Taming Strange. Or: How I learned to stop worrying and make love in public

Grasping Hoof, Dean of Royal Canterlot University, the most prestigious University on the planet, ground his teeth. The entire intellectual world of Equestria hung on a shake of his head. Professor's careers rose and fell at his behest. With a stamp of his cutie mark he could fund exploratory expeditions, or stop a line of research he didn't like in its tracks. In short he was a very powerful pony.

So it was very jarring to him when he was impotent to reclaim his single most prized possession. The only pony it could really be said he loved. His terrible current wife was overdue to be replaced. His terrible parents, he had dumped in the cheapest old ponies home he could find, then made a pretty profit on the sale of their house.

"BUT THAT DAMNED ROANÉ HAYCARTES." He had nothing! Nothing to be threatened with. The Dean could expel him and he knew the very odd pony wouldn't care. He'd continue to come see his precious Picturesque whenever he could. He had no parents to threaten. The pony had been effectively homeless before coming to University, and he couldn't intimidate him. The pony was just not afraid of him. The only thing in the world Roané Haycarte had was the Dean's little filly. It was a madhouse!

He couldn't tell his dear darling daughter to stop seeing him. She was the happiest he'd ever seen her. She would flutter about the house singing to herself, and the whole carriage ride home she'd just sigh dreamily to herself. That demon occupied every waking thought of hers and it drove Grasping Hoof to a frothing rage.

He was so angry that he was actually, Celestia forbid, doing his own paperwork. He needed something, anything to take his focus off of this conundrum. He found the letter from his ex wife that came every year. The same travel arrangements for Picturesque, the pleas that she be educated in Prançe that he always ignored.

He tossed it into the trash but a thought struck him. He pulled the note out of the trash and stared at it. A malicious grin split his face. A flurry of levitating papers filled the air. Travel orders, moving instructions, college admission forms. He had his angle. A cruel chuckle escaped his mouth. "But of course she should be educated in Prance. FAR AWAY FROM HIM!"

In the large yard of the Dean's country home, a pleasant day trip away from Canterlot, the two young lovers sat side by side enjoying the warm spring sun and the gentle breeze. They said little rather enjoying basking in each other's presence.

Roané Haycarte still couldn't look her in the eye but his speech had now relaxed into almost his normal tones, but softened considerably by the calming effect the mare had on him. When they were together things didn't bother him as much. A foal's foaly was his own tragedy, not a plague on the nation. The only problem he had when he was with her was the constant soreness. The muscles in his face weren't used to smiling so he was in constant discomfort, but Picturesque kissed it all better so he didn't mind.

"Well when summer comes you simply must come with us to Gaconeigh. I just hope mon pére would consent to bring you. Mon mére would simply adore your constant frown." She said playfully pulling at his cheek with her hoof. She snapped to her hooves. "Oooh and I would be your translator so you and mon mére could speak without trouble!" She pranced giddily in place.

"I understand Prench." The earth pony said matter of factly. The prancing pegasus stopped in mid prance hanging in air for a second or two.

"Toi mon amour? Tu parles Prançais? She asked incredulously.

"I had to learn it to read the fillysophy of Roanspierre and Maretesque." The fillysopher said no hint of pride or vanity in his accomplishment. In his mind it was just something you did. If you want to read a book in another language you just learned that other language.

"Mon amour alors pourquoi tu ne me parles jamais dans ma langue maternelle?" Picturesque pouted.

Haycarte knew he was in trouble, it was not in his nature to lie, especially to the mare he loved. "Because it is a barbaric, convoluted nasally language and I prefer not to use it."

Picturesque was horrified that the stallion who said such sweet things to her, or at least where she could hear, could utter such a blasphemy. She'd never had anypony tell her something she didn't like so it was a very new experience having to argue. Much less be mad about something. "Comment oses-tu! La langue de Prançe est la langue des amoureux et des poètes, de la passion et des grands penseurs!"

"That's all well and good for them but the language is still unpleasant to the ear, needlessly convoluted in its spelling, and it's numbering system is beyond irrational."

"NOTRE SYSTÈME DE NUMÉROTATION EST JUSTE FIN!" She looked away knowing she was lying.

Haycartes looked at the back of the head of the pegasus from Prançe. "Say ninety seven."

Picturesque mumbled "quatre-vingt-dix-sept."

She could feel him lean in as he said. "My love." She wouldn't look at him. "Does it make ANY SENSE to have to say four different numbers to say one number." The pegasus sprang to her hooves. She sputtered angrily trying desperately to think of a defense of her mother tongue but Haycartes didn't let up. "Spell the word queue."

The pegasus groaned loudly and stomped a hoof. "Qu'est-ce que cela a à voir avec quoi que ce soit?" She felt his stare on the back of her head. She sighed and angrily muttered. "Q-U-E-U-E"

"Now my love, Equestrian common has a character that makes that sound. It's called Q, we have several words that are one character long, such as A and I. Why should we have to spell five letters to say a word that's said by one letter? Your language, by its mere existence, and its perverse influence, has poisoned the common speech!"

Picturesque got muzzle to muzzle with Haycartes. "Eh bien, si cela vous déplaît, pourquoi vous embêtez-vous à me parler alors?" She waited for a response. She noticed Haycartes eyes were out of focus, which was the tell tale sign he couldn't speak. She rolled her eyes hard and stepped out of his line of sight.

Haycartes thought back to all of his conversations with Wordsmith. They had come to the conclusion that it's not lying to speak the truth in a flattering way. He decided to give it a try. "Because it is the language in which you say you love me. You are the only pony from whom Prench sounds beautiful. When you speak it the world becomes a more beautiful place. When I speak it the language in which you say you love me is disrespected. Therefore I crave hearing it just so I can hear say you love me." It was a good try.

Picturesque blushed hard. She still wasn't satisfied, but resumed her place at her stallion's side pouting. The sweetness of the complement mollified the outrage of the insult to her native language. "Très bien. Tu as tort mais j'accepte tes sentiments parce que je t'aime. Et on ne dit pas 'Prench'." She spat the word distastefully. "On dit de Prançe ou de Prançe." She gave his aching cheek a small peck.

"Very well then." The fillysopher said, relieved the matter had passed so painlessly. She'd just had her first argument, and Haycartes couldn't be prouder.