Chapter Thirty Five

Meeting the Sword

Spike arose early the next day, his eyes crusted shut from the few tears he had shed. When he recanted all of what Mehmed’s family had endured in his head, he had cried, knowing if things similar to what had happened to them happened to his family, he might break from the pain. He was strong when he needed to be, and he tried to be in every possible way, but there was only so much a dragon could take, and if his wives lost their foals, or even lost foals multiple times, then he’d never recover.

Shaking the depressing thoughts from his head, he rose gently from the bed, slipping past the forms of his sleeping wives. Mehmed had told him today was the day he was going to visit Sheba’s home, and Spike knew he had to be there: more for the prince’s sake than his own. He bet he could handle the general, but armed with the knowledge of the history between the royal family and said general... Mehmed would need someone to advise him, should a confrontation arise.

Leaving the tower and walking down the stairs, Spike came to a stop, where three familiar-looking guards were standing by a door. He paused, looking them over, an idea forming in his mind.

“Have I seen you before?” he asked.

Two of the guards said nothing, but the third curtly shook his head. “No sir: I don’t believe so.”

“No, no, I have,” Spike said, walking back and forth like a merchant picking out a line of lumber. “Somewhere...”

The pacing was having the desired effect: the guards, in this cool morning breeze, were beginning to sweat beneath their armor. Their stripes were plainly visible, and Spike could tell by the way they held themselves, they were in great shape.

“Stud Shack,” Spike said suddenly, causing all three of them to wince. The middle one sighed.

“How did you know?” he asked softly, looking dejectedly at the floor.

“I never forget a face, or three, for that matter,” the dragon said. “Tell me, why work there on your off time? Surely this position of honor is more than enough for your lifestyles?”

“Politically, socially, yes: economically, not so much,” the middle zebra said. “The pay is not bad, but we try to make as much as possible for our families, and it would too much trouble to ask for a raise. The king has had enough troubles in the past when it came to finances, and so out of duty, we take what we have.”

He looked between the other two zebras. “Please don’t tell our royal highnesses about the money we make on the side. We could lose our jobs here in the palace.”

“I won’t say a word, so long as you keep up your end of the bargain,” Spike said.

“What bargain?” the zebra on the left asked.

“I saw you at that place: don’t tell me you didn’t recognize me when I... made my exit?”

The zebras were silent for a few moments. “Spike Dragul... Spike... that was you?!” the third zebra asked, astonishment filtering through his voice.

“The one and same,” the dragon said, crossing his arms. “Now, do we have a deal? None of you or your fellow “stripper guards” will inform anypony about what happened there, and I in turn will forget I ever even saw you at that place.”

“Oh, thank you sir,” the middle zebra said as all three guards gave Spike a bow of thanks. “You have our sincerest gratitude, and do not worry: our lips, and those of our fellow guards, are sealed.”

Bidding them farewell, Spike made his way through the palace, eventually stopping at the front doors, where Mehmed was waiting for him.

“Did Sheba say where she wanted you to meet her?” Spike asked after they greeted each other.

“Yes, by the fountain once more,” the prince said. “From there, we’d walk back to her house.”

“Her home? Did she tell you where that is?” Spike asked as they walked through the entrance to the palace grounds. Once again, they were disguised, though this time, and as per his request, Spike wore robes more like a bodyguard. He even carried a sword, though he knew he’d likely never have to use it: he was a dragon, after all.

“No, but she said her guard would escort us all there,” the prince said, a dreamy look in his eyes as he mentioned Sheba. “I’d like to meet her family, if it were possible.”

Spike didn’t think that was necessarily a wise idea, but it was the prince’s choice, and he’d go along with it. However, if things got ugly, he’d have to make sure he didn’t get hurt: there was enough bad blood between both of their parent’s, Sheba’s and Mehmed’s, to write a novel on.

So they walked through the streets, dodging merchants, workers, countless officials and untold numbers of the lower class. Well, middle class by other countries’ standards, anyway: they were well dressed, reasonably well-fed, and didn’t look very gloomy. Scholars rushed from one to another, jabbering excitedly about new alchemic recipes or a new spell designed to make work easier. The clanging of the unicorn blacksmiths sounded all around, the pounding of great hammers and blasts of fiery magic warping and forming steel into varieties of shapes for a variety of functions.

Soon enough, or perhaps too soon, if one were to be a pessimist, Spike found Mehmed and he had arrived at the fountain, where Sheba and her tall guard were waiting for them.

“Oh, Mehmed, it is good to see you again!” she said, rushing up before remembering her manners and bowing slightly before him, as per the customary greeting was in many public places. “Are you ready? Faris shall lead us to my home: my mother should be there.”

“What about your father?” the prince asked.

“Oh, he’s usually never home: always off inspecting the troops, devising new tactics with his fellow generals, and all that military nonsense.” Sheba didn’t seem too concerned about inviting the son of her father’s friend turned foe into her home, but then again, very few ponies knew of the bad blood between the two families. It wasn’t common knowledge, and it had been a blessing to remain that way.

As the two ponies walked along, Spike walked alongside Faris, making sure they did not stray too far behind the couple.

“So.... Faris, was it?” Spike said, looking over at the impressive guard. “How long have you been with the El-Hashim family?”

“Since I graduated from the academy: the year Sheba was born,” the stallion said curtly.

“The academy?” Spike asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, the academy: the Saddle Arabian Academy,” the stallion said, once more in a rather set and no-nonsense voice. It was polite, or at least somewhat, but other than that... not really a good conversation voice. “I was the top of my class.” He sounded a little proud at that: dutifully so, even.

“You were, huh?” Spike said, stroking his chin. “Were you hand-picked by the general to serve him in his home?”

“Yes, though not just him: I was to be his daughter’s bodyguard until she married,” the stallion said. “I have served my general and his family faithfully every day of my life: from before dawn until after dusk, I am at their beck and call. My reward is a place to stay and a home for my family.”

“Sounds reasonable enough, given the circumstances,” Spike thought to himself as the two of them followed Mehmed and Sheba around a corner. Spike almost stopped in his tracks, as had Mehmed and Sheba.

“Here we are,” she said sweetly to Mehmed, pulling him forward slightly to get him walking again. “This is my home: what do you think?”

The prince didn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s... it’s... well, it’s impressive, to be honest. I didn’t think anypony would grow up in a place like... this.”

And he was correct: Spike too would have never assumed a mare like Sheba could have come from this very home. Actually, it was less of a home and more of a fortress, to be exact. Buttresses, sharpened walls of steel framing many of the ledges: small guard towers, each with almost complete views of the surrounding areas, minus the support structures, of course. The windows were all barred, and the doors looked like they could withstand a battering ram.

But it was not entirely foreboding. There were fountains here and there, several clumps of trees, and many, many hanging carpets and embroidered decorations. Several statues, likely those of historical military figures, graced the area. There were flowers blooming all around shaded areas, and there was even the faint smell of jasmine in the air. There were decorative towers, several spiral minarets, and many of the fountains had small floating flowers on them, like the kind one might find in the shallow waters of a lake.

It was like a lady fortress and the king’s palace had met up one night, got drunk, proceeded to have sex, and then eleven months later, the fortress gave birth to this odd amalgamation of both intimidating and welcoming imagery.

The massive doors opened, and three guards stepped out, with a hooded figure rushing in front of them.

“Sheba!” the voice called, welcoming and warm, inviting and kind: a mare’s voice.

“Mother!” Sheba replied, rushing up to the mare and wrapping her arms around her, pulling them both into a tight embrace. “When did you get back?” Her mother had gone to visit some relatives to the east, and although Sheba had been offered the chance to come, her father had forbidden it.

“Just ten minutes ago, my darling little flower,” the mare said, breaking them apart to look at Mehmed and Spike. “Oh, you have brought company?”

“Yes, yes!” Sheba said, rushing back to Mehmed and Spike, pulling them forward to meet her mother. “This is Spike,” she said, gesturing to the disguised dragon, “and this is Mehmed,” she added, pushing the prince towards her mother slightly.

“I-it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. El-Hashim” Mehmed said, bowing slightly before the mother of the mare he was planning to marry. In a startling twist, they resembled each other greatly: Sheba and Badr. The same mane, the same eyes, even the same color of their pelt: the only noticeable difference was the height and color of their manes, as Badr’s mane was lighter, and she was also a bit shorter than her daughter. That height and slight difference in mane color were probably inherited from Sheba’s father.

“Please, call me Badr,” the mare said, her voice sounding slightly different after she heard the stallion’s name. Surprise? Intrigue? Perhaps... a little bit of fear? “Please, come in, both of you,” she said, the sweetness returning to her voice once more. “I shall have the servants fetch you something to drink: wine, perhaps?”

“No, no, no wine, please,” Spike said in a bit of a rush. “It... it doesn’t agree with us.” More specifically, it didn’t agree with him. The last thing he needed was to be escorted back to the palace, drunk and trying to show everypony he could honestly breathe fire out of his ass or something. He couldn’t, but he sincerely hoped he’d never try that.

“It is no problem: water, then,” Badr said with grace as they all walked inside the home-fortress. The doors closed behind them, and they were met by the same kind of thing they had seen outside. Fountains, statues, guard posts, terraced overhangs, decorative carpets and plants, the occasional guard standing in front of a door: this was a place of contradictions, all right. Scary and pleasant on the outside, scary and pleasant on the inside: all they needed now were some creepy clowns and some cute little puppies, and everything would be balanced out even more.

After heading inside to escape the heat of the late morning sun, Sheba sat down with Mehmed on a vast expanse of pillows just as a few servants came in with some water and baskets of fruit: at least they hadn’t brought wine. They were soft, thankfully, and while Spike wished his wives didn’t have to be cooped up in the tower all day, he knew they would much rather be waited on hand and hoof up there than in this place.

“Please, sit: enjoy,” Sheba’s mother said as she too sat down: the guards, including Faris, remained standing. Spike sat down apart from them, letting Sheba and Mehmed sit close to one another. Picking a fruit, he smuggled it under his robes and munched on it, not sure if Sheba had told her mother or the guards of his... peculiar heritage.

“So, Badr,” Mehmed said as he finished a fruit. “Just how did you and the general meet?”

“Oh, it is a long and rather amazing tale, if I do say so myself,” Badr said with another sweet smile. “Sheba, would you do the honors?”

Sheba almost bounced with glee. “Ooh, it is my favorite story: thank you mother!” She turned to Mehmed and settled herself down, and began. “It was a cool, calm desert night, out in the sands of Saddle Arabia’s southern deserts. My father was on the track of some bandits, who had made off with many members of a wealthy merchant’s trade caravan. He...”

She went on and on with the story, her actions becoming more and more excited with each passing transition. She pantomimed the sword duels, her actions making Mehmed smile and laugh with happiness as he listened to her recount her father’s daring deeds. She had really come out of the nervous, private shell Spike had met her in when Mehmed and he went to the bar. She was now vibrant, full of spontaneity and excitement as she regaled in her father’s past exploits. Spike, on the other hand, was far from disinterested, but he kept noticing something odd. Badr was not watching her daughter the entire time: her eyes kept flickering over to Mehmed. Not in a sexual manner, any way: no scanning his body or anything. No, she kept looking at his face as he laughed and cajoled Sheba, who responded in kind. She was watching him for something, and after the climax of the story, Spike could tell she had found it.

He had found it too, since he had looked over at the same time. The expressions on both of the young ponies’ faces were as clear as a gleaming shield in the middle of the bright desert sun.

They were in love. As corny as it sounded, their lives had been transformed into a fairy-tale three-day romance. They had developed feelings for each other so fast, that if Spike hadn’t known from experience, then he’d have had to call it out as being a fallacy brought on by young pony hormones. But this was not a trick of biology: they were truly in love, and right now, that had Spike worried.

It seems his worry was shared by Sheba’s mother, who looked up in surprise to see a messenger servant approach them. He leaned down and whispered into the mare’s ear, causing her eyes to widen slightly.

“Oh, um, Sheba, could you stay here with Mehmed? His... bodyguard and I has something to discuss: pay no attention to our departure.”

Wait, discuss something with his bodyguard? Almost on instinct, but not without a twinge of rebellious thought, Spike stood at the same time Badr did, noticing how Sheba and Mehmed seemed to have not even noticed what the mare’s mother had said. Following the mare and two of the guards, Spike looked at her quizzically when they entered what had to be a war room.

“What’s going on?” Spike asked through his robes. He really hoped she wasn’t going to try and seduce him: that would be very awkward, made even more so by the possibility she had been at the Stud Shack the other day. He didn’t know anything about her life: maybe she was lonely?

“Her father is here,” Badr said, a note of panic entering her voice. Oh good: one problem goes away, only to be replaced by another, bigger one. “I promised to meet him in the main hall, but should he see Mehmed with his daughter, without his permission...”

“Oh boy,” Spike said. “So, you’re meeting him here?”

“No, Spike the dragon: you are,” the mare said. “He’s wanted to meet a dragon for some time now, and he has no idea you came here with the prince.”

So she had known, all this time. “But... but,” Spike stuttered, trying to see a way this did not end badly: it was not a bright prognosis. “What do I do?”

“Anything: I must get Mehmed to come to my husband by himself, as a visitor and not a guest of my daughter’s. To do that, I must distract Sheba, and in this house, that is a very difficult task for anypony.”

“Well... okay,” Spike said, still not sure this plan would work out. In all likelihood, it would crash and burn like a flaming, out-of-control carriage smashing into the side of a stone wall. “But, what about-,”

She was already disappearing through the doors they had arrived in. Spike sighed in frustration, turning around just as another set of large doors opened to the room, and in strode who could only be Husam El-Hashim.

He was near the same height as Mehmed: taller than most ponies, but still a bit shorter than Spike himself. And... that was where the similarities pretty much ended. He was broad-shouldered, with streaks of gray in his mane and even speckles of the same gray around the small facial hair he had near his chin. His body was hunched slightly, and he walked with a slight limp, though the way he moved, you might have thought he didn’t even know of it. His hands, large and slightly wrinkled from age, were attached to equally large arms, though one could tell they were not what they had once been. His tail was cut somewhat shorter, and even that did not hide the graying streaks through it. His hooves made solid noises on the ground: he was heavy, and yet moved quicker than a pony of similar size.

But his face: his face was what made Spike unsure if Mehmed would survive asking Sheba to be his queen. Scars covered his face, with one rather big one framing his right eye. The eyes themselves were untouched, and seemed as sharp as ever, though the cold bluish-grey within them seemed to take in the world around them with a severity that Spike had never seen before. His jaw was strong, and even though small jowls were beginning to show along the cheeks, one could tell this was a fighting pony. His jaw was set, and if his teeth hadn’t been bared like they were, Spike would never have suspected that half were either covered in some metal or had been replaced by such.

“Who are you?” the stallion asked as he lumbered by Spike, apparently none-too-concerned of a stranger in his war room. His voice was gruff and slightly raspy: likely from shouting at cadets and their superiors to do better, or giving orders on the battlefield.

“S-Spike, sir,” the dragon said as he removed the robes that hid his heritage from view: his wings unfurled, free from their confinement, and now his entire head was bare. With a slight feeling of relief, his tail too was now free, swaying slightly as he slowly approached the grizzled old stallion. “I am Spike Dragul.”

“Ah, a dragon!” the general said, his voice more of a shout as he opened a small drawer in a desk. Sitting down, he snatched out two glasses and thick-looking bottle. “Please, sit,” he said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk. Spike sat down, feeling like a schoolcolt who had been sent to the principal’s office. “Care for a drink?” the stallion asked, offering the dragon a glass.

“No, no thank you,” Spike replied. The stallion merely shrugged, grunting slightly as he did.

“Suit yourself,” he said, downing the alcoholic beverage in one gulp. With a satisfied sigh, he slammed the glass down on the table, and to Spike’s amazement, it didn’t shatter like, well, glass. “So,” he said, pouring another glass but content, for now, to just hold it in one old hand. “What brings you to my humble home?”

He didn’t seem too much of a general, but then again, most didn’t try and bring every aspect of military life into their homes. If that were the case, then there’d likely be no fountains or trees or flowers or statues on the entire premise. “I’m, uh, I’m... visiting. From Equestria, you see, and one of the stops on my journey was here in Saddle Arabia.”

“Saddle Arabia, huh? Good country: strong, proud nation,” the general said. “A good choice on your part. Where are you staying?”

“In the king’s palace: as a royal guest,” Spike said, quickly adding the “guest” part.

The general’s mouth formed a small scowl. “The king, eh? You royalty?”

“Well, yes, technically,” Spike said, knowing this had been a bad idea from the start. “My wives and I-,”

“Your wives?” the general asked, arching an eyebrow as he drank the glass of alcohol dry. “You’re married?”

“Well, yes,” Spike said.

“You seem rather young to be married to... how many wives did you say?” Husam asked as he poured himself another glass.

“I didn’t, but if you must know, four,” Spike said.

“Four! By the sands of the north, four is a good number,” the general said, setting his glass down and looking over Spike. “Expecting?”

This was getting awfully personal: Spike really hoped Badr would get back with Mehmed soon. “Y-yes: three of them are expecting,” Spike said, not wanting to elaborate on that.

It seemed fate sided with him in that regard, as the general looked out the window. “Is Equestria a nice place?” he asked.

“Very much so,” Spike said, grateful for the change in topic. Though, when he thought about it, this felt more like an interrogation that a friendly meeting. Then, to his deepest gratitude, the doors opened once more, and looking back, Spike saw it was none other than Mehmed and Badr.

The general took one look at Mehmed and nearly fell out of his chair. “Why are you in my house?” he asked, this time not in a shout, but in a rather strange whisper. His demeanor had gone from gruff but stille somewhat friendly to downright hostile in the blink of an eye.

“I was invited here, along with Spike Dragul,” Mehmed said, a tone of confusion in his voice.

“You invited him inside, knowing she’s here?” Husam asked, his eyes turning on his wife.

She nodded slowly. “It was she who invited them, husband: Sheba does not know.”

“Not know what?” Mehmed asked in confusion, turning to Badr.

“You are the son of the king, the future king of Saddle Arabia,” the general said, rising to his hooves. On instinct, Spike rose to his feet, ready to break up a fight, should it start. “You are privy to the greatest luxuries this country can provide: the best tutors, the best trainers, advisors, gifts, foods, immeasurable wealth and political power...”

“Yes?” Mehmed said.

“You are at the same age your father was, or very close to it,” Husam said.

“What age? The age he married my mother?” the prince asked.

At the word “married”, Husam almost threw his glass, judging from the way he twitched. “Yes, the very same,” he said. “Tell me, your highness, have you found a mare you wish to be your queen?”

Spike and Mehmed simultaneously blanched at this: how in the world had he known about that? “I... I think so,” the prince said slowly, taking an involuntary step back. Spike tensed: this was not going to end well.

“May I know her name?” the general asked, his voice becoming an almost deadly whisper.

“Uh, I... I would prefer not to say,” Mehmed replied. That did not sit well with the general, it seemed.

“Leave now, prince: you do not belong in this house,” Husam said abruptly. “Leave now, and never come back.”

“But... but,” Mehmed began, only for him to be cut off by the general once more.

“I said, leave: did you not hear me? Does that lofty title of prince dull your senses and make you deaf to my words?” Husam’s face was covered in a rage-causing glare. “Sheba is off-limits to you, prince: she is not for you to have, no matter how much power you will come to wield! Get out of my house!”

Spike walked backwards and grabbed the prince by the arm, sending him a quiet look before the son of the king could make a retort that would send this spiraling out of control. Pulling him again, they turned and walked out, passing Badr as she winced in apology.

“Yes, go: just go!” the general called, his voice almost a bellow now. “You royalty and your inflated senses of self-entitlement! You take what you perceive to be yours, and never leave anything for the rest of us! You take and take and take, and expect us to just keep giving!”

The doors slammed shut behind Spike and Mehmed, cutting off the stallion’s angry shouts. “Come on, let’s get you home,” Spike said, leading the prince away from the once-friendly abode. “We need to talk.”

Meanwhile...

Inside the war room, Husam fell into his chair, blowing an errant bit of his mane out of his face. Badr marched right up to him as he reached for his glass and began to pour himself another serving of alcohol.

“Do you know what you just did? You insulted the prince!” she said, her voice severe.

“I don’t care, Badr,” the stallion said. “Sheba is to not be let outside again: she cannot go anywhere near him. The risk of him asking her to be his queen is too great a danger: my spies in the royal court have told me as such.”

“I believe we are already past that point, husband,” his wife replied, causing the stallion to look up in surprise. “Your spies are not always the most up-to-date with their reports, it would seem.”

“What?” he asked, a dumbfound expression gracing his features.

“They already know one another, and as I thought might happen, they have fallen in love,” Badr replied. “I have seen it, as has Spike.”

“No: impossible!” the general said. “I strictly forbade her from going to a bar without an escort! He never went there before, and I was assured he never would! How did this happen?”

“I am afraid that your insistence helped make it happen: all your precautions, and yet she met the prince anyway. You said she would never see him in her life, and now I’m afraid it is too late to stop all this,” Badr said.

The general was silent for a few moments. “You are sure they are in love?” he asked softly. He could hope she was mistaken: it would not be the first time. Perhaps...

“It was as clear as the looks on their faces,” his wife said, causing the slight hope in his chest to implode. Husam was silent for minutes, looking into his glass, until said silence became too much for his wife to bear. “Why do you hate him so, husband? Why have you hated him since the first day you heard of his birth?” He had literally been the only general not to show up at the prince’s inauguration, informing everyone he was rooting out a massive bandit infestation in the mountains: in reality, he had been staying up there with his army, practicing maneuvers and not bothering to come, just to spite the king and his newborn offspring.

“He is his father’s son,” the general said, taking a swig of his drink. “He is the son of the stallion who stole the mare of my dreams.” He would not let that go: he likely never could, for it was so far ingrained into his psyche that to remove it would require someone with unnatural happiness. And Pinkie Pie was on the other side of the world.

Badr had been hearing of this for too long, and by now had grown tired of it. “He is also his mother’s son: can you not see that as well? Why must you keep burning the fuse on this candle of hatred you feel for the king and his only son?”

“Because they are the same! They are after the same thing!” Husam said, slamming his glass down on his desk, sloshing some of the contents out onto the floor. “I lost my love to the king in a duel I should have won, a duel that he cheated in, and now I’m going to lose my daughter to his son!” He sighed angrily. “He took her away from me, my wife: I had never felt such rage as when he informed me of his decision. He was a gutless coward, to do that to me: me, his oldest and closest friend! Now his son, his spoiled, rotten brat of a colt, is going to do the same with Sheba! My daughter!”

Few in the army or outside of his home knew it, but Husam had an incredibly soft spot in his heart for his daughter Sheba. She was one of the few things in his life he looked upon with everlasting pride and joy, the kind of thing that, should he lose, would devastate him in a way worse than when he had lost the mare he loved to the king.

“But he had to: for the sake of the kingdom,” Badr said, though she knew when her husband was in this state, it was pointless to argue with him.

“For the kingdom: ha!” Husam replied, swallowing the remaining dregs of his drink. “He can say and insist and tell everypony that tale all he wants, but I know the real reason: he wanted what I had, and he felt entitled to it. His son is no different: if he comes near Sheba, I swear I will make him regret the day he set hoof in my home!”

Badr sighed: this was going to be very difficult to tell Sheba. She left her husband to his alcohol, knowing it could only get worse from here on out. The bitter, old stallion would never let this grudge go, and now it seemed Mehmed was going to be paying for the “sins” of his father, sins he had no say in.

These two young lovers, Prince Mehmed and Sheba El-Hashim, were going to be torn apart by the long lasting, utterly bitter feud of their fathers: who would be brave enough to step in and try to make their fairy tale have a happy ending?

Author's Notes:

Well, there you go. There's more to come, and so far, this is going to be about... two or three more chapters in the Saddle Arabia arc than I had planned. Oh well!