange enough to ask for that kind of job. That is not even a job... yet.”
‘It’s the first post that came to mind because it was Stalin’s ‘only’ job sounded’… well, it would open a whole other can of worms. Brutally amoral, Stalinist worms. Also, ‘Prime Minister’ sounded like it would entail too much actual responsibility. Unlike, say, a position which had only just been created but still kept the occupant from being a total moocher.
Probably.
“I like the job name ‘General Secretary’. And it means I’ll get to work for the most charmimbg member of royalty I have ever had the fortune to meet while I wait for that ticket.”
She seemed to figure it out after a moment, and smiled. “You won’t get anywhere with flattery, General Secretary Rodion. Now, we do have a deal?”
“We do,” he said, grinning. Unthinkingly he offered a hand, and after a moment’s hesitation on both their parts, she put her hoof in it. And they shook upon it.
She stood up. “It is done. Now, we have to win a battle. Come!”
Author's Note
Yes, Rodion is needlessly verbose and constantly delights in his own (perceived) cleverness. I'm afraid that's par for the course, given the style I'm going for. And yes, his reasons for thinking that Nightmare Moon is nice boil down to her being cute, polite, and having a sense of humor. It's amazing how far those three things can get you.
