Chapter Thirty Six

A Harsh Lesson and a Harsher Truth

“All this time, you’ve hidden this from me?” Mehmed asked, angry that his parents couldn’t even seem to meet his gaze. “This entire time, you knew, and I had to find out from Spike first?!”

Spike shuffled his feet quietly near the door, wishing he could escape up to his brides. He had chosen to tell the prince the truth: all of it. There was no doubt it had been the right thing to do: it hadn’t been easy, after all, and the easiest thing to do usually isn’t the right thing.

“We had hoped you would find out sooner,” the king said, looking at his wife with a pained expression. “We just had never hoped you’d find out... like this.”

“This is the mare I want to be my queen, the one I love, and I just find out her father could have been mine if you had been a less-skilled duelist?” the prince asked angrily, looking directly at his father.

“Well, when you put it that way, of course it sounds bad,” the king said, an odd combination of meekness and resignation in his voice. “Son, you must not let this make you lose sight of your goal.”

“My goal? As in, the goal you two set out for me to do in order for this kingdom to continue down our family line? I never wanted to be part of this!” the prince shouted. “Now I have found the mare of my dreams, and if I cannot have her, then I will have nopony! I will stay a bachelor, single until the day I die. Then this blasted kingdom will fall into ruin later than it should have, if all these stories and lies are anything to go by!”

“Watch your tone, son: you mustn’t speak of things like that,” the king said, a new hardness entering his voice that sent a slight tremor down Spike’s spine. Wow, talk about the kingdom falling apart really got under the king’s hide.

“So? It is nothing less than we deserve. All my life you have groomed me to be the next king, to be a representative of my country and kingdom: to pick a mare that would bear my foals. Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to be something else?” Mehmed asked, his voice lowering slightly below the shouts of before. “That maybe I wanted to come into my birthright on my own, without the “guidance”, nitpicking and iron-fisted rule that was set before me? I want to make my own mistakes so that I can learn from them, not be coddled and cajoled into doing something I have no idea how to fix should it become too troublesome to handle.”

The king was growing more and more flustered, and Spike had no idea what was going to happen.

“I must do what my heart tells me I must: I chose Sheba over this kingdom,” Mehmed said, his final words hanging in the air for several seconds. Then, the king exploded, quite literally, off of his thrown, his quick loping bounds crossing the distance between him and his son in the blink of an eye. Spike had never known anypony to move that fast at that age.

“You fool!” the king roared, backhanding his son across the face and sending him sprawling to the floor. “Do you have any idea what you are saying? Has anything but your own thoughts and desires ever made it into that thick skull of yours?!”

Mehmed merely looked up at his father in shock: nopony had ever had the audacity to strike him before, and his father had never so much as looked at him with a violent eye. “I...I...I-“

“You what? You thought you could just make a decision like this and there would be no consequences?!” the king roared, a wild and surprisingly pained look in his eyes. “You think that your decision to abandon your kingdom, your birthright, would just go away and turn out all right in the end?” His fists clenched, the king took a step towards his son, only to be stopped a further advancement by Spike’s outstretched hand, which gently but firmly placed itself on his shoulder.

“Enough,” Spike said, his voice firm and unyielding in its severity. If he had to, he would beat up a king. “You are a king: act like one.”

The king looked between Spike and his own son, then back to Spike, and back to his only son before his fists unfurled and his shoulders slouched. He had been so full of kingly vigor, and now... it was like all the hot air in him had been let out.

“You have no idea what it is like, Mehmed,” the king said softly, his voice hoarse from the sudden outburst. “You have been raised to adulthood in luxury: in your time, our kingdom has never known war, no famines have occurred, and the people adore the reigning heads of state.”

“What are you getting at?” Mehmed said as he slowly rose to his hooves.

“I was not entirely truthful to your friend Spike here when I told him of how Husam and I became enemies,” the king said softly as the queen rushed to his side. “I... I too considered just letting the kingdom fall apart after my father died. My head was filled with wild, amazing ideas: a republic, a democracy, a constitutional oligarchy: many forms of government passed through my head, ones where I would be nothing anymore but a footnote in history. I could be at peace, and the burden that was mine would be lifted from my shoulders.”

He looked at his wife. “Then I discovered the truth: my ponies, our ponies, are not yet ready for such a drastic change. Maybe, in time, there will be no more need for kings and queens, emperors and empresses: the ponies of the land will rule themselves as a collective majority. Perhaps, someday, but the day I fought my former friend was the day I knew I needed to shoulder my responsibility, as I knew only the true son of the king could be the one to lead his kind to a brighter future.”

“So? This is not so much different than what you told me,” Mehmed said softly, a small bruise forming on his cheek. It wasn't much, but it would serve him as a reminder to not be such an idiot in the near future.

“It concerns the fight for your mother,” the king said, looking at his son with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “In the fight, I told Spike I disarmed Husam due to the stallion’s rage overriding some of his dueling skill. That is not true: Husam was far more skilled than I, and even in his rage, he was still a tad more skillful. I would have lost: nay, died, had I not done what I did.”

“What did you do?” Spike asked, letting his hand drop from the king’s shoulder to his own side.

“I... I cheated,” the king admitted, a tear rolling down his nose. “I... tossed a vase at his chest after I had rolled away to avoid a blow. He slung out and deflected it, but that was all I needed to inflict a wound on him: the scar across his face, near his right eye.”

“I... I always thought he had gotten that from another duel,” the queen said.

“No: it was by my hand he was scarred there,” the king said softly. “Then, in pain and with blood leaking into his eye, he threw up a hand to his face, as if forgetting the duel was happening. I took my chance and disarmed him, with his sword ending up in my hand. I... I could have finished him then and there. I wanted to, I felt like I had to: I knew he’d never get over my betrayal, and if I let him live, he’d be one more pony who’d want me dead or worse.”

“So why did you let him live?” Mehmed asked his father. "Why let him live, if you knew he would be such a dangerous foe?"

“Because he had been my friend when I had none: he had been my closest confidant in my darkest hour,” the king said, choking on a small sob. “Now it seems my decision to let him live has been brought back to a neutral state: my son has met his daughter and wishes to marry her. Only now, though, I am afraid Husam will never let that happen. He sees too much of you in me, too much of the stallion who betrayed and injured him on that night all those years ago. I... I am sorry, Mehmed: I am sorry, my son.”

Silence: complete and utter silence pervaded the room like a thick mist, threatening to extend on forever until nothing remained. Then, without warning, Mehmed embraced his father.

“What?” the king asked, surprise filtering through another choked-back sob.

“It’s okay, father: I understand,” Mehmed said through his fierce embrace, one that was soon joined by the queen. “I... I forgive you: for everything.”

The king looked like he was about to say something, but apparently decided against it. Instead, he hugged his son and wife against him, tightening their embrace as they let the angst and turbid feelings inside them wash away.

Spike felt out of place in this moment, like a pitchfork at a spoon convention. This conversation reminded him of the many he had had with Twilight back when he was younger, minus the physical aspect of it. Right then and there, he felt very lonely: he had four beautiful wives and three foals on the way, sure, but he missed home. He was only about halfway done with this world-winded tour, and even then he knew that he’d have to start sending much, much more back with his next letter.

Leaving the family behind, the dragon slowly made his way up to his quarters, only to find his wives asleep on his bed. Well, with nothing much else to do and strict rules against them going outside by themselves, sleep was likely the best thing they could do. That, or talk, though Spike knew that Maria and Chrysalis had finally made up: that was a plus, at least.

Settling down into a seat and retrieving a quill and some ink, Spike began to write.

“Dearest friends,” he began. “I know I have not written in a long while, nor would I wish to keep doing such a thing. These last few weeks have been... strenuous, so to speak. Bandits attacked us after we headed out of Neighypt and our time in Maredagascar was not too pleasant either: the week-long storm really out a damper on things. After that, we were attacked by pirates around the coast of Somalia, but the convoy we were in managed to fend them off.”

He didn’t want to tell them of how he had become a flying, flaming instrument of death, or else he’d never hear the end of Twilight’s rants on “dangerous dragon behavior” or something like that. Granted, they wouldn’t be wasted, but he really, really didn’t want to listen to them right now, or ever, really.

“We safely arrived in Saddle Arabia and have been having a rather splendid time, though there have been problems between the prince, his parents, and the daughter of a certain troublesome general. The situation is, I hope, being rectified as I write this.”

It was a pleasant thought.

“On a happier note, Trixie has been coming along nicely in her pregnancy, although some of the more odious symptoms have started to make themselves known.” The other day, Trixie had ordered the servants to bring her seventy pounds of grapes, and everypony had watched in horror as she gobbled down each and every one like a possessed demon. Then she ate five bowls of cabbage, and last night had been the fartiest night in Spike’s life: an open torch exploded into flame on one exceptionally powerful gust of flatulent air from Trixie’s derriere. “Meia and Maria are also pregnant, so in several months’ time, I should be expecting three new additions to the royal household. Asalah shows no sign of being pregnant, not for lack of trying: her cycle simply hasn’t come around again.”

He paused for a moment: he had referred to Chrysalis as Meia once again, thereby digging them all deeper into a hole he knew would be a pain to exit. Some time or another, everypony else would have to learn about the queen of the Changelings falling in love and being impregnated by Spike the dragon. He only hoped they would warm up to her faster than if she hadn’t: he didn’t know why he got so protective around them, but if it came down to it, he’d gladly defend them from any attack, by any pony.

“With sincerest regards, Spike.” With that and a tongue of flame slipping between his teeth and over the now rolled-up scroll, Spike sent the message back home, half the world away. He did miss it: truly, he did.

There was a soft knock on the door, causing the purple and green dragon to look away from the window through which the message had flown. Walking over to the door, he opened it gently to see one of the guards waiting for him.

“Sir Spike, the prince wishes to see you,” the guard said.

“Thank you: I’ll be right down,” the dragon said, walking back and putting his supplies away. He stopped, looking at his journal: he had been writing in it ever since he had met “Meia” on the Crowhop, but he’d never really given any thought to it. He’d assumed it would just be his journal, something for only friends and relatives to see. But now he saw it in a different light: this would be read by countless generations of ponies in Equestria as a guide to so much of the outside world. Spike, after all, had written in great detail everything he had seen: the landscapes, the ponies that inhabited them, and the many exotic things to do in such places. He was writing what would become a piece of history.

“Wow,” he thought as he gently packed it away. Leaving his still-sleeping wives alone once more, he ventured down until he came upon an unusual sight: the prince, along with both the king and queen, were dressing up in disguised clothing.

“His mother thought we should try it out for once,” the king told Spike in a hushed tone when the dragon approached them. “This plan of his is secret, even to us: all he wants is for us to be there.”

“Mehmed has a plan?” Spike whispered back as he and the king followed the other two disguised royals out of the palace. Spike had not taken off his “bodyguard” disguise, so no pony gave him so much as a second glance.

The king merely nodded. Spike, on the other hand, had serious doubts as to the validity of whatever Mehmed was planning. Was he going to whisk Sheba away? Was he going to use his royal heritage and power to bully the general into doing what he wished? Was he-

“We’re here, you know,” the king said, causing Spike to snap out of his reverie. He looked up to see them entering the castle-home in which Sheba and her family resided.

“Oh,” was all Spike could say as several guards let them inside after the queen whispered something to them. Surprise surprise, a familiar figure approached them, nervously wringing their hands.

“What are you doing back? Are you crazy?” Badr asked. “He’s still in a horrible mood: if he sees you in here, he’ll have you all thrown out!”

“No need for worries, mother of Sheba,” Mehmed said, removing his disguise. “I intend to speak with Husam: by myself,” he added, casting a look at the others, especially the king and queen. Before anypony could object, and it sure looked like his parents were going to, the prince strode past them all and entered through the doors from whence he had been ejected before, right into the war room. With a slam they closed behind him, and so the entire group found themselves in an unnatural silence.

“Did he tell you what he was going to do?” Spike asked the queen. She simply shook her head, her unblinking eyes never leaving the door her son had entered.

The silence seemed to just stretch on and on, as if the instant Mehmed had entered the war room, all time had ceased to flow within. In Spike’s eye, this could mean one of two things: either Mehmed and Husam were having a civil conversation, or...

“No, he wouldn’t do that,” Spike thought. The general may have been a madman, a crazy drunk, but he would never stoop so low as to do...

There had been swords in the room, though...

Just then, right as Spike was going to check on them, the doors swung open and out strode Husam, a glint in his eye and his jaw set. “Prepare my arena,” he said to the guards, some of whom were already moving at the word “ arena”.

“What?” the king asked, looking aghast as Mehmed strode out, looking none the worse for wear. “Son, what did you do?”

“Challenge him to a duel for Sheba’s hand in marriage,” the prince said simply, earning gasps from Spike, the queen and the king once more. “It will be a private affair: nopony else in the kingdom, besides a few guards, will know it ever happened.”

“That’s because it will not happen! I cannot allow this!” the king said, roughly grasping his son’s shoulders.

“You know the rules, your highness,” Husam said, spitting out the word “highness” like it was an insult. “He challenged me and I have accepted: we will duel in thirty minutes.” With that, the general strode off, disappearing into the armory that connected to the arena.

Mehmed strode after him, Spike left holding onto a sobbing queen. “What happens if he loses the duel?” Spike whispered. The king followed the prince close behind, his urgent words of the prince’s idiotic decision falling on apparently deaf ears.

“Husam... he chooses what happens,” the queen said through a choking sob. “Denial of Sheba’s hand in marriage, reluctant acceptance, or...”

Or? “Or what?” Spike asked, a nasty feeling in his gut telling him what “or” meant.

“Or... death,” the queen said, her sobs renewing for a short time. “It... it is the law the of the land, from before Saddle Arabia had a king or queen. It supersedes our authority, and such a duel can only be called off by the one who accepted it.”

“Oh shit,” Spike muttered under his breath, not knowing what else to do. Just then, after finally deciding to get over her own shock, Badr came over and quietly pried the queen out of Spike’s arms, though he wasn’t even holding onto her. She was the one who had been nearly crushing him in her grief-fuelled embrace.

Sighing and knowing this would not turn out well, Spike left them and headed after a few guards, a sign clearly marking the arena. Clambering over some seats, he sat down in front, looking down into the sparse arena. It was made simply of compact dirt, dusty and littered with dropped or useless weapons. The walls had no spikes nor other dangers: it was just a large circle in which ponies could settle their differences by the sword.

Meanwhile...

“Son, you must not do this!” the king said as his son handled a helmet: it covered one’s entire head, leaving nothing but one’s mane sticking out. The eye slits were large enough to not obstruct one’s vision in any way, but then again, they were large enough to be a problem if one targeted said eyes.

“Why, father? I am doing what you taught me to do,” Mehmed said as he set the helmet down on the pile of armor he would wear. It was not thick and bulky like the armor of European ponies: it was light, flexible, and not very strong. By very strong, in that it would not arrest the blow of a determined foe’s blade, but a glancing hit would not penetrate, at least. “I intend to make him see the error of his ways and earn Sheba’s hand in marriage, preferably with his blessing.”

“You have gone insane, my son,” the king said, letting out a depressing laugh as he slouched down onto a bench. “You really don’t know what you are going up against, are you?”

“He is an old pony: granted, an amazing duelist and strategist, but he is many years my senior. I can beat him,” the prince said as he picked up and swung around a short sword: a side-arm, or secondary weapon, if you will, should his first be discarded or damaged beyond used.

“Trust me when I say this: all you have on your side is your youth, and naiveté,” the king said, looking around the armory. It was a separate one from where Husam had strode off to, and it showed: there were paintings of famous generals, while there was no doubt no trappings at all in Husam’s private armory.

“Must you always doubt me, father?” Mehmed asked as he picked up a war hammer, giving it a few test swings.

“I do not doubt you: I doubt Husam will relent just because you are my son,” the king said, blinking in realization of something only he understood.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” the prince said as he held up a chain mail shirt. “I want this to be a fair fight, with nopony holding back. Only then, after I beat him, can he truly see I am worthy of his daughter.”

The king sighed: Mehmed wasn’t listening. He was young, yes, and full of optimism, but the king knew better. The world was usually harsh to ones like him, and Husam would be no exception. Husam was a master duelist: he always had been, and unlike many other generals who reached his age, he had more or less kept himself in reasonable fighting condition. Sure, he had gained a few pounds here and there, but the zebra was surpsingly light on his hooves. Mehmed wouldn’t stand a chance, but what could he do?

“I am sorry, son,” the king said, rising to his hooves.

Meanwhile...

Spike did not like how silent the arena was. It was as if Death itself was waiting in the seats, maybe even right next to him, just waiting for the chance to claim another life. Badr and the queen had not come, thankfully: Spike didn’t know if he could stand to watch such a thing with them watching it as well. The few guards who had showed up were standing at attention along both doors that lead into the arena, their armor glistening in the light.

Sheba had not shown up either, something Spike was even more grateful for. Whoever won here today could in theory kill their opponent, and for her, it would be a doubly-damaging thing to see: the stallion she had fallen in love with cut down by her father, or her father run through by the one she loved. Either way, it would not end well, and Spike knew he couldn’t interfere: the guards he had asked had made it explicitly apparent there could be no outside interference from him, or the duel would simply be rescheduled with him not present.

Then, with a great groaning noise, the door to the far wall opened, and out strode Husam. He was clad head to hoof in armor, not thick plates like a knight’s or a guard’s. Instead, it was mostly chain mail, with leather greaves and gauntlets serving as protection for his lower legs and forearms. His helmet, an intimidating creation that had two great, feathered horns, gave him a demonic appearance. He had several weapons on him: one long sword, a small short sword, and an oval-shaped shield that tapered to a point near his hooves. The latter two he carried out with him, his walking making them look almost weightless. The longer sword remained in his sheath, though it was truly a nasty-looking piece of work.

“I call forth my challenger,” Husam said in a clear voice, surprising as his helmet covered most of his face.

The door on the far side opened with barely a sound, and out strode Mehmed. His helmet hid his features, but the way he carried himself was a dead giveaway. He too wore chain mail, and the same kind of leg greaves, but the gauntlets for him were metal, like knights in Europe. He carried with him a long-handled military scythe, similar to a sword but with a much longer “blade” portion. He too carried a shield, this one more shaped like a curved rectangle, and instead of a sword, he carried a singular mace. It had no spikes, but instead had several metal rings wrapped around the blunt end, making it much more likely to break something upon contact: bone, metal, wood, whatever.

Mehmed didn’t respond: maybe the king had finally shown him a few tricks of the dueling trade that only one like himself would know. With that, he stepped forward, and at the same time, both doors swung closed behind the two.

It was a long walk to the center, and as soon as both combatants bowed, the duel had officially begun. Spike only hoped both would survive it.

Author's Notes:

I am sorry for not having written this sooner, but this week involved staying up until midnight every night studying and working on some projects. Plus, waking up early in the morning does not leave one in the best mood for writing. Also, I basically wrote this all in one day after planning out everything in my head when I couldn't write it out.

PS: I am SO looking forward to writing the next chapter.