Ever had one of those moments where you want something to happen just as badly as you don’t? Like, that night before the big tournament where you’ll finally get the chance to take down your snarky rival. You know, the one who always insinuates you have terrible body odor as a farewell. Whatever the reason, you know you want it to happen so you can go full beast mode and settle the matter once and for all.

But at the same time, you also find yourself hoping that it never comes. I mean, what if you fail? What if you lose? What if instead of coming out the champion, you end up the chump? Sure, you might end up doing something amazing, but you could also end up getting thrashed eight ways till Sunday and immortalized as the most colossal of all colossal fools. The resulting cocktail of emotions – one part adrenaline, one part angst, shaken not stirred and splashed with general worry to taste – ends up keeping you company all night as you count down the seconds to sunrise and judgment.

That’s exactly how Spike felt as he made his bleary-eyed way from the library that morning, all with Twilight Sparkle waving him a cheery goodbye.

Now, some of you might be wondering how this was even possible. Twilight Sparkle, the monarch of misgivings, somehow not worrying about her baby brother’s impending duel with a twice-baked terror? One would sooner expect Prince Blueblood to actually develop empathy than such carefree optimism from the sweater-vested scholar. Well, you have to give Spike some credit in that he really understood his sister. All it had really taken was a logical explanation of the most likely scenario.

Of course they weren’t going to actually fight. Graves was full grown man, a fire-forged warrior while Spike had yet to start worrying about the intricacies of shaving; any fight between them would be about as sporting as hunting rabbits with hand grenades. No, the marshal had undoubtedly played along with the young boy’s whims to help him save face. They’d probably meet in the canyon, share a few words, maybe scrap a just a little bit for appearance sake, and that’d be a wrap. After all, it’s not like Graves would actually beat up a little kid, would he?

Satisfied, the logical librarian had thus sent her little brother off before turning back to a fun-filled afternoon of cataloging the newest texts. Once the door had closed behind him, however, the green-haired boy had let the charade drop as his worry came back in full.

It was easy to think Graves had been playing along, but he wasn’t so sure that was actually the case. Those gunmetal grey eyes were always hard, but last night, they seemed to genuinely be cast from burnished steel. Maybe he hadn’t been serious, but then again, maybe he had.

“Maybe he’ll take it easy on me,” Spike mumbled as he made his way towards the outskirts of town. But hoping for that was about as useful as wishing for a magical pony princess. If there’s anything that Graves wasn’t, that’d be a man who did things halfheartedly. And thus, the Salamander boy trudged on with the joy of a man heading for his own funeral, albeit with just a bit more determination than most. Maybe he was getting put six feet under, but blast it if he didn’t pop the undertaker a good one before then.

Rounding the final turn, Spike looked ahead and saw the marshal seated on a rock, dressed as usual in his long leather coat and broad, flat brimmed hat.

“You’re late.”

With those two words, all the bluster and bravado the Salamander boy had built up on the walk over evaporated like water drops on a hot skillet. He’d thought Graves had been imposing last night. He’d thought his gaze had been oppressive then. That had just been the warm up. Right now, the marshal's stare could have pierced holes through iron. His eyes were hard and heavy, bearing down with all the crushing weight of two ton sledges wielded in the hands of titans.

“Sorry,” Spike stammered as he quickly hurried forward in hopes of appeasing the stern sentinel. “Didn't think it’d take so long to get here.”

“Duels are fights with your pride on the line,” Graves replied in tones of granite gravel. “Every act reflects that pride. Got it?”

“Yes. Sir. Got it, sir.”

Seemingly satisfied, the marshal finally stood and dropped his spell rifle to the ground with a heavy, ominous thud.

“For what reason have we met today?” the marshal asked, his question coming from nowhere and catching the boy by surprise.

“Excuse me?” Spike replied dumbly.

“For what reason have we met today?” the marshal repeated, his words coming slower but with a sharper edge to every one. This time, Spike got it.

“Oh! We meet today, to... uh… settle a matter between Spike and Graves,” the boy replied, the words and forms he’d learned about coming awkwardly to his tongue.

“And what is this matter?”

“The matter is Rarity,” Spike said, the declaration of his purpose offering some small boost to his will. “I challenge Graves to prove that he really cares for her more than I do.”

“What are the terms?”

“Bare-handed combat. First to surrender or… or to be knocked out, loses.”

With the slightest of nods, the marshal walked forward with the slow and implacable tread of a glacial shift until he stood within arm’s reach of the Salamander boy. Spike swallowed as he craned his neck up so he could meet the marshal’s gaze; he hadn't realized the man was quite so tall.

“May the best man win,” Graves said softly, raising a single fist up towards the boy. Spike didn’t respond; the grapefruit-sized knot his throat made sure of that. It had been scary before, but until this precise moment, none of this had been completely real. Now, however, there was no more denying it, no more hoping to someone miraculously get away.

He was actually going to have a fist-fight with Graves.

Working to swallow both the lump in his throat and the bubbling fear in his stomach, Spike raise a hand of his own and replied, his voice hoarse and raspy,

“May the best man win.”

Their fists touched and Spike’s world exploded in pain.

One minute, you’re staring down the steely eyes of an apex predator and the next, you’re lying on the ground, blinking back the tears as you hold your throbbing nose and wonder how the hay did you get there in the first place.

“Get up,” Grave commanded, his gravelly tones devoid of any trace of compassion. “Or are you gonna give up already?”

Spike scrambled to his feet, rubbing his nose as he stared with terror stricken eyes at the marshal. This was bad, and bad in a really capital B kind of way. He’d known that Graves would be good, but he hadn’t figured that Graves would be that good. The blow had come out like a viper, striking with blinding speed before the boy even had a chance to react. To even see.

A slight shift in posture was all the warning Spike had to throw himself back to the ground. Lucky too, because that’s the precise moment when the marshal’s booted foot thrust forward towards through the precise spot where the Salamander boy’s face had been.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Spike cried out as he scrambled to his feet once more. “That could’ve taken my head off!”

“You actually complaining?” Graves asked, eyebrow cocked in question. “Weren’t you the one who asked for this?”

“W-Well…” the boy stammered, yeah, but–”

“Then fight.”

Spike jumped back once more, but couldn’t quite get out of reach as Graves caught him with another stinging jab to the nose.

At this point, the Salamander became desperate. Not knowing what else to do, he sent his best haymaker – a wobbly, loose, and clumsy swing – straight for the marshal’s gut. It missed, sailing through harmlessly as Graves pivoted on one foot and dodged just to the side. A heavy blow into the boy’s side and the marshal leaped back, safely out of his assailant’s shorter range.

From here, it only went downhill. Unable to retreat, Spike continued to charge in, swinging as hard as his thin arms could swing. Yet every time he did, the marshal saw him coming. Those piercing grey eyes spotted out every move and got him just out of the way, but not before delivering one or two more stinging blows as he left. Within minutes, Spike was a mass of bruises and aches, his lip and nose bloodied up and one eye already showing the telltale black.

“You give up yet?” Graves asked, cool as a forest stream with not even a bead of sweat on his face.

“Not… yet…” Spike panted, though even the reply took way more effort than it should have. No matter how hard he tried, Spike couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t even lay a finger on the man, no matter how much he struggled. It was... it was like chasing moon shadows in a midnight blizzard, painful and futile and utterly, utterly hopeless.

Raising a feeble hand, Spike threw one more punch towards the marshal, still somehow thinking he might at least land the luckiest of lucky hit. But there was no room for chance here as a sharp right cross sent the boy crumpling to the ground.

Above the green-haired lad, Graves stood, his eyes cold and hard.

“... You told me you cared about Rarity,” he said, an almost cruel sneer in his voice. “But looks like it was nothing but talk.”

Though the blows had hurt and his whole body ached, it was those words, cutting like jagged razors, that finally brought tears to the boy’s tightly shut eyes.

The girls joked about it mercilessly, but it was true; he really did like Rarity. He’d liked her ever since his first day in Ponyville and he’d always hoped, however unrealistically, that she’d one day like him. But he was too young, too much of a kid to ever be taken seriously. At least once, he wanted to be taken seriously, even if it was just landing a single punch on the man who’d won the heart of the girl he cared for.

But he couldn’t even lay a finger on him, and not just because he faced the marshal. No, laying there on the ground and really being honest with himself, Spike knew that he was just plain scared. Part of him wanted to stay down so he wouldn’t have to get hit again. Part of him wanted to just quit, to tell himself he’d done enough simply by bringing the challenge in the first place. Part of him wanted to surrender and just give up and let his feelings for his first love hang.

So as he lay on the ground, helpless against the marshal and even helpless against his own fear, that's when the pain truly set in. He felt so powerless, so frustratingly weak that unbearably helpless, that he wanted nothing more than to simply scream.

Well then… why not?

Spike roared, but instead of sound, out of his mouth came a brilliant torrent of viridian green flame. The marshal spun, and the sturdy leather of his jacket snuffed out the flame like fingers on a candle wick. Nevertheless, the gaze he returned to the boy now held at the very least, just a hint of surprise.

He wasn’t the only one, because Spike’s emerald green eyes stared back in disbelief as well. He’d never breathed fire like that before in his life. How on earth did he…

You have power, hatchling. Use it.

It was a thought. Or maybe it was a feeling. It was something that seemed to come from the pit of his stomach, the center of his chest, and the back of his head all at the same time. Something called out to him, something older than the mountains and hills, yet somehow still close and familiar…

Slowly, Spike climbed to his feet, eyes ever on the marshal who now stood back at a wary distance. Inhaling deeply, the Salamander boy breathed once more and exhaled another plume of draconic fury. This time, Graves was forced to leap aside, unable to deflect the searing blast as he had before. Filling his lungs to bursting, Spike roared again, blasting out focused jets of green flame over and over, forcing the marshal to dodge time and time again. This was it, the feeling from before. It felt right. It felt proper.

No, not quite. Fire was good, but it was only a start. In the wake of his blast and before the onset of conscious thought, Spike leaped forward, the speed of his movements unlike anything he’d ever experienced, yet still somehow familiar. In the blink of an eye, Spike closed the gap between him and the marshal, swinging not with his fists, but with his claws.

For the first time, Graves parried, sweeping aside the raking strike as he delivered a counter blow to the boy’s jaw. But Spike spun with the blow, bringing his hind leg up into a mulish back kick. The marshal caught the foot, but the strength of the blow knocked forced his feet to skid back on the sandy canyon floor.

And that’s when Spike began to fight. With a speed, a ferocity, and a fearlessness he never knew he had, he fought. Slashing claws and striking legs lashed out in between gouts of green fire even as the dragon boy’s appearance slowly grew to match his savagery. Spiky green hair hardened into razor quills. Skin and nails grew hard to form iridescent scales and iron talons. Eyes narrowed into reptilian slits above a mouth growing long and full of razor sharp fangs, fangs he used to snap and bite at the marshal’s exposed flesh even as his newly sprouted tail lashed out like a darting snake.

Perhaps Spike noticed the changes. Perhaps he didn’t. What he did know was that with this new found energy, he had a chance and he was going to use that chance to the fullest. Graves continued fending off the blows, dancing on the knife’s edge as he dodged and parried by the skin of his teeth. But slowly, inch by inch, he gave way. The Salamander boy continued his relentless onslaught, pressing his advantage to the fullest. The marshal was wavering.

Soon, his defenses would crack. Soon, he’d be left vulnerable and Spike could land his first blow. Soon–

Spike blinked as he found himself staring up at the pale blue sky.

“Wha…?”

“Good. You’re awake”

Turning his head slowly, Spike saw Graves seated next to him, same as ever in his long, leather coat and broad, flat-brimmed hat.

“What happened?” the boy asked, his head full of cotton balls and cobwebs.

“We had our duel.”

“Did we?” the boy wondered as we sat up slowly, rubbing his foggy head. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” the marshal asked, eyebrow arched.

“I remember coming to the canyon,” Spike began. “We talked a bit, then you hit me in the face, and then…” Like a broken dam, the memories flooded back in and snapped him wide awake.

“Holy cow!”

“So you do remember,” Graves intoned, the faintest spark of amusement lighting his silvery eyes.

“Unless I’m going crazy,” the boy replied with bewildered confusion. “Was that… was that really me? Did I do all that stuff?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“You’re a Salamander,” the marshal replied as he cracked his neck and got more comfortable. “That dragon’s blood makes you natural born fighters, and when it fully wakes...

Though Grave trailed off, Spike remained silent as the enormity of what had happened started to slowly sink in.

“I... I... tried to kill you,” he blanched, as memories of slashing claws and snapping jaws began bubbling back to consciousness. “Holy crap, I actually tried to kill you!”

“Tried is right,” the marshal agreed. “Course, seeing as I’m still here-”

“No, you don’t get it, do you?” Spike cried as he jumped to his feet. “If I’m part dragon, and that kind of... stuff’s inside me, then what happens when-”

Before the boy could build up steam, a quick flick to the forehead completely derailed that train of thought.

“Sit down,” Graves said, not unkindly, but clear enough that he wasn’t taking no for an answer. Doing as he was told, the Salamander had a seat.

“So, you’re worried you’ll lose control?” the marshal asked, his voice returning to its typical, gravelly baritones. Spike nodded in absolute earnest agreement.

“... Good.”

“How on earth is that good?” Spike retorted. “I’m a ticking time bomb, a walking disaster, a-”

“-young man who’s got power and the sense enough to be careful with it,” Grave smoothly finished. “Which puts you a sight above most young men, let me tell you.”

“... You... don’t think I’m dangerous?” Spike asked nervously.

“Not really,” Graves shrugged. “If I did, would I have healed you up so good?"

Spike opened his mouth to respond, but paused. Come to think of it, he did feel pretty good actually, tattered clothes aside. Excellent even, considering that he’d been beaten like a drum not minutes ago.

“Oh. Uh... thanks for that,” the boy finished dumbly.

“No problem.”

"But still, don't you think I'm a health hazard or something?" Spike continued, not completely assured by the marshal's confidence. "What if I go completely crazy one day and start hurting the people around me?"

"Do you want that to happen?"

"Of course not! Wh-"

"-Then don't let it." The gravity of the marshal's simple words cutting off the boy in mid protest. "You were born with a gift and it's as much a part of you as the head on your shoulders. May be hard to control, but long as you got a good enough reason to keep it in check, you'll find a way."

"It'd sure be easier if I didn't have to worry about it," Spike sighed.

"Would you rather be powerless when you've got a reason to fight?"

Spike didn't answer because they both knew exactly what he was going to say. A fairly harsh truth to be sure, but one the Salamander was grateful to learn nonetheless.

“... So, is that why you took my challenge?” the boy asked. “Because you wanted me to... I dunno, teach me a life lesson about how with great power comes great responsibility and what not?”

“Mm, not really,” Graves replied. "I figured Twilight's got that covered."

“Then why did you?" Spike asked, now quite perplexed. Surely, the marshal didn't go around beating up little kids for kicks and giggles did he? But then Graves looked to the Salamander and finally cracking a smile, gave a reply that may even have been even more absurd.

“That's easy. You asked.”

Spike blinked.

Twice.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“So… if Sweetie Belle asked you to toss her off a bridge to help earn a flying cutie mark, you would?”

The marshal’s chuckle was a deep and rich like a cup of quality cocoa.

“Bit much, even for me,” he smiled. "But you seemed serious, and when a man get's that sort of fire in his eye, s'only decent you meet him in kind.”

Viridian reptilian eyes went wide in surprise.

Now, Spike certainly didn’t want to, not when someone was finally treating him like a man, but he just couldn’t help it. Between now his now soft, human hands, a little giggle squeaked out as the Salamander boy basked in the glow of the soldier’s praise. Graves had actually called him a man. Seriously, Graves! The super marshal! And he'd actually taken him seriously enough to-

"Hey, wait a minute!" Spike frowned. "You're lying!"

“... I am?" the marshal blinked.

“Yeah!" the Salamander continued, now getting just a bit angry. "If you were really taking me seriously, you'd have knocked me out with that first hit. But you were... I dunno... playing around with me or something."

"Was I?" Graves intoned.

"Yeah, you were," Spike affirmed as anger gave way to sulking. "And the worst part is, it still didn't make a difference. Even with all that dragon stuff going on, I still couldn't even touch you."

Graves said nothing as he stroked his chin in thought. Then, to the Salamander’s great surprise, the marshal pulled back his coat and revealed, through the holes neatly sliced into his shirt, a faint set of claw marks on his ribs. They weren't much, just enough to tear fabric and mar the skin underneath, but they were definitely there. It was definitely something.

"I'll admit, could have finished it sooner," Graves nodded as he allowed his coat to fall back in place. "But it seemed like you really wanted a chance to fight. Turns out I was right."

"I... actually got you?" Spike breathed in disbelief. "Seriously?"

"You did," the marshal nodded. "Even had to really hit you at the end. No holding back."

Green eyebrows disappeared behind pointed bangs as viridian eyes widened with even more surprise. Okay, so maybe Spike hadn’t actually won the duel. Maybe he hadn’t even come close. But to overcome the pants-wetting terror that had gripped him and make Graves take him seriously, even for a split second? To be able to get some revenge, however small it may have been, for having his first love snatched out of reach?

Yeah, he could probably live with that.

“... So,” the dragon lad began once his satisfied smile had worn off, “what happens next?”

“First off,” the marshal grunted, “we never mention this to Twilight. Ever.”

“Agreed,” the boy replied with a hearty nod. Should the worry-prone librarian ever find out what happened today, well... let’s just say there would be postings for a new marshal in town and Owlicious could expect a promotion in the very near future. “But... after that happens," he continued, levity fading into reality, "what then?

“Then..." Graves paused for a moment, then simply shrugged. "I guess life goes on.”

Spike knew he didn't have to, but he couldn't help it. Some things just needed closure, and for that, one last question had to be asked.

“And for you, that life going... that includes Rarity, right?" the boy said, his words more statement than question.

Graves simply nodded, and Spike could feel the closing curtains fall.

“Well then, you take care of her, okay?” he snorted, doing his best to keep a straight face despite the tears he knew were pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Rarity's really special, so just... be sure you take care of her. Make her happy. Can you do that?”

Graves didn’t respond quite yet. Instead, he extended his hand out the green haired boy beside him and replied with but one simple word.

“Always.”

So Spike took that hand and shook it, sealing the promise from one man to another.

One was even decent enough to look away when the other began to cry.

The Journey of Graves will continue in the next story: Dating is Hard.