//------------------------------// // THE HERO’S CURSE // Story: Hearthwarming Tales // by De Writer //------------------------------// THE HERO’S CURSE A tale of Hearthwarming ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ He woke up. Not too unusual, for most ponies. A disappointment in his case. He looked out through a plating of dust on the tiny window. The dust of ages, not weeks or months. He idly wondered what the disaster was this time. Glancing back, he grinned humorlessly. The coffin was a rotted ruin. It was so far gone that he had failed to even notice it when he got up. The ancient chain armor of the Hero of Cragenmare hung on its stand, untouched by the ages. Next to it, the Knight’s Bardings hung on their form, the embroidery still as bright as the day, untold ages past, that it was made. Like his tomb and himself, these things were protected by a spell cast so long ago that the unforgiving gray mare who cast it was not even dust. At least the spell let his sleep be dreamless. It was a relief and a part of the curse. Relief because it was free of nightmares. Part of the curse because if he dreamed, Princess Luna might find him and free him. With the experience of practice, ages of practice, he donned his padded jerkin, slid into the armor, added the chanfron helmet, girded on the mighty blade of Cragenmare’s Hero and, last, the bright bardings that proclaimed a Knight of the Realm of Equestria. The crypt door yawned wide. Drastin, Cursed Hero of Cragenmare strode forth. There was snow everywhere. Some was falling lightly from broken clouds with darkness and stars showing between. Some of the clouds glowed, showing Luna’s place in the sky. Drastin, snow sifting onto his face from branches overhead, looked up with pity. Celestia and Luna would have to endure all of the ages to come. Perhaps, some day, the terms of his curse would be fulfilled and he would be free to pass on, at last. Not so for them. Their work of adjusting the heavens would last as long as the world itself. In the meager light cast by the cloud shrouded moon, he looked up the mountain. The Castle of Cragenmare was fallen into ruin. That was not the disaster that called him forth. Curious, that. So, mighty Cragenmare had fallen to time and neglect, not to war. That, in itself, was heartening. His hooves leaving the long dragged prints of one walking in snow, Drastin worked his way through the snow dusted brush seeking a path. He finally found one. Easier going led him down through the canyon to the plain. There, spread out before him, he saw a village. They had decorations out. There were lamps at every door. Ponies were passing happily back and forth, both door to door and trooping in to a large hall. That told Drastin the time of year, at least. Hearthwarming. The very eve of it, so it would seem. Looking about, he saw no clear sign of disaster. That meant that the disaster was either a subtle one or it was yet to come. He preferred the simple and obvious disasters. They could be dealt with expeditiously and that would let him return to his enchanted rest until next his services were needed. No matter. Soon he would find this disaster and deal with it. Perhaps one day, he would find what was needed to end his curse and in dealing with that disaster, find his final rest. His warrior’s hooves making little sound in the snow he entered the small town. He was passing an alley when he heard it. A quiet call of, “Happy Hearthwarming, Sir. Have you any coin to spare? We are cold and hungry.” Drastin stopped in his tracks. He turned into the alley. There was a spindly colt with a bowl. It had pitifully few copper bits in it. Drastin stepped back further into the alley. There were others there too. There had been four. Though still huddled with the other two, one filly was gone. Drastin’s heart broke and filled with rage at the same moment. He was just turning back to the colt with the bowl when he saw a plump, well fed pony toss a copper to the colt. The colt, weeping at the loss of the filly, said, “We thank you, Sir. A merry Hearthwarming to you!” Drastin charged out and blocked his way with a full war check, nearly taking the pony from his hooves. He glared at the plump passer by and demanded, “HOW DARE YOU, SIRRAH?” “On this night of all nights, how dare you pass by and think a copper frees your heart from their want!? Come here and see what life your copper gives!” His experienced blocks forced the pony into the alley. He pointed, accusing the passer by. “See her! How much copper will return her, sirrah? You are on your way to warmth and feast! They, copper or not, shall not see Celestia’s dawn. Is this generosity? Goodness? Where is the joy of Hearthwarming for these?” “Lead us, Sirrah, to that feast. That warmth. The safety of their lives.” Drastin paused in the alley’s cold walls and chill stone, to gather up the filly who was past mortal help. They made a small procession to the town hall. A bored pony at the door said, “Tickets, please.” The plump pony gave over his ticket and went in. Drastin laid the still form of the filly at the ticket taker’s feet and declared, “This is ticket enough. If you need more …” His sword flashed out with that quiet whisper of steel that can be heard across a room. All eyes turned to the tableau at the door. Showing rare courage, the mayor, a lavender mare, came to face the sword wielding apparition at the door to her Hearthwarming celebration. She took in his antique garb, armor and the heraldry of his barding at a glance. “IF YOU ARE DRASTIN, where, Sir, is the disaster that you have come to ward us from?” Drastin pointed to the warm room full of feasters. Then down to the unmoving form at his feet. “Here, Madam, is the disaster. You have forgotten all of Hearthwarming but the decorations and the food. Where is the generosity? Where are the open hearts? The free sharing? “For these three, you have the time to save them. Not so for their sister, here at your feet. While proclaiming goodness and generosity, you have allowed her to die for want and freezing. It is your hearts that died with her.” The mayor looked sadly down at the still form that had been a filly this evening and shook her head. “Bring them in, Sir Drastin and take places at the head table.” Sir Drastin seated the foals, who looked at him with adoration. When he turned to leave, the mayor blocked his way. “No, Sir Drastin. Do not leave. This disaster is only averted for now. You must stay to help us remember this lesson after the holiday is over. We need you.” Sir Drastin did stay. His crypt on the mountainside is empty to this day.