• Published 30th May 2014
  • 27,590 Views, 1,520 Comments

The Sun & the Rose - soulpillar



An English knight married a kindly woman, touched in the head, who thought she was an alicorn. She was right.

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Chapter 4: Equines & sugar

Author's Note:

Normally I like to leave my story stand alone, but I know that there's going to be some confusion among readers with this chapter, mainly about pony sizes. For those having trouble visualizing, take a look at the following chart;
http://i3.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/533/757/4d4.png

Then take a look at the following scene;
http://mlp.wikia.com/wiki/File:A_Canterlot_street_S2E9.png

Gareth isn't having a fun time.

A boy, barely thirteen winters, sprinted across charcoal-black ground. A howl of snowflakes whipped past his face, chilling his skin, streaming down from a bone-white sky.

Men were screaming from behind him, their faces and features were obscured by a murky blackness.. They were trying to catch him, trying to stop him. They couldn't get to him fast enough, they had to pull back; it was too dangerous.

Far ahead, a tide of arrows showered down from the sky in front of a ceaseless row of archers. He knew the timing. He saw their nearly empty quivers as he rushed past.

He was too young to nock a bow, but he could still help.

He dashed out into the no-man's-land ahead. He ignored the shouts behind him. Arrows sprung from the ground like flowers, the multi-coloured fletching made it easy to reach for. He ripped them up, grabbing two, three at a time and stuffing them into his belt, fists, even his mouth.

He rushed back, screaming out arrow sizes. The archers grabbed them, patting him on the back and urging him out the line of fire. He wasn't to go back.

For once, he listened, running behind lines.

The boy doubled over, heaving, trying to get his wind back. He looked back to the line, seeing the archers advance, picking up more of the arrows just as he had.

A thick hand clapped on his shoulder. Father's comrades glared at him in both fury and relief.

Then he saw him, Lord Neville, Earl of Warwick, Father's master, staring at him.

The boy felt his back straighten as Lord Neville's pale face and dark eyes took him in. His curled, black hair and cleft chin were in stark contrast to his magnificently crafted full-plate. Lord Neville dismounted from his proud, milky white horse. The boy's heart leapt, whether for fear or anticipation, he could not say.

Lord Neville drew his sword, turned and in a single blow, sliced his horse's foreleg off. The creature whinnied in terror and pain, falling to the ground, ripping up grass and soil as it spasmed.

Neville turned to the army behind him, utterly fearless. He pointed to the dying horse and raised his blood-drenched sword. He dared any of them to flee in the face of the Lancasters, not when their comrade's orphan had shown such courage.

Lord Neville turned, nodding to him.

The boy grinned broadly. He turned and ran again. Father's comrades caught up with him. Only this time, they weren't trying to stop him, they were going with him. They glanced down, grinning. He couldn't help but smile back. His heart soared, his feet felt like they were hovering, flying over the field.

The Lancasters returned their charge, but they were ready.

The boy rushed into and out of the fray, grabbing arrows and avoiding the thick of combat. Back and forth, back and forth, each time more bodies, each time more arrows. He started laughing, death wasn't scary. He was too fast for it, too skilled. With Lord Neville and his men at his side, the boy was invincible.

Then, before he knew it, the battle was over. Bodies littered the field and the cowardly Lancasters had fled.

He'd never ran further and faster than he had in his entire life, he never felt more awake, more alive, than he had that day. The boy's grin grew wider. He knew it. He knew Father's sacrifice in Lord Neville's name wasn't in vain.

Lord Neville commanded him forward, his brow lined with sweat and his sword still soiled.

At the tired nobleman's command, the boy fell to one knee.

"For your valiance today, I dub thee, Sir Gareth Fletcher, landed knight of Warwick," Lord Neville said as his blade tapped him on either shoulder.

Gareth couldn't stop grinning, it took every ounce of self-control to not burst out in triumphant laughter.

Lord Neville pulled his sword up behind his head, both hands laying on the hilt. His expression turned psychotic.

"-and traitor to the crown."

With a single swing, Neville decapitated Gareth.


Gareth snorted awake.

The knight glanced about, suddenly feeling the sweat that had drenched his palms and forehead. He grasped at his throat, quickly confirming the obvious.

"A nightmare," Gareth groaned, "God's truth, it's been fifteen years and I still can't forget."

He sat up from his resting place, a bedroll stuffed into his pack by Father Clemens. Perhaps it was best that Clemens ignored him when Gareth said 'just the essentials'. Gareth certainly wouldn't have thought to pack it. Of course, for Clemens, 'essentials' also included a small wooden cross. Who knows, perhaps he'd need to slay a vampire as well?

Gareth wriggled out of the bedroll and reached for his waterskin. The cap came off with a pop, followed by a rush of the cool water over his face and beard.

Gareth looked about in the campsite he'd found; a small cave just south of his destination. He'd forgotten the name that Cecilia had called it, Canter-something? Frankly, it probably didn't matter all that much. He couldn't speak the natives’ language, maybe even attempting it was impossible. Given that they seemed to be magic creatures, he wondered exactly how much he had in common with such things even if he could voice it.

He stood, stretching, feeling his neck, arms and back popping. It was good to be out of that hauberk, even if he still found it best to keep the rest of his armour on for the sake of making it easier to carry. His feet still ached from the past three days of walking.

He glanced over to the forest just at the mouth of the cave, trying to see the castle through the thick leaves. There was no turning back now.

"Gar-eth," Styre grunted.

Gareth turned to the barded crea-… no, that wasn't right. Yet, he lacked a real name for Styre's breed. The nature of his traveling companion both beguiled and baffled him. Gareth suspected the feeling was mutual.

Styre stared at him. He always staring at him, not angry, not curious, just looking. Styre reminded him of Potestas in that way.

"Styre," Gareth returned.

The gamekeeper suspected that Styre didn't talk much, even among those he could speak with. While that suited him just fine in a man, to find that quality in an animal… the thought alone jarred him. Yet, there he was, spending the past three nights trying to mimic Styre's whinnies to varying degrees of success.

Styre stood from his own bedroll, beginning to re-armour without hands or thumbs.

How did he even do that?

Pulling a strap closed with his teeth, Styre gave his armour a quick pat down, then turned his attention to his bedroll, rolling it up with a dexterous combination of his snout and forehooves.

Simply amazing, especially for an animal. But what kind of animal? Was animal even the right term? Styre was clearly male and a well-built specimen, yet he stood barely nine hands (ten, if Gareth was being generous) at the withers. The breed was far too small to be a horse Gareth had never heard of a pony that. Yet Styre clearly wasn't a goat, sheep or lap dog; the smell was unmistakable as horse-like.

Finally, Styre loaded his bedroll onto a clip at the flank of his barding. He turned back to Gareth, cocking a querying brow.

Gareth flinched. Oh right, he ought to pack as well.


The castle on the horizon was beautiful from afar, the way it twinkled in the dawn, hinting at its true size. Only for it to strike you in the face as you stood before it.

Gareth's mouth flopped open, simply staring. This was 'Canterlot'.

It all looked so much like a child's toy made life-sized. Gold, white and purple colours swirled around tall spires and buildings. The entire settlement rested upon the edge of a cliff, like a tree, jutting out into sky as if to catch the day's light. Down from the mountainside flow a river, passing through and providing a natural moat.

Cecilia had not exaggerated Canterlot's sheer magnificence.

Yet, how did it protect it's inhabitants? There were natural defences from the castle and moats, but the battlements were pitiful. Ah, but wait, why wouldn't they be? What good were battlements to a society that could fly and use sorceries as naturally as breathing? Gareth couldn't imagine any human force that could take such a place from its occupants.

Then Gareth's jaw tightened. No, he knew exactly what would make this place fall within a few days. Cannons.

"Gar-eth!" Styre nickered at him, jerking his head to the long road ahead of them: it lead straight to the castle's drawbridge.

Unfortunately, it was covered by a veritable sea of 'ponies'. The crowd whinnied and jabbered to themselves. A few wooden islands in the shape of carts and wagons were utterly deadlocked, many ponies climbing atop them. The pressing of bodies reminded him of both battle and London's streets... and that one street-long barfight in London. Good times.

Styre shook his head before pulling his silver helmet back on and tapped the star plate on his chest. A white glamour covered his mane and coat.

Gareth tried to keep his distance from the blatant sorcery. He assumed that it was a kind of uniform, glancing at other like-coloured 'war-ponies' who were also trying to keep the peace.

Styre yelled something at a few war-pegasi. They saluted and started to help open the crowd for them. Styre turned back, gesturing for him to follow.

Gareth couldn't help but smile at that. Perhaps it was good that most of these ponies' withers only just came up past his knee. His comparatively long legs let him easily step through them, even as Styre did his best to clear a path.

Within ten minutes, Canterlot's portcullis passed overhead as Gareth and Styre stepped into Canterlot's marketplace.


Gareth's first impression, that Canterlot looked like an oversized play-set, proved to be far too accurate.

The tiled roofs of the buildings around him just barely peaked around head height while doorways hovered around his neck and shoulders. There wasn't a single entrance that he could see that he wouldn't need to stoop down for in order to step through. That wasn't the most galling thing, either. From the looks of things, the ponies actually built these doors almost in excess of twice their height at the withers. Were Gareth a woman or a child, it would almost be comfortable.

Gareth jolted as a pony barrelled into his legs, the fifth one that morning. He stepped aside, glaring at the blue mare as she shook her head in confusion.

Styre came to the rescue, presumably telling her off from his harsh tone. The mare looked up at Gareth, trying to focus on his face. She let out a sharp whinny of horror, turned and galloped in the opposite direction.

Styre looked up to Gareth apologetically.

Gareth pretended not to notice, pushing on forward.

A gurgling growl filled the air. Styre's eyes followed down to his gut.

A moment later, hunger pangs pitted in Gareth's stomach. He sighed. Of course. Gareth turned to Styre, patting his stomach. "Hungry."

Styre grinned, ushering Gareth to follow.


The smell was divine even from down the street. A bakery. It was still morning, wasn't it? That meant fresh baked bread.

Gareth smiled at the idea.

The building was humble in structure, yet extravagant in colour, with a doorway that was impossible to walk through without knocking a respectably-sized human, such as Gareth, unconscious. A thick wooden sign, easily the size of a pony, hung off the side of the door, depicting a steaming pie.

Styre was smiling, no, he was grinning. He couldn't wait to squeeze Gareth inside.

Gareth practically crouch-walked inside and, unfortunately, the building was no larger inside. It probally would have been cramped even if it were human-sized. Most of the interior consisted of a bakery. A roaring oven heated the whole room while rows-upon-rows of delectable-looking and sweet-smelling bread covered bread shelves. Unfortunate then that the customer area had only one small alley with a half-dozen stools and a bar to eat upon.

Styre pushed him through the stools, Gareth's knee guards coming in handy as he made his way to the back. Gareth cleared a few away and squatted on the ground, his knees coming up to the bar.

Styre walked forward, neighing loudly.

Banging and crashing metal filled the air as one of the shelves crashed to the ground, scattering pieces of bread across the floor.

Gareth's hand went to his dagger, eyes flicking about the room.

A figure stood amid the chaos. A pudgy mare in a ruffled white toque and apron planted a forehoof to her head. Well, Gareth presumed that she was pudgy; her grey-coated body certainly seemed a bit thicker than normal. A pink mane poked out of her hat, curling around in nearly all directions, hooking on the bottom of her toque as if it was swirled icing. She turned to them, round blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Gareth cocked his head to the side, yes; this one had a picture on her flank as well, a steaming pie, just like the sign. Cecilia called them 'Cutie Marks'. Gareth could only imagine the name sounded more eloquent in their native tongue. Presumably, this one was 'destined' to be a baker.

Gareth didn't want to know what his Cutie Mark would be.

The mare's eyes darted to Styre, her face slowly shifted from soreness to a gentle joy. She shuffled over to him, smiling nearly vacantly as Styre met her half-way. She nickered something in his ear as they embraced, rubbing their snouts together.

Gareth missed Cecilia.

Then the baker turned to him. Her eyes latched onto his.

Gareth twisted in place, glancing beside himself. He looked back and she was still staring.

No, she was looking straight at him, it wasn't an accident. Strye mumbled something to her, waving a forehoof in his direction, "Gar-eth Flaeetcher."

She nodded, only half listening.

Styre sighed, looking to Gareth. He pointed to himself, "Styre," he said, then pointed to her, "Glosh Spige."

Gareth could only nod, presuming he was trying to tell him her name.

'Glosh Spige' moved to the kitchen, never breaking eye contact from Gareth. She moved to one of the ovens, actively twisting her body to ensure she never looked away. Her motions switched between moving like cold custard to snapping like a taut bowstring. She finally pulled out a tray of pies and walked over to the bar.

Pulling one out and placing it on a clay plate, 'Glosh' let the pastry and the plate clatter onto the bar in front of him. The intoxicating smell of fresh baked goods filling his nostrils. She grinned, shuffling back, still staring. Ducking below, she opened a shelf and pulling out another tray; this time of what Gareth assumed was butter.

She trotted back, the butter tray landed on the bar next to the pie.

Styre trotted up beside Gareth, licking his lips and looking eager to make a start on lunch.

'Glosh' held a halting forehoof up to Gareth, pointing down to the tray of butter. "Glosh," she said, then turned to the pie, "Spige."

Gareth frowned, looking closer.

She repeated herself, "Glosh. Spige".

What was she...? Gareth pointed towards the butter, "Glosh?" Then the pie "Spige?"

"Glosh Spige!" she said, pointing to herself.

Butter Pie. Her name was Butter Pie. They named themselves after objects.

She pushed the pie closer to Gareth. From the look on her face, she clearly wanted him to eat it.

Gareth sighed, noticing the distinct lack of implements. He dug around his pack, fishing out a set of silver utensils. Yet more gifts from Father Clemens. He cut himself a slice and silently took a bite.

That taste; that beautiful, perfect, sweetness. Gareth's eyes widened. "Sugar," he mumbled as the dish touched his lips.

He looked about the store as it slowly dawned on him. Styre must have taken him to a high-class bakery in Canterlot, because almost half of the goods in here were covered in sugar!

He pointed a shaking finger down at the dish. Giving Butter Pie a concerned expression. Was it really okay for him to...?

She nodded early, nudging the plate closer.

Gareth scarfed down the rest as if he was dying of hunger. Upon swallowing the last bite, he found himself doubling Butter Pie's demure smile.

Yet, it was all over too soon. Looking down at the empty crumbs on his plate, he felt his stomach gurgle once more.

Damn it, he wanted more. Hunger overriding politeness, Gareth leaned over, smiling apologetically and holding the empty plate out to her.

"Spige?" She asked.

"Spige!"

An hour later, Gareth and Styre practically rolled out of Butter Pie's Bakery.


"Gareth!" said Celestia, trotting towards him.

Her husband stuck out like a sore thumb in Canterlot Castle's halls. His white and grey armour clashed against the decor even as he glanced about it nervously. His hard brown eyes locked with hers, quickly softening in relief.

"Cecilia," Gareth sighed, walked towards and pulling her head into his strong chest. He smelled of the road and… baked goods? Celestia craned her head up, sniffing his mouth.

"Is that… butter pie on your breath?"

"'Glosh Spige'? Yes," Gareth grinning and brushing flakes out of the bristles around his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me that there was a bakery that had sugar in nearly everything that it sold?"

Celestia blinked, he was already learning the local language.

"I... take it the trip went well then?" Celestia asked, suddenly worried.

Gareth shrugged. "It was only a few days, love. Besides, Styre proved to be good company. I'm not sure what his position is, but I'd like it if I could have him as a squire," he said.

"Really? Come, Gareth, let's walk and talk," Celestia said, gesturing him to follow. "I'm afraid that won't be possible though, things are different here. The military and the nobility are distinct."

"What?" Gareth frowned. "Then what does the military do when it's not on campaign? Surely you don't let them ravage the countryside!"

"Goodness, no!" Celestia chuckled for a moment, before schooling her features. "No, they are well paid, so there's no need for them to pillage or loot. What's more, Equestria is a dangerous place, and they are always on alert from attack from monsters. That is the role of the E.U.P."

Celestia lead him into the doctor's office, a picture of a red cross hung over the doorway. Gareth stooped, almost out of habit, but that was hardly required with the grand doors around the castle. Even this relatively unimportant door reached just over a foot above him.

Inside was an empty, spartan bed.... which just happened to be surrounded by a platoon of unicorns in nurse's habits and black doctor's uniforms. They turned at once to Celestia, nodding respectfully to her. Then they tried to look at Gareth, only succeeding at blinking owlishly.

Gareth cocked a brow at Celestia.

She lowered lowered her head sheepishly. "Gareth, ponies all around the kingdom are having trouble looking at you, everyone except me that is. We need to find out why, it could be dangerous if we don't," Celestia said, still unconsciously shrinking under Gareth's glare.

Gareth's glare switched to towards the doctors. He clicked his tongue, mouth curling in distaste.

"I hate doctors," he growled in frustration, beginning to strip down to the waist.


Doctor Il Legittima Legata telekinetically pulled her formerly cold stethoscope away from Gareth's scarred, muscular chest.

The white unicorn nodded, stuffing the stethoscope back into the bag.

"Princess Celestia?" The pink-eyed doctor said, turning to her liege, "I believe that my colleagues are correct; 'Gar-eth', medically speaking, is clinically dead. Not even inanimate objects have the utter absence of magic that he does. The items brought with him are even worse. They seem to actually block magic to a degree.

"As you know, ponies see the world using a combination of both light and magic. Having such a being lack magic to such a degree means that he is obscured from our senses. Our eyes sense that there is something there, but our hearts tell us that there is not. I therefore hypothesise that ponies with an emotional connection to him are able to ignore that."

"Is she talking science?" Gareth muttered. "She's talking science, isn't she."

"Gareth, shush!" Celestia hissed.

"Still," the doctor glanced back to Gareth's gut, "he does have a trace amount of magic… in his digestive tract. That energy is slowly beginning to spread throughout his body. I believe that as he eats more of the local food, he will slowly begin to retain more of it. Whether he becomes as magical as a living creature or an inanimate chair is hard to tell at this point. All in all, I can only suggest that he keeps eating Equestrian food."

"I see, thank you Doctor Legata," Celestia nodded, soaking in every word. She turned to her husband, switching to English, "Gareth? They want you to keep eating Equestrian food."

Gareth gave the doctor a withering glare. "Oh damn, I was hoping to keep eating from my infinite sack of trail rations!"

"He-- uh-- says that he understands," Celestia nervously translated.

Doctor Legata nodded, not believing her in the slightest.


The sun dipped down over the horizon.

Gareth's feet ached, Cecilia's throat was sore; they were tired.

One of the war-ponies had lead Gareth towards the end of a long staircase, leading to a large pair of double doors. Gareth recognised it as the grand spire he saw from Cecilia's Castle. It was the furthest peak of the castle, stretching far out away from the mountain. He wasn't particularly afraid of that fact, the castle's construction looked sturdy enough, but Cecilia was out of luck if she thought she was going to entice him onto the balcony any time this decade.

Gareth heard Cecilia yawn from behind him. She ducked her head underneath his arm, pressing herself up against his side. He smiled weakly, hugging her back.

It was bedtime.

Gareth pushed the double doors open with one hand. The room on the other side looked almost identical to the one in the forest. Moreover, yes, the bed most certainly was just as big.

He sighed, pulling his bag off his shoulders and laying it by the door. For the second time that day, he'd need to take off his armour. Well, mish-mash as it was, there wasn't all that much to get rid of at this point.

Celestia strolled past, smiling at Gareth as she haggardly moved over to the bed. She flopped down on it, multi-coloured hair splaying out on the sheets. She turned in place, smiling invitingly at him as her ears turned to him, and her ethereal tail waved around in the breezeless room.

Suddenly the smell of horse stuck in Gareth's nose. His eyes widened, the breath in his lungs froze. It was coming from her, his wife. Was… there wasn't any other beds were there? He was going to need to-- need to lie down with...

Gareth could feel beads of sweat rolling down the sides of his face. He slowly walked across the room, unable to look at the animal laying in the middle of the bed. He sat down, looking away from it.

The white horse behind him shifted in place.

"What's wrong Gareth?" It said in his wife's voice. "Did you need to go to the bathroom?"

Gareth felt sick to the stomach, his felt his mouth move on his own. "Is-- are there any other quarters I can sleep in?"

"…What?"

Gareth stood rigidly. He strode across the room, one hand grabbing the strap of his backpack and the other grabbing the doorway.

"Cecilia, I-- sorry, I reek," Gareth said. It sounded pathetic to even his own ears. "I know you never liked it when I came to bed like this before, I can't imagine it changed now. I think... I need to bath for three hours or something. I-I'll find someplace else to sleep in the meantime."

"Oh," the white horse said, sadly glancing to the empty space in the bed, "it-it's okay Gareth, the servants can clean the sheets. I'm sure they would understand."

"I said, no!" Gareth growl through grit teeth, he didn’t need to look at her to see her flinch at his tone. "Good.... goodnight Cecilia. I'll see you in the morning."

Gareth walked through the doorway. He spared a glance over his shoulder as he walked down the stairwell.

That was all he needed to see the confused and heart-broken expression on his wife's face.


Gareth stepped out onto the fresh, moist grass. Canterlot Castle's courtyard didn't look all that different from the one in the forest, with the exception that this one was well-maintained and the other was… well, wild.

Gareth ignored the gaze of a guard, which predictably slipped right off of him. Cecilia tried to explain it as him not having any--

No, he did not want to think about that right now. Not magic, not Cecilia, and certainly not what he just did. He just wanted to sleep.

Gareth kneeled at the foot of a particularly well-covered tree. He looked up at the leaves, tugging a few branches. Yes, this one looked like good cover.

He unfurled his bedroll, climbed in and snuggling up to the base of the tree.

He found trying to ignore the night's chill a preferable barb than trying to ignore his failure as a husband.