Chapter Thirty Seven

A Promising Compromise

The two figures stood stock still in the middle of the arena, neither moving as a light breeze made some of the floor’s dust swirl around them. The stoic nature of them both seemed very eerie, as if they had ceased to be ponies and were now statues. Even the birds, so common high up in the few trees framing the castle fortress, were uncharacteristically silent, as if a great predator had suddenly appeared in their mist.

“So, any second thoughts on this duel?” Husam asked loudly, more than enough for Spike to hear a good distance away. “Are you going to break down and plead for mercy, little colt?” Jeering an opponent usually made them lose their focus and react with emotional strength instead of physical, a dangerous gamble that rarely, if ever, paid off.

Mehmed merely shook his head, not uttering a single word: Husam’s display of utter asshole-ity wasn’t affecting him at all, it seemed. Any other stallion his age would be either sweating from fear or shaking with barely-suppressed rage at that kind of taunt. Most had been taught to respond in kind to an insult, usually in a physical manner: it seemed the prince thought differently.

“Fine then: have at thee, then,” Husam said, drawing his sword back: the real fight had begun. With seemingly little effort, he swung it forward, aiming for the prince’s shoulder with the speed and skill of one who had done this for many a year. It would be a clean slice, likely penetrating through the armor and halfway to the bone-

Or it would have been, had it not been for the blur that was Mehmed’s mace coming up to block the strike. Metal clanged on metal as sword met mace, but Mehmed was stronger than he appeared: the mace held with little effort and he soon pushed away, driving off Husam’s attack. His breathing quickened slightly, as would any in his situation: dueling was not a "calm" event.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Husam said as the two combatants circled one another. “You are more skilled than you first let on. But it will not happen again, I assure you.” He dove in again, his sword’s tip aimed straight for Mehmed’s knee.

Mehmed simply side-stepped the strike and lashed out with his shield, knocking Husam slightly off balance. It was enough for the elderly zebra to stumble, but he was nothing if not persistent and recovered in time to block a mace-blow with his own shield. He shrugged it off with little effort as well, pushing the weapon away.

Spike had the temptation to shield his eyes from the duel, but he just couldn’t peel them away from what was happening before him. It was a flow of battle the likes of which he had never seen before.

Mehmed came in with an overhead strike with his mace, the blunt end making a loud thump as it impacted Husam’s shield. Swinging his shield arm down and bringing the mace with it, Husam instead lashed out with his sword, which the prince barely managed to duck under. Another inch lower and the sword would have dinged off the very top of his helmeted head. Mehmed pushed up and forward with his shield from his crouched position, trapping Husam’s sword arm across his body. The general kept trying to backpedal and free his arm, but Mehmed advanced in time with him, bringing his mace up and over to try and smash the zebra general in the face. Husam did all he could: bring his shield up repeatedly to fend off the mace. Every clang, every smash, every blow made a loud ringing sound in the arena as the two went back towards a wall. The dust kicked up by their hooves followed them like smoke billowing from a train engine.

Setting one hoof firmly behind him and pushing with all his might, Husam shoved Mehmed away, finally freeing his sword arm. With that, he launched a quick counterattack, his flurry of strikes barely blocked by the prince’s own shield and mace. Both combatants grunted furiously as they dueled, their scrambling hooves kicking up small clouds of dust every time they slid or were driven back by a blocked attack. Then, on one particularly hard downward swing, a resounding crack echoed through the arena as a split formed right down the middle of Mehmed’s tower shield. The prince sidestepped and managed to put some distance between himself and the general, which must have given him enough time to assess the damage, for Husam was on him again in a matter of seconds.

He threw up his shield once more, only for another crack to sound through the arena as another split formed down the shield, this time to the side. Blocking the next three strikes with his mace, Mehmed tried to press his advantage once more by going for Husam’s head, forcing the general to become defensive again. He managed this for several strikes until the general unexpectedly charged, slamming his own shield into the prince’s. The tower shield splintered and broke in two, falling apart in Mehmed’s grasp.

The prince had to get it off his arm, as it was now useless and would only serve to slow him down. So, after dodging backwards from a few vicious swings, he slipped his arm out of the grip and threw the remaining piece of the shield at Husam, who threw his own shield up. The impact must have been rather fierce, as the general stumbled backwards and fell on his back in a cloud of dust.

Mehmed rushed forward, both hands on his mace’s handle as he raised it up over his head. Then, when he was a few paces away, he launched himself into the air, his tail soaring behind him like a banner as he flew across the short distance. With the added momentum of his leap, he brought down the mace with a surprisingly loud yell, impacting...

Dust: a mere second before the mace smashed into the ground hard enough for dried dirt to fly up like a meteorite impact, Husam had rolled away. He swung out with his sword from his laying position, but Mehmed had recovered and jumped, cartwheeling through the air with his mace still stuck in the dirt. With a wrenching motion he pulled it free and drew back again. With another roar, which sounded violent, even in a situation like this, he swung it down again, the impact leaving a dent in Husam...

‘s shield. The general had frantically thrown his shield up to deflect the blow, but said blow almost drove him into the ground. Where had the prince gotten this sudden strength from? It was madness, for him to be fighting so well: the general knew his spies must not have been entirely accurate when they said the prince was trained by professional soldiers.

The only things was, Husam had trained many of those soldiers, so after the next shield-denting strike, he lashed out with his sword with extreme precision. His blow was just a bit too high, as he had been aiming to remove a piece of the prince’s hoof: instead, the blow skidded off the leg greaves, driving Mehmed back a few steps. He came forward again, swinging down in time to once again strike dirt as Husam rolled out of the way. This time, he rolled to his hooves and lashed out with his sword, catching the prince off guard. In the shoulder guard, in fact: sparks flew as the sword skidded off the shoulder, leaving no wound other than a bruise but having enough force behind it to drive the prince back again.

“Give up: you are no match for me!” Husam said, not entirely sure what he was saying was the truth. Mehmed said nothing: he merely charged again, his mace coming in from the side like a metal haymaker punch. Husam threw up his shield, but the force threw him backwards through the air, just as a loud tearing noise sounded.

The shield had ripped itself apart from the blow, scattering in pieces as Husam once again landed on his back. However, this time he was up in a flash, as the loss of the weight of the shield gave him a significant boost in agility. He sidestepped another overhead blow from the prince and jammed his elbow right in the stallion’s face, drivie him backwards. He followed it up with a slam to the shoulder he had bruised with the handle of his sword, the cast steel end serving like a small ball-peen hammer. It left a dent in the metal shoulder piece as Mehmed was driven to one knee. Raising his sword again, Husam brought it down just as Mehmed rushed up with his, causing both weapons to slam into each other.

The resulting clang drove Husam backwards several paces before he regained his balance, and Mehmed’s knee was driven further into the dry dirt. Judging from the grunt he released from his throat, it had hurt a lot worse than it appeared, though Mehmed did not stay down. As he rose to his hooves, Spike saw the end of his mace fall off: the force he had been exerting on the end had fatally damaged the welded metal end, and all he had left now was a metal stick. The dragon looked over to see Husam looking at his sword in a manner suggesting dismay, although it was hard to tell with his odd demonic helmet.

The sword had a large, noticeable crack running down the middle near the hilt, and the very end had been snapped off like a twig, leaving behind a jagged shard. Indeed, the shining tip had flown away from the blow that created it and had embedded itself in a far wall, right next to a guard’s head. Said guard had pissed himself in surprise and shock, judging from the puddle beneath him.

Husam and Mehmed threw their now-useless weapons to the ground and instead drew their secondary, or rather primary, weapons: Husam his broadsword, and Mehmed his military scythe. Both metallic instruments of death gleamed in the sunlight as a light breeze blew up a small cloud of dust, which swirled around them in an almost magical way. With twin roars matching in volume and ferocity, they charged once again, the dirt kicking up behind them as they outright sprinted towards one another, their trails mixing with the dust already in the air.

They leapt at each other in midair, both swings missing their target and instead clanging together as they landed. They each spun, blow matching blow as they swung again. Mehemed sidestepped one downwards strike and lashed out with his hoof, kicking Husam square in the chest. This sent the general back a few feet, enough for the prince to swing his scythe once more, aiming this time for the general’s lower legs.

Husam jumped at this, the swing passing under his hooves. As he landed, however, Mehmed continued the path of his swing, making a complete circle where he was standing and this time making contact. It was not with Husam’s blade, however: it hid the side of his thick chain mail, causing him to stumble to the side. Chain mail was designed to not be cut, so all the general got out of it was a fractured rib and severe bruising. But he didn’t care about that now: he was too full of adrenaline and blood-lust to feel it.

Bringing his huge sword in front of him like a spear, Husam thrust at Mehmed, who just barely managed to sidestep and not be skewered on the sharp piece of metal. With another swing of the sword, Husam impacted Mehmed’s side as well, though he used the broad side of the blade. This sent Mehmed flying, landing on the ground next to a piece of his shattered shield.

Husam gave him no chance to breathe: he advanced and swung his sword down, missing the side of the prince’s head by an inch after Mehmed somewhat lurched himself out of the way. He tried again, but the military scythe blocked his attack, and no matter how hard he pushed, he could not bring his blade any closer to the prince. He then pressed his whole body into the push, causing the blade to inch closer, and closer, and closer...

Then, in a flurry of movement, Mehmed let go of his scythe’s handle with one hand and rammed the gauntlet-covered fist into Husam’s face, with most of the impact landing on the helmet. It did the trick, though, as Husam stumbled backwards, a small spray of blood exiting as he coughed: likely bit his lip or something. Then, the prince grabbed his bit of the shield, and smashed it alongside Husam’s shin, sending him stumbling back further in pain. Some more blood dripped from the helmet onto his armor, and a small trickle came from the general's lower leg: a small shard of the metal shield had likely gashed open a bit of his skin.

Mehmed scrambled to his feet and lashed out again, throwing the shield piece at the stallion. Husam managed to deflect it away to his side, but Mehmed followed up that move by punching the stallion square in the face once more. Another spray of blood, a bit more this time, exited the general’s helmet as he stumbled back again: likely a broken nose, now, judging from the sudden howl of pain. He shook his head to try and regain his thoughts: slight concussion as well, perhaps?

The general, after spitting out some blood, recovered his posture and tried swinging his sword down, but he was tiring, and it showed: the prince deflected the blow and with his free gauntlet-covered fist, punched Husam right in the rib where the scythe had landed before. The general grunted, causing some more blood to leave his mouth in a spray, and then the prince grabbed him by the shoulder. With a mighty thrust he smashed the front of his helmet against the general's causing them both to trmble slightly: Husam fell backwards a step, his head starting to get fuzzy from all the trauma he was suffering. Then another blow landed on his ribs, and then again as Mehmed landed another blow in the same spot, and then again, until the next strike was finally caught by the general’s sword. Well, caught being an exaggeration: in reality, he barely managed to deflect the blow, the defensive maneuver sending sparks flying off the metal gloves as Mehmed withdrew his hand in pain. It hurt to punch really hard objects, and he had to quickly sidestep to avoid being run through by a sudden, desperate jab from Husam’s sword.

As the general moved past the prince, Mehmed brought his elbow around, smashing it into the back of Husam’s helmeted head. This, combining the already- unstable forward momentum of the general with a discombobulating strike, sent the zebra stallion stumbling, falling flat on his face some distance away. Mehmed shrugged his shoulder and rubbed his hand before almost casually strolling over to the general, who was looking at his sword only a few feet away.

He reached out to it, trying to grab it by the handle, only for a hoof to slowly press down on his fingers. In agony, he watched as Mehmed’s free hoof kicked the sword away, leaving the general defenseless. That much was obvious as both hooves moved out of his vision, only for a searing pain to enter Husam’s side. Mehmed kicked him in the stomach, and then the ribs, and then the stomach again, until one vicious kick flipped the zebra onto his back, wheezing and gasping for air. The strikes themselves were not vicious in the sense that the prince was trying to kill the general: rather, they were the blows one would use to beat an opponent into submission.

He tried to raise his arms to defend himself from a sword strike, but instead a hoof slammed itself right onto the general’s chest, knocking some wind out of his lungs. Wheezing and coughing even more so, he tried to pry the prince’s hoof off of him, but the standing stallion merely placed more weight into it, until the general gave up and let his arms fall back in defeat.

“Do it,” he said, loud enough for Spike, who was on the edge of his seat, to hear. “Kill me: do what your father couldn’t have done at your age. He didn't have the balls to do it: maybe you can be better than him!” His rage was tinged with grief, both at knowing he had been beaten fair and square, and the fact that he was going to lose his daughter to the prince, the same kind of stallion that his father was.

Mehmed remained silent, glancing at his glinting military scythe. It would be so easy, to just end him right there: a simple jab to the throat, and he would die within a few short minutes, choking on his own blood. But do that, the prince did not: he just stood there, looking down at the defeated general. His breathing was shallow and low, and the muscles in his entire body burned: he overexerted himself, and if the general had not fallen first, then he surely would have collapsed within a few more strikes.

“What are you waiting for?!” Husam cried, nopony else knowing he was crying in his helmet. “Do it: do it now! FINISH ME!"

“Why would I want to do that?” the victorious figure asked softly, resting his scythe on his knee as he reached down with his free hand..

Husam’s eye’s opened wide as Mehmed ripped off the general’s helmet, casting it aside and revealing the old, grizzled, scarred and blood-stained face of the zebra within. “You... you...”

“What? Speechless when you were so chatty before?” The victorious figure reached up with his free hand and tugged his own helmet off, revealing a face much like Mehmed’s, only older and wearing a slightly pained expression.

“You... you...” the general said again, words failing him as he looked into the eyes of...

“Yes, it’s me: your king,” the king said, looking down at the general with a mixture of pity and sadness. “I beat you: your life is in my hands, once again, and I chose to spare it once again.”

“But... but... why?” the general asked, completely shocked by this sudden turn of events. “Why?”

“Because I know what happens when bad blood builds up between those who are, or at least were, close to one another,” the king said simply. “I could not let that happen between Mehmed and Sheba, should he beat you, nor between you and your own daughter, should you defeat my son. If you were wondering, Mehmed is unconscious in the armory: I used the same sleeper hold on him that you taught me all those years ago.”

“You... you did? You remembered how?” the general asked, a trickle of blood leaking from his busted nose and bit lip.

“Of course: it was my friend who taught me that maneuver,” the king said with a small, sad smile. “I know things cannot go back to the way they were so long ago, but for the sake of our children, and for the sake of ourselves, can we put the past behind us?”

The general was silent at this: he had been beaten, honorably beaten, by the same stallion who had cheated him out of what he thought was his so long ago. But... to have thrown himself in harm’s way, put it all on the line, for the sake of not only his son and the possible relationship said son would have with a general’s daughter, but for the relationship between Sheba and her own father? That... that was possibly the most courageous thing Husam had ever seen. It was nothing like the king he remembered all those years ago, the one who cheated to win a duel.

But now that he looked back, it hadn’t really been much of a duel to begin with. He had attacked first, nearly severing the king’s head with a vicious, out-of-the-blue strike. Only some quick-thinking on the king’s part had saved him from certain death, and now that the filter of hatred had been removed by this sudden show of compassion, Husam was certain of one thing.

It was he who had been selfish all those years ago: declaring the queen to have been his, when it had likely been just puppy love from the start. She had never even shown much interest in him outside of being a companion, but every little scrap he had taken as a sign of something deeper. He had been desperate, to be sure, but he hadn’t realized it as being desperation. Now he saw the truth: he had been wrong all these years, and the fortress of hatred he had built inside his hear just melted away, like a sand castle hit by a wave.

“Yes,” he said, breaking the silence. “The past is in the past, and the bitterness I feel for you is gone. I am sorry, my old friend: for everything.”

“As am I, old friend,” the king said, dropping his scythe behind him and offering the general his hand. Grasping it, Husam pulled himself up with the king’s aid, whereupon they embraced each other like long-lost brothers. Tears rolled down their cheeks as the pain and sorrow and bittersweet memories flowed out of them and onto the dust beneath their hooves.

Just then a figure appeared by Spike’s side. Turning to look, he saw it was none other than Sheba, who was staring at the two in the arena with a look of curiosity and confusion.

“What’s going on? Are they fighting?” she asked softly. Her eyes were wide at the sight she was seeing, and her lip began to tremble slightly.

The dragon was silent for a moment, a soft smile gracing his lips. “No, no Sheba: you are not witnessing a fight,” he said. “You are just seeing the reunion of two long-lost friends.” He didn’t want to spoil the moment: such a thing as he was seeing was not only rare, but very precious. He would remember it always.

In an instant, two more figures rushed in next to her: the queen and Badr. It looked like they had just run a mile in under a minute, judging from the way they were panting.

“Is... is it over?” the queen asked. “Did... did Mehmed.... win?”

“Mehmed did, in a sense,” Spike said, pointing over to the far end of the arena. A figure had pushed open the door to the armory, stumbling out in clothes while clutching his head.

“Mehmed!” Sheba called out, vaulting over the side and landing hoof-first in the arena without any difficulty whatsoever. With a wave she rushed past her father and the king, leaping up and embracing the real prince.

“Come on: you must meet my father,” she said, dragging him over to Husam. “Father, this is Mehmed, the prince.”

The king and the general had broken away from one another, with Husam looking at Mehmed with a newfound respect. If any father was willing to do what the king had done for their son, then this prince must have been really special. “We’ve met,” the general said, discarding his gauntlets: his hands hurt.

“You have?” Sheba asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise. “You never told me you knew each other.”

“It was a relatively recent meeting,” the general said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Father, why do you have blood on your face?” Sheba asked, concern flooding her voice.

“I... I fell,” he said, pausing for a few seconds to try and think of a reasonable excuse. “My helmet hit my face when I did.”

“Oh,” Sheba said, not sounding entirely convinced. She wasn't an idiot, after all: she was merely meek sometimes, but right now, her father's no-nonsense side was starting to shine through her exterior.

“Besides, I believe Mehmed has something to ask you,” the king said, earning a quick look of thanks from Husam: explaining the blood away would have gotten much harder if Sheba remained focused on it.

“Oh?” the mare asked, looking at Mehmed as he regained his senses: damn, his father sure knew how to knock someone out with great haste. “You do?”

“Well, uh... yes, actually,” the prince said, looking to the general for approval. A subtle nod was his response, and it was all the response he needed. “Sheba, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time, and frankly, I’d like to get to know you a lot better.”

“You... would?” Sheba asked, sounding both perplexed and intrigued. “In... in what way?”

“Every way,” Mehmed said, causing Spike to almost face-palm from in his seat: he’d better explain this a bit quicker...

“What he is trying to say is, he’d like to take the time to know you better than he already does,” the king said, stepping in to smooth out the ruffles in his son’s sentence. “A lifetime of learning, one might say.”

“One might say?” Sheba asked, sounding even more confused.

“Yes,” Mehmed said, looking deep into her eyes. “Sheba El-Hashim, may I have the honor of having you as my queen?”

Complete, utter silence erupted in the arena: not even a fly buzzed, so quit was it. Then Sheba’s look of confusion turned to shock, and then... pure joy.

“Y-yes, Mehmed,” she said, pulling him into a sudden and bone-crushing embrace. “Of c-course I’ll be your queen!”

Mehmed looked over Sheba’s mane to both of their fathers, tears welling up in the eyes of all parties involved: even Spike’s. “May I ask the general a question?” the prince asked.

“Certainly,” Husam said, wiping a tear from below his scarred-fringed eye.

“May I have the permission of marrying your daughter, Sheba?” the young stallion asked.

“Of course you can,” Husam said, embracing them both in a great big hug. “Welcome to the family, Mehmed.”

Spike wiped a tear away as he watched this: it was so sweet, almost painfully so. In his mind’s eye, he could only hope this was how his family and friends back home would welcome his own wives. “Hope” being the operative word here: there was still the manner of Chrysalis to be resolved completely.

The king clapped his hands together as the three broke apart from their hug. “Now that our differences have been set aside, it is time for everything to be planned out accordingly.”

“What do you mean?” Mehmed asked.

“The wedding, of course!” Husam said, answering for the king. “Everything will have to be planned out, after all” it’s not every day the prince gets married, no less to the daughter of a famous general!”

“When will you want the proceedings to take place?” the king asked.

Mehmed and Sheba looked at each other, and then, surprisingly, looked over at Spike. “The day Spike and his wives are due to leave,” Sheba said, with Mehmed nodding in agreement. “We want our happiest day to coincide with their departure: a “fond farewell”, if you will.”

“That is not for several more weeks, though,” Husam said, though no note of disapproval entered his voice at all.

“So? It will just give us more time to prepare and get to know each other a bit better,” Mehmed said, pulling Sheba closer for another hug. “After that, we’ll have all the time in the world to get ready to run the kingdom in your stead, father.”

“Yes: yes, I suppose you will,” the king said with a smile, shrugging his shoulders to relieve the moderate pain leftover from the fight. Damn, he knew he still had it in him, but his body was saying he didn’t have it all anymore: he used it all up.

Spike slowly clapped at this, though he was soon joined by Badr, the queen, and even the guards. The feud between the families had been broken forever by the selflessness of the king. Now, a new era could begin for both: an age of peace, love, and happy union.

Author's Notes:

Wow, I can't even begin to describe how much fun I had writing this chapter.