His doctor offered a private bed at the clinic but was left protesting when Ser Vincent opted to limp his way back to his own. He didn’t bother to hide it in the halls of Canterlot Castle but still wore the mask. The first thing he did upon arriving was to set his armour aside and take a shower.

He walked out of his ensuite bathroom, still dripping but refreshed. His hair was matted, a darker timber once wet. He wore only his dirt ridden pants and earth-patchy socks. His beaten body was in shape, but coloured with a myriad of bruises, from sickly gold to ugly navy. A few white scars could be counted on one hand if seen up close, soon to be covered by the green and sapphire-speckled bandage he was wrapping around his mid-section.

As invigorating as a good shower was, when he finished tying off his own medical investment by his side he then realised how it was temporal. Herbs and mint rose up as he inhaled, his fingers stroking the plaster strip crossing over the bridge of his nose, before he lightly prodded his stitched left cheek. Pools of pain sprung up across his body as tired jade eyes scanned his room.

It was large, far larger than his older room from when he was younger—perks of being a technically dying species under the watchful eye of Princess Celestia: comfort. That and his majesty wanted him operating at the best of his abilities whilst serving him and looking kind to his lesser as well.

Ser Vincent’s portion of the room, if one didn’t wish to see anything work related, was neatly tucked into the left third of the room. There was still a great deal of space between the single bed and a small desk littered with writing and drawing supplies. Quills, ink stamps, sharpeners, and artist pencils all scattered upon the mahogany surface. A bedside table supported both a lamp and an expensive record player. It was a new model, a gift from his mother, built in speakers singing the sweet starting piece of the famous ‘Knight Lost, Lady Found’. This melody was soothing, an audio balm and sleeping agent. He could get lost easily with it whilst in the shower.

The bathroom door was heavily fortified as it stood next his small alchemist lab—not every experiment was clean nor guaranteed non-explosive results. Thankfully all was small scale, as per request of the castle staff.

It took up the largest portion of the room. His alchemy bench was broad, curving against the far wall facing the door to his room and an erected wall to prevent splashes of chemicals staining his bed. Flasks and beakers were neatly sorted, Bunsen burners lined up like waiting soldiers, and test tubes remained in a sink by a balcony door, one of the few sources of light for the room. Ingredients and chemicals were tucked away in overhead storage cabinets, in under-desk cupboards. Opposite all this was his fume cupboard, pristine, white and beside him.

At the moments, three long tubes were stained and emptied, their contents having dripped through the tap at the bottom and into separately awaiting flasks. The burettes each had labels hanging from the top by a noose of string, the flasks beneath glowing bright from left to right. He noted this but couldn’t think, other than he’d have to finish up and prep more petrify capsules later.

The remaining space of his working two-thirds of the room was for his field equipment, two tall bookshelves filled mostly with botanical, alchemical, geographical, and biological knowledge sat on either side of a wardrobe.

Within were numerous long coats, pants, gloves, and boots, aesthetically different to suit environments of forest, desert, and artic tundra. Other than that? All identical, right down to the potions used to strengthen them. A stallion mannequin stood beside him, weighed down by the hydra armour that reached his waist, a very snug fit. His bracer was attached to the arm, his mask assuming its position on the head. At the base were two metal cases, the broadest being on the bottom.

‘Doctor says I need some rest’. And Vincent was inclined to agree. He turned towards his secluded portion of the room, glancing at the second wardrobe against the bisecting wall. That had his regular clothes, though pants were irregular things in this country. Before sliding onto his bed he had to take one look at the one thing that made him proud.

Between the bed and desk, mounted on the wall was a large map of Equestria in immense detail, spanning a majority of the surface. Mountain peaks, river beds, dark forests, all framed in a golden casing to display somepony else’s work. After all, drawing was always more of a hobby he picked up studying flora, a technique good for imbedding plants to memory. He couldn’t do something on this size.

What he could do was draw summaries of his missions and pin them around.

Yes, on the outskirts of Equestria were his small additions to the map, his contributions to the real thing. Papers depicting fearsome creatures, enraged foes, clever criminals, and villainous beasts stood at the boarders with thin threads leading to a location on map before being tacked. Each monster was grander than the last.

In the beginning there were few, but now five and a half years later, he had achieved a bounty of markers in the frozen north, luscious east and dark western parts of the lands. The south was spartan. He swelled with pride as he glanced at the sight, his eyes brightening as he gazed to the missions out of the country, those pictures not traced back to Equestria.

This was why he was content. They were all completed, successful missions.

But… beneath each picture was another.

Those pictures were of sights worth revisiting, a place he wanted to return to and simply be. He had pictures of rock spiders, sludge golems, fire bats, even a necromancer, but he would not deny that the view from standing upon a mountain top was worth recording. same for the enchanted swamp with wisps of rainbow fireflies. And especially not the ice caverns of the north, where ice and crystal were indistinguishable, beautiful architecture.

He’d seen more than one of the same monster, but never got around to seeing those sights again. He’d come close but on other missions.

He was too tired to ponder over that and simply sat upon his bed with an ineloquent yawn. Light fell through the window behind him, casting him in a soft-orange glow. Being off his feet made his legs feel incredibly light, the sensation bringing an odd sense of discomfort. Unlike the locking pains in his arms, chest and knees, he found that pleasant.

An abrupt knocking at the door caused a fatigued frown to form.

“Who is it?” He asked with a warm voice.

“Housekeeping,” came the regal reply. The door opened and Prince Blueblood strolled in.

The regal bachelor sported no luscious attire this time, then again, being as well groomed as he was meant that very little could enhance his handsome features. He was royalty, white fur born of the crushed marble that made the capital the ivory crown it was, bluest of eyes either as cold as fresh waters in winter, or as warm as the sky in summer. The wry smile was well suited for the prince, as were the golden locks parted by the horn, shining like the gold of his full bank accounts. A compass rose blessed his hips, Ser Vincent knowing it meant how well the prince could steer nobles into a more noble direction.

The stallion that changed, if not saved, Vincent’s life.

“So this is what a manticore’s chew toy looks like,” the prince commented as he looked behind him.

The stallion that was Vincent’s best friend.

“Service, please bring in the beverages.” The Prince proceeded further in, his nose scrunching in offense as he approached. “Ugh, are you certain that there’s no way to eradicate that odour every time you use those bandages?”

“No,” Vincent replied with a hurting smirk as he moved along towards the head of the bed, “I prefer efficiency and functionality in life and death situations, smelling good is the least of my worries.” With his ribs and abdomen numbed he could lean onto his knees with his elbows, looking up the prince with his own quirked brow. “Then again I’m not exactly enlightened to the elite’s parfum de séduction douce.”

The satisfaction was evident in Vincent’s grin when the prince gagged.

“If that horror was a beast I’d have you slay it.”

“With His Highness’ mercy, I’d prefer to relocate it so that somewhere I’d always be able to see it again, maybe memory lane when the need arises.” A light chuckle toppled out of Vincent as the prince’s horn shimmered with a snow-blue light, the desk chair soon sliding across wood to provide Blueblood with a seat. With an indignant huff and a lash of the tail, the prince crossed one shoed hoof over his knee.

“I suppose there’s no facing you down in terms of knowing what stench is worse given your line of work, Ser Knight.” With a light frown, directed over his shoulder to the door, the prince continued, “Bad aromas aside, how are you actually feeling?”

Despite the modest shrug, Blueblood could see the strained look sprout on his knight’s face in the corner of his eye.

“Not my worse.” At Ser Vincent’s reply the prince rolled his eyes.

“Nothing will beat Zebrica, I know, but answer my question without that annoying bravado.”

“It’s not my worse, a few painkillers and I’ll be fine, I’m where I need to be to rest aren’t I?” Vincent frowned, intentionally this time. “I don’t do bravado.” His scowl deepened as the prince responded with an amused snort. At that moment, the prince’s personnel servant entered.

Platinum Service was a lifelong butler and confidant to the prince, even bestowing some handfuls of wisdom to Vincent. Between the two of them, the Prince seemed happy with who he could talk to on certain matters. The old gentleman was silvering in the citrus fur, adding to the charm of the ancient treasure trove of knowledge that he was. Ruby eyes matched the scarlet tie that made him stand out amongst the black and white suited members of staff, the only thing the stallion was adamant in keeping. A scarlet mane was combed back, his tail cropped short and neat.

“My apologies for the delay, Your Highness.” His voice was crisp and dry, and on the ornate silver platter he held in one white gloved hand were two different drinks. A glass of blue wine and a green bottle of dark lager.

“Was there a complication?” The prince asked with a thin lipped stare.

“I couldn’t think of one.”

With that he offered the prince his beverage. Platinum was the best butler to serve in the castle, something that could be backed up by documents of service. That meant that if things were beyond him, his subordinates, and even the rest of the castle staff then one was lucky when the results did come in.

“Ser Vincent, the prince had me bring a bottle of Strap’s Crispy Oats in case it was fitting for the moment. Would you prefer a glass or will you be taking it straight from the bottle?”

His father taught him that alcohol was a delicious poison, and that whilst important to taste, to learn its discipline, there was one golden rule: wine for refine, lager post labour. Drinks had their time, had their place, to which one would best attain their refreshing effects. Vincent was an intermediate in wine tasting, thanks to Service, but knew when an alternative was right.

“The bottle thank you, Platinum, and thank you Prince Blueblood.” Was it the right time after just leaving the clinic due to multiple wounds, whilst still seizing up in stiffening aches due to mana burnout summoned from months of abuse? He was handed the drink and immediately sipped it.

Vincent spied the prince lower his cup to mime a toast before returning it to his lips. The old stallion turned to face his liege, hands held behind his back.

“Anything else, Your Majesty?”

“Could you inform me of my schedule for this evening?” The prince inquired whilst eyeing the liquid he now swirled in his glass.

“Certainly. You will be present for tonight fashion awards ceremony with Mister Fancy Pants, which arrangements ends at eight O’clock this evening, where you will shall be attending the opera.”

“I see,” Blueblood replied, downing the rest of his drink. It made Platinum wince, though the expression was brief. “Please disregard that as it seems my best bodyguard won’t be there to attend with me.”

Ser Vincent simply continued drinking as the prince levelled a smouldering glare his way.

“Yes, the fool has pushed himself for far too long, against goliaths of monsters, numerous bandits, and countless scores of magic, and refused to acknowledge when to quit!” Prince Blueblood reprimanded him because he cared, Vincent knew that. But in the beginning, there were so many against him opting for a military career that this was old hat.

“He sounds like a good man, Your Highness. May I be as bold as to offer some advice?”

“Offer and give regardless are synonymous to you. What is it?”

“He may have had one of those days.” Vincent’s voice was as tired as he looked, a sight that made the prince shake his head and sigh.

“You see where reckless abandon gets you?”

“I saved many yesterday, I saved many more the days before; I’ll keep on marching until I’m done, then I’ll rest.” Ser Vincent was resolute on this. He appeared more like stone, set and stubborn weathered and world worn, speaking a tone akin to cold rock.

“It would be poetic if not cliché,” Blueblood remarked, placing the stained glass back on the platter. He leant forwards after Ser Vincent rolled his own eyes. “Is that what we’ll write on your epitaph?” Blueblood dismissed Platinum service with a wave of his hand, the old stallion soon departing. Only the sleepy song from the record player was heard for the few passing heartbeats.

“I’m not suicidal, I just know when I can do the job. I have backed off at the right time.” Vincent then gestured to his wall with a shaking hand. “Been through worse, been through better, and always got the job done.” He downed his drink, relishing the crisp, bitter flavour. “I didn’t fail my mission, I retrieved those crates and delivered your letter. Didn’t that sound simple enough? And still I came out on top knowing I'd have to rest after this. I understand now.” He then leant forward with scrutinising eyes.

“Forgive my curiosity, but what was the purpose of the letter?”

“That is between the princess and me.” With that curt reply, Ser Vincent reclined back, his body wrecking with pain. It must have showed because the Prince raised his brow.

“Ser Vincent, nopony can question your record. I don’t doubt you as a knight. I know that this lesson means you will take a longer breather, so what, you’ll only work weekdays unless there’s an emergency? Given you duties, when will there not be?”

Vincent wanted to protest but was silence by Blueblood raising his hand. The music still in the air drew long notes, light and whimsically saddening.

“As your friend, I’ve sat by long enough. You’ve become stronger so many times, but I can’t smile this one off with you again, I can’t laugh it off simply because you’ve done something remarkable. I can’t ignore how eager you are to work, either between potion crafting or outside fighting Fate’s-know-what.”

Prince Blueblood then rose to his hooves, his magic pushing the chair neatly back into place. Stallions were sturdy creatures, and His Grace was certainly chiselled from rock. It made his next statement look resolute as he admired the mapped wall.

“If not for these then I’d would have given up long ago,” he said as he magicked the pages to reveal over a hundred wonderful places captured in silver graphite. There was also colour, or at least just one. It was Vincent’s favourite art style— a blue oasis shimmered in a desert of grey, beneath a bluer sky, simply because that was the most eye-catching detail.

In truth it was based upon how he sees the world when magic flows through him. The background fades and whatever moves has its colours intensify. Of the soaring fire bat, he captured the yellow streaks. Later, he then drew Hallow Shades from his favourite vantage point, the night sky silver but the light of the village windows golden. This trend was set throughout and seen in every picture.

He didn’t know what to draw for Ponyville, his first southern mission. There was a lot of fear used against the innocent there. He didn’t like mission like that.

“What’s your point? I like to draw my missions, it’s relaxing.” Vincent didn’t see how all of this mattered. He could understand his friend getting upset with him, he figured it was something that happened after a bad mission, as it had done in the past, but the wall was never brought into it. He didn’t get an answer, other than a shake of the head.

The prince stopped using his magic, hiding away the places the knight would one day like to return to. Someday.

“For far too long I’ve understood why you never sit still, Vincent.” His cryptic message brought a frown to the knight’s features. The Prince then turned on hoof and walked towards the door. “Get some rest, I believe I’ll be needing my guard soon for something I have planned.”

Ser Vincent shrugged, planting the bottle on window shelf before swinging his legs up to rest on his bed. His breathing hurt less now thanks to his bandages but his bones were stone grinding against one and other, chaffing the taught rope that made his muscles. Resting on a bed was heavenly.

He glanced to the door just as His Majesty, Prince Blueblood looked back.

“I’m sorry to have ruined your evening, Your Majesty.” He paused to look to his socks, contemplation shifting his features. He looked back with a gratuitous spark in his sincere eyes. “And thank you for your concern.”

A fond smile sprouted on the prince’s muzzle.

“Not yet you’re not. As for now, I am waiting on a letter. Rest well.”

Author's Notes:

So that's it for the first installment of Ser Vincent in his own series. That's right. There will be a sequel. And it will be in a series.

The Changing States of Knight series begins here.

Please like if you favourite and please please please comment. Feed back is always appreciated.

Sequel: Knight to B4