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// Chapter 16: Alive 
// Story: The Blue Knight 
// by The_Darker_Fonts 
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Blueblood’s breath caught as he winced in pain, slowly peeling the bandage off his raw flesh.  He grimaced when he saw the angry red skin beneath, the wounds that remained from his wounds.  His back had gotten much better considering the mare’s had told him they could see bone, but the injury still had a long ways to go.  He had barely gotten any sleep from both the physical pain and mental battle that he was fighting in his head.  He hadn't really thought of his words when he was arguing with Luna, but they were words he had said regardless, so he now had to recompense with them.  
Groaning, he focused on dressing his wound with the cool velvet cream Celestia had provided to him.  Her visit was much less notable, no theoretical speculations of his actions or lessons taught.  Unlike her sister, Celestia had only attempted to care for his physical injuries, wrapping new bandages around him herself.  They hadn’t talked much either, as his aunt had probably noticed he was consumed with thought and stinging pain.  With a sigh of relief, his wincing relieved with the cool spread on the ointment across the burn.  
As he relaxed and laid belly down on his bed, exhaustion overcoming him once again, he stared out the large windows of his bedroom, out across the world.  The sun had risen a little less than an hour ago, and he knew that many ponies were now preparing to or starting their day.  He wondered idly if there were any ponies who worked in the palace that lived in that neighborhood he and the strange white unicorn had fought in.  There were upward of two hundred ponies that worked in the palace throughout the week with various jobs, but only a fourth of them actually lived in the palace.  Perhaps one more was living here now that Blueblood had destroyed their home.
He shook his head, attempting to take his mind off of such sobering thoughts.  He would have plenty of time to beat himself up for the mistakes he had made on that fateful night.  Right now, he had to focus.  
Glancing slightly to the door, he noted that there hadn’t been any maidstaff sent to give him breakfast or check in on him.  Perhaps that meant that Celestia had told them to leave him be for a few days.  It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence around the palace for him to go missing for several days, so Celestia had come up with a cover story that fit perfectly with the prince.  Whenever he was to be left alone, she would convince the staff of the palace that he was in a “maddened rave”.  Neither the maidstaff nor Blueblood himself knew what Celestia meant by that, but it fit perfectly with his personality, so it was seldom questioned.
He appreciated the small gesture his aunts had made to help cover him up, but oftentimes it felt almost as if he wasn’t taken seriously enough.  It was a foolish thought, he knew, but he couldn’t help but think that sometimes, especially surrounded by alicorns that had lived a thousand times longer than him.  Perhaps it was why he acted the way he did, attempting to ensure his short life would be remembered when in comparison to the long centuries his aunts had lived.  Even though all other ponies might remember him as Prince Blueblood, they would write about the Blue Knight.  The notoriety of his other half would certainly satisfy his desire to have some sort of effect on ponykind.
“Though that effect is negative now,” he muttered darkly, his back throbbing in time with his mental pain.  Sighing deeply, he shook his head and stood, feeling rested enough to move.  He had neglected to bathe the wound since two nights previous, and he certainly felt dirty in spite of having hardly moved.  Slowly crawling off his bed and onto the carpet, he made his way to the bathroom, using his horn to start the warm water.  
He shoved away the thoughts of the previous days, focusing for the moment on the idlest matter at hoof.  He slowly took out a washcloth and dipped it into the filling bathtub, wringing it out and rubbing it softly across his back.  At least with all of the damage he had received, none of it had been to his horn, both physically and arcanically.  Even with the vast amount of energy he had exhumed from himself two nights prior he remained as strong with his magic as she had felt using it, a testament to the durability of his arcane reservoirs.
He cleaned himself slowly, intentionally pressing down on his wound to test how healed the skin beneath the wound was.  He hissed in pain as it stung, but thankfully he only felt surface pain.  It seemed that, thanks to a combination of the medicines and care of his aunts and the two mares at the river, there was nothing but a flesh wound left.  Forcing his pain down, he continued to wipe at the wound, cleaning away the layer of ointment to get to the pink flesh itself.  He finished cleaning the top wound and worked on a smaller one Celestia had discovered, a burn on his side.  Though it was smaller, it too had almost killed him thanks to how close to his lungs the wound had been.  
After finally wiping away the ointment, he dipped himself into the tub that was now full, sighing with relief as his body was enveloped in warmth.  Ever since he had woken up from crashing into the river’s surface, he had felt a chill, most likely from a small fever.  He probably would have to stay in his room for a bit more than just today, seeing as he knew his immune system would be underrun while fighting infection.  Wincing slightly, he completely submerged his body in the warm water, his back stinging as warm water enveloped it.  With a small grunt, he rolled over so he was facing the door in case somepony entered without warning.
Relaxing in the tub, the complex technicalities of entering the bath completed, he allowed his mind to wander.  With the insistent sting of his back, he naturally wondered what exactly the wound would do to his body.  It would certainly scar over, however, he didn’t know to what extent the wounds would leave a visible mark on his body.  More than likely, the skin would heal, but the fur would never grow back, leaving him with an ugly bald patch.  In public as Prince Blueblood, he would have to wear coats or suits to cover his back and prevent suspicion.  It would fit well with the persona, but it would be painful from a financial standpoint.
Perhaps, however, whatever the mares had done to rejuvenate his strength so swiftly by the riverbed would be enough to heal him completely.  He had no clue what they had done, but whatever it was had probably both saved his secrecy and saved his life.  His brow furrowed as he attempted to recall every detail of that night, but all he could remember was waking up and a surge of strength that encouraged him to brush the mares away.  They had probably done something to him to cause this, but how he hadn’t been awakened by the pressure on his fresh wound he didn’t know.  
Growing, he began to rub soap along the rest of himself, cleaning away the sweat of his struggle to survive.  It felt almost normal, now, to casually wipe the washcloth over random bruises and scrapes from various scuffles or simple mishaps while moving through the city.  He no longer winced from the lesser wounds, and even with the pain of his back, he felt as if he could start walking around normally soon, maybe tonight, even.  It was a reckless and most likely ill-founded belief, but he could feel the pressure time was putting on him.
In spite of technically stopping the stallion and his cohorts in their tracks, he had lost the duel ultimately, and he knew he hadn’t even wounded the stallion.  He may have killed one of his cronies, but there was at least another he could use, not to mention his own self.  Besides, he could have several more ponies under his hoof that neither he or the constables knew about.  It was a dangerous thing to have multiple bloodied ponies in the same congregation, even more dangerous if it was only bloodied.  Without some sort of morale backboard, the  group could easily become the most dangerous threat to the city yet.  
With that determination, Blueblood decided he was clean enough, standing up in the warm water as he pulled the plug magically.  The tub drained while he grabbed a towel and carefully dried himself off, minding the wound on his back.  In spite of his injury, the bath felt like it had given him a burst of strength, and with newfound vigor, he finished drying and turned to his closet.  It had been unfortunate to lose one of his suits to the fire, but luckily he had one more stored in the same cabinet drawer.  He wrenched it open arcanely, pulling out the costume.  With a half smile, he brought it into the main room and levitated the fedora from his previous outfit to himself.  
He had left the only piece of the costume that was still intact on his desk, and though it was intact, the hat was slightly singed and torn.  Compared to the fresh ensemble, it looked raggedy, but Blueblood appreciated the contrast, and it would be striking proof to the city that the Blue Knight lived.  His smile broadened as he donned the outfit, enjoying the tight feel of the fabric on him, even as it stung his wound.  He could bandage it later, when he was able to sit down long enough to worry about pain.  Right now, however, he had a task, though minor, that he wished to complete, a small urge to get out and prove to himself that he wasn’t obsolete when injured, but that injuries were obsolete to him.  
Without any hesitation, an air of life breathed into him, he whipped his doors open and practically threw himself off the balcony.  Not even the sting of his back distracted him from the beautiful joy of fresh air and whistling wind as he flew over the top of the castle, carelessly flinging himself around the spires.  He paused on a familiar ledge that hung over the cascade of water that led directly to his haven.  From here, he could see for miles all around, the empty wilderness filled with luscious green life.  In the far distance, Ponyville lay, but it couldn’t have meant less at the moment.  
For a brief moment, he was feeling the joys of life, the other aspect of having survived this terrible ordeal, and the challenge to do something more.  For a brief moment, he was neither a prince or a hero, just Blueblood, a twenty five year old stallion as oblivious to the dangers of the city as every other pony.  Smiling, he breathed in deeply, and, as he let it out, he allowed himself to plunge off the castle and towards the ground not so far below.