The Prisoner of Zebra

by Tumbleweed

Rating: teen
Tags: Romance, Changelings, Carrot Top, Comedy, Adventure, Fancypants, Flash Sentry, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Zebra
Length: 22567

Flash Sentry: hero, heart breaker ... and self-admitted coward. For the first time, he details his own undeserved rise to heroism (as well as the trouble such a reputation brings him) in his own words.

Flash Sentry: hero, heart breaker ... and self-admitted coward. For the first time, he details his own undeserved rise to heroism (as well as the trouble such a reputation brings him) in his own words.

Published 2016-11-17 02:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2017-03-28 02:58:46 UTC

Some Notes on The Text

The years leading up to and directly after the dawn of the post-Celestial era (colloquially known as the “Times of Twilight” in regards to the era's central figure) have long been subjects of rigorous academic study (as well as not-so-rigorous depictions for entertainment's sake). Historians have been especially lucky to have the resource of Princess Twilight herself to offer first-hand information of those tumultuous times in which gods fell and new ones arose.

However, Her Majesty's meticulously recorded letters and accounts cannot paint a complete picture of Equestria at the time. There are, of course, a variety of other sources, such as Glimmer's Grimoire, the semi-apocryphal Sunset Epistles, or even more folkloric examples such as the Pink Ballads of Ponyville. All of these works are well known, and well studied. For years, the prevalent line of thought in most historical circles operated under the assumption that all the first-hand accounts of the time had already been discovered.

It is my great pleasure to prove the exception.

I made this discovery by accident. About a year ago, I discovered a battered old chest (more of a hoof locker, to tell the truth) hidden away in the back of an old antiques store in Canterlot. The old mare behind the counter was more than happy to get rid of it, contents included.

Once I dragged the dusty old chest home, I admit that I left it to sit in a corner for an embarrassingly long period of time. Then again, what are a few months to something over a century old? It wasn't until a gray, rainy day that I cracked open the old chest and began to peruse its contents. Once I dug past the dented armor, the empty liquor bottles, and a … robust collection of vintage pornography, I found a collection of unmarked, cloth-bound journals.

After careful study and authentication, I have concluded that these journals are none other than the personal reflections of Knight-Colonel Flash Sentry, C.C, T.S.S. While Sentry is mentioned in passing in many accounts of the time, he has remained somewhat of a cipher over the years. It just goes to show how eventful the Times of Twilight were, that the first pony to be awarded both the Celestial Cross and the Twilight Sparkle Star (and more lesser commendations to count) is mostly forgotten in favor of more colorful characters such as Sky-Commander Rainbow Dash.

With this in mind, I have taken the liberty of organizing and presenting the Sentry Papers for your perusal. I have tried to keep to the original text as much as possible (with occasional footnotes for clarity's sake). Given Flash Sentry was known more for his soldiering than his authorship, any spelling or grammatical errors within the text have been left in for accuracy's sake.

To say the content within these journals is controversial is an understatement. Flash Sentry moved in far different circles than Princess Twilight and her famed friends did-- and so, his journals provide a glimpse into corners of Equestrian history and society that have gone forgotten until this very day. I can only hope that the reader will find the following journals as enlightening as I did.

Princess Twilight Sparkle has not yet replied to my correspondence.

-George MacIntosh Fresian.

Flash Sentry and the Battle of Canterlot

I've always been a coward, which is why I joined the Royal Guard.

There's more to it than that, mind you. As my grandfather was wont to remind me at every Hearth's Warming's Eve dinner, the Sentries have long been known as stalwart and martial sorts, stretching back to the pre-diarchal period in which the various pegasus kingdoms amused themselves by throwing thunderbolts at each other. Ol' granddad used to tell a story about how my great to the nth-power grandfather once got blasted with lightning over thirty times without flinching, which certainly says something about his fortitude but also implies something about his common sense.

I, on the other hoof, inherited none of my family's renowned courage. Oh, I can puff my chest out and flare my wings with the best of them, but the mere sight of blood (specifically, mine) is enough to reduce me to a trembling wreck.

The thing most ponies don't realize about the Royal Guard is that they don't actually do anything. Princess Celestia's never been the sort to need guarding, what, with the magical immortality and ability to toss the sun about and all that. Anything that could pose a threat to Princess Celestia would be far, far more powerful than a couple of stallions with ceremonial polearms. On top of that, Equestria had been at peace for decades, so there was hardly a need for a standing army.

I came to this realization during one of ol' granddad's holiday tirades, and thus a career was born. Looking back on this in my old age, with my grandchildren scampering about my hooves, it's frankly absurd that my entire career was based on a single, terribly misguided epiphany at the dinner table. I blame ol' granddad-- if he hadn't complained so much about how the Royal Guard spent all their time just standing around looking official, I never would've started envisioning myself in a crested helmet.

If I'd half, or even quarter of an inkling of what I was getting into, I would've pursued a safer line of work, like bear wrestling. I at least make it a point not to tell war stories around the dinner table like my grandfather did. A good thing, too, as it's been so long I can barely keep my lies straight anymore. Better they think me some old and stoic soldier. At least, until somepony finds these journals long after I'm gone.

But I'm rambling. I'll not bore you with the details of my training-- there's only so much to be written about wing-ups and endurance exercises and what have you. And that's before you get into the meticulous attention to uniform forced on you by obsessive-compulsive officers. At least that last part proved useful, as there is nothing that will draw a young filly's eye like a well-polished helmet*. Incidentally, there was very little training in actual violence-- just a sign of the peaceful times we lived in.

*Not an euphemism. I hope. -G.M.F.

Upon receiving my first commission, Lieutenant First-Class Flash Sentry was assigned to Canterlot. And, of course, with the lack of a proper war to fight, I spent my days parading around and looking official and my nights parading around in a far different matter. If you'll forgive my vanity, I've always been something of a looker-- with the added martial allure my Royal Guard-ness lent me, I was downright irresistible.

For a few too-short months, Royal Guarding was as wonderful as I thought it would be. Oh sure, standing around looking shiny for hours on end was a chore, but I managed to pass the time by ogling up the near-constant stream of hoofmaidens and ladies-in-waiting and other high society sorts. Though to be fair, many of them ogled me up in turn, on account of my dashing handsomeness. And, if I just so happened to run across a hoofmaiden or two in the evening, well, what two (or sometimes three, if you're lucky) consenting adults do with themselves in the wee hours of the morning is nopony's business but theirs. I'd say I'm not going to name names on account of being a gentleman, but to be honest I can't remember a good half of them. Those days were, understandably, some of the best of my storied life.

Things went to hell with a wedding, as they usually do.

“I can't believe the likes of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza is bothering with the likes of him!” Prince Blueblood lamented, and drained another snifter of brandy.

“Oh c'mon, Bluey,” said I, “not jealous, are you?” The Sentry name still carried some weight in some circles. This, combined with my inherent dashingness, opened up quite a few doors for me. In particular, my family's reputation opened up the doors to the Trotter's Club, a cozy, mahogany-paneled refuge for Canterlot's various nobilities. This included Prince Blueblood-- a colt even more of a bounder than I was, which meant of course we got along swimmingly.

“Jealous? Me? Of course not! It's just the principle of the thing. To think, a lady of her standing, deigning to dabble with a common soldier. No offense intended, of course.” Blueblood amended, and waved the bowtied bartender over to top him off.

“None taken.” I patted Blueblood on the back, perhaps a littler harder than I should have. “But still, it's not surprising. Ladies can't resist a man in uniform, and Captain Armor's known for his dress reds. Maybe you should give it a try. I'm sure you could pull a few strings, get yourself a commission somewhere.”

“That is the worst idea you've ever had.” Prince Blueblood said, even as a rueful, not-entirely-sober smile crossed his face. “For one, I'm already royalty, so joining the Royal Guard to watch over myself would just be silly.”

“It might make the job easier.”

“Ha. Ha.” Blueblood said, in a properly aristocratic deadpan. “Honestly, I don't see how you could make such a suggestion with all the commotion going on right now. The whole city's blockaded, a force bubble's blocking out the sky, and there are guards posted in every tower and battlement. If I didn't know any better, I'd be … concerned.”

“Bah.” I said. “It's all theater. Political theater. I thought you knew better, Prince Blueblood.” I grinned. “A princess' wedding is bound to attract every diplomat, dignitary, and debutante for miles and mile around. Therefore, Princess Celestia's more or less obligated to trot out everything she's got in order to impress them. They'll go back to their little duchies or provinces and what have you, and tell everyone how unassailable and impressive Canterlot is. It'll be all hooves on deck for the next day or two, but after that everything will be back to normal.”

“Speaking of which, shouldn't you be on duty?” Blueblood furrowed his brow. “The wedding's in just a few hours.”

“Ah.” I smiled, and patted my helmet from where I'd left it on the bar. “I am on duty. With all the goings on, I had the brilliant epiphany that Canterlot must be protected from threats within as well as threats without. I ran the idea past Captain Armor. He agreed, and sent me on an … irregular patrol, let's say.” It's also worth noting that I spoke with Shining Armor shortly after his beloved Princess left his chamber. She'd left him in such a post-coital daze that he'd agree to anything. Lucky colt.

“And now, I can honestly say the Trotter's Club is free of any danger or sedition.” I grinned, and then took up my helmet once more, checking my reflection in the mirror behind the bar to make sure my crest was set at an appropriately rakish angle. “Now if you'll excuse me, Bluey, I've got some patrolling to do. Canterlot's got quite a few establishments that warrant investigation. I don't suppose you'd like to tag along? You know, for the good of Equestria and all that.” I quaffed my drink and upended my glass on the bar with a little flourish.

“Ha!” Blueblood's laugh was genuine, this time. “That is the kind of soldiering I could get behind. But … Princess Celestia has made it quite explicitly clear where I need to be during the wedding, and what'll happen if I'm not in place.”

“Playing Groomsman or somesuch?” I asked.

“The opposite. Princess Celestia's put me all the way on the other side of town. Something about keeping me away from the bridlesmaids.”

“Our benevolent monarch shows her wisdom again.” I patted Blueblood on the back again, and then turned and made it for the door. “I shall endeavor to protect the bridlesmaids in your absence, good chap.”

“You're welcome to them.” Bluey said. “I've heard that those ponies are in Princess Cadenza's entourage.”

“Those ponies?”

“Ah, you weren't here for last year's Grand Galloping Gala, were you? I envy you, to be honest. For some unfathomable reason, Princess Celestia's latest protege brought a band of hooligans from Ponyville to the Gala. It was disaster.” Blueblood shuddered. “If you know what's good for you, you'll stay clear of the lot of them. Especially the unicorn with the purple mane.” Blueblood shivered at the memory.

“I think I should be able to handle just one unicorn.” I said with a grin. “Us Royal Guardsmen are made of sterner stuff.”

That sterner stuff was soon put to the test. I am proud to say that, by the time the wedding bells started to chime, I'd cleared every pub, tavern, and wine shop in a three block radius around the castle of any potential danger. I took a brief detour through the castle gardens for certain biological reasons (it's funny how often one ignores the number of fountains in Canterlot until they're brought to your attention).

As I approached the grand hall from the gardens, I saw a flash of green light flicker across the great hall's windows, followed closely by a great, hellish commotion.

“Funny,” I mused aloud, “I thought the screaming and evil laughter came after the wedding.”

Without warning, the force-bubble Captain Armor had encased the city in earlier shattered. I spouted off a few choice obscenities, and snapped my attention upward. The sound of broken glass chimed over Canterlot from all directions, and then the hellish buzz of untold insectoid wings washed over me, loud enough I could feel it in my hooves.

There's nothing quite as sobering as fear, and in a single heartbeat I was as dry as a teetotaler. I could only watch in abject horror as the changelings bore down on the city, cackling and hissing and otherwise sowing chaos in their wake. The changelings rained green bolts of magic down at random, blasting hoof-sized craters out of the castle walls and masonry. One such bolt passed close enough by me to singe my feathers, and I cringed away with a girlish shriek.

“Sentry!” A stern voice behind me snapped me out of my shock. I turned to see a burly gray stallion in Royal Guard armor (albeit with oak clusters etched into his pauldrons)** rush out from around a corner. “Thank Celestia you're here! We've got to secure the castle!” He pushed a spear into my fumbling hooves (butt first, thankfully), and then went charging off towards the castle as if he could fight the whole damn flock of them by himself.

**Sentry doesn't mention the Royal Guard's name, but, based on his (admittedly short) description, cross-referenced with personnel files and other first-hand accounts of the Battle of Canterlot, I have reason to believe Sentry crossed paths with Major Garnet Miner, himself a figure of some note.

This went as well as one could expect-- which is to say, badly. A trio of changelings spiraled out of the sky, quickly surrounding the brave but foolish colt, at which point they opened their fanged mandibles and vomited some noxious green slime all over him.

The would be hero flailed and shouted in dismay, but soon found his limbs encased in the quick-drying sludge, sticking him to the ground. Two of the changelings started hissing at each other, likely debating who got to eat the idiot's brain first, while the third one took off after me.

Again, I shrieked, but the high-pitched cry was lost amongst the countless other screams filling the city. Some old pegasus instinct kicked in, and I flared out my wings, preparing to take flight. Unfortunately, the magic bolt that had nearly fried me moments before had still left my wingtips unpleasantly tingly and unresponsive. I managed a few wingbeats to get myself into the air-- but before I could go any further, the changeling crashed into me.

I had just enough time to watch the monster's multi-faceted eyes go wide in dismay as he closed in-- a moment later, I registered why. Even as I tried to make my escape, I hadn't let go of the spear that the grey guard had foisted on me. And as I took to the air, the point of the weapon lined up with the changeling's advancing course-- as fast as it was going, the giant bug had no chance to slow down. I'll never forget the force of that impact, the sound of the impact. Razor-tipped steel punched through chitin, and a good several hoofspans out the changeling's back, like a specimen of the world's largest entymologist.

The changeling was dead before it hit the ground, but its momentum wasn't, and so its body slammed into mine. We tumbled over and over in the grass, and too-warm ichor gushed from the spear wound, fairly showering me in the foul-smelling stuff. Dazed, I could only think of how much of a pain it'd be to re-polish my armor when I made it out of all this.

If I made it out, a more sensible part of me noted.

I shoved the dead changeling off of me, and rolled back to my hooves. The two that had been tormenting the grey guard looked up at me-- and even with their alien features, I could tell they were shocked. I must have made quite the fearsome figure-- wings flared, feathers singed, spattered with gore. We stared at each other for a long, long moment, until the two changelings shared a look amongst themselves, and then bolted, no doubt in search of easier prey.

“One down!” The gray guard said, even as he tugged fruitlessly at his shellacked hooves. “Just a thousand more to go!”

For lack of anything better to say, I chanced a look upwards at the changeling-darkened sky. “I think there's a lot more than that.”

“Then that'll leave some for everyone!” The guard said, finally giving up his struggles. “You've got to get help, Sentry! Go, rally the troops-- all we need's a squad of ponies like you, and we'll have these bastards whipped by sundown!”

I wondered if the changelings had already started nibbling on the poor sod's brains, as a squad of ponies like me could only conquer a tavern, and even then it'd be chancy depending on the clientele. I sensibly kept my mouth shut, however, and just nodded a vague agreement.

“Now go!” said the trapped pony.

I went.

The military term is “tactical withdrawal.” The more accurate description would be “running like hell.” I heard particularly loud cries of battle (including several salvos from a confetti cannon) coming from the direction of the Royal Vaults-- so naturally I went in the opposite direction as fast as my hooves could take me.

What else was I supposed to do? I'd been lucky with the first changeling, but I knew there was no way I could singlehoofedly route an entire invasion. Hell, even if I somehow rallied the whole of the Royal Guard, we'd still be damnably outnumbered and outmagicked.

I kept to the streets, galloping from one corner to the next when the buzzing changelings weren't looking. It would've been faster if I took to the air-- but even a Wonderbolt wouldn't have been able to fly through such an endless swarm of adversaries.

Lungs burning, legs aching, I flattened my back against an alley wall, narrowly ducking past another changeling patrol. For once, Canterlot's labyrinthine sprawl of winding streets and pushed-together buildings worked in my favor. I was just as lost as I'd be under the best of circumstances, but so were the changelings. I just had to duck the changelings long enough for someone magical and alicornish to resolve the matter. Or, barring that, I'd just have to make a break for the train station and see about getting out of Canterlot as soon as possible. You know, to spread warning of the treacherous changeling attack. Or, technically, that major had ordered me to get help. He hadn't mentioned where the help was supposed to come from …

As I concocted a convincing sounding excuse to abandon my post, a door in the wall beside me opened.

“In here!” Somepony hissed. “Quick!”

Under normal circumstances, I would've been more cautious, but the ear-piercing buzz of the changeling swarm was growing louder and louder. I ducked into the open doorway, and slammed it shut behind me. No sooner had I done so, I found myself nose to nose with one of the most beautiful mares I'd ever seen (and even in my youth, I'd seen more than a few). She was a unicorn with a minty-green coat and a short-cut mane that, under normal circumstances was likely styled to be slightly disheveled, but the afternoon's events had made the ruffled look far more authentic. She wore the tattered remnants of a bridlesmaid's dress-- apparently one of the few to make it out of the Royal Hall intact.

“You're with the guard!” she said, breathy.

“Er, yes.” I managed. “I'm on a … a secret mission. Very hush hush.” Not the best of lies, but it'd have to do. I chanced a look around. We'd taken refuge in an office-- that of an insurance agency, if the sign on the storefront window was to be believed. And with the destruction outside, whoever owned the agency would certainly have their work cut out for them afterward.

The corner of the unicorn's lip turned up in the sort of sly smile that, in other circumstances, would've gotten my full attention. “Hush hush.” She said. “I can work with that.”

“Work with what?” I scooted closer to the window and peered out.

“Get down!” The unicorn said, and pounced upon me with surprising strength. She dragged me down to the floor and rolled atop me, pinning me in place. It would've been downright pleasant, if it weren't for my backplate digging into my spine.

“What're you--” I began, but the unicorn just put a hoof to my lips.

“Hush hush,” she said.

Sure enough, the drone of the changelings buzzed past the little insurance office, loud enough to make the windows rattle. My heart beat faster and faster-- for multiple reasons. I thought about making a break for it, but with so many changelings so close, I'd be covered in adhesive puke within moments. That, and, with each passing moment, my place beneath the minty-green pony became more and more enticing.

The buzz trailed off, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. I even managed a giddy, half-mad laugh. “Damn, that was--” I trailed off as I found myself looking up into an honestly lovely pair of adoring eyes. “Close?” I said, suddenly dry-mouthed.

Just one near-death experience is enough to drive a pony a little mad, and by my count, I'd already racked up several that day. And so, when that minty-green unicorn mashed her soft lips onto mine, I was only slightly surprised. There's nothing so life-affirming as a good romp, and when the world is coming down around one's ears, it seems like the perfect chance to get one last fling in. Plus, the ol' Flashy charm isn't exactly something I can turn off, either.

That minty pony certainly knew what she wanted. Without taking her mouth from mine, she used her magic to work at the buckles of my gore-spattered armor. I'll at least pretend to be a gentleman and not tell you what she did with her hooves.

She finally broke the kiss, leaving me lightheaded and gasping for breath. My eyes fluttered blissfully closed, and I lolled my head back. “Er. Not that I don't appreciate the attention, Miss, but maybe we should find someplace more … comfortable? And safer. Safer and comfortable. Yes. Do you think they have a couch in the basement?”

“Oh no, this will do just fine.” Her voice was sultry. Too sultry. Certainly too much in control for a wild and uninhibited post-danger romp. “I want you all for myself.”

“All for your … “ I opened my eyes, and instantly regretted it.

There was a shimmer of heatless flame, and the ravishing young mare's form shimmered, giving way to a black carapace and a set of drool-spattered mandibles. The changeling licked her (at least, I presumed it was a 'her,' given I've got no idea how bug-monster anatomy works) fangs and leaned close to me. A too-long tongue lolled out from her mouth with a life of its own, and dragged up the side of my cheek, leaving a smear of warm goop in its wake.

“I've never fed on a Royal Guard before. All that bravery. Loyalty. Power. Mmmh.” The changeling flared her transparent wings out, and cackled.

“B-b-but I'm a coward!” I blurted, and shrank back against the floorboards. “A cad! A scoundrel! A rake! No valor here! I'd make a terrible meal. Terrible!”

The changeling narrowed her (I'm just going to go with 'her') eyes at me, and then shrugged. “Fear almost tastes as good.” She said offhandedly, and then started to open her jaws far wider than any creature should have any right in doing.

I cringed and shut my eyes, preparing myself for a messy, brain-eaten demise. There was the faintest of pricks at my neck as the changeling touched her fangs to my skin--

And then the world exploded.

I'll assume you, dear reader, already know how the Battle of Canterlot ended. But if you had a sub-par elementary school teacher, I'll give you the gist of it. Princess Mi Amore Cadenza channeled the power of her magic love into Captain Armor's special barrier, which hit the changelings with enough force to send them flying past the horizon. Quite saccharine.

What the popular histories don't mention is what happened to any changelings that happened to be inside when the magical shockwave hit. Nor do these histories mention what happened to the one particular changeling who wasn't just inside, but also intimately entwined with yours truly.

The shockwave caught both me and my paramour-turned-predator like leaves caught in a fast-flowing river, and slammed the both of us into a bookcase-- which in turn fell over, burying us in deductable charts.

While the other few changelings unfortunate enough to be inside when Captain Armor's spell hit were either smashed through windows or splattered against interior walls, 'my' changeling was lucky enough to have a durable, mostly-armored pony to absorb a good deal of the impact. It was still enough to knock the both of us senseless, however.

Thus, when the rescue party arrived, they found Lieutenant Flash Sentry, his usually polished armor absolutely filthy with changeling blood, locked in mortal combat with a fearsome changeling. Hell, not only had I fallen in the line of duty, I was responsible for taking the only prisoner of the Battle of Canterlot, which was no doubt a boon to the Equestrian Intelligence Service.

The kicker was, I didn't learn any of this until I woke up in a hospital bed, several days later. I wasn't the only hero of the day, of course, as the wedding celebrations had eclipsed most accounts of my so-called 'bravery.' Still, it was enough to get me awarded the Celestial Cross. Though really, I appreciated the bandages around my head far more than the medal on my chest. There's nothing quite like a few bruises to get the pretty nurses oh-so-ready to help with one's convalescence. Physical therapy, you know.

So that's the real story of how I came by my Celestial Cross-- as well as my own undeserved reputation for heroism. I haven't told another soul, until I sat down to pen this account. If I'd known then what I know now, I would've confessed my incompetence and cowardice then and there, and had done with it. But, young and foolish as I was, I thought the worst was behind me, that there was nothing more to do but enjoy the accolades of heroism, as well as the female attention that came with it.

How wrong I was.

Flash Sentry and the Flash of Steel

“Princess Ianthe is a lady of the utmost refinement and taste.” Fleur de Lys said in her soft, gently lilting tone. I couldn't place her accent, but it was certainly an enticing one-- to match a rather enticing woman. “And she will expect you to be just as proper as she is. If not moreso.”

Under normal circumstances, I would've been thrilled to sit down at a dinner table across from a unicorn like Fleur. But, given the circumstances, I was a little justifiably distracted. Plus, even the most delicious of dinners and the most beautiful of dining partners become tiresome after the sixth hour or so. Had this been a proper evening out (with a properly improper mare, I might add), we'd be finishing up our late night cocktails and/or making good use of the nearest hotel room, depending on how enthusiastic we were. Instead, the lesson in regal manners just stretched on and on and on.

“Right. Proper.” I looked down at an array of silverware extensive enough to give a lycanthrope a heart attack. “Honestly, it's not like I've never been to a formal dinner before. All you've got to do is start at the edges and work your way in. So long as I don't start wiping my mouth on the tablecloth, it should be fine, no?”

“No.” Fleur narrowed her eyes at me. “The slightest breach of etiquette could set off a chain of events that you could never imagine. If you use the wrong fork at the wrong time, you'd insult the chef-- or even the national dish of Zebrica. The sort of diplomatic wrangling it would take to address such a matter would be … considerable.”

“What is the national dish of Zebrica, anyway? Nothing barbaric, I hope." A terrible thought dawned on me. "Good gracious, you don't think they eat ... meat, do you?" I shuddered, suddenly nauseous.

“And that is why we're having these lessons. Even so much as implying that Zebras are carnivorous is a grave insult, built on years upon years of blood libel.” Fleur's elegant brow scrunched into a furrow. “And for the record, Zebrica's national dish is a corn-and-rice pastry known as masa. It's quite tasty, actually, if you can find someone who can prepare it right. Which is quite rare outside of Zebrica, I can tell you.”

“Wait.” I studied Fleur de Lys for a moment. “You've been to Zebrica?”

“I've been to a lot of places. Comes in this line of work.” She said, offhandedly.

“I don't suppose you painted stripes all over yourself in order to blend in?”

“No.” Fleur said, flatly. “And there's another subject you'd better not bring up in Princess Ianthe's company.*”

*Fleur is, of course, making reference to the fad of 'Zebra Plays' a century or so prior, in which ponies would paint themselves with varying (if almost always inaccurate) striped patterns in order to play Zebrican characters. Incidentally, the rhyming dialogue of these plays proved somewhat accurate to the speech patterns of Zebrican Shamans, if entirely by accident.

“Fine, fine. Honestly, at this rate, I won't be able to talk to the Princess about anything at all.”

“If only it were so easy.” Fleur said.

“Are you done yet?” Golden Harvest trotted in from the direction of the kitchen. “I'm tired of playing waitress.”

“Maybe some costuming would help?” I flirted by reflex. “You know, one of those lacy aprons and the silly little hat? It'd be quite a fetching look on you, I imagine.”

The ol' Flashy charm hit her with all the effectiveness of a snowball on plate armor: it didn't do anything but make her colder. Between Golden and Fleur, the villa had a damnable shortage of available ladies. Entirely too many racy spy novels had led me to believe that most espionage was little more than complimenting femme fatales on their cocktail dresses, and then helping them out of said dresses a little while later. One can imagine my disappointment at the sort of training I received.

“Perhaps you're right, Goldie.” Fleur mused. “We should probably take a break from etiquette. Maybe focus on the more … surface aspects of Flash's disguise.”

Golden Harvest blinked, and then turned her lips up in the sort of devious smile that made my knees weak (and not in a good way). “Got it. This way, Flash. Or should I say … your highness.” She trotted over and fairly well dumped me out of my chair, before none-too-gently pushing me out of the dining room, and into the villa's central courtyard. Fleur followed with measured, elegant steps, neatly snagging a photograph of Prince Percheron from an endtable along the way.

“You might not act like a prince,” Golden Harvest said, “but we can at least make you look like one. Sit.” She shoved me down onto a bench, and then looked over at Fleur. “How long will it take you to work your magic?”

“Not very.” Fleur said.

“Good. I'll go get my kit.” Golden Harvest trotted back into the house.

“Oh, I get it now!” I said, relaxing a little now that the irate earth pony had slipped off. “This is a makeover, isn't it? Ladies love makeovers. Never really had much need for it myself, since I'm this handsome naturally. Lucky me, eh? Though really, Miss de Lys, you've got quite a radiant look about you yourself-- er, wait, why is your horn glow--”

I stopped talking when Fleur blasted me in the face.

It took me a moment to realize that I hadn't been vaporized, or immolated, or even transmogrified into some lesser form. The sizzling smell of powerful magic still hung in the air, tickling the inside of my nostrils. An undignified, sneezing fit struck me for a few terrible moments, until I finally got myself under control.

“Excuse me.” I said, and wiped my nose with a hoof-- only to find an unfamiliar bristliness beneath my nose. “Excuse me?” I said again, and poked at the voluminous mass.

“Mustache spell.” Fleur explained, and held the framed portrait of Prince Percheron at just the right angle so I could see myself reflected in the glass, almost an overlay of the prince's photograph. "Surprisingly useful."

“Ah.” I stroked at the vaguely tusk-like facial hair. “This … may take some getting used to. But better than spirit gum, at least?”

“The best disguise is an authentic one.” Fleur said, prim as ever.

“Very authentic.” Golden Harvest trotted back into the courtyard, balancing an enormous oaken chest on her shoulders without the slightest show of effort. She shrugged one shoulder, and the bit of iron-bound luggage hit the ground hard enough to send tremors up through my hooves.

The earth pony kicked the chest with one back leg, and it sprung open. Polished steel glimmered from within, showing off enough razor-edged cutlery to outfit every kitchen in Canterlot, and then some.

“You've got to be the best equipped hairdresser I've ever seen.” I said, hopefully.

“Not quite. I'm actually going to take care of another important detail.” Golden Harvest pulled a frankly ridiculous looking mask out of the chest, and tossed it to me. “Put this on.”

“What is it?” I looked down at the thing-- a pair of steel-edged goggles set on either side of a metal noseplate, with burlap straps to hold it in place.

“Perchetanian dueling mask.” Golden Harvest spoke slowly, reassuringly, as if she were speaking to a particularly dense child.

“A Perchetanian what?” I backed up a step, only to bump into Fleur de Lys.

“Dueling mask.” Golden Harvest reached into the chest again, and her hoof came out with a monstrosity of blades and buckles wrapped around it.

“And what is that?” My heart started beating faster and faster, building momentum. I glanced upward-- just a few flaps of my wings could carry me away from this madness. Perhaps sensing my thoughts (one never can be too sure about unicorn magic sometimes), Fleur put a gentle hoof between my shoulders, and that merest touch was enough to hold me in place. I had a reputation to live up to, after all.

“Perchetanian dueling blade.” Golden Harvest made a few practice swipes with the weapon, whooshing it through the air with blood-curdling expertise. She took another one out of the chest, and then trotted over to buckle the abominable thing around my forehoof. I could only stand in stunned silence as she strapped the ridiculous metal mask over my face, next. The mask was old and smelly, and the goggles blocked off my peripheral vision like a set of blinders.

“I'm sorry!” I blurted. “I didn't mean the thing about the lacy apron! Unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing but apparently you're not which is just fine but it's not anything that's duel-worthy, wouldn't you say?”

Golden Harvest rolled her eyes. “Prince Percheron has dueling scars. You don't. We're going to fix that.”

Obligingly, Fleur floated Prince Percheron's portrait over. The scar along his hairline stood out like a neon sign. Not a classy sign, either. More like the sign to the sort of disreputable hotel that rents rooms by the hour. Not that I would know anything about such establishments, but I digress.

Equally glaring was the gleam of sunlight on the steel around Golden Harvest's hoof.

“Perchetanian Duelling is one of their somewhat … odder traditions.” The earth pony idly looked over her weapon, like she was examining a hooficure. “One doesn't win a Perchetanian duel, per-se. Rather, the whole point is to just stand there and trade blows with your opponent until one or the other comes out with an impressive looking scar. The goggles and nosepiece are there to make sure those scars aren't too terribly disfiguring. They say Perchetanian ladies find the scars attractive, but I don't see the appeal.”

“So you're saying these maniacs go about maiming each other on purpose? That's insane! That's barbaric! Thats--”

“That's Perchertania for you.” Golden Harvest said with a little shrug. “Now, rear up on your back hooves, and we'll get this over with.” She nodded to Fleur, who gave me a little push forward.

“So you're just going to cut me with that thing?” I stammered, eyes locking on Golden Harvest's terrible weapon.

“Just a little.”

“You can't!” My voice came out an octave and a half higher than I would've liked. I cleared my throat, and looked around to make sure nobody else besides the two mares had heard my squeak. “I mean. Er. You don't even have a mask on. It'd be unsafe!”

Golden Harvest just smiled that terrible smile of hers. “Don't worry about me. I've trained in just about every martial art you could name, plus a few you couldn't. You won't touch me.”

“Then why'd you give me this … thing in the first place?” I shook the heavy thing on my hoof, and did my best not to dismember myself.

“Seemed sporting. Now, en garde!”

Golden Harvest bore down on me with a flurry of blows-- I reacted on instinct, and whipped my own hoofblade up to fend her off. Steel rang on steel as the maniacal earth pony hit hard enough to send sparks flying in all directions. I fell back a step, and Golden Harvest mirrored the gesture.

“Good.” She said, still smiling. “You're getting the hang of it. Nice thing about Perchetanian dueling blades, they're very … instinctive to use. Kind of like a sharpened horseshoe.”

“How … clever.” I said.

“And now that you've got the hang of it, we can really begin.” With that, Golden Harvest lunged at me again. I reared up on my back legs, swinging my own blade at hers to counter. I thought it was a savvy move, until Golden Harvest did something faster than I could see, and a searing pain tore through my scalp.

“Augh!” I cried, and fell to my back. I at least had the sense to cradle my head with my unarmored hoof-- otherwise I might've done Golden Harvest's job for her. Still, the sight of blood (mine, specifically) on my hoof was enough to make my eyes water and my stomach churn. “You've murdered me!”

Golden Harvest glared down at me, disgusted. “I can't believe Fancy Pants pulled me out of Ponyville for this.”

Fleur de Lys just shrugged.

“Sweetie Drops isn't the only one who's gotten used to civilian life, you know.” Golden Harvest grumbled, and then prodded me in the side with her unarmed, slightly-less-lethal hoof. “Get up.”

“Why, so you can carve me up again?” I may have whined. Just a little. But you would too if you had an earth pony with a carnivore's bloodlust after you.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Golden Harvest said. “We're not done. Prince Percheron's got another scar along his jawline. It'll be easier to give it to you if you're standing.”

“That's hardly an incentive.”

“I said easier. Not impossible. Doesn't make any difference to me.” Golden Harvest rolled her neck with a faint crackling noise. “Honestly, I thought you'd be made of sterner stuff, from what I heard about you.”

Damnation. That did it. I tried (however badly) to put on a brave face, and pushed myself up to my hooves again. I tried to ignore the feel of blood (my blood!) pouring down the side of my face. “Right then, let's get this over--”

Golden Harvest's bladed hoof whizzed past my face, drawing a shallow cut along my jaw. At least I didn't break down bawling, that time. Instead, the speed of it, the pain of it, just shocked me.

“There.” Golden Harvest flicked droplets of blood (sweet Celestia, so much blood) off of her Perchetanian dueling blade, and then set about undoing its straps with her teeth. The barbarian.

The telltale glow of Fleur's magic neatly unbuckled my mask and fighting gauntlet, and then pressed little bits of gauze to my grievous facial wounds. Fleur's lovely face filled my field of vision, and for a moment, I thought I saw the faintest glimmer of compassion in her eyes. She put a hoof to my chin, tilting it up, gently-- the soothing touch was almost enough to make me ignore the throbbing pain of my mauled face. Almost. There was blood in my mustache, which combined two strange and decidedly unexpected sensations.

“Good job, Goldie.” Fleur said, and then held up the picture of Prince Percheron once more. “Once these scar over, Flash will be identical to the real Prince Percheron.”

“Until he opens his mouth.” Golden Harvest started tossing her weaponry back into her chest of horrors.

“We've still got time to work on that part.” Fleur took her hoof from my chin, and used it to push a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let's head to the study, Flash. You could stand to brush up on your Zebrican history.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me.

“After all that, you expect me to get back to studying like nothing's happened?” I dabbed a bit of gauze along my cheek and tried to ignore the vivid, nausea-inducing red staining it.

“I expect some light reading would seem more pleasant in comparison.” Fleur said.

I stared at her, and not in a pleasantly lovestruck way, either. “You're insane.”

“We're spies. It's part of the job, Flash. Or should I say … your highness?”

Flash Sentry and the Importance of Ceremony

“I hope you've enjoyed yourself.” Fancy Pants said as he poured me another brandy. “You're out here, enjoying the company of two fine young ladies, being literally treated like a prince.”

“At least the food's not bad.” I muttered. Based on Fancy Pants' cheery demeanor, Fleur and Harvest had neglected to tell him about the dueling-scar episode two weeks prior. Or perhaps they had, and he'd just chosen to ignore it.

“Hah!” Fancy Pants took swig of his drink, and shook his head. “You haven't seen anything, yet. There's even rumor that they're bringing in Gustave le Grand to bake your wedding cake. There are ponies who would kill to be in your horseshoes right now.” Fancy Pants' tumbler stopped halfway to his mouth as he considered his statement. “I suppose I mean that quite literally. What, with the intrigues and all.”

“Intrigue?” I tried to turn to the brandy for some tiny bit of comfort, but a better part of the liquor got stuck in my newly-grown moustache. I still hadn't gotten used to it, after all that time, which I took as an indication that I was destined to remain clean shaven (or, at most, dashingly stubbled in a properly rugged style).

“Intrigues. Plural.” Fancy Pants said. “I won't bore you with the details. Need to know basis, and all that. It's better you don't know.”

“It's better I do know.” I said. “Especially after all you've put me through.”

“Therein lies the rub, Flashy. We've spent the last few weeks turning you into Prince Percheron … and, as it happens, there's a great deal that Prince Percheron isn't aware of. Therefore, it's easiest to make sure you're not aware of it either.”

“Until somepony starts intriguing at me.”

“Possibly, yes. But your surprise at the assassination attempt will be genuine! I believe the term is 'method acting.' Quite popular these days.”

“Did you say assassination?”

“Attempt. Assassination attempt. It's unlikely-- but not impossible that someone may try to disrupt the wedding-- and the alliance. But, I promise you, you are in safe hooves. Not only will you have the entirety of the Perchertanian military standing watch, but you'll also have Golden Harvest accompanying you in disguise. She's one of the best agents in the service-- she'll be able to provide any assistance you need.”

“Here's to hoping I won't need assisting.” I unconsciously rubbed at one of the scars that loony earth pony had given me. They'd closed up already, but wouldn't stop itching. It was almost as bad as the moustache.

“Yes, yes, I'm sure you'd much rather go grapple with some changelings again, but in this case, a lighter touch is needed. Fleur and I shall keep an eye on things here-- we've got quite a few irons in the fire, you know. Or, rather, you don't know, because it's--”

“Need to know.” I said with a little groan.

“Ah! You're catching on already!” Fancy Pants drained his brandy, and set his snifter down on the table. “In any case, we'd better call it a night. Your airship leaves early tomorrow. Once it's underway, we'll all be counting on you, Flash Sentry.” The unicorn grinned at me, and winked. “Or should I say, Prince Percheron?”

My journey to Perchertania was even more of a blur than my scant two weeks of training. They plunked me down on a fast but luxurious airship, and set off on a southerly course before the crack of dawn. As I watched clouds roll by, I briefly considered just leaping over the airship's railing and fleeing as fast as my wings could take me, but I soon decided against it. While Golden Harvest was decidedly wingless, I wouldn't put it past her to have some contingencies up her proverbial sleeve. That, and I didn't relish the prospect of having to explain my dereliction of duty. After all, the Flash Sentry who had singlehoofedly throttled a murderous changeling into unconsciousness would leap at another opportunity to serve Equestria, no matter how secretly.

And so, I spent most of the trip to Perchertania in a fugue of disbelief. I would've written it off as a dream, but for the uncomfortable itching of my recently acquired dueling scars. I didn't even have it in me to get drunk, because as we got nearer and nearer to our destination, the liquor just felt flatter and flatter on my tongue. The threat of a horrible death does tend to do a number on one's appetite. The crew, either sworn to secrecy or just too busy with the running of an airship, gave me a wide berth. Golden Harvest did too, which was a relief.

I wound up spending most of my time at the bow of the airship. To a pegasus, there's something inherently, instinctively satisfying in feeling the wind flow along one's mane and wings (and moustache, in my particular case). I looked down at Perchertania, far below-- from the clouds, it didn't look like much. Craggy mountains, thick forests, and a handful of villages wedged between them-- it basically looked like a smaller, pointier Equestria. Hardly the sort of place worth fighting a war over, I mused, but nobody asked my opinion on the matter.

Several days in, I noticed the first pegasus cruising alongside our ship. The young, spiky-maned fellow waved eagerly to us, and then veered off into a cloudbank. An hour or so later, he returned with a couple more of his friends in loose formation behind him. They kept their distance with a course parallel to ours, with more and more pegasi rising up from the ground to join them in their gawking.

“You'd think they'd never seen an airship before.” I murmured.

“They're looking at you.” Golden Harvest said from behind me. I nearly jumped over the railing at that-- the damn woman could move as quietly as a cat when she wanted to. Which was often.

“Really?” I said, and tried not to gawk back at my gawkers.

“Better get used to it.” Golden Harvest said. “Prince Percheron.”

By the time our airship landed at the Perchertanian Royal Skyport, an enormous crowd of ponies of every sort had gathered to greet us. To greet me. Or, well, to greet Prince Percival Percheron, but I'd just have to do. I may have been a fraud, but the mob below didn't know it. As the airship broke through the clouds and began its descent, the mass of ponies below let out a great, patriotic cheer, and started waving flags and banners. A battery of six-inch confetti cannons sounded off in salute, and a band large enough to use every bit of brass tubing for miles around started belting out Perchertania's ear-pummeling national anthem. Something about clear skies and turnips.*

*Based on Sentry's description, the band did not play, “Hail Perchertania,”the actual Perchertanian National Anthem. Instead, the band most likely played “When King Windwing Went for a Stroll,” a more celebratory song typically played in honor of returning royalty. I am not sure if Sentry's mistake here is a matter of ignorance, or just simply getting the facts wrong after having written his memoirs several years after the fact. Incidentally, several of the later verses of “When King Windwing Went for a Stroll” can be quite bawdy, which I can only assume Sentry would have appreciated if anyone had bothered to teach him.

Why so many ponies went to so much trouble, I cannot say. Don't get me wrong, it seems there's some kind of princess-centered festival held in Canterlot every other week. The key difference is the Canterlot celebrations (most of them, at least) are entirely justified. What, with Princess Celestia's history of fighting chaos gods and demon wizards and what have you. As far as I'd gathered from the various lessons drilled into my head, all Prince Percheron hadn't done anything nearly as impressive. His family had. Questing was involved. Allegedly. Generations ago.

On the other hoof, I supposed the Perchertanians had to cheer and stamp for somepony, so it might as well be Prince Percheron. Or at least a dashingly handsome pony who happened to look just like him.

The keel of the airship's hull bumped gently into the ground, and the crewponies started tying ropes about cleats and calling out to each other. Eager to be off the airship, I flapped my wings and eased myself over the railing to glide neatly to the ground.

As soon as my hooves touched the earth, the crowd went silent. This lasted for a moment, only to be followed by a few discreetly incomprehensible murmurs rippling through the crowd. I blinked, and then glanced over my shoulder-- noting the length of velvet carpet that had been rolled up down the airship's boarding ramp … about twelve feet to my left. Most ponies stared at me with expressions of puzzlement and shock-- except for Golden Harvest, who merely facehooved at my breach of decorum.

Well then.

I cleared my throat, and then offered a practiced, charming grin to the stunned crowd.

“Sorry about that, just couldn't wait to get off the ship.” I spoke from the diaphragm, as regally as I could manage. Still, the crowd stared and gaped at me. A mare in a lacey bonnet fainted. I grit my teeth and forced a smile, and finally added on: “ … because I love Perchertania so much?”

And by simply adding on those few words, the mood of the crowd turned completely around. Their faces turned up in smiles of estatic joy, and a great hurrah rose up from the masses. The musicians started blowing into their instruments with even greater gusto, and the confetti cannons sounded in unison, making the whole scene look like someone blew up a paper warehouse.

Golden Harvest appeared at my left without apparently having crossed any of the space between there and where she'd been on the ship. Somewhere along the line, she'd acquired a starched, high-collared uniform as well. I didn't have any time to consider the pony's quick-change skills, as she soon started nudging me towards the red carpet. The celebratory din was too loud for me to hear anything she said, but her actions spoke clearly enough: get moving, idiot.

I trotted over towards the red carpet before Golden Harvest could start giving me any new dueling scars. Even on the cleared-out strip, it was slow going, as ever few feet I had to pose for a photographer or kiss a baby or hastily scrawl an autograph onto an offered book or picture. Eventually, I made it to the gilded carriage waiting at the end of the carpet, and Golden Harvest fairly well shoved me inside.

She climbed into the carriage behind me, and slammed the door shut behind her. As soon as the door closed, the carriage started moving as the quartet of burly earth ponies in harness started galloping away from the aerodrome.

“Congratulations.” Golden Harvest glared at me. “You haven't been here for half an hour, and you've already caused a scene.”

“What? With that?”

“Prince Per--” Golden Harvest bit back her words, and shook her head. “The House of Percheron is known to be … aloof. Unapproachable. You've surprised them. Overwhelmed them, even.”

“Well, good.” I leaned back against my seat. “They seemed to like it.”

“If you're more … accessible, Prince, that means you'll be meeting more ponies. More ponies who might notice if something were … amiss? However small?”

“Oh.” My stomach twisted as the realization struck me (which, at least, was better than Golden Harvest striking me, but most things were).

“Obviously, the rigors of travel have gotten to you, Prince.” Golden Harvest peeked through the curtained window at the countryside rolling by. “Which is why you'll spend the next twelve hours in your private chambers. Resting. Alone.”

“Ah, right. A good plan, that.” I nodded.

Golden Harvest remained quiet through the rest of our carriage ride. At her prompting, I opened the door-- this time stepping directly onto the red carpet that had been rolled out. The crowd, while friendly, was far less ecstatic than the one at the skyport. You could tell it was a more formal affair because that turnip song was being played by a string quartet, rather than a full brass band. Armored pegasi snapped to attention on either side of the red carpet-- I returned their salute with a crisp flick of my hoof, and walked on, keeping my chin up and properly regal.

Percheron Palace paled in comparison to the lofty spires of Canterlot-- but then again, most places do. Still, it was grandiose enough for royalty-- even if the architect had entirely too much affinity for grotesque sculpture. Ranks upon ranks of statues lined the outside of Percheron Palace, depicting ponies in nearly every activity you could think of: fighting, dancing, bowing, flying, and so on. There were even a handful of sculptures around the palace's gutterspouts that would be downright scandalous when it rained.**

**Percheron Palace's exterior friezes are a source of pride for the kingdom. Dating back to an earlier era in which literacy was not common amongst the populace, the sculptures were commissioned by King Pendleton Percheron IV as a way to show scenes from the kingdom's history. It took hundreds of craftsponies the better part of a decade to complete the project. The 'scandalous' sculptures referred to by Sentry were likely intended to convey lessons about proper sanitation and hygiene. At least, that is the current interpretation favored by the academic community, given the alternative of some anonymous sculptors and engineers putting years of effort and craftsmanship into a pee joke.

I walked beneath the sculpted arches and into the palace proper, where a small delegation of important-looking ponies were waiting. Thankfully, those ponies also had servants, who in turn had champagne. One flute later, and I was back at it, dispensing hoofshakes and salutations and the like. I made aimless, royal chitchat, and made sure to drop a few of the talking points Fleur made me memorize a week prior. I even met a few zebras-- tall, stripey, and elegant in their geometrically patterned cloaks.

“Your highness.” A zebra stallion with a voice like a bass drum emerged from the throng of diplomats. “Princess Ianthe is looking forward to finally meeting you.”

“Ah.” I said, and glanced around. “She's not here?”

“She is busy making preparations for tomorrow's ceremony-- she believes it would be … untoward to stay beneath your roof before she is properly wed. It is tradition.”

“Ah. Yes. That.” I nodded. “How virtuous of her. I trust her accommodations are comfortable enough?”

“They are adaquate.”

“Right then. Thank you for the update … er, I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?”

“You may call me Vizier,” said Vizier, “I gave up my proper name when I swore to serve the Zebrican throne.”

“How … devoted of you. Is that customary?”

“It is tradition.”

“Ah, right. Tradition. Very important, that.” I said.

At the edge of the gathering, Golden Harvest cleared her throat-- discreet, but still an unmistakable signal. “In any case, Vizier, as much as I'd like to learn more about your no-doubt fascinating cultural traditions … I must beg my leave of you. It's been a long journey, and I should retire early if I'm to be at my best in the morning.”

“But of course.” Vizier rumbled as he bowed his head.

I made a few more little goodbyes to a few more dignitaries whose faces I can barely remember, and Golden Harvest soon herded me towards Prince Percheron's royal chambers. Normally, getting whisked off to such a luxurious suite in the company of a lovely mare would be the perfect end to an evening, but that would've required somepony less deadly than Golden Harvest.

“Remember.” Golden Harvest kept her voice low as we walked down the hall. “This entire alliance depends on the wedding tomorrow. If anything happens to the Prince, or if there is an … incident, this could all collapse. Ponies could die. So I just want you to know, in case anything unthinkable happens, I will personally track down and bring the guilty pony to justice. Whoever. They. Are.” She prodded me in the chest.

In retrospect, I have to admire the mare's cleverness. She spoke with just enough vagueness to sound like a loyal Perchertanian soldier to potential eavesdroppers, but she made the double meaning crystal clear to the one pony the message was targeted at. All these years later, I can see why Fancy Pants recruited her into his organization.

In that moment, however, she was terrifying.

“Very good. Colonel.” I managed through a suddenly dry mouth.

Golden Harvest's lips turned up in a tight, knowing grin. “Thank you, your highness. Someone will come for you in the morning.” With that, Golden Harvest saluted with one hoof, and shut the door to the royal chambers with the other.

So there I was, all alone, mustached and disguised as a foreign prince, set to marry a strange princess I'd never seen before, in order to cement an alliance on which countless lives depended. With, of course, one of the most dangerous ponies I'd ever met no doubt keeping tabs on me, ready to cut me to ribbons if I set a hoof out of line.

And for the first time since I'd been drafted into this insane scheme, I knew exactly what to do.

I got drunk.

Flash Sentry and the Menacing Manacles of Matrimony

“We have a problem.”

I didn't know how Golden Harvest got into the royal chambers unannounced, but I'd seen enough not to be surprised when she did. I cracked one bleary eye open, and the orange-haired mare's face took up most of my field of vision. As was the usual, she didn't look happy with me.

“It's fine. I'm fine.” I rolled out of the tangle of sheets, and sent a few empty liquor bottles clattering to the floor. “Wouldn't be the first time a groom's been a bit under the weather, eh?” I tried for a roguish grin, but in retrospect the expression probably looked more queasy than anything.

“Not that, you idiot.” Golden Harvest grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me in close. “Airic Pinfeather is here.”

“Who?”

Golden Harvest closed her eyes and pulled in a deep, calming breath. “Airic. Pinfeather. Prince Percheron's best friend. From childhood. He was supposed to be out of the country on business, but he made it back early for the wedding.”

“Oh.” The words took a moment to sink in. “Oh.” My heart started to beat faster, as my hangover gave way to the familiar dread of impending doom. “Bloody hell, he'll see through this disguise in no time at all! What do we do? What do we do?” I fluttered my wings, and took a longing look at one of the chamber's tall windows.

Golden Harvest hit me.

Thankfully, she wasn't armed this time around, so I didn't have a new dueling scar to add to my collection. Instead, the sting of her hoof on my cheek was just enough to snap me out of it.

“Here's what you are going to do. During the formal presentation of the guests, you will say 'Airic! You made it! So good to see you!' Nothing more, nothing less. Say it.”

“Airic, you made it, so good to see you.” I repeated, by rote. I frowned, and rubbed at my aching cheek.

"Soon thereafter, you will leave the reception, out of … eagerness to spend time with your new bride. Just stay in your chambers with the princess, and I'll make sure that Airic doesn't get too suspicious.”

“How?”

“I've got my ways.” Golden Harvest said, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Does that mean you're going to seduce him or beat him senseless?”

Golden Harvest's glare could've curdled milk. It certainly did a number on the contents of my stomach.

“Right. The latter, then.” I said, mostly by reflex.

Golden Harvest shoved me away, and waved a hoof in front of her face. “You smell like a brewery. Go get yourself cleaned up-- you're getting married in the afternoon.”

While the Equestrian Royal Guard might not be a proper fighting force, my time there still taught me some valuable skills. Most valuable, at that moment, was my experience in going from hungover to presentable-- I couldn't tell you how many times I've woken up with a throbbing headache, only to give my armor a quick spit-shine in order to report for guard duty in under half an hour.

After a bracing shower, a hot coffee, and several aspirin, I was more or less ready for the rest of the world. No sooner had I gulped down the last of my coffee, several royal servants bustled into the bedroom, pushing a wheeled suit-rack along with them. As they converged on me, I was reminded of maintenance crews at airship rallies, rushing in to change parts and patch balloons and what have you. Only instead of repairing a racing yacht, they were making me presentable.

In a matter of moments, they efficiently squeezed me into a formal white uniform, and then promptly started pinning various princely medals and commendations to my chest, making me feel like nothing so much as a Hearth's Warming's Eve tree. They topped it all with a blue sash across my chest, and then whisked me out of the bedroom and into the chaos of the wedding proper.

The ceremony itself was a blur. It had all the elements one would expect: a massive ballroom decorated specially for the occasion, ranks upon ranks of ponies in their most formal of formal attire, and even a pipe organ the size of a small house being used to grind out that omnipresent Perchertanian song about turnips.

And finally, I laid my eyes on Princess Ianthe.

To say she was beautiful would be something of an understatement. While she lacked the horn or wings of an Equestrian Princess, Ianthe still radiated that same kind of striking, regal beauty. She wore a dress with geometric patterns in red and orange woven all through it, which somehow managed to look far more elegant (not to mention far more comfortable) than the starched collars and bunched ruffles so popular in Perchertanian high society. Her mane was done up in a bristly, striped crest that reminded me like nothing so much as the brush of one of my formal helmets-- though somehow, Ianthe made it look far more interesting than that.

Once Princess Ianthe set hoof on the red carpet leading up to the altar, several zebras towards the back of the ballroom began to pound out a steady, rhythmic beat that was a lot catchier than the ceaseless bellowing of the pipe organ.

Her hooves barely seemed to touch the ground as she glided up the aisle, her expression blank and serene. It wasn't only until she stepped up to the altar in front of me that I realized Princess Ianthe stood about half a head taller than I did (not including a few inches of mohawked-mane). Her brown eyes settled on mine-- however briefly –before raking down the rest of me in an unabashedly appraising look.

Well then.

I just puffed out my chest a little more, and tilted my chin up at a properly haughty angle, and settled in for the ceremony. Some bearded old codger with a too-tall miter* pontificated about the importance of love or somesuch, until it finally came down to obligatory “I do's” and the obligatory “you may kiss the bride.”

*The Archbishop of Canter-Berry, for the record.

I cleared my throat and leaned in to plant one on Princess Ianthe, and damn if it wasn't like trying to snog a statue (which, I might note, is something my chum ol' Bluey once tried after about three brandies too many). Princess Ianthe barely puckered her lips, instead remaining stock-still. Not that I could blame her-- she was just as tied up in this marriage nonsense as I was. Moreso, really, given that I would get to make my exit as soon as the real Prince Percheron recovered.

Awkward smooching or no, the crowd loved it, and immediately broke out into thunderous applause. The pipe organ started grinding out another 'triumphant' Perchertanian dirge, only for the Zebrican drummers to start hammering away in a competition of who could be louder.

Princess Ianthe and I walked back down the marital carpet side by side, at which point a gaggle of official-looking folk (including Golden Harvest and Vizier) ushered us over to the reception hall. After being announced for the first time as “Prince and Princess-Consort Percheron,” the two of us were planted down on a pair of ornately carved (though hardly comfortable) thrones at the far end of the hall.

No sooner had we rested our royal rumps upon those velvet cushions, we were beset by a steady train of well-wishers. Duchesses and dukes, counts and contessas, all parading through the ballroom, jostling for their chance to fawn and flatter the two of us. Princess Ianthe endured it all with stoic aplomb, merely nodding and murmuring thanks no matter who said what to us. As for me, I found myself swinging between utter boredom and complete paranoia that somepony would see through my disguise. Still, my time in the Royal Guard had taught me how to endure long periods of enforced idleness-- if nothing else, I at least got to sit instead of standing around at attention, holding a spear upright.

I let my mind wander, idly imagining what I would do at such an event as, well, myself. There were more than a few lovely-looking mares in the crowd, and I knew I could easily entwine myself with a willing bridlesmaid or two if I wasn't pretending to be Prince Percheron. But, such things were not to be.

“Lieutenant Commander Airic Pinfeather.” The majordomo's droning voice snapped me from my daydream. I shook my head, and felt my heart freeze as I looked down at a square-jawed pegasus with shiny gold hair that matched the oak leaves pinned to his collar.

“Airic!” My voice may have cracked. “SoGoodToSeeYouI'mGladYouMadeIt!” The words tumbled out of my mouth in more or less the right order, and about triple the normal speed and volume.

Airic stared at me for a long moment-- but instead of calling me out for the fraud I was, he just smiled. “I wouldn't miss it for the world, sir.” He arched one blonde eyebrow. “I trust you're doing well?”

“Nerves!” I blurted. “It's, ah. The nerves, that's all. From the wedding. Never been married before, and all that. Ha.” I managed a wan smile, even though I could hear slight murmuring already rippling through the crowd. Golden Harvest, still wearing a colonel's uniform, just glared at me from the periphery of the gathering.

“Indeed. I shall leave you to your … marital bliss, sir.” And with that, Airic sketched a low bow before making way for the next guest. From the corner of my eye, I saw Golden Harvest's shoulders relax once it became clear she didn't have to clobber anyone.

“Perhaps we should continue with the celebration.” Princess Ianthe said, her voice clear and commanding. While I may have been an impostor, there was no question of Ianthe's royal upbringing-- she spoke with the utmost confidence that she would be obeyed.

And she was.

I spent the rest of the reception shoveling a steady stream of cake and champagne into my mouth to prevent myself from saying anything that might give me away. Which, in retrospect, was something of a mistake, given the fact that massive amounts of refined sugar and bubbly certainly do not mix.

But, by the stupid coincidence that has defined most of my life, it worked out in the end. Golden Harvest must have noticed my cheeks tinting green, as she soon murmured something to the majordomo, who murmured something to Vizier, who in turn murmured something to Princess Ianthe, and soon enough the two of us were bustled off into a large carriage with dangling strings of tin cans and a crudely written “JUST MARRIED” sign tacked to the back.

Ianthe kept quiet as we clattered down the road. It wasn't long before the carriage came to a halt, and a couple of valets in starched collars opened the door for the two of us. Again, Princess Ianthe stayed silent as we clambered out of the carriage, and then walked up the path to the cozy little cottage it had taken us to. Every little detail, from the soft light of dozens of candles, to the white rose petals sprinkled over nearly every available surface, was strategically geared to make the interior of the honeymoon cottage as romantic as possible.

And yet, while the décor might have been enough to make nearly any other mare swoon, Princess Ianthe did not speak a word until the servants had closed the door behind us, leaving us alone.

“Are you intoxicated?” Princess Ianthe asked me, coolly. The flickering candlelight washed over her striped coat, making the dark lines almost seem to move under their own volition.

“I wish.” I said, and started rummaging around the kitchen. “They've got to have left us some provisions somewhere.” Unfortunately, the only grub I could find was an array of delicate (and suggestively shaped) appetizers, with nary a drop of booze in sight. I should've stolen a bottle from the reception, I realized.

“Then you are sober?” Princess Ianthe said.

“Damnably so.”

“Good. We have work to do.”

I looked up from a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries. “Beg pardon?”

“You may send for refreshments once we have consummated our union.”With a single, deft movement, Princess Ianthe swept her dress off and cast it to the side, allowing the elegant attire to crumple into a forgotten puddle in the corner. She flung herself onto the bed hard enough to make the springs creak, and posed in a way that showed just how far down her stripes went.

“Be gentle.” She said, and closed her eyes. “I am bound to this duty, just as are you, Prince Percheron.”

I stopped.

As I jot these words down, I realize just how absurd this situation may seem to the reader. After all, I just spent thousands upon thousands of words confessing just how much of a cad and a bounder I really am. So, I suppose I can forgive you, the reader, for thinking “well, of course a lecher like ol' Flashy would consummate a gorgeous zebra princess' brains out!” **

**I certainly did. -G.M.F.

But.

Of all the lovely mares I've had the pleasure of entangling myself with, the one thing they've had in common is that they've all had the pleasure of dallying with dashing and handsome Flash Sentry. To ravish a lady (no matter how beautiful she was) under false pretenses just wouldn't do. I realized that if I were to take what Princess Ianthe was offering to me (or, more accurately, to Prince Percheron), I'd be no better than a damned changeling.

“Ah.” I managed over the lump in my throat. “It's been a long day. Perhaps we should just get some sleep, instead. In separate beds. I have a tendency to snore, you see.”

“We may rest later. You must sire a heir, first." Princess Ianthe splayed her legs out a little wider in a decidedly un-princesslike fashion. "It is tradition."

“Well, maybe some traditions could do with re-thinking.”

Princess Ianthe turned a properly regal glare at me, harsh enough to make me take a step back. “I have traveled hundreds of miles for this, in order to ensure the safety and prosperity of my people. I have gone through too much trouble and effort to have the alliance between our peoples be jeopardized by your cold hooves. Now you shall make love to me.” She swished her tail from side to side, and I gritted my teeth to keep myself from looking anywhere lower than that. “You may think of your mistress if you have to.”

I blinked, as confusion washed away any untoward thoughts I might have had just then. “Mistress?”

“Do not try to deny it. My Vizier has seen the way you talk to that orange-haired pony. He even spied her slipping into your chambers this morning, despite her best efforts to remain unseen.”

“Orange haired--” The realization hit me. “Her?” Unable to help myself due to the ridiculousness of the situation, I burst out laughing. “Oh! Oh! I shouldn't.” I staggered into a high-backed chair and wheezed as the absurdity of the idea set in.

“What's so funny?” Princess Ianthe rolled back to all four hooves and turned to face me, which thankfully put the more delicate parts of her anatomy out of view.

“You think she and I are … oh!” Another wave of laughter wracked my body, and I felt tears begin to stream down my cheeks. The whole absurdity of the last several weeks finally caught up with me, and it was all I could do to keep myself from curling into a helpless, comatose ball. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” I sniffed and wiped the corners of my eyes, only to look up into Princess Ianthe's. She glared at me, her expression equal parts ire and confusion-- the sort of look I've been on the receiving end of many a time, from many a mare. I sputtered another laugh, and leaned back in my chair, somehow comforted by that fact.

“Explain yourself, then. Am I not … pleasing to you?” Her voice faltered, ever so slightly, and for the first time I saw a chip in her proverbial armor. “Have I done something wrong?”

I stopped laughing.

“Princess Ianthe,” I leaned forward, and took one of her hooves in both of mine. “I can honestly say that you are one of the most beautiful women I have ever laid my eyes on. I would like nothing more than to take you in a manly fashion, were the circumstances … different.”

“How different, pray tell?”

“Well--” The words piled up in my throat like water behind a dam-- slowly, inexorably building pressure to that final catastrophic overflow of terrible, insane truth.

I almost told her everything.

But then the ninjas showed up.

Flash Sentry and the Inverse Ninja Theorem

My only warning was the faintest shift in the bridal chamber's air currents. For any non-winged readers out there, it's worth noting that every pegasus has a certain sense of spatial awareness. It's not perfect, and it's stronger in some ponies than others, but it's still there. Comes in handy when you spend your whole life on a cloud, you know.

The faintest of ticklings tugged at the very tips of my feathers, and I instinctively glanced over my shoulder. And there they were-- a good half dozen ponies, decked out from ear to tail in black pajamas. They honestly would've looked ridiculous, if it wasn't for the wickedly sharp array of weaponry they carried.

My scream could best be described as “fillylike.”

The ninjas, in damnable contrast, kept silent. As one, they lunged across the room, curved blades gleaming in the evening light. Acting on cowardice-honed instinct, I beat my wings as fast as I could and took to the air. The ascent didn't last long-- my shoulders smashed into the high ceiling hard enough to crack the plaster. Still, I kept myself aloft-- and alive.

The ninjas glared at me from behind their masks, at which point I realized something vital.

None of them had wings.

“Hah!” I pointed a hoof. “Bet you didn't think that through, did you!” I chanced a look towards one of the windows, and geared myself up to make a hasty, airbone exit. But before I could escape, one of the ninjas flung a hoof-full of gleaming metal stars through the air. The spinning blades whizzed close enough to shave a few hairs from my mane. I squealed in terror again, and juked in the opposite direction--

--right into the whirling chain another ninja tossed up into the air. The metal links circled around my rear left leg, and bit into my skin. The ninja on the other end hauled down on the taut chain, yanking me downward. My wing muscles burned with effort as I forced myself to stay in the air, until two more ninjas grabbed hold of the chain as well, and yanked downwards like the world's most unfair game of tug-of-war. I grabbed hold of an ornate, candle-laden chandelier-- and for a few moments, it was enough to keep me out of their clutches. I clung to the polished brass, and flung a few burning candles down at my black-clad assailants, to no effect. The ninjas hauled on my leg again, doing their damndest to wrench the limb clear off. But before they could dismember me like a cheap child's toy, the chain holding the chandelier aloft split a link, sending a good several hundred pounds of pony and light fixture crashing down right on top of the ninjas.

The crack of breaking bone was so loud I could hear it over my own screaming.

Thankfully, it wasn't my bone being broken, otherwise I would've screamed even louder.

“Prince Percheron!” Princess Ianthe's voice called out from the other side of the room. I looked over, and gaped-- Ianthe's normally lovely face was twisted into a look of wide-eyed shock. “What is the meaning of this?!”

“I haven't the bloodiest damn idea!” My voice cracked with terror. As usual, I'd abandoned any pretense at being brave or regal or any of the real Prince Percheron's more admirable traits once somepony tried to kill me.

Princess Ianthe opened her mouth to snap back at me, but before she could deliver any cutting insults or stirring speeches, two of the ninjas stuffed her into a sack. Muffled Zebrican curses issued forth from the bag, which one of the ninjas neatly slung over his shoulder.

I shook the chain loose from my leg, and rolled away from the wreckage of the chandelier. Another masked pony pounced on me, pinning me to the floor. One of his fellows came up after him, clutching some horrible sickle-looking weapon in his mouth. A fresh chill of panic shot down my spine, and a fresh wave of desperate strength flooded my muscles.

My flailings was anything but heroic, yet somehow through all the crying, I landed a solid blow onto the nearest ninja's jaw. The wild haymaker was enough to tear the silken fabric of his mask, revealing white and black stripes beneath.

The odd sight was enough to shock me out of my hysteria. Why the hell would the zebras kidnap their own princess? Not that it mattered to me-- whoever the bastards were working for, it no doubt meant something bad for me.

I scrambled out from beneath the zebra that had pinned me, and then rolled out of the way of a descending sword blade. The blade tore a great rent through the plush carpeting, which was certainly better than tearing a great rent through me. Not like it was my actual bedroom anyway.

Again, the ninja stabbed at me, and again, I barely rolled out of the way. I searched for something, anything I could use as a weapon. I stumbled to my feet, and then spied the chain that'd been wrapped around my leg moments ago. I grabbed it with both hooves, and yanked it away from its comatose previous owner. I swung the chain in a wide, wild arc. The teardrop-shaped weight at the end whipped through the air and crunched right into my assailant's nose.

The zebra ninja fell back, swearing and clutching at his face. He grumbled something unintelligible (but no doubt obscene) beneath his breath, and wiped something green off of his probably-broken nose. But before I could really process what that smear of emerald ichor meant, more of the assassins closed in.

“Back!” I shrilled. I whirled the chain above my head. To be honest, I was more of a threat to the décor than the ninjas, as the heavy weight smashed through something that sounded fragile and antique behind me. The ninjas themselves kept their distance, keeping an eye on me as two of them absconded with the sack full of Princess Ianthe. I gritted my teeth as I watched them clamber out the window, now far less stealthy and graceful given their cargo. There wasn't anything I could do to save her-- hell, there was barely anything I could do to save myself. One of the larger zebra-ninjas slapped my swinging chain out of the air with a well placed kick, and then two more of his fellows lunged at me with a big black sack. I rolled out of the way--

--and nearly into a burning sofa.

White rose petals, it turns out, are very, very flammable.

As are the tips of a pegasus' feathers.*

*I have reason to believe this is actually a reference to an old Cloudsdale legend about a particularly ambitious pegasus with amorous intentions towards none other than Princess Celestia, only to “get too close to the sun.” Certain retellings of the story tend towards the risque, which explains why Sentry was familiar with them.

If I had screamed earlier, the smell of my own singed feathers set me to positively shrieking. I flung myself to the ground and started rolling on the carpet. Thankfully, I was able to put myself out before I could get anything worse than a first-degree burn, but by then a large portion of the bridal chamber had been set aflame. Sometime during my flailing, the ninjas disappeared-- either they figured me out for a fraud on account of my girlish panic, or they decided to leave me to the flames. I told myself the tears blurring my vision were from the smoke, and started heading in the direction I thought the door was in. A few literally hellish moments later, I burst through a set of double doors, and out into the gloriously cool summer night.

I sucked in a lungful of fresh air, and then thumped myself on the chest as I hacked out the last of the smoke. The light from the burning bungalow illuminated another mob of ponies tromping up the path to the commotion, finally drawn in by the unscheduled chaos. A burly pegasus in uniform led the motley mob of guards, servants, and too-curious nobles. And, to Golden Harvest's credit, I remembered the words she'd hammered into my brain that morning.

“Airic! You made it! So good to see you!” I wheezed.

Airic trotted right up in front of me. “Guards.” He said, not taking his eyes off of mine. “Arrest this impostor.”

I don't mind dungeons.

Because if someone's going to bother throwing you in dark and gloomy cell a few stories underground, that means they want to keep you alive (temporarily, at least). It's certainly better than getting executed on the spot. I don't even mind the boredom that comes with being oublietted, as again, working in the Royal Guard teaches one how to deal without having anything to deal with.

Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to enjoy any blessed solitude, as Airic kept on glaring and yelling and asking me questions. But, in comparison to grappling with changelings, getting shanghaied by insane secret agents, or having cutlery thrown at me by hooded assassins, it was practically teatime. Airic hadn't even hit me, which already put him ahead of Golden Harvest and company.

“Where's Prince Percheron?!”

“Damned if I know.” I leaned back in my chair, trying to get as comfortable as I could, bound as I was to the stiff wooden chair. “Honestly, you should be more concerned about Princess Ianthe. Or did you miss the ninjas?”

“Ninjas.” Airic said.

“Saw them with my own eyes.” I nodded.

Airic's brow furrowed. “I didn't.”

“Well, I imagine that's the point. Ninjas and all.” I shook my head. “But you've got to believe me-- they're the ones who kidnapped the Princess.”

“Did they burn down the cottage, too?”

“Yes! Well, no. Slightly? I never would've started throwing candles if those damn zebras didn't try to kill me.”

“Zebras? I thought you said they were ninjas.”

“They were both! Zebra ninjas! At least, one of them was. I tore off his mask in the fight-- the bastard had more stripes than a master sergeant.”

“Why would zebra ninjas kidnap a zebra princess?”

“Damned if I know! But I bet that Vizier's behind it. The vizier's always up to something. It's in the job description, I think.”

“This pony is an idiot.” A deep basso of a voice said from somewhere behind me. I cringed, and then turned my head as best I could to see Vizier walking into the room. He glared at me hard enough to make me wince.

“I know that.” Airic said, crossly.

“Then you are wasting your time. Our enemies must have sent him to distract us with his prattling.”

“I'm right here.” I said, annoyed.

“So you are.” Vizier rumbled, and took a step back. “These delicate matters should not be discussed in front of the prisoner. If we are to find the Prince and Princess, we must work together.”

“Right.” Airic said with a decisive nod. “Let's go.” And with that, Airic and Vizier left me alone in my stone cell. I slumped my head back, and sighed. Whatever was going on, it was out of my hooves-- and hopefully it'd stay that way. And so, I was left to do the only thing I could.

I took a nap.

Hardly the most heroic of actions, I'll admit, but the wedding was exhausting enough without the long line of ponies trying to kill me. And so, I let myself drift off into a blissful, much-needed rest …

… until someone shook me, and I opened my bleary, smoke-seared eyes to peer at Golden Harvest's characteristically angry face.

“We have a problem.” She said, in a worryingly familiar tone.

“Just one?” I blurted.

“Hold still.” Golden Harvest frowned, and then held up one of her front hooves, just enough for me to catch a glance at the sharpened horseshoe she was wearing. She made a single pass with the concealed blade, and razored straight through the ropes holding me in place. “We've got to get out of here.”

“That's the most sensible thing you've said since I met you.” I wriggled out of the chair, and stretched my wings-- each movement reminded me of just how sore I was. I paused, however, as a thought struck me. “But why did you come back for me?”

“I had to. Otherwise, you'd break and tell them everything you know.”

“Which isn't much.”

“It's enough.” Golden Harvest said, and waved me on, heading for my cell's open door. Two large earth ponies in Perchertanian uniforms lay still on the floor in the hallway outside. They were breathing, thankfully-- I wondered if Golden Harvest had slipped them something, or merely choked them into unconsciousness.

I gingerly stepped over a prone guard, and stuck close to the orange-haired mare's flank. “So now what?”

“Now.” Golden Harvest didn't bother looking back at me as she prowled down the dungeon's hallway. “You shut up, stay close, and do exactly what I say before you can screw anything else up.”

“Excuse me?” I don't know what it was at that point-- the pain, the fatigue, or just the sheer ridiculousness of the whole situation, but I'd finally had enough of Golden Harvest's scorn and disdain. “This whole thing was your idea. Or, well, your organization's, at least.” I planted my hooves, and jutted my chin upward, defiant. “I'm the victim here. It's not my fault I've been kidnapped, mustached, scarred, beaten, burned, and nearly ravished by a heir-crazy zebra princess-- and all … for what, exactly? I'm not going anywhere until I get an explanation.”

Golden Harvest spun around, shoulders tensing in anger. “You're kidding.”

“And an apology.”

“Look, you twit. You'd better stop talking--”

“Or else what? You'll knock me out? Again?” I shook my head, and gave a desperate, mad laugh. “Then you'll just have to carry me out, which will make this even harder.”

The earth pony's front hooves were on me before I could even react-- for a single, terrible moment, I thought she was just going to save herself the trouble and throttle me there, but she just pressed her forehead to mine, bearing down on me with her infuriated glare. “If you could stop thinking of yourself for one second, you'd realize there's more going on here than you know--”

“Like what?”

“Huh?”

“What, exactly?” I gingerly pushed Golden Harvest's hooves away from my neck. “Has it occurred to you that things might go a little bit easier if you bothered to tell me some of these mysterious terrible secrets that I'm nearly getting killed over?”

Golden Harvest blinked, and for the first time since I'd met her, I saw her typically annoyed-to-furious expression falter. She chanced another look over her shoulder, down the dungeon hallway, and gritted her teeth. “There's a changeling hive in Perchertania.”

“You can't be serious. You didn't notice when Canterlot got infiltrated-- what makes you certain Perchertania's got the same problem?”

“Thanks to you, actually. The changeling you captured in Canterlot told us there was a rival hive here. They're not as powerful as Chrysalis' lot … but they don't have to be. Especially if Perchertania and Zebrica are at each other's throats.”

A familiar sense of uneasiness coursed through my guts as the pieces all fell into place. “Which is why they kidnapped Princess Ianthe.”

“And Prince Percheron.” Golden Harvest added. “Only the thing is, they weren't expecting anyone to find a replacement Prince, so that's bought us some time. Now.” Golden Harvest prodded me in the chest. “We need to move. Or do you have any more questions?”

“I do, actually.” Vizier said.

A segment of the stone wall next to us slid back, the secret passage revealing the burly, striped form of Vizier-- with Airic standing closely at his side. Armored hoofsteps echoed from either end of the hallway, as a few brigades worth of heavy infantry closed in to block any chance of escape.

I whimpered, and immediately ducked behind Golden Harvest-- if nothing else, at least I'd get to see her vaunted martial prowess demonstrated on somepony else, for once. I figured it was about even odds, too. With any luck, I might even be able to escape in the fracas.

“See?” Airic stepped forward, smiling smugly. “I knew we'd be able to draw his accomplice out. It's just a matter of using the right bait.” He locked his eyes on mine. I refrained from making the obvious lewd joke, both because it wasn't the time, and also because I have standards.

“You've got to let us go.” Golden Harvest said, even as she planted all four hooves, preparing to launch herself at the armored guards if need be. “I wasn't lying about the changelings. The more time you waste on us, the more time they'll have to tear this country apart.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Vizier rumbled, his voice echoing from the dungeon walls. “Which is why you two are going to lead the rescue mission.”

Flash Sentry and the Terrible Tower of Terror

The war room was less dank and drafty than the dungeon-- but just barely. At least some thoughtful aide de camp kept filling my mug with hot coffee (even though she ignored me whenever I asked for brandy instead).

It says something about the national character of Perchertania that they had a war room to begin with. To judge by the grim faces on the ponies hunched around a map-piled table, the Perchertanian military still thought soldiering was an opportunity to go out and get oneself horribly maimed in pursuit of 'glory,' instead of an excuse to wear snappy uniforms for far more measurable benefits with any willing fillies that might've been about.

Not that there were any willing fillies about. The Perchertanian military was egalitarian, in that it allowed stern looking ponies of either gender to enter their ranks.* However, whenever I put a little extra charm in my smile (by reflex, mostly), the uniformed ladies just glared at me in ways that made Golden Harvest seem absolutely charming in comparison.

*The Perchertanian military has long prided itself on its meritocracy. In fact, it was one of the first armies in the Equestrian sphere to allow stallions into its higher ranks.

As for Golden Harvest herself, she fit into the war room as easily as any scarred old general. She propped one hoof on the edge of the table, and used the other to point at a particular point of the map. Airic and Vizier leaned in curiously, along with several other martial-looking ponies whose names I didn't know.

“Here.” Golden Harvest looked up at the officers present. “According to my sources, a swarm of Changelings have built their hive at the center of the Great Dingy Swamp. That's where they'll take their prisoners.”

“That's where the real Prince Percheron is?” Airic said, standing up a little taller.

“If we're lucky, yes.” Golden Harvest met Airic's gaze, grim.

“Then it's settled. I can have a brigade surrounding this hive by morning.”

“Wait.” Vizier held up a hoof. “A frontal assault would be unwise. What if the Changelings panic, and harm Princess Ianthe?”

“Or Prince Percheron.” Airic added on, snippy.

“Or him.” Vizier said, cool and condescending as ever.

“Vizier's right.” Golden Harvest said, glancing between the both of them. “The Changelings built their hive in the swamp for a reason. Any surface-based approach will fail without support.”

“So what do you propose?” Airic said.

“We press our advantages. Changelings can fly like pegusai-- but they can't manipulate the weather. I say we get every flyer we can, and push a thunderhead right on top of them. That'll occupy the bugs long enough for an extraction team to get in and secure the royals. Both of them.”

“I'll go.” Airic said, quick enough before anypony else could object. “The impostor will come with me.” He added on before I could object. “If nothing else, we can use him as a distraction, make the Changelings think we've already rescued Prince Percheron. Once the Prince and Princess are secure, we'll demolish the hive.”

“Right.” Golden Harvest nodded. “I'll lead the surface team. We'll need boats to get through the swamp, and then a way to get through the walls.”

“We have sappers in the army. They can bring the whole tower down, once the Prince and Princess are safe.” Airic said, without hesitation.

“My guard contingent shall also provide assistance.” Vizier said.

“Sounds like a plan.” Golden Harvest's lips turned up in the most genuine smile I'd ever seen cross her face.

I didn't like it.

Within a matter of hours, Airic and Vizier had marshalled their respective forces, closing in on the Great Dingy Swamp. Said swamp was aptly named-- it was a great smear of brown and green, stretching out in all directions. On the one hoof, I at least was far above the swamp proper, perched on a thunderhead being rolled in by the Perchertanian air force. On the other, the fetid smell of rotting vegetation was strong enough to reach even my lofty perch.

A large lake took sat in the middle of the Great Dingy Swamp, with a small island in the center of that. And, sure enough, a mottled gray tower rose from the center of the island, looking for all the world like a massive tumor.

The hive.

Below, several small, shallow-bottomed boats slid across the glassy lake, silent. I wondered which of the skiffs Golden Harvest would be on. Knowing her, it was probably the one in front. No matter which boat she was on, however, she at least wasn't breathing down my neck.

Though Airic wasn't much better.

He stood next to me on the cloud, watching the boats surround the little island. “Get ready. We'll go in soon.” Airic said.

“'We' is something of a strong word, don't you think?” I scratched at the back of my neck. “I mean, it looks like you've got this all well in hoof. I'll keep an eye on things up here. You know. In reserve.”

Airic leveled his eyes on mine, and grit his teeth. “If you don't follow me, my troops have orders to blast you out of the sky.”

I looked over my shoulder, and sure enough, there was a ruddy-coated pegasus sitting on a weapons-grade thunderhead, giving me the evil eye.

“'We' it is, then.” I nervously drew a line in the gray cloud, and looked down at the lake below. “Ah … one thing, though.” I blurted as an odd thought came to mind.

“What?”

“How'd you know I wasn't the real prince?”

“I just … knew.” Airic huffed. “You're a terrible actor anyway.”

“I bet it was the scars, wasn't it?” I rubbed at the side of my face. The scars still itched. “Not in the right place?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“I think it does. Especially with the two of us about to infiltrate a tower full of shapechanging bug monsters.”

“You talk too much.”

“And you haven't answered my question.”

“Time to move.” Airic signalled his troops. A flight wing of pegusai put their shoulders into it, and draped a grey blanket of clouds over the hive. More ponies flew in with small, densely-packed clouds, and wasted little time in raining lightning bolts down all around the changeling's island.

“Go!” Airic said, and leapt off of the cloud. Not wanting to see if he really meant what he said about his orders, I soon followed suit. I pulled my wings in close to my sides and angled in for a dive-- perhaps not in Wonderbolt-worthy formation, close enough. The two of us sliced through the gray cloud cover, and splayed our wings out at the last moment to keep from smashing into the roof of the changeling hive.

All four of my hooves dug furrows through the top of the surface of the hive, until I tripped over something slightly more solid than whatever changelings typically build their homes out of, causing me to flop gracelessly upon my face. Airic didn't laugh at my misfortune, which probably means he was a better pony than I. Not like such a thing is particularly hard (what, with the cowardice and lechery and so on), but still.

I snorted the smell of wet mud and lightning-seared ozone from my nostrils, and got myself upright again-- just in time to see Airic galloping through an uncomfortably orifice-shaped entrance into the hive proper. Another bolt of lightning slammed into the hive, close enough to tingle the very tip of my tail. I scrambled to follow Airic and get out of the line of fire.

One of my teachers used to go on about the perfection of the beehive, on how such tiny insectoid minds could somehow produce such geometric perfection. As I plunged into the depths of the changeling hive, I wasn't sure if the twisted, sickeningly-organic curvatures of changeling architecture proved or disproved her theory. The slick walls looked as if they had melted halfway-- just looking around the inside of the hive was enough to make my stomach turn. The sickly smell of rotting vegetation hung heavy in the air didn't help much, either.

Thunder roiled above, and a chunk of sticky-looking hivestuff exploded as a lightning bolt struck. Another blast followed it, and then another, and another still, as Airic's cloud-artillerists hammered away at the hive-fortress.

Eardrum-threatening screeching erupted from within the hive, and black, chitinous forms began to scramble from hidden nooks and crannies throughout the hive. A changeling pushed through a trapdoor in the floor in front of me-- I brought both forehooves down on its forehead by reflex. I flared my wings and vaulted over the bug, not waiting to see how much damage I'd done to it.

A chaos of buzzing wings and clicking mandibles echoed all around me-- if the Changelings had any sense of coordination, they would've overwhelmed Airic and I within moments. But with bolt after bolt tearing through the hive, they had far more important things to worry about. They started swarming upwards towards the roof, no doubt ready to give the Perchertanian pegasi what for. But, as soon as the first few started to fly out into the night sky, a fresh set of rumbles rolled up from below-- no doubt Golden Harvest and the sappers getting to work. This only led to more confusion amongst the chittering horde. Several changelings began to careen into each other as they veered off in random directions, torn between heading outside (where they'd get blown to bits) or heading deeper into the hive (where they'd get blown to bits slightly later).

Airic dashed down a darkened corridor, and it wasn't until I saw the very tip of his tail disappear around the corner that I realized Golden Harvest hadn't told us where the real Prince Percheron and Princess Ianthe would be held. I galloped to keep up, but it was too late, as the twisting, branching tunnels made it impossible to follow. I soon realized I didn't want to follow him, either, as Airic seemed like the sort who'd gravitate naturally towards the most dangerous depths of the hive.

I thought about heading back the way I came, but soon decided against it. With my luck, the cloudgunners would fry me as soon as I got into the open air. Airic would probably thank them for it. No, if I was going to make it out of the hive, I'd have to find someone important to hide behind, be it prince or princess.

And so, I went deeper.

Once again, my experience in the Royal Guard saved my life. Not through any official training, mind you-- a large part of being a Royal Guard is all about looking impressive and conspicuous instead of stealthy. However, every night in which I'd snuck out past curfew, and back to the barracks before the sun rose had given me the needed sneakiness to skulk through those uncomfortably damp and sticky tunnels. I stuck to the shadows (and tried not to think about what stuck to my hooves) as I prowled down, deeper and deeper.

On more than one occasion, I flattened myself against the wall as a clutch of panicked changelings buzzed by. Under normal circumstances, they would have found me for sure, but with the whole damned hive coming down around their ears (or antennae, or whatever), the buggers had bigger things to worry about. I followed a spiraling hallway down into a cavernous, well, cavern, empty except for me.

And Golden Harvest.

Gone was the calm and collected secret agent who'd terrorized me for so long. Her hair was mussed, her uniform was torn, and there was a desperate look in her eye that I didn't recognize. I had long since assumed that Golden Harvest was about as capable of fear as a tortoise is capable of flight.

“You!” she and I blurted at the same time.

“It was terrible!” Golden Harvest flung herself at me-- I fumbled my front legs up to catch her before she could topple the both of us. “The changelings ambushed us. I-I- was the only one who got away. The rest … “ she trailed off into quiet little sobs.

“They knew what they signed up for.” I hoped that was comforting. Military sorts always liked to hear about 'duty,' didn't they?

“Please.” Golden Harvest pulled herself close enough I could feel her racing, traumatized heartbeat. “You've got to protect me.”

“Protect you?” I blurted, perhaps a little louder than I should have. I put my hooves on her shoulders and pushed her away so I could look into her big, green eyes, welled up with tears. Her lip trembled, and she sniffed in another quiet little breath. And yet, even in her terrified state, she looked lovely. She pulled in an unsteady breath, and leaned her lips towards mine …

So I punched her.

In the face.

The shock of the blow traveled up my front leg in an entirely too gratifying sensation. Golden Harvest reeled across the hallway, and crumpled into a little pile against the far wall.

“Is that the best you can do?” I said with a little laugh, and flared my wings out, preparing to lash out again if needed. “I'll admit, you got the look down perfectly, but the real Golden Harvest can't stand me. She'd sooner die than kiss the likes of me.” I paused, and rubbed at my chin. “I rather hope she hasn't, though.”

The air shimmered with crackling green magic, and 'Golden Harvest' melted away, revealing a wounded, glaring changeling. It clacked its mandibles at me and hissed-- but kept its distance. I must've hit it harder than I thought.

“You changelings don't know me very well, do you?” I said-- and no sooner had the words left my mouth, it hit me. “Or … wait. You do know who I am, don't you?” I smiled, and stood up a little taller, flaring my wings out. “Because I'm not really Prince Percheron. I'm Lieutenant Flash Sentry, hero of the Battle of Canterlot.”

The changeling hissed, and pressed itself against a far wall.

I trotted closer. “I can only imagine the stories. That I singlehandedly slew a good dozen changelings at the Battle of Canterlot. With my bare hooves.” I tried for an intimidating smirk but it probably just came off as smug. “So I'll make this simple. Why don't you take me down to wherever you're holding the real Prince Percheron before we have to find out just how much truth there is to my reputation?” I idly wiped a bit of ichor off of my hoof. The sheer absurdity of the situation was enough to make me forget just how terrified I was to be alone in the center of a changeling hive.

The changeling's multi-faceted eyes went wide, and it gave a silent nod.

“No funny business, either.” I warned. “It won't end well.”

The changeling took to the air, and I followed, gliding down a hallway that looked like nothing so much as an enormous petrified intestine. I kept that smug look on my face, even though a little voice at the back of my head reminded me this would be a perfect time to lead me into an ambush. Then again, with the hive literally abuzz from the storm, they hopefully wouldn't have the opportunity to put one together.

My vaunted reputation must have been more intimidating than I thought, as the changeling soon led me to the deepest and darkest depth of the hive-- where, sure enough, there were several pony-sized pods lining the walls. Translucent green 'windows' showed the prisoners trapped within-- on one side of the room, Princess Ianthe, and on the other side …

“Do I really look like that?” I mused aloud as I stared at the mustached pony within.

My changeling guide just shrugged-- and, as the realization struck it that I likely had better things to do than murder it, fled down the way we came as fast as it could. It didn't make it far before I heard a wet 'crunch' echo through the corridor. Moments later, Airic rounded the corner-- bruised and battered, with wet spatters on his hooves.

“Sentry?” He blinked at me. “You made it?”

“I'm as surprised as you are. Now help me get these things open so we can--”

“My prince!” Airic flew across the room to Percheron's egg-pod-thing, and immediately started pulling at it with both hooves. After a moment's desperate scrabbling, the pod opened with a sound I can only describe as a 'blorp,' and the real Prince Percheron tumbled out into Airic's waiting hooves.

Prince Percheron coughed, puked up a stream of something green and rancid-smelling, and then looked up at his savior's eyes. “Airic?” He blinked a few times. “I knew you'd come for me.”

“I had to.” Airic sniffed, and forced a wan, tender smile.

Prince Percheron weakly reached up to touch a hoof to the side of Airic's face, and I realized that there was a very, very important bit of information missing from Prince Percheron's dossier. **

** Sentry's account is the first document to directly imply a romantic relationship between Prince Percheron and Lieutenant Commander Airic Pinfeather. Other accounts of the time sometimes lapse into rumor or vague innuendo, but Airic is never named specifically. This is unsurprising, as both Percheron and Pinfeather's reputations would have been ruined if the news ever became widespread. Such a relationship between a prince and one of his subordinate officers would be extremely taboo, especially in a martially inclined society like Perchertania.

Well then.

I turned away from the pair, and set about peeling Princess Ianthe from her fleshy prison. She fell upon me, and looked up with an expression equal parts confusion and relief. “Prince Percheron?” Any further questioning was soon forgotten, as Ianthe spent the next few moments retching up prisoner-goop.

“You're close enough.” I said. “Can you walk, Princess?”

“I … yes. If you help.”

I nodded, and propped one of Ianthe's legs across my shoulders. “Good. Now we just have to get out of here.”

“Agreed.” Airic had the real Prince Percheron cradled in his front hooves like a groom carrying a bride across the threshold (which was something I had forgotten to do to Ianthe, come to think of it).

Princess Ianthe blinked as she saw the second Prince.

“It's … complicated. I'll explain later.” I said, hoping quite well there would be a later.

We made it as far as the large chamber in the center of the hive before the changelings caught up with us. They were impossible to count, piled atop each other in a seething, chittering, buzzing mass. The hive shook as another thunderbolt struck, and the changelings roiled like a stormy black sea. They were confused, scared-- but there were still a damned lot of them, far too many to fight through or flee past, even if I didn't have a half-unconscious zebra princess leaning against me. I grit my teeth and flared my wings, hoping vainly to bluff them off for a few seconds more--

--and then the far wall exploded.

Heavily armored ponies and zebras surged through the breach, leaping on the changelings that were 'lucky' enough to survive the initial blast. Among the soldiery, an orange blur stood out. Golden Harvest sprung from one end of the melee to the other, graceful as a ballerina (if just a bit more violent). Every time she lashed out with a hoof, chitin would crack, and changelings would scream. I could only marvel as I watched Golden Harvest leap onto the back of one changeling, only to leap again, sailing impossibly high into the air before she grabbed hold of a ridge in the ceiling with her front hooves, and used the extra momentum to smash both her back hooves into the face of a particularly large and ugly bug-monster. Golden Harvest let go of the roof, and rode the changeling she kicked all the way to the floor. The changeling crunched wetly as it hit the ground, but Golden Harvest stayed as nimble as a cat. She did a front-flip, and landed right in front of me.

“Sentry! You survived!” She sounded more surprised than relieved.

“Force of habit, really.” I said. A platoon's worth of burly zebras soon surrounded us in a defensive posture-- I gratefully unloaded Princess Ianthe onto a sergeant. “And to be honest, I'd rather like to continue surviving, so why don't we get out of here before Perchertania's best blast this place to rubble?”

“Right. We need to get the royals out of here.” She held a hoof to her lips and whistled, at which point zebras and perchertanians alike reformed their ranks and began to make a fighting withdrawal. The changelings were in no condition to press their attack-- the surprise explosion and subsequent assault had pushed them back in disarray. The bombardment above even more intense, and even larger chunks of masonry began to tumble downward.

For once, I didn't argue with Golden Harvest, as for once, she was dragging me out of danger instead of thrusting me into it. I kept my head down, and tried to stay in the middle of the group. It was rather easy, to tell the truth, as everypony's attention was on Ianthe and the real Prince Percheron, instead of me. I trotted along as fast as I could without outpacing the throng of burly, well-armored shock troops, and gave a giddy little laugh as I saw the night sky (however cloudy and rainy) through the breach in the wall.

The whole tower shook, and I heard somepony cry out in pain behind me.

I looked over my shoulder-- and there, sure enough, was Golden Harvest, sprawled out beneath a wagon-sized chunk of whatever changelings build their hives out of. She swore as she tugged at her left rear leg, which had been trapped between two of the larger chunks. In the chaos of the retreat, not a single zebra or pony had noticed her falling behind.

Except for me.

I wheeled around and galloped over, lowering my shoulder to shove at the rubble holding Golden Harvest in place. “What the hell are you doing?” She snarled through pain-gritted teeth.

“I don't know!” I said, honestly, and shoved at the rubble again.

“The whole damn tower's coming down! You'll be killed!”

“Which puts this on par with pretty much everything else that's happened to me in the last few days.” Something shifted beneath my hooves as I pushed, and Golden Harvest dragged herself out of the debris. I hauled Golden Harvest up and over my shoulder-- it's a good thing she was wounded, as I'm fairly certain she would have murdered me by reflex otherwise. She kept swearing with a drill sergeant's eloquence, but the hellacious quaking of the collapsing tower drowned her out.

I took to the air, however unsteadily, and flew through the breach in the outside wall as soon as I could. No sooner had the end of my tail passed the threshold, the rest of the tower imploded, crashing downward in a cloud of dust and rock smoke.

Blinded, I flapped on for a few yards more before I smashed into a tree. I tumbled to the ground, bringing Golden Harvest down with me. I did the gentlemanly thing and hit the ground first, allowing the earth ponyto break her fall with my face. Thankfully, the ground was wet and soft enough that I'd only have bruises instead of broken bones to worry about.

I coughed, groaned, and weakly wriggled out from beneath Golden Harvest. She rolled off of me, and wound up leaning her back against the very tree I'd careened into. She ran her front hooves over her wounded leg, then sucked in a quick breath before pushing hard on it with both hooves. The ensuing 'pop!' turned my stomach. She panted a few more times through her nose, and then finally looked up at me. “You saved my life.”

“And I honestly couldn't tell you why.”

“Maybe you really really are a hero at heart.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

Golden Harvest laughed-- a girlish, bubbly laugh entirely out of place coming from her. “I still don't like you, Sentry.” She lolled her head back against the tree trunk.

“I don't like you either, Harvest.”

“Top.”

“What?”

“My real name's Carrot Top.” She pushed orange hair from her face, and sighed. “I guess you've earned that much, after all you've done.”

“I'm honored. I think.” I tried standing up, thought the better of it as pain lanced up my side, and made do with an undignified crawl to Golden Harvest-- no, Carrot Top's tree, settling in to sit beside her. We could've been mistaken for a couple, if one were to look past the gore and filth and shell-shocked expressions. “So now what?”

“Now? Now it's just clean up.” Carrot Top nodded to a clump of activity a little ways away, where various ponies in armor fawned over the rescued prince and princess. “Once the dust settles, Perchertania and Zebrica will both get back to their wedding celebrations. Plus, they've now got a mutual enemy to unite against. In all the commotion and confusion, it'll be easy for two Equestrians to slip through the cracks.”

The thought of home brought a smile to my face-- and the thought of finally being done with all this damned espionage business made me smile wider. “I suppose I've only got one more question.”

“What's that?”

“When can I shave off this damn mustache?”

So ends the first volume of the Flash Sentry Papers. -G.M.F.

Flash Sentry and the Percheron Conspiracy

The key to maintaining a heroic reputation is humility. If you start strutting about and waggling your medals in everypony's face, they'll rightly label you a boor and stop inviting you to parties. However, if you just put on a brave face and spout off some malarkey along the lines of, “I was just doing my duty. Anypony would, in my horseshoes,” you'll never have to pay for your own drinks ever again. A little bit of mystery can only help.

I steadfastly refused to talk about just what I'd done the day of the wedding-- within a week, I went from slaying one changeling and capturing another to trading blows with the Changeling Queen herself, cutting a swath through the invaders' ranks like a thresher through a wheat field. I didn't confirm these rumors … but I didn't deny them, either.

By the time I was released from the hospital, my overinflated legend had been cemented. Admittedly, Twilight Sparkle and her friends were even more lauded than I was, but they lived in Ponyville. Therefore, whenever somepony wanted a great hero to make an appearance to liven up their party, they invited me.

Without the looming threat of invasion hanging over the city, the Royal Guard had no responsibility beyond standing around and looking impressive. Plus, with Captain Armor whisking off on honeymoon with Princess Cadenza, it was even easier to shirk anything that sounded like proper work. Thus, I had ample opportunity to enjoy the myriad pleasantries Canterlot's high society had to offer. Which is how I wound up Fancy Pants' domicile for the sake of a party. Again, if I'd known what sort of trouble I was getting into, I would've burned Fancy Pants' invitation. But, that's hindsight for you.

Fancy Pants lived in a sprawling but pleasant villa at the far outskirts of Canterlot. It was a long distance from the changeling-ravaged center of town- or anywhere else, for that matter. While Fancy Pants' house was far from the center Canterlot culture, you couldn't tell once you got inside. He had enough sculptures and portraiture lining his walls to start his own art museum. For all I knew, perhaps he had. Then again, most museums I'd set foot tended to have far more patrons than Fancy Pants' study did. The monocled and mustachio'd unicorn was the only other pony present-- which made for somewhat of an awkward party, let me tell you.

“I haven't arrived early, have I?” I said, even as Fancy Pants poured me a whiskey.

“Oh no, you're right on time.”

“Then … where is everypony else?” I perked my ears and looked over the back of the high-backed chair Fancy Pants had steered me into.

“It's an exclusive gathering.” Fancy Pants noted.

“Just … how exclusive?”

“Very.”

“But … there will be ladies in attendance, yes?” I blurted. “I mean, er. Not that I can't appreciate the occasional spot of male bonding, but I've found that a female presence often adds a great deal to just about any gathering.” There were occasional rumors of just how much 'fancy' Fancy Pants put in his namesake, of course, but I'd paid them little heed. And even if such rumors were true, that just meant more opportunity for me to impress some lovely mares with my heroic demeanor and impressive plumage.

“Ah, yes.” Fancy Pants waved one hoof-- and if on cue, two young ladies entered the study. The first was a tall, elegant unicorn I recognized as Fleur de Lys-- Fancy Pants' best friend, or lover, or distant relation, or some combination of those three, depending on who you asked. I didn't recognize the other: an earth pony with a voluminous orange mane. She was pretty enough, in a solid sort of way.

I sprung to my hooves, and favored the pair with a thoroughly dashing smile. “Ladies.”

Fleur silently countered with a mysterious smile of her own, while the earth pony just nodded-- polite, but not exactly friendly.

“Allow me to introduce my good friends-- Fleur de Lys, and Golden Harvest.” Fancy Pants said. Hoofshakes went all around-- I considered kissing the top of the ladies hooves, but I thought the better of it when I saw the stern look in Golden Harvest's eyes.

“A pleasure.” I said.

“And now that everypony's here, we can get on to the important part of the evening?'

“The … important part?” I sipped at my whiskey, and shivered slightly as I felt the liquor sear its way down my gullet. Good stuff, even to my untrained palate.

“Tell me, Flash-- have you ever considered a change in career?” Fancy Pants eyed me from behind his monocle, appraising.

“Can't say that I have. Soldiering is all I know.”

“You're young. There's still plenty of time to learn.”

“True, true. But honestly, I couldn't see myself anywhere else. It's so much of an honor to serve Equestria, after all.”

“An admirable sentiment.” Fancy Pants said. “One that every pony in this room shares with you. It's just that some of us serve Equestria in a somewhat more … roundabout manner.”

“Roundabout?” I glanced over Fleur and Golden in turn.

“Intelligence.” Fancy Pants said. “Information. Clandestine operations. The sort of thing that requires a … delicate touch.”

“Delicate.” I said, and kicked back my whiskey. “I'd be the last pony to handle that sort of work, to be honest.”

“Don't put yourself down, friend.” Fancy Pants idly ran a hoof over his meticulously waxed moustache. “In fact, Lieutenant, you're the only pony who can help us with our … situation.” Fleur de Lys and Golden Harvest just kept watching me, silent.

I nearly choked on my drink. “Situation?” I rasped, and thumped myself on the chest. A tingly sensation started in the tips of my feathers, in a far-too-familiar feeling that things were going to go to hell, and quite soon. “Oh hell, it's not something to do with that changeling I … captured, is it?”

“Not at all.” Fancy Pants said with a knowing smile. “In fact, the less you know about the changeling, the better.”

“Then … what is the situation, exactly?” I asked.

“How well do you know your geography, Flash?” Fancy Pants graciously refilled my glass.

“Not very.” I took another sip, just slow enough not to pour it down my windpipe.

“So I'll presume you've never heard of Perchertania?” Fancy Pants's tone was entirely too casual for my liking.

“Can't say that I have.” I settled back in my chair.

“I suppose I can't fault you that. Perchertania is quite a distance to the southeast. It's a vassal kingdom-- technically independent, but still tied closely to the Equestrian throne. Perchertania is small, but quite important, given its location along several key trade routes. And, in an effort to reinforce those trade ties, Prince Percival Percheron is set to wed Princess Ianthe of Zebrica in just two weeks.”

“Well, jolly for them.” I said. “I just hope their wedding's not nearly as eventful as the recent festivities here.”

“About that.” Fancy Pants said, flatly. “As it stands, Prince Percheron is … indisposed. He's taken ill-- we've got our best doctors working on it, but even their most optimistic prognoses have the Prince bedridden for a month. Maybe longer.”

“So they'll have to delay the wedding? Damnably inconvenient, but there's nothing to be done, I suppose.” I said. My wings shifted a little against the back of the chair as I waited for the other horseshoe to drop.

“Wrong, Lieutenant. On both counts.” Fancy Pants smiled in a way I certainly wasn't comfortable with. “It's more than 'inconvenient.' It's catastrophic. This isn't a romantic wedding-- it's a political one. Every aspect of the ceremony, from the location down to the catering, has been painstakingly negotiated. Rescheduling on such short notice is next to impossible. Not to mention there are political elements within both Perchertania and Zebrica that will take any deviation from the agreed upon preparations as an excuse to call off the wedding … and the alliance. Depending on how things play out, there could even be war. Which, of course, would be against Equestria's interests.”*

*Fancy Pants is not exaggerating here. The Perchetanian/Zebrican Florist Accord is studied by students of international law to this day.

Fancy Pants set his glass down, and then leaned forward. De Lys and Harvest moved to either side of his chair, still silent, still watching.

“But, as luck would have it, there is something we can do. Specifically, something only you can do.”

“I don't understand.” I said, because I didn't.

“Fleur,” said Fancy Pants, “be a dear, and show the Lieutenant Prince Percheron's portrait.”

The tall unicorn's horn glowed, and she levitated a brass-framed photograph over in front of me. At a glance, it looked just like any other royal portrait. Prince Percheron stood tall, wings flared and his chest puffed out, all the better to show off a dazzling array of medals and awards and other decorations. But as I looked closer, past Prince Percheron's bushy moustache, past the faint scars along his hairline, the pieces fell into place. A sleek, sun-darkened coat. A luxuriously combed blue mane. A square jaw, and the sort of big blue eyes that the fillies absolutely die for.

It like looking in a mirror. Maybe one of those magic ones that showed you a terrible future so you could learn a life lesson or somesuch.

“Impossible.” I seized the portrait between my front hooves and looked in closer, looking for signs of forgery or other such chicanery. Not that I knew what to look for, but there had to be something, anything, to show this all to be a cruel and elaborate prank.

“Not impossible. Just improbable.” Fancy Pants said. “The Sentry family has a long, storied lineage-- it's entirely possible one of your great-great-great ancestors sowed some proverbial oats in Perchertania.” He smiled roguishly, and winked his non-monocled eye. “Trust me. I've met Prince Percheron in person. And now that I've met you in person, I can say that you're a dead ringer for the colt.”

“Dead ringer.” I echoed, perhaps putting a little too much emphasis on the 'dead' part.

“So it's simple!” Fancy Pants grinned. “Until Prince Percheron recovers, you'll take his place. I know living the life of pampered royalty isn't your style, Flash, but, well, like you said-- it's an honor to serve Equestria, isn't it? And I dare say this'll be a far better use of your talents than just standing around Princess Celestia's court like an over-polished statue. This mission won't be easy-- but it's small beer compared to what you've been through already, what?”

“This … this is insane.” The portrait fell out of my hooves-- Fleur caught it before it hit the floor. “There's no way you can expect this to work. If these ponies are so twisted up about a wedding, what do you think they'll do when they find out their beloved Prince is an impostor? That'll definitely be war. Plus, it'll be me they throw in a dungeon somewhere.” I paused, realizing I was coming dangerously close to admitting my cowardice. “And I won't be able to do a lick of good for Equestria rotting in some foreign jail.” I added on, if a bit lamely.

“Actually, Perchertania still uses the guillotine for special occasions.” Golden Harvest noted, businesslike.

“My point still stands.” My voice cracked, if slightly.

Fancy Pants poured me another drink. “Which is why you're the perfect colt for the job, Flashy! Most ponies would crack under the pressure-- but you, you I can tell are made of sterner stuff. Already considering how best you can serve Equestria. I've rarely met a pony so devoted to duty as you, sir.” Fancy Pants held a hoof over his heart and looked off into the distance, wistful. A tear glimmered in the corner of his eye. Either Fancy Pants really did believe all this patriotic nonsense, or he was the finest actor I'd ever met.

The unicorn shook his head, and went on. “And don't worry-- Fleur de Lys here is an expert on both Perchertanian and Zebrican etiquette, while Golden Harvest will tutor you on the … strategic situation, as it were. She's also a master of hoof-to-hoof combat, so she'll be giving you a few tips on the Perchertanian style of fighting. Not that your record's not impressive enough, Flashy, but Perchertania has a somewhat more … martial culture than ours. Part of the independent spirit, you know. Might come in handy, too, in case there's an assassination attempt.”

“Assassination?” I felt the blood drain from my face. Repeating the key points of Fancy Pants' planning just seemed to make things worse, but I couldn't help myself.

“Oh, we don't expect anything, but we'll make a few standard precautions.” Fancy Pants waved one hoof airily. “The first of which being that you'll be staying here for the duration of your training, before we catch the airship to Perchertania. We've cleared everything with your commanding officers, of course, so you won't have to worry about being declared a deserter, either. It's all quite official.”

Which meant, in turn, that fleeing from this insane scheme would be seen as desertion, complete with an entirely-too-long jail sentence. I rolled over the options in my head, for just a moment-- a life spent in magic jail vs. one prematurely ended by an assassin's dagger or a revolutionary guillotine? Neither option was particularly appealing. And, of course, criminal charges would ruin my heroic reputation, so any chance of a social life when I got out of prison (if I got out) would be nonexistent.

“When you put it that way, what choice do I have?” I forced a smile, making the damnably true statement into a joke.

“That's the spirit, my lad!” Fancy Pants clinked his glass against mine, beaming. “Any questions before we begin?”

“Er, just one.” I searched, however vainly, for the silver lining. “Just what does Princess Ianthe look like?”