Secrets, Subtlety, and Secondhand Friars
Argent led them through the winding streets up to Canterlot Castle. Rarity, who had taken a moment to freshen up in the restroom of a quiet café, was now tucked in close behind the captain. Oaken, toting his spear, followed Rarity. Jacques brought up the rear, with the carry-ons of all three travelers slung over his broad shoulders. The rest of their luggage would be brought up later, but for now Argent’s priority was to conduct them to their destination without further incident.
The REF captain walked slowly so as not to outpace the distraught Rarity and did her best to keep to less-traveled thoroughfares. Argent was rather of the opinion that a mass of energetic ponies who were blissfully unaware of a death in their midst would be counterproductive to helping Rarity process the implications of said death.
Unfortunately, there was only so much Argent could do. Canterlot was a massive city, and quite bustling this time of day. All around milled the usual pomp and propriety of the capital, ponies trotting to and fro on errands they no doubt considered important and, in some cases, probably actually were.
When Argent was a little filly, she’d visited Canterlot many times with her father. On that first visit, she had fallen in love with the great city, with the fountains and gardens and ivory colonnades, the soaring architecture, the class and sophistication. She had loved Canterlot’s citizens – her lords and ladies, her merchants and scholars, her workers and craftsponies. She loved them because they, too, loved Canterlot. Whatever their class, whatever their heritage, they shared pride in their great city. To them she was the grand old jewel of Equestria, the beating heart of the realm. This shared love for Canterlot was part of what drew the young Argent to the place.
Her father, too, had loved Canterlot. But his love had been tinged with a deep sadness. The young filly had not known why Argent Falchion was sad, at least not then. But as the years passed she came to understand her father’s sorrow.
His pain was that of a noble soldier who had devoted his life to his country, and who now saw the heart of his beloved realm decaying. He saw the arrogance and vainglory of the elite, the rifts that formed between them and the commoners, and the petty machinations of those same commoners as they strove to emulate the worst qualities of the wealthy. Day by day, Argent Falchion had watched the beauty of Canterlot be swallowed by vanity. In time, his pain had come to his daughter as well.
There was still much to love in the capital. Most ponies still strove to live wholesome lives and care for their neighbors. There was still pride in the city and the country which drove ponies both high and low to acts of decency and consideration.
But even amongst well-meaning and considerate ponies, materialism was an easy vice, and Canterlot had more than its fair share of that particular failing.
It grated on Argent. She had endured multifarious forms of deprivation in grim haunts and hollows that would make the average Canterlot pony faint from horror. Thus, it was with great offense that she greeted the petty one-upmanship indulged in by ponies of all ranks and standings. Their conceited obsessions were an affront to her sensibilities, an obscenity sworn against the hardships she’d endured. Every year she spent in uniform served to amplify her disgust and dissolve her rapidly diminishing patience.
The captain knew her irritation was disproportionate. In fact, when she considered Canterlot dispassionately, she could admit to a personal bias that inflated the city’s problems to seem greater than they actually were.
‘Familiarity breeds contempt,’ as the old saying goes, she mused as they wound their way into the upper districts on the way to the palace. Or perhaps that is the excuse, and I am simply cynical. Twilight and Shining grew up here, after all, and most of the ponies who live here are a good sort. Morning Song would no doubt chide me for allowing a few bad actors and a couple rotten trends to spoil the city.
Argent Sabre still loved Canterlot. But then, love is an act of the will, and does not require present fondness.
As though to prove her point, they rounded a corner down what should have been a quiet street of professionals and specialty shops to see one of the last ponies Argent wanted to bump into.
The unicorn was a young stallion probably in his early twenties. He was tall and well-built, with symmetrical blue features, a flowing golden mane, and pearly white teeth. His coat was immaculately groomed, and his lordly garb was exquisite without being gaudy. The three stallions with whom he was conversing were all scions of noble families, yet they regarded him as their natural superior. As he conversed with his cohorts, his voice rang clear and crisp, with a refined tone and a ready laugh. He was exactly the sort of handsome gentlecolt to set a young mare’s heart a-patter without much provocation.
Unfortunately, he’s also an opinionated Primarchist prat who parrots his father’s elitist ‘right of the nobility’ drivel with detestable readiness. And his friends look to be cut from the same cloth.
Argent refused to risk Rarity’s fragile state against the attentions of four handsome stallions who probably couldn’t scrape together an ounce of respect for the ‘peasantry’ between them. At the moment it appeared the four stallions hadn’t noticed them, providing a narrow window to maneuver. The captain made a sharp right towards a nearby alley, hoping against hope that they’d slip out of sight before the stallions took notice. They’d almost reached the alley when—
“Ah, Comtesse L’Argent,” called the stallion cheerfully.
Blackfire and thunderation! she swore mentally. Argent screwed her eyes shut for a moment and prayed for patience, then forced an expression that was courteous without being inviting. “Baron Rampart,” the captain said as she turned, somehow managing to keep the acid out of her voice. “This is an unexpected encounter.”
“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” he quipped as he and his retinue trotted up.
Argent smiled thinly. “What brings you out today, Rampart?”
“Oh, just seeing how the laborers live,” he replied airily. “Even one such as myself feels the odd urge to walk amongst the peasantry.”
Argent’s eye twitched. Behind the arrogant stallion she could see passersby shooting hooded glares at Rampart for his ‘peasantry’ remark. The professionals on this street by and large owned their businesses free and clear and made a good living offering their services; many of them were better off than a good portion of the nobility. It floored Argent that he could be so oblivious, but it hardly surprised her. His father is even worse.
“Have you met my companions?” Rampart asked, gesturing to the other three. “These are Lords Meadowcreek, Summervale, and Silk Stocking,” he introduced them, indicating a green and blue unicorn, a golden-brown earth pony, and an off-red pegasus in turn. Each paid the appropriate respects to Countess Argent – as the sons of earls and counts they were mere barons, after all – but paid absolutely no mind to Argent’s companions.
And why should they? she thought bitterly. They’re just the ‘help’ after all. “Yes, I believe I’m met you all in passing at least once before,” the mare said aloud. Likely between trading verbal barbs with your fathers and mothers on one of those ill-fated days I made the mistake of interacting with the rest of the Peerage. “Though I can’t say I recall any of the conversations lasting long. It seems we hadn’t much to discuss.”
Rampart raised an eyebrow, the sharp look in his eyes suggesting he hadn’t missed the subtext of her pointed remark. Still, propriety demanded that he smile politely and answer, “Quite.” He glanced at Rarity and the others, as if noticing them for the first time. “I see you continue to collect… eclectic servants.” He indicated Jacques with a flick of his head. “Especially that savage-looking creature there.”
Rarity bit her lip and looked away, for a moment looking as timid as Fluttershy. Oaken was too well-trained to let his emotions show, but he stepped up protectively next to the ivory mare all the same. Jacques, for his part, seemed rather bemused by the term ‘savage,’ and regarded Rampart with what might have been amusement or pity.
Argent shared neither the friar’s forbearance nor his amusement. Her nostrils flared and she bit back the rather indecorous reply that was her first instinct. “Oh, you are quite mistaken, Rampart,” she said instead, her voice dangerously sweet. “These three are my guests, and I their escort.” Stretching the truth a little in Oaken’s case, but this prig doesn’t need to know that. Then, without being asked, she introduced her companions as equals. “These are Rarity Belle, Private Oaken, and Friar Sir Jacques de Charette. My friends and allies.”
Rampart and his compatriots regarded the Ponyville trio with the curiosity one might show an exotic insect. “At least the ponies appear well-kept,” Stocking observed quietly, though not so quietly that it concealed what he said. “What is that strange bipedal creature?”
“And how poor must his realm be if a ratty vagabond like him is a knight?” quipped Summervale.
To the shock of all present, Jacques responded by throwing back his head and laughing uproariously. “Oh, my little pony friends,” he chuckled, speaking to them like a grandparent indulging a small child, “if you only knew of what you spoke, you would not be so flippant.” His eyes twinkled as he continued, “I serve the mightiest Kingdom of them all, and its riches are beyond what you could comprehend. What need have I of finery when I have all I’ve ever needed?”
Rampart and his companions exchanged uneasy glances, not sure how to respond to the unsettling creature’s strange words. Argent herself was distracted from such pondering, having noticed belatedly that a small crowd of passersby had started to form around them as curious ponies watched the bizarre giant laugh in the faces of four Primarchist barons. She could hear them whispering to each other as they watched the scene unfold.
Under other circumstances, Argent might have encouraged the repartee, but at the moment she was more concerned with Rarity, who hadn’t said a word the entire time. She made to excuse them, but Rampart spoke first.
“I must say, Argent,” the stallion began, “you continue to impress me with your adherence to your principles, however misguided they may be.”
Argent’s eyes narrowed. “And what principles might those be, pray tell?”
“Why, your attempts to raise up the lesser ponies, of course,” he answered. “Even my father admits that you have never wavered in treating them as equals. It’s rather charming, really. Naïve, but charming.”
The whispers of the crowd fell silent. Argent felt her pulse pounding in her head as she counted down from ten. “Lesser ponies?” she said quietly. “Lesser ponies?” she repeated with a hiss. “You puffed up, arrogant—” She jabbed a hoof in Rarity’s direction. “Do you have any bloody idea who this is? Do you? Plainly not, else you’d be kissing her hooves! Is Rarity Belle such a common name that you cannot be bothered to wonder if this is that Rarity Belle? Or did you simply neglect to order one of your servants to read you that particular morning paper? I suppose you missed that little footnote in the back about the titans this mare has faced down on your behalf!” The crowd had now doubled in size, but Argent didn’t care. “Does it not matter to you that she has risked her life and livelihood to protect your worthless, selfish, ignorant hide?!”
Silence fell on the street as the echoes of Argent’s words resonated off the masonry. Rampart and Argent glared at each other, all feigned courtesy now absent. After a moment, he deigned to turn his muzzle to Rarity and say, “Thank you, I suppose, for whatever it is the countess is referring to.” He turned back to Argent. “She is probably right in pointing out that commoners need pats on the head now and then.”
The street echoed with the sound of an enthusiastic slap. Rampart staggered back, reeling from the shock as much as from the impact. A detached part of Argent’s mind noted that the blow would probably leave a mark later. For the moment, however, she had more pressing matters occupying her thoughts.
Like staring mouth-agape at the placid-looking friar who’d just slapped the son of Count High Castle.
It took some time for anypony to recover enough to speak, during which time Jacques waited patiently, his peaceful expression never wavering. Eventually, it was Rampart himself who demanded an explanation. “What… do you think… you’ve done?” he grated.
“I have struck you, as is meet,” replied Jacques calmly, “for you have spoken discourteously to the Lady Rarity, and it is my duty as a knight to properly admonish you.”
“Sh-she is no Lady!” sputtered Rampart. “She is but a common farm pony!”
Jacques folded his arms, his calm voice taking on an iron quality. “It matters not if she is the lowliest beggar in the meanest of slums. You are a stallion, and a stallion of noble blood at that. To treat any member of the fair sex with such impropriety is to abase yourself like a common thug.”
Once again, awed silence descended as the friar waited patiently for the retort.
“How… how dare you!” snarled Rampart. “Do you have any idea who I am? Who my father is? Who are you to insult me so!?”
“I imagine you are Baron Guarded Rampart, son of Count High Castle,” answered Jacques casually, “the former Crown Loyalist now turned Primarchist by his laughable misunderstanding of the meaning of nobility – a misunderstanding which you obviously share.” There was a smile on Jacques’ lips as he spoke, but his eyes were cold. “As to who I am, it should not matter; truth is truth regardless of who speaks it. But, since you have been raised with a blindness towards those you consider your inferior, I will indulge you, boy.”
Jacques leaned down, bringing his face within inches of Rampart’s and causing the stallion to shrink back. “I am Sir Jacques de Charette, warrior of the Knights Templar, Priest of the Knights Hospitaller. For decades before you were even a gleam in your mother’s eye, I commanded the flower of the greatest realms in Christendom in battle against the vast armies of the Saracen. I defied lords who wielded power beyond your wildest dreams, and endured the wrath of the most powerful men in the known world.”
He rose to his full height and loomed over the Primarchist barons. “What can any of you teach me of war? Of discipline? Of leadership? Nothing! You claim the right by blood to rule, but what have you done with that right but malign the people to inflate your own egos? A true lord knows that his power is not an entitlement but an obligation – a role entrusted to him with the expectation that he serve and protect his people, even at the cost of his own life. Can you claim to have sacrificed more than a pittance for the common ponies? Any of you?” He scoffed. “Of course not! And it is no surprise. I’ve seen your kind before – your parents spoiled you, swaddling you in indolence and shielding you from any challenges or morals that might have accidently made you stallions. Pathetic! You claim such high esteem on account of your bloodline, yet you act in a manner unbefitting of respect. Shame on you!”
So ferocious was the verbal assault that even many of the onlookers appeared horrified by proximity. Argent felt like cheering.
“You— you filthy beggar!” shouted Rampart. “You can’t talk to me this way!”
“And why not?” brazened Jacques. “Understand this, boy – mighty sultans and princes failed to kill me. My own king could not break me by torture. You expect me to be impressed by your title? Your ire means less than nothing to me.” He pointed to Rarity. “But while I tolerate your amusing disregard for me, I will not tolerate your abuse of this maiden in my presence. Apologize to the Lady Rarity, and, for that matter, to Comtesse L’Argent and Private Oaken as well.”
Rarity was now blushing quite ferociously, and even Oaken’s Lunar Guard stoicism was overpowered by astonishment. Argent grinned ear to ear. An ultimatum, she thought. Most interesting! How will you respond, Rampart?
“Apologize?!” he spat. “I most certainly will not.”
Ooh, you picked a poor time to show backbone, colt.
Jacques nodded mildly. “Very well.” Then he slapped Rampart again, knocking him back into Silk Stocking and Summervale.
“You crazy freak!” shouted Meadowcreek. “You just hit the son of Count High Castle twice!”
“Yes, I did. Given his poor judgment, I may yet have to do it a third time.” Jacques brought back his arm for another strike.
“Stop!” cried Rampart, holding up a hoof. “I’ll have you arrested!”
“Ah, so that is how the great and powerful son of Count High Castle acts when he is called to court for his misbehavior!” exclaimed Jacques, triumphant. “He demands the State redress his imagined wrongs because he is too weak to confront them himself! What a fine young stallion you are!”
Rampart gritted his teeth and charged his horn. The crowd stumbled back, chattering in worry as the situation escalated sharply. Oaken placed himself between the horrified Rarity and the Primarchists. Argent merely raised an eyebrow and studied the friar. He seems to have a plan. I won’t intervene. Yet.
“Do you seek a duel, foreign dog?!” snarled Rampart as he regained his footing.
Jacques clapped his hands together. “Magnifique! You are not wholly gormless. Yes, I am challenging you to a duel.”
Oh, that’s delicious.
“Not to the death, of course,” clarified Jacques. “My faith forbids it, and in any case, I read enough of the Equestrian Code Duello to know that such duels are quite illegal in your lands. All the same, it shall satisfy honor to teach you a lesson in manners. If fist and magic be the only instructional method you leave me, then so be it. You may face me alone or with any of your friends who possess the stomach to fight; it makes no difference to me. I’m sure Comtesse L’Argent has no objections to acting as, how you say, the referee?”
The comtesse made no effort to conceal her smile. “Oh, not at all, good sir knight.”
“Friar Jacques, stop!” cried Rarity, springing forward to stand between the friar and the offenders. “You’ve made your point, Friar! You can’t go through with this!”
“I’m afraid the challenge has been made, fair Rarity. If he accepts—”
“I accept!” snapped Rampart coldly. Each of his friends echoed the same.
Jacques gestured. “There, see? It’s out of my hands.”
Rarity rounded on the much-amused Argent and entreated, “Captain, please, you cannot allow this! He is still wounded!”
Argent noted that Rampart and his friends frowned uncomfortably at the prospect of fighting a wounded man. So, they are not utterly without conscience. Nice to know they have some measure of decency. She glanced at the friar’s confident visage. I imagine his injury will not matter, but just in case… “Rarity has a point, Friar,” Argent admitted dutifully. “You were stabbed mere hours ago whilst administering justice on the Crown’s behalf.” She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as the stallions all recoiled in shock.
Jacques waved his hand dismissively. “Bah! They are but four little ones!”
“Perhaps out of regard for Nurse Redheart you ought to take it slow?” suggested Argent.
The friar winced. “I had hoped word of her ire had not spread. Twilight wrote of it, I presume?”
“Her reports to the princess are very thorough.” At the mention of the princess, the stallions looked even more uncomfortable. Good. They should be. Especially since it’s too late for them to back out. “Let’s strike a bargain, Friar,” proposed Argent. “You fight this one first,” she gestured to Rampart, “and if you’re feeling up to it, I’ll let you fight the others as well.”
“Splendid!” agreed Jacques, unbuckling his swordbelt and handing it to Oaken before rolling up his sleeves. “Don’t worry. This shan’t take long.” Addressing the crowd, he said, “I’d advise everyone step back. His magic may shoot in unexpected directions as I instruct him in manners.”
The onlookers didn’t need to be told twice. Rarity continued stammering and pleading as Oaken gently led her away, assuring her that Friar Jacques was going to be just fine. Argent followed and took a seat next to them, idly lamenting the fact that she didn’t have time to find refreshments. She put a light magical barrier around the duelists to keep stray shots from hitting the crowd and rattled off the rules of conduct for all combatants. The four stallions barely listened, as they were too busy psyching themselves up for the fight. Friar Jacques nodded respectfully, even though he seemed to know the rules already. Once she was done, Argent allowed Jacques and Rampart to square off, the former in a deceptively open boxing stance, the latter with all hooves planted and a spell charged.
“This is insane!” protested Rarity.
“On my mark!” cried the captain.
“He’ll be hurt!”
“Three…”
“Or his wound will open!”
“… two…”
“Or something even more dreadful!”
“… one…”
Rarity covered her eyes with her hooves, but Argent could tell she was peeking.
“… mark!”
Rampart immediately fired a stun spell at Jacques’ face. The crowd gasped. Argent smirked. The friar swung one fist up to intercept the blast, white magic flaring briefly in his hand as he shattered the attack spell. Rampart’s jaw hung open.
Rather than capitalizing on his enemy’s shock, Jacques held up an apologetic hand. “That wasn’t entirely your fault. You were guessing with my abilities, and a stun spell to the head is a logical opening move. Now that you know, however, perhaps you might consider a new tactical approach—”
Rampart fired a flurry of blasts at the friar, who either struck them out of the air or absorbed them on his shield.
“Or you could do that,” sighed the friar, who muttered something about the stubbornness of youths as he crossed the distance between them in a few long strides and clubbed the stallion over the head, knocking him to his knees. The friar crouched down next to him. “That was sloppy,” chided the old man. “You have to think for yourself instead of just reacting.” He pulled his opponent to his feet, then walked back to his starting position and resumed his ready stance. “Again!” he ordered.
Rampart ground his teeth and started circling Jacques, looking for an opening while his cohorts egged him on. Thinking he found one, he fired two blasts then charged in their wake. Jacques simply shrugged off the attack and grappled the pony, lifting him off the ground and pinning him in a manner that pointed all four legs towards nothing but air. Rampart tried to fire off another spell, but Jacques clamped down hard on his horn with a gnarled hand and the spell fizzled.
“That was better,” the friar told him, “but it was risky closing the distance with an unknown creature who has several feet on you and the distinct advantage in reach. What I would suggest instead…” Rampart wriggled impotently and spat profanities that earned many huffs of disgust from the onlookers. Jacques mildly continued his lecture through the storm, touching on the basics of unarmed combat and concluding, “… and that is how you use the flow of battle to feel out your enemy’s weaknesses. Now, as far as I’m concerned, honor could be satisfied at this point if you can but put aside your pride. Are you ready to apologize?”
The answer was another string of obscenities.
“Very well,” replied Jacques. “In that case, I will instruct you in a demoralizing tactic I learned from an earth pony of the noble Apple Clan.” Shifting his grip to clutch the pony under one arm, he knuckled his fist back and forth atop Rampart’s head. “Noogie noogie noogie noogie!” he shouted as the crowd erupted in cheers. Oaken laughed uproariously, and Argent could not hold back chuckles of her own. Even Rarity was tittering into her hooves, her face still torn between merriment and worry.
Only the other three barons were dismayed, as they cried out desperately for Rampart to fight back and for Jacques to release their friend. Argent decided to take pity on them.
Sort of.
“Well, what are you waiting for, gentlecolts?” she called to them. “Get in there!”
Exchanging worried glances with each other, the three stallions displayed admirable loyalty (if arguably questionable judgment) and rushed forward with a warcry. Jacques responding by hefting Rampart and throwing him sidelong into them. The equine missile crashed into Summervale and Meadowcreek, bowling both over.
Silk Stocking took to the air and leapt over them, straight into a jab to the face that almost knocked him out of the air. He flapped to recover, which unfortunately left him within Jacques’ reach. The friar seized him, held him overhead, and, as soon as the other three untangled themselves, threw the pegasus at them.
As the four scions struggled to overcome their tangle of limbs, Friar Jacques strode over and began helpfully pulling them out one at a time.
Less helpful was the fact that every time he pulled one free, he immediately punched the unlucky pony in the face.
Glancing away from the spectacle and ignoring the riotous cheers of the crowd, Argent addressed Rarity. “Still concerned?” she asked.
The ivory mare was flushed with a peculiar mix of horror, fascination, and glee. “Well...” she demurred. They watched as a laughing Jacques strode around the arena with one humiliated baron under each arm, delivering sharp kicks to the other two whenever they strayed within range. “Not so much.”
Celestia blinked languidly, centuries of practice enabling her to maintain an impassive mask of stoicism. Outwardly, she resembled a marble sculpture – a statue of regal bearing whose features bespoke both the wisdom and the will to absolve or condemn with inborn grace.
Inwardly, it was exceptionally difficult not to throw dignity out the window and exclaim… something. Whether that something was dismay, delight, disbelief, or some complex combination therein, she could not say, but by Equestria she wanted to exclaim!
Luna, who sat beside her in the Great Hall, acted with less restraint, openly grinning at the four visitors who stood before them.
Rarity looked absolutely mortified, to the point that she wasn’t even trying to explain the situation but rather stared at the red carpet as though debating hiding beneath it. Though if she’s mortified it at least indicates she’s working past what happened on the train.
Oaken’s face was locked in the standard-issue Royal Guard Expression of Stoic Professionalism, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Celestia recognized as the non-regulation Expression of Supreme Satisfaction.
Argent, quite openly and defiantly, had allowed the Expression of Supreme Satisfaction to display across the entirety of her features in a breach of protocol that would have been shocking, even scandalous, if she hadn’t been a member of the legendarily brazen REF.
Jacques, perhaps most strikingly out of all of them, looked as innocent as a grandfather cradling a sleeping child. Celestia thought that was quite a feat, given the way he stood at something resembling Parade Rest in a stained and battered robe that showed ample signs of his recent martial activities. Activities which the princesses had just been briefed on.
Celestia and Luna had, of course, been warned by a runner to expect a briefing on the assassination. What had not been expected was the briefing that followed it. A briefing which left Celestia in the interesting position of weighing which matter to pursue first.
She took a slow breath in and out through her nose to conceal the deep sigh she felt like heaving. Intellectually, the elder princess wanted to set the Code Duello issue aside. They plainly had more important matters to attend to, chief among them an assassination attempt mere miles from Canterlot by a pony who was, no doubt, a Shade agent. The reasonable thing to do would be to let the subject of the duel drop.
And yet…
“Let me clarify a few points, just to ensure I didn’t miss anything,” she began with tranquil patience. “You soused out an assassination attempt on a member of parliament, thwarted said attempt, determined a probable connection to the Shades, and then, logically, concluded that it would behoove you to travel here immediately. Am I correct so far?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” replied Argent, taking it upon herself to speak for the group.
“Good,” nodded Celestia. “Now – along the way, you encountered a rather discourteous band of stallions who happen, just happen mind you, to be the sons of some of the most powerful Primarchist lords in Equestria. These happened to include Lord Guarded Rampart, the son of Count High Castle. True?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And I believe that next, rather than simply passing them by, Friar Jacques, who, if I recall correctly, had been stabbed, took it upon himself to amend the situation. The good friar thus, with Captain Argent’s express permission, and dare I say support, proceeded to challenge the four of them to a duel and beat them silly.”
“That is an accurate description of the events, Royal Highness.”
Celestia let out a slow breath through her teeth and tried to ignore Luna’s increasingly broad smile.
“Well, now that we’ve clarified the happenings which brought us to the present, am I sound in my recollection that, following said duel, you dragged these four ponies to the Castle with the intent of, and I quote, ‘instructing them in the art of proper masculinity and decorum.’”
Friar Jacques took over for Argent. “It seemed only right, Your Highness,” he stated. “I believe, as do you, I’m sure, that any sapient being is capable of change. They showed some courage in facing me, which suggests a likely avenue for appealing to their better instincts. They regard themselves as nobles, but have been malformed in their upbringing, and thus labor under an impression of nobility that is, shall we say, lacking. Perhaps now that they have learned a little respect, they might be amenable to thinking in a manner healthier than that with which they’ve been raised.”
The princess had to bite the inside of her cheek. “I see,” she said. “This, may I surmise, is the reason there are four bloodied stallions sitting in the foyer?”
“In fairness, Royal Highness, most of that blood is mine. My stitches popped open partway through and smeared everywhere.”
A noise that might have been a snort sounded from Luna’s direction, but Celestia steadfastly ignored it. “Well, we wouldn’t want to give the impression that we leave the survivors of massacres sitting untended in the foyer.”
Oaken spoke up, demonstrating remarkable forwardness for an enlisted pony. Fritters must be rubbing off on him. “It may please Her Royal Highness to know that we provided them with icepacks and antiseptics,” he reported, keeping his eyes forward and speaking with the standard-issue Guard Voice of Official Reporting.
Another snort-like sound emanated from Luna’s vicinity. Celestia felt her eye twitch. “That does please me, Private Oaken. Thank you for informing me.” The alicorn’s languid gaze fell on Argent. “Have you anything to add, Captain?”
“On or off the record, Your Highness?”
Celestia mentally cast her gaze heavenward. Am I being tested? “Off the record,” she answered against her better judgment.
“It was delightful, I enjoyed it immensely, and I would do it again, Your Highness. In fact, I respectfully submit that we handle the entire Primarchist Party this way. Mayhap it will do them some good.”
This, finally, was too much for Luna. The younger alicorn began giggling in a rather un-princessly fashion and left even Oaken struggling to maintain a straight face.
I give up, thought Celestia, shooting her sister a look that would have been severe if it weren’t so tired. “Luna, you’re not helping.”
“Oh, do lighten up, dear sister,” smirked Luna unapologetically. “You and I both know it was deserved. In my opinion they got off lightly. They’re just fortunate it was Friar Jacques who sorted them. Had I been present, I would not have been so gentle.”
“No doubt,” said Celestia dryly. “Friar Jacques, I agree totally that their behavior was reprehensible and required correction, but I hope you can understand that I’m cautious about condoning violence as a means of settling such matters. It can set a bad precedent, especially to ponies less versed in the ethics of legal brawling. Before I pass judgment, perhaps you could explain your reasoning?”
Jacques gave a respectful dip of his head. “Of course, Princess. We must begin with noting that violence is a punishment often disproportionate to the crime. Simply assaulting someone for an offense, for example, is entirely improper, not to mention highly impractical – after all, threats and violence by themselves do not evoke conversion of the heart. Likewise, fighting someone merely to punish them and with no thought given to true resolution is both morally wrong and practically ineffective. As a general rule, there are better ways of settling insults, disputes, and philosophical differences. If every act of disrespect or disagreement was answered with a blow to the head, then half the land would be pounded silly in short order.”
Celestia nodded. “True enough.”
“However,” Jacques continued, “when two individuals agree to terms of an honorable and legal bout to settle a disagreement wherein words have proven ineffective, I believe that this relatively bloodless violence can, under the right circumstances and if handled wisely, be an acceptable means of resolving the issue.”
He held up three fingers and ticked them off as he made his points. “Firstly, the insult is answered in an emphatic fashion which satisfies honor for both parties. Secondly, the organized nature of the duel sets an upper limit on the conflict; properly handled, this ensures that the dispute ends in one brawl instead of growing into a feud. Thirdly, both parties tend to gain a mutual respect for the fighting spirit of the other; this can be built upon to open true dialogue in the wake of the disagreement. I have on many occasions faced differences with other men that seemed irreconcilable until we took a measure of each other in the sparring yard, after which we respected each other enough to be open to each other’s perspectives.”
“Thus,” he concluded, “while walking about knocking people’s heads just because you despise what they say or stand for is both morally wrong and a poor substitute for debate, there is something to be said for engaging in a mutually agreed upon and closely regimented bout of fisticuffs. When applied judiciously, it can do wonders for venting aggression and opening dialogue. All of this assumes, of course, that it is done within the confines of a culture which both accepts and understands the limits of such means of settling disagreements. Being that Code Duello is practiced in your land and that these stallions take their noble titles seriously, I calculated that it would be an appropriate way to open conversation.”
His argument concluded, he stood quietly, leaving Celestia to mull over the moral complexities of organized boxing as a means of starting a dialogue.
Luna needed less time to mull, and simply grinned approvingly. “You are a pugilist philosopher, sir knight,” observed the lunar princess.
Jacques shrugged. “You are too kind, Illustrious Highness. All good warriors must have something of the poet in them, lest they direct their capacity for violence towards unsavory objectives.” His gaze shifted to Celestia. “I hope I have not overstepped, Princess.”
Celestia sighed and brought one hoof up to massage her temple, deciding that she didn’t much care about royal image at that moment. “Well you certainly did nothing illegal.” Though you already knew that. She allowed herself a small smile. “And, while I shall no doubt be hearing from High Castle at length regarding today’s events, I do admit taking a certain… satisfaction in them.” Rarity visibly relaxed. “As for Her Illustrious Highness Luna, I think it obvious how she regards the matter.”
The friar looked at Luna and smirked. “Quite favorably, I trust?”
Luna returned the smirk. “Quite.”
“Though I do hope, Friar, that you will not be making a habit of this,” admonished Celestia.
Argent chortled. “I imagine he’d have a hard time finding any takers once word gets around.”
“No doubt,” said Celestia dryly. Then, continuing more soberly, “As diverting as this has been, however, the matter on the train requires the attention of the Crown and the Guard, and the three of you,” she indicated the travelers with her muzzle, “require the attention of the staff.”
With a flare of her magic, she rang the bell which summoned Kibitz and Raven Inkwell. The princess introduced both and asked them to show the trio to their quarters in the Ivory Wing. Argent was asked to remain behind and confer with the Diarchy. The travelers bid gracious farewell and departed.
Once they’d gone, Celestia simply looked at Argent, tilted her head in the direction of the departing travelers, and raised an eyebrow. The captain understood immediately and replied, “I have Solar and Lunar Guards vetted by Ernie pulling security in the Ivory Wing, and some of my Dogs standing by with orders to discretely tail our guests if they leave. When we got to the palace, I pulled one of my Dogs aside and had him put another pony on both Rarity and Jacques beyond what I’d originally planned. Oaken will be staying in Ivory, not the barracks, and I put Rarity’s room between his and the good friar’s. I also strongly suggested to Chaplain Trench that he visit with Jacques tonight. I imagine those two will be talking philosophy and metaphysics into the wee hours.”
Luna nodded slyly. “Which just so happens to put another Adjurist in the Ivory Wing.”
“Purely coincidental, I assure you,” deadpanned Argent.
Celestia raised an eyebrow. “Do our guests know about the increased security?”
“Oaken and Jacques do. I’ll leave it to their judgment whether they think it wise to tell Rarity.” The captain frowned. “The duel provided a considerable distraction for her, but today’s events were unkind to her. Perhaps it would be better not to burden her further.” She turned to Luna. “Either way, I imagine she’ll be needing your ministrations tonight, Princess Luna.”
“They shall be given gladly,” assured the Dream Warden.
“How quickly things change,” remarked Celestia quietly. Or, at least, how quickly they seem to. Our enemies’ schemes may come as a surprise to us, but they do not form overnight. She glanced at the clock and noticed that it was approaching midday. Only noon… yet it feels as though we are edging towards midnight.
Shaking the thought away, she addressed her sister. “How long until your meeting with Mason?”
“A little over four hours from now,” replied the lunar alicorn. “I could cancel, but…” she trailed off with a shrug.
Celestia didn’t need her to explain further. They’d learned long ago the value of maintaining ‘business as usual’ whenever possible to avoid panic. They’d already seen to it that news of the assassination be smothered, at least until they’d had time to brief the appropriate ponies and decide on their next move.
As to who those ponies will be, well, that is for us to decide. “We’ll try to keep you to your appointment, then,” she promised aloud.
Luna smirked. “It should not matter if I am a shade late. He’ll no doubt forgive me any tardiness in exchange for such a delicious tale as four Primarchist scions receiving a severe thrashing.”
“No doubt,” concurred Celestia with a slight frown. I hope, dear sister, that he is not turning you into a gossip like him. Dismissing the thought, she rose from her throne and gestured to one of the side passages. “Let’s adjourn to my study. It shall be far more comfortable for discussing assassinations and villains lurking in the shadows.”
“Not to mention what ponies we can trust enough to brief to what degree,” added Argent with an irritated snort as the group moved out. “Have I mentioned how much I hate not knowing which ponies we can trust to do what?”
Celestia smiled dryly as they exited the throne room. “You should try a career in Parliament some time.”
Argent made a retching sound.
Rarity followed the dark-maned Raven Inkwell through grand halls lined with hanging lavender, gilded marble colonnades, and drapery of finest brocade.
Their splendor was lost upon the fashionista in that moment. She had far grimmer thoughts on her mind. Jacques’ spirited response to the four lordly stallions’ disrespect had proven a potent diversion while it lasted and brought her to the palace in a state of considerable distraction. But Jacques had now vanished along with Kibitz and the four stallions, and it seemed that wonderfully odd diversion he’d wrought had departed with him. Now, Rarity dwelt once more on the dead assassin.
Intellectually, she appreciated the words of Oaken, as well as the wordless support he continued to offer as he walked beside her. His conduct and insight provided a soothing balm to her emotional state. But it was still too fresh, too raw to simply dismiss, and it seemed that the longer they walked, the more the thoughts consumed her mind.
In a detached sort of way, Rarity reflected on the irony that she was so caught up in thinking about the recently deceased that the insults of the four disgraceful ‘nobles’ barely registered. Their words had hurt, to be sure, but they’d only hurt. Had her mind had not been bent to another priority, she likely would have been devastated. A silver lining, I suppose. The thought made her smile, but there was little humor in it.
When they reached the Ivory Wing, Raven showed Rarity to her expansive quarters. The princess’s kindly secretary made a great effort to talk up the fine qualities of the chamber and all its truly impressive artistic and cultural history. Oaken, bless him, chipped in with a politely admiring whistle (though he’d doubtless seen the room before while on duty) and asked obviously leading questions of Raven to help her show off the chamber.
Rarity appreciated their efforts and tried to look interested, but her heart wasn’t in it. Eventually, Oaken excused himself to stow his duffel in his own room. While the two mares were alone, Raven trotted over and surprised Rarity with a quick but earnest hug. “Some ponies may forget what the Bearers have done for Equestria and the princesses, but the palace staff hasn’t,” the secretary assured her. “Anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”
The promise caused a tear to form in Rarity’s eye. “Thank you, darling,” she said huskily.
With a sympathetic smile, Raven departed. Oaken reentered at the same time, sharing a meaningful look with Raven as she left. When she was gone, he cleared his throat and asked, “How can I be of service?”
Rarity chuckled dryly and collapsed into an opulent divan. Not as plush as my fainting couch, but it will do. “Fetch me a few cartons of Fudgy Ripple Surprise?” she said, making the joke without thinking.
Oaken dipped his head in acknowledgment and ducked out of the room. Rarity heard him exchanging words with one of the guards in the hall, then he trotted back in. “Your ice cream will be up in a few minutes,” announced the soldier.
The fashionista sat up, her face reddening. “I- I really shouldn’t impose—" or eat all that ice cream that in front of you—
“In the meantime,” Oaken continued, pretending not to have heard her, “I have a favor of my own to ask.”
Rarity blinked, not quite sure how to take this turn of conversation. “You… do?”
“Yes,” he said, trotting over to a coffee table and nudging it up in front of her divan before sitting on the floor across from her. As he moved, she could see he carried a thick book of some kind on his back. “I’ve always admired your generosity in helping aspiring fashion designers and, well…” he reached around, grabbed the book, and set it on the table between them. “I’ve been fiddling with some designs to show to my sister.”
Rarity nodded automatically, her memory helpfully reminding her that he’d taken an interest in fashion to better connect with his sister, Bobby Pin, who lived with autism and had a passion for the art.
Oaken flipped the book open and slid it across the table so she could see the sketches better. “Now, I’m clearly just an amateur, but I’d like to be able to bring something interesting to the table next time I visit home. Would you be willing to help me?”
He looked up at her with pleading eyes that Rarity couldn’t help but think were slightly put on. She likewise detected a certain deliberateness in his tone – a subtle effort to elicit a particular response from her.
This is crazy, she thought. An MP was almost murdered! A pony was killed! How can we possibly talk about fashion at a time like this?! This stallion is just trying to distract me!
Rarity glanced down at the designs. Still… I suppose it is for his sister… and that is a bold choice with that color scheme…
“Why don’t you tell me about this one,” Rarity heard herself ask. She pretended not to notice the look of triumph in his eyes.
“Well, I was thinking to do a hybrid of Blush Taffeta’s and Woven Damask’s last season, but I’m not sure it came out quite right. Mostly I’m concerned about this stitching here…”
The soldier went on to explain the various designs in his sketchbook. They were decent, for an amateur. A couple even had the potential of being professional designs with some refining. As Rarity allowed herself to be drawn into the art, she noticed that the anguish in her mind lessened, and her spirit calmed.
The arrival of the Fudgy Ripple Surprise certainly helped, but mostly it was the companionship.
As Oaken continued to talk about his designs, she couldn’t help but notice that he seemed quite satisfied with what she had to say, no matter how critical, so long as she was speaking.
During one of his explanations, she stopped looking at his designs and simply watched him. Eventually, he noticed her scrutiny and looked up, his face innocent. “Yes?” he asked.
“Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re doing,” she told him.
Oaken grinned sheepishly. “Is it working?”
Rarity couldn’t suppress a fond grin. Not that she had any intention of trying. “Yes, darling. It is.”
Kibitz reacted to having an alien guest and four battered barons on his hooves with remarkable aplomb. Outwardly, at least. Jacques had been around enough majordomos to recognize that the stallion was quite distressed that the princesses’ schedule and the carefully wrought peace of the castle were being disturbed. Yet the frustration was almost invisible, manifesting only as a slight quiver behind Kibitz’s mustache and a certain deliberate openness in his gaze. That he keeps such control of his features is a testament to his talent. That, or a testament to how… interesting things get around here.
When they had first exited the throne room, Jacques wasted no time in requesting a quiet place where he might converse with the four bruised lords without being disturbed. Kibitz ably found them such a place: a garden close enough to the guest quarters in the Ivory Tower to be convenient, but far enough away for privacy. The majordomo instructed Jacques to speak to one of the guards at the entrance to the garden when he was ready to be led to his chambers.
As opposed to speaking to the guard who’s quietly tailing me for protection? thought Jacques, having briefly spotted his tail, though he did not voice the dry musing in front of the four nobles.
Once Kibitz left, Jacques bade his erstwhile students sit on nearby benches. They did so with the quiet obedience born of knowing, first, that one is in the wrong, and, second, that the one who has been wronged is more than capable of exacting justice.
Jacques paced slowly before them, his eyes closed as he pondered the lessons he was to give them. This was hardly his first time giving such a speech, but he always made minor alterations based on context. When he finished collecting his thoughts, he opened his eyes and spoke.
“I alluded earlier to my first Order, the Knights Templar. In their service, I commanded many men. Some were country knights whose fathers or grandfathers had been elevated for valor. Others were descendants of the Peerage of Christendom who could trace their lineage back hundreds of years to the very foundations of their realms. Most were ordinary soldiers of common blood. All were drawn by the same goal.” He stopped his pacing and swept his gaze over the four stallions. “To serve something greater than themselves. To uphold the sacred and defend the helpless. This was our shared brotherhood of purpose. For it we bled and died in lands so distant and alien from the lands of our ancestors that most of our kin could know them only by imagination.”
Jacques cast his gaze heavenward and smiled. “Ah, there were such grand deeds in those days. Imagine it – the charge of a thousand armored men, utterly silent, our shields locked together and our lances gleaming, holding so close to each other that a stone tossed in our midst would not have touched the ground. No earthly force could stand against us but with overwhelming numbers, and even against them we sold our lives so dearly that they feared even to take us prisoner.”
The stallions watched his with rapt attention through blackened eyes and did not doubt the veracity of his claims.
“For generations we were the finest soldiers in the known world. Not since the glory days of the Old Roman Empire had any force been so masterfully trained, so profoundly lethal upon the battlefield. Ours was a legacy of glory.” He smiled with fondness at the recollection. Then his face turned sad. “And yet, we were destroyed, our Order dismantled, our warriors tortured, butchered, burned alive. Few survived to find succor in other Orders, and many of those who lived have now passed on. I am one of the last, and when we last ones die, there will be none to take our place.”
Jacques sighed, and for a moment allowed the himself to feel the fullness of his grief. Then he returned his attention to the stallions. “Do you know what brought us low?” None ventured to guess and he smiled encouragingly. “Speak freely. I shall not punish you for wrong answers.”
Meadowcreek exchanged glances with his fellows before asking with great hesitation, “Your enemies?”
The friar smiled. “No, not our enemies. They may have defeated us in battles by great force and bravery, but they never broke us. Other guesses?”
Silk Stocking bit his lip, then asked, “Was it the… common soldiers? Did they break or fail in their duties?”
Jacques took a slow breath and reminded himself that he had told them he would not punish them for wrong guesses. Then he reminded himself that the young stallion was simply parroting the dreadful thinking that seemed all-too-common amongst the vain and ignoble nobility, whatever world they dwelt in. Finally, he reminded himself that he’d expected one of the stallions to blame the commoners. These reminders helped dull the pain of the grave insult which Stocking had offered his former comrades.
Somewhat.
“No, not the commoners,” replied Jacques, hearing huskiness in his own voice. “Those brave souls bled and died on the battlefield as courageously as any knight. More so, in many ways, for they lacked our armor and yet took the same risks. When our enemies destroyed us, neither master nor servant was spared.”
The friar sighed and shook his head, casting his eyes to the ground. “No, the Templar Order did not fall to any great army of foes or to any great corruption from within. It fell to a foe we should have had no cause to expect, to one who should have been our ally.”
He looked up, and his eyes gleamed. “We were betrayed by a king. By a man who thought that his high birth and great standing entitled him to all the riches and powers of heaven and earth, and so demanded that which was not his to demand. He stole from commoner and prince alike, wielded his power like a greatsword, and clove asunder anyone who stood in his path. He amassed wealth and dominion unheard of since the days of the great Emperor Charlemagne, and with it he destroyed the flower of Christian nobility.”
The friar’s eyes pierced each of the stallions in turn. “Do you know what became of this mighty king?” Mutely, the stallions shook their heads. “He died, like any other creature, and all his earthly power came to naught.”
Jacques bent to be at eye-level with them, and his voice dropped to a low and earnest octave. “Listen well, lads. Death comes for us all, soon or late. The pawn and the king go back into the same box. When you face Judgment, it will not matter who your father was, or how much money you had, or what power you wielded in this life. All that will matter will be what you did with that power.”
He straightened and gestured to the surrounding opulence. “You have been given much, and you expect more, but this is wrong. You have been given much… and so much shall be expected of you. Power is an obligation, not a right. It is a gift, yes, but one which may be taken away if misused. In time, all earthly power will end. What account shall you be able to give for how you spent what you had?”
The friar fixed each with his gaze in turn, mutely asking for them to account for their lives. One by one, each stallion looked away.
Raising his arms heavenward, Jacques continued, “Your elevated birth makes you no grander in the eyes of the Author of Life than any of His other children. He loves all, and especially loves those who make the most of their gifts, whether great or small. The lowest peasant in the meanest hovel who lives with virtue is more pleasing to Him than the loftiest king who sows only wickedness.”
“The king who betrayed us was heir to the first and greatest throne of Christendom,” declared Jacques, his fist unconsciously tightening. “Do you think he is more kindly remembered than the lowly peasant who quietly fed orphaned children from his own bread?”
“No,” came the answer. Jacques turned to see that Rampart had spoken. The young lord looked almost embarrassed, as though he hadn’t intended to speak.
Jacques smiled proudly. “No indeed.” His gaze drifted to the Ivory Wing where Rarity was no doubt unpacking her baggage, emotional and otherwise. “In your land, you have been privileged with princesses and many great nobles who have heeded the Way of Harmony and welcomed the Fire into their hearts. But, most recently, your realm has been saved from destruction by six very ordinary ponies – a librarian, a farmer, a tender of animals, a baker, a weatherpony, and a seamstress,” he raised an eyebrow at the stallions, “the last of whom you insulted.” They looked away, shame-faced. “Of them, only one has any ties to noble blood, yet they have all borne Harmony in their hearts and wielded its Elements against foes beyond your imagining. And it is not for any nobility of status that they have succeeded. No, it is for the nobility of their character.”
He strode up to the bench and bent low as he walked the line, bringing himself nose to nose with each as he exhorted them, “You call yourselves nobles, but that is just a station empty of meaning unless you live up to it. If you want people to follow you, be someone worth following!”
His piece said, he stepped back, turned his back to them, and waited.
“How?”
The friar turned his head to look over his shoulder. It was Meadowcreek who’d spoken, but now he, like Rampart, seemed unsure of himself.
It had been enough, though. Enough to start the others speaking. Silk Stocking, after biting his lip, screwed up the courage to echo, “How?”
Jacques half turned to face them. “How?” he repeated, prompting them to commit.
The four ponies exchanged glances with each other, each hoping the other would speak first, each wanting someone to say what needed to be said. Come on, lads. Have courage. Take the step.
Rampart closed his eyes, sighed, and managed, “Nopony’s ever talked to me like… told us that…”
“Nopony’s ever told us that’s what it is to be a noble, Friar Sir Jacques,” Summervale finished for him. Rampart and the others shot him relieved looks for saying what had to be said.
Jacques allowed a gratified smile to spread across his features. “Ah, so you wish to know what it is to be stallions of truly noble character?”
Each of them looked to the others for solidarity until, one by one, they nodded.
“Magnifique,” grinned Jacques. “That desire, my young friends, is the first step. The desire to be better, to live and to love beyond one’s meager self, that is the beginning of true nobility. To have one’s life rightly ordered to righteous purpose is to live a life worth emulating! And this greatness is yours, if you but reach out to grasp it!” He sat down cross-legged before them, a humble teacher serving his students. “Yes, young nobles, we shall learn much together. To begin, I would like to tell me of your fathers and mothers, and what they have taught you.”
Once again, the stallions exchanged glances. Rampart, seeming to feel the obligation of the ringleader, began, “Well, you already know who my father is. He’s… a driven stallion, and I’m starting to realize just what that’s meant…”
The stallions spoke, and Jacques listened, asking clarifications only when he needed to. When they had finished, he spoke to them of the errors they’d been raised with. And, though he was quite blunt in explaining the dangers of the vain elitism to which they’d been born, he was always careful to keep malice from his tone. Rather, the friar spoke of correcting bad ideas and healing corrupt hearts. He judged the sins harshly, but the sinners with compassion.
Jacques did not speak only of wrongdoing, however. He taught them of discipline, maturity, and self-mastery – of how this ability to freely choose the Good rather than consent to vice is the key to happiness and true freedom.
He did not shy from warning them that this transformation would be no easy task, and that poor sinners like them (he included himself, of course) could never hope for perfection in this life. But he reassured them time and again that in pursuing perfection one might reach excellence.
The friar and his students spoke for hours, all unaware of the other ears that’d drawn close enough to listen – staff, soldiers, other nobles. Quite unbeknownst to Jacques and the barons, what they said quietly in the garden would soon be the talk of the palace.
Celestia decided it was fortunate that her schedule had already allotted the afternoon to administrative matters that would not require her visible presence around the palace, because as the minutes ticked by it looked increasingly like she’d be indisposed the entire afternoon.
She, Luna, and Argent were seated in the elder princess’s study, enjoying the comforts of decadently plush divans and the full extent of the Royal Tea Collection while their minds endured the grueling problem of plotting a course through unsettled waters.
The first hour had been relatively straightforward – discussing security rosters and discretely increasing hoof patrols throughout the city, particularly around the residences of MPs and Lords. They resolved that matter before Celestia and Luna were even halfway through their ginseng tea and while Argent was merely on her second cup of earl grey (which, being that she was a Trottish pony, was an accomplishment in itself).
After that had come fiddlier matters, first among them determining which of those same MPs and Lords could be trusted to know about the probable motives behind the assassination.
Celestia was of the opinion that the Cabinet and certain key officials be briefed on at least the basics. Her argument was that the Cabinet was trustworthy and had assets they could call upon that the current inner circle did not, which would speed the investigation. Moreover, one of them had nearly been killed, and it would not be long before they all began asking questions.
Luna, on the other hoof, was inclined to keep them in the dark. It was not that she didn’t trust the Cabinet members – it was that adding more ponies to the investigation increased the odds of their enemies figuring out what they were up to. “Many hooves might make light work, but they also make more noise,” she’d pointed out.
Argent, meanwhile, played devil’s advocate to both sides.
After much deliberation (which polished off the first cups of ginseng and the third cup of earl grey), it was decided that the Cabinet would have to be read in when Argent correctly pointed out that none of the members were stupid. They already knew the gist of the threat, though not the specifics, and all had been involved in the investigation whether they knew it or not. After Windforce’s brush with death, keeping them in the dark would no longer be effective in keeping them safe. Instead, it would hamstring whatever they might do to help. “Like ordering a soldier to fight with one hoof bound to his barrel,” was Argent’s analogy.
Luna reluctantly agreed. “It was prudent to keep them in the dark at first,” she said, “but the time for such secrecy is ending, and they will be more useful inside the tent planning than outside throwing rocks.”
Most difficult of all, however, was the question of whether to tell the press about the assassination.
Or, more precisely, what details to give the press about the assassination, amended Celestia. No matter what they did, it would be impossible to keep it out of the public eye entirely. That would have been true centuries ago, and the current climate amongst the newspapers and pundits only made the fact more apparent.
In the past, the papers had generally been respectful enough to delay publication of sensitive matters when asked by the Crown or the constabulary. For the sake of public safety, they often willingly agreed to sit on stories until the matter was resolved. True, the tabloids were more temperamental, but few ponies took them seriously in those days. And, in any case, Celestia had learned to use them to her advantage – allowing them their absurd stories as a smokescreen for things she wanted to keep quiet, like the Lace Curtain Incident thirty years ago or, more recently, the true events surrounding the Elements’ reawakening.
But the old rules of news had died with the new breed of politics. Covering the divisiveness of Parliament had proven to boost sales, which had driven the tabloids to branch out into political hit pieces loosely disguised as journalism. Worse, big money behind the various parties had given rise to a new breed of publications – openly slanted political newspapers which largely served to glorify their chosen masters while slandering everypony else.
Allegedly, of course. Papers like the Canterlot Post and the Equestrian Enquirer were always very careful to be “non-biased” and “paragons of open journalism.” In truth, this was a merely a façade to offer them legitimacy whilst they decried the Tri-Party Government and its leaders. Accusations ran the gamut from “imperialists” to “insular nativists”, from “weaklings” to “tyrants,” from “money-grubbing elitists” to “commoner-coddling coots.” It all depended on the offense of the day and the political bent of the paper.
Celestia was no stranger to having newsies of all stripes lambast her. Partisan politics had been a fact of life from the dawn of Equestria, and she found newspaper hit pieces abundantly preferable to hit ponies. She even found the outrage of her political opponents instructive, and was known to keep a collection of the most lavishly caustic ones in her private library. The princess took them out whenever she needed a reminder that partisan politics had always existed and, historically, had often been far worse (or for when she needed a good laugh at her own expense).
The difference was that, a few decades ago, even the most caustic of the noteworthy publications had been willing to acquiesce to the requests of the Crown and constabulary so long as they could be reasonably persuaded that delaying the story was genuinely in the interest of the public good.
As things currently stood, however, the rumor mill was doubtless working overtime on the mysterious events of the train, and the vast commercial and political enterprise of the papers couldn’t help but notice. It would not surprise Celestia in the slightest is she got a report at the end of the day that Windforce’s guards had needed to persuade some journalists to stop lurking under the poor MP’s eaves. By morning, the rumors would have swept across Canterlot. If the Crown didn’t make a statement first, they would lose what little control of the narrative they had, along with any chance to reclaim it.
Luna’s solution had been simple: forbid the papers to publish on the matter.
The subsequent discussion had been… heated.
“No, Luna, we cannot do that,” Celestia repeated for the third time as she blew on a fresh cup of ginseng. “Tempting as it would be, it would only cause more problems in the long-term.”
“Why should we care?” demanded the younger alicorn, her head raised imperiously as she set her cup down on its saucer with a hard clink. “This is a matter for the Crown, not the pony on the street. What right have they to the information?”
“Princess Celestia is not suggesting that we give them the details of the investigation,” noted Argent diplomatically as she poured herself a fourth cup of earl grey tea. “Simply that we admit there is an investigation. That way we keep a hoof in the door, so to speak.”
Luna harrumphed. “You have coddled these newsponies, dear sister. The matter is a secret. We ought to say so and be done with it.”
“‘Secret’ is a dangerous word to throw around, Luna,” Celestia reminded her as she refilled her sister’s empty cup with soothing ginseng. “I’m not proposing we give out state secrets, but the abuse of censorship is an abuse of power, and one quite likely to backfire. No, we must give them something, if only to maintain public trust.”
The lunar princess rose from her seat and stalked over to the window, leaving the soothing tea undrunk and muttering something unpleasant in Old Ponish. Celestia glanced at Argent and found the captain contemplating her earl grey and studiously avoiding looking at either princess. A reasonable choice under the circumstances, Celestia admitted.
After a moment, Luna reclaimed her seat, still unhappy, but calmer. “I suppose you are right,” she admitted. “I detest having to buy loyalty, but I suppose that is the age we live in.”
Celestia smiled. “Don’t be so dour, sister. There are advantages we retain in this, among them—” There was a knock at the door. Celestia temporarily dismissed the sound-dampening spell on their conversation so the guards could hear her. “Yes?” she asked.
“Colonel Query to see you, Your Highness.”
Perfect timing. “Send him in, please.” Earnest Query entered, bowed, and took one of the proffered seats as Celestia resumed the sound dampening spell. “Tea, Ernie?” she offered. “You’d better get some before the Trottish pony drinks it all.”
Argent shot Celestia a censorious glance.
“No thanks,” replied Ernie. “I don’t have long, and I’m a coffee pony anyway. I just slipped out to check in with you. I have to let the train crew sweat a few minutes before I question them anyway.”
“Do you think any of them are involved?” asked Argent.
Query shrugged. “No, but I’ve been wrong before. And, before anypony asks, no, I don’t have anything new to report at this time.”
“That’s quite all right, Ernie,” Celestia assured him. “I don’t expect you to work miracles. Actually, we were just discussing what official statement to make tomorrow. Any suggestions?”
“Yup,” replied Query. “We tell ’em somepony tried to kill Windforce, that he was saved by an off-duty guard and two deputized travelers, that the investigation is ongoing, and that it’s too early to make a comment about the killer’s motives. If they ask if we think he acted alone, we repeat the ‘too early’ bit. You know the drill.”
“Thank you,” smiled Celestia, who’d already been planning on that exact response. She glanced at Luna and saw her sister staring in shock.
“That’s it?” exclaimed the younger alicorn.
Celestia chuckled. “I told you I wasn’t planning on giving out state secrets. There’s a certain song and dance to these things. Oh, the unfriendly papers will wail and moan about a cover-up, but they would have done that no matter what we told them. This open-ended answer lets us claim the moral high ground with honesty while retaining control of the narrative.”
Luna frowned. “And how, pray tell, will we use that control?”
“Well, let’s say we want our enemies to think we’re on the wrong trail. We make a public statement that the assassin acted alone for personal reasons. Then, if we want to make them afraid we know more than we’re letting on, we let some of the less scrupulous castle staff ‘overhear’ that we suspect he was a member of a cabal, the Blank Slates reborn for instance, and see what happens when they leak it to the press.”
It was amusing to watch her sister’s eyes widen in shock. “You… you deliberately keep such disloyal wretches around the palace?!”
“Of course,” answered Celestia mildly. “If you plug the leaks, somepony will just drill new holes, and this time you won’t know who the leaks are. If, however, you control the leaks, you can isolate them from any secrets of genuine import whilst using them to feed the enemy false information.”
Luna blinked, then shook her head in amazement. “And ponies say I’m the conniving one.”
Celestia chortled. “You are the conniving one, dear sister. You just haven’t had a thousand years of governing a constantly evolving state to teach you how to apply it to the modern systems. Don’t fret – once you learn the ropes, I have no doubt your devious machinations will be the stuff of legends.”
Argent emitted a dry laugh. “Now there’s a little bit of royal repartee it wouldn’t do for the newsies to get wind of. They think you’re manipulative enough as it is.”
Well, even that has its advantages, mused Celestia. Though perhaps that point would be superfluous at the moment. “I think that about settles it,” she said aloud. “Unless anypony has other suggestions or wants more tea, that is.”
Query cleared his throat. “One last thing, Your Highness,” he said slowly.
Celestia raised an eyebrow. The stallion did not sound particularly happy to be raising his point. “Yes?” she asked.
The colonel chewed his lip for a moment in an uncharacteristic display of hesitation, then said bluntly, “I don’t think we should tell Hal that we suspect a connection between Glow and the Shades.”
That remark raised eyebrows. Colonel Steel Halberd, ‘Hal’ to his friends, had been given command of the Equestrian First Infantry, and its ceremonial title of Captain of the Royal Guard, upon Shining Armor’s retirement from the same position. Hal was well-suited to the command of the Solar and Lunar Guards – he was a tough, no-nonsense campaigner, the veteran of many years on the borders, and totally loyal to the princesses.
Or so I’ve thought. But, if Query is suggesting this, does that mean he suspects… but Hal wouldn’t… “Perhaps you should explain your reasoning, Colonel,” she said aloud, “as Steel Halberd has faithfully discharged his duties since long before this business with the Shades began.”
Query winced at the iron in her tone. “To be clear, Princess, I don’t think Hal’s dirty. I would never have let him pass muster when this started if I had any doubts about his character.” Halberd had not been given the full details about the Shades, but he’d been told a cabal of dark magic users might have infiltrated the Royal Guard. He cooperated without question, though it was plain he didn’t think any of his mares and stallions were involved. “My concern has nothing to do with the Shades per se,” continued Query. “It’s his wife. Or, more specifically, her political views.”
Celestia frowned. “I’ve never excluded a pony from my service because of his politics, Ernie, much less excluded him because of his wife’s.”
“Except that in this case his wife’s an outspoken member of the Equestria First Party,” replied Query gamely. “Halberd’s about as political as a brick, but his wife raises nine levels of Tartarus when she sets her mind to it, and her half-brother was a Blank Slate back in the day.”
Argent cut in. “I thought we believed that the Blank Slates are just a red-herring.”
“They probably are,” agreed Query, “but I’m not ruling anything out at this point, and we know that some of the Slates who slipped the net went ‘legit’ agitating for the EFP. Now, maybe I’m jumping at ghosts here. In fact, I probably am. But stallions say things to their wives without thinking about it, and even professionals make mistakes.” The colonel’s apologetic gaze turned to Celestia and Luna. “Hal’s solid, Your Highnesses, but I’ve known the guy a long time. He’s got a blind spot where his missus is concerned. That’s part of why I advised against giving him the full picture in the first place. This business with Golden only confirms my caution. I hate keeping him in the dark but, frankly, he doesn’t need to know about the possible Golden connection to plan palace security, and I’ll sleep a heck of a lot better if his wife is nowhere near this.”
Celestia frowned. “He’ll know we’re not telling him everything.”
“Respectfully, Your Highness, we’re not telling him everything now. Hal’s a professional. He’ll suck it up.”
The princess looked to Argent, who shrugged. “A soldier’s lot is to take orders without knowing the full picture, Princess,” replied the captain.
Looking to Luna, Celestia was greeted with a nod of agreement. “You know I err on the side of secrecy, Tia.”
“But secrecy from our Captain of the Royal Guard?” protested Celestia.
Luna held her gaze. “Why not? We’ve kept secrets from each other, haven’t we?” She smiled dryly. “Sometimes it was even the right decision.”
Celestia winced. The remark touched deeper than Luna knew. Even now, I keep secrets from you, dear sister. Time will tell whether I am right or not. With an unhappy sigh, Celestia turned to Query and dipped her head in approval. “Very well, Colonel. We will do as you suggest. Thank you for your diligence.”
“You’re welcome, Your Highness,” he said, sounding relieved. “Thank you for listening.”
“Well, it is what we pay you for,” remarked Celestia dryly. “Now is there any other business?” Nopony had anything. “Then I propose we table this for now. Ernie can return to the grind while Argent and I finish this tea and Luna flies off to a dinner engagement.”
“Ah, the cruelty of you nobles,” joked Query as he rose to depart. “Sipping tea and having dinner parties while commoners like us do all the work.”
“Again, that’s what we pay you for.”
“Touché,” he chuckled. Bowing to the sovereigns and nodding to Argent, he departed.
Celestia glanced up at the wall clock as she refilled hers and Argent’s cups and noticed that it was just after four in the afternoon. “It appears you’ll be late for your engagement, Luna,” she observed, “though only a bit. Hopefully Mason won’t be too hard on you.”
Luna snorted. “Oh, he’d give a speech about the ‘disdain of princesses for the cares of commoners’ if I was late by even ten seconds. You know how he is.”
Argent grimaced, but said nothing. Celestia thought back on to the stallion’s long and storied history of irreverence and wondered what he’d done to offend Argent. “Well,” she addressed Luna, “do give him our best.”
“I’ll be sure to,” said Luna as she charged her horn. “I have to nip down to the cellars for a bottle of ’76, and then I’m off. Tata, ladies.” There was a loud vwoom of magic, a flash of teleportation, and she was gone.
Argent and Celestia sat quietly sipping their tea for a moment. Then the princess prompted, “I take it you’re not fond of Mason Grey?”
The captain took a long sip before answering. “He’s not my favorite pony, no.”
“May I ask why?”
Argent pursed her lips. “There are many forms of irreverence,” she said eventually. “Some, like the irreverence of my War Dogs, is largely the inoffensive sort. Mason, I find… crude.”
Celestia hummed thoughtfully, not sure how to dispute the accusation. “I suppose that’s fair.” She sipped her tea and considered asking Argent if that was the only reason she disliked Mason, but ultimately decided it was none of her business. “I’ll be sending a letter to Twilight shortly,” she said instead. “Would you like me to attach one for Morning Song as well?”
The captain tilted her head back and forth as she considered the question, then answered, “No, but I would ask that Twilight share the report with her, along with a few other items I’d like to list at the bottom…”
Princess and captain fell to composing the letter. With the matter fresh in their minds, it did not take long. As they finished, Argent ticked off each item out loud. “… suspicions about the assassin, a strongly worded instruction not to bring the other Bearers to Canterlot without specific request, some of Query’s speculations… anything else to add?”
“Not unless something falls on our laps in the next few seconds—”
The blinding flash and resounding boom of desperate teleportation lit the room and rattled the china. Luna stood before them, blood streaming from a wound on her face as she clutched in her forelimbs the battered form of Mason Grey.
“DOCTORS!” she cried. “SUMMON THE DOCTORS!”
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Very good, a textbook display of competent barrier technique. You don't need an entire dome, just enough of a surface to nullify an incoming attack. It's quicker, more energy-efficient, allows you to simply dodge, and demoralizes unskilled opponents!
Writes another 1K or so words of post script...
Great chapter here, the duel was magnificent. And the follow-up where the good friar took the time to educate them, that was even better. Jacques is going to end up founding a chivalric order or something if he's not careful, I can't wait to see where these ripples go.
Ah, so that's what that duel was referencing. Been quite a while since I've seen that movie. Nice.
Aah, good old noblesse oblige. I feel like things would be easier if Celestia makes nobles take mandatory "how to be a good noble" classes if they want to keep their hereditary title.
As Venerable Ro did, I liked the scene where the four stallions actually listen to what Jacques has to say. Will we see them again?
I'm always interested in good opinions on the ethics of war and killing, as you say. It's a big moral and ethical quagmire if you think about it without reference.
What a chapter! You have returned in full form.
It has everything I expect and more from this wonderful story.
Everything from the duel, the discussion of media bias, a frank look at elitism, the friar's own lecture on nobility and chivalry (Which reminded me of C.S. Lewis' talk on Chivalry.), Oaken being a wholesome boy, Luna being Luna, *gasps for breath because this sentence is incredibly long and probably a run on sentence* the brief overview of Jacques' fascinating backstory, the world building, and great character development was fantastic!
Sorry about that, that's just how I feel about this chapter.
I don't even mind the cliffhanger! Keep up the good work!
Also, two random questions that you don't have to answer if it's a spoiler, is Prince Blueblood a Primarchist? And will Friar Jacques have to smack a colt? (Specifically, Blueblood)
If you're gonna use a punch up to settle an issue, agree to do it in a place people don't get in trouble for punching people, and don't get butthurt over the results and lie to an authority to get the other party in trouble. Simple. Anyway, I still wanna read about the priesty bois getting together to talk about neato magic powers
10122372
You will get answers to those questions. Eventually.
10122355
Possibly.
10122407
So it is a spoiler?
*Undead scribbles this down in a notebook labeled "14th Century Friar Fan Theories."*
Alexander Hamilton would be pleased.
Just stumbled on this and I have a question: is the Friar wielding a sword as depicted in the picture? Or is he wielding a mace, as was required of them since they were not allowed to shed blood with a blade in the Middle Ages?
Contrast that with the Shades' canon fodder, who look at Canterlot and see only a series of horseshoes stomping on their faces. Imagine how they'd react to Argent sympathizing with the rationale, if not the reaction.
At first, I misread the "blue features" and thought Rampart was Blueblood.
I was wrong. He's worse. It's almost impressive.
I still suspect that Luna ennobled the lot of them after they first used the Elements and Celestia just never told anypony.
Yeah, that's the thing. Entertaining as this monk and pony show might be to some, it's the last thing Rarity needs right now.
... Or not. I suppose a reminder that not all confrontation need end in spikes of solid evil through someone's brain can help too.
This may be the best thing I read all week. And it's only Monday!
One day, the Crusaders may learn how to project such beatific innocence on demand. On that day, Equestria shall tremble.
Wonderful stuff with the fashion therapy. Whatever works.
A little from Column A and a little from Column B.
Darkness doesn't have a monopoly on spiralling up and out from innocuous beginnings.
Ah, Celestia kept the full details of Luna's return obscured. Understandable when it comes to ensuring the Bearers could live normal lives afterwards. Granted, they didn't, but it wasn't because of media presence.
One that will come in handy later, and thus can't be mentioned here and now.
I was going to say something along these lines, but then she beat me to it. Well played, Tia.
Well. That's intriguing...
And that's quite the stinger.
Not that I mind. Keeps me eagerly anticipating the next chapter. You know, whenever it's ready. Looking forward to it. And yes, the brawl was fantastic and well-justified post hoc.
Yay! New chapter! So glad to have you back, and so glad to see some sense of nobility being beaten back into the... nobility.
Nonononononononono
SONUVA
10122739
Sword. The "not shed blood" thing is actually something of a myth or, more accurately, not a full representation of the nuance behind it. It was generally considered improper for priests to draw blood or fight in battle, but it wasn't strictly forbidden; circumstances could allow for priests to take up arms. The restrictions on it were more about ensuring that the priest did not neglect his primary vocation (i.e. serving Christians through the Sacraments, offering Last Rites on the battlefield, acting as spiritual guides, preaching, teaching, etc.) by rushing off to war than they were about any particular restriction on weapons.
It was usually bad form for a priest to run off to battle with any weapon because that wasn't his job; by the same token, it could still be allowed under certain circumstances. Historically, there are examples of both fighting clerics who violated their vocations in war (mostly bishops who were corrupt and more concerned with worldly matters and thus acted like feudal lords) and clerics who were legitimately serving their flock by protecting them physically in war (often in the face of invasion). This is briefly touched on in the second chapter when Friar Jacques' superior (and spiritual director) gives him permission to use what means are necessary to uphold justice, including taking up arms again.
10122945
You're not wrong. The sad thing is, most of them would probably dismiss anything she has to say because "Rich Crown Loyalist person! HISS! Automatically evil!" Wars begin when people stop listening to those they consider their enemies. But, time will tell.
*snickers*
And I'm glad you liked the noogie-ing. I liked the noogie-ing.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes, child?"
"Tell me about the Beforetimes."
I watched my grandfather shudder at the recollection. The shudder shook his whole frame, rendered bony and thin by decades of deprivation following the Event. He looked out the window at the wasteland beyond the bunker - a wasteland I'm told was once lush and green. At length, he spoke. "It all started so innocently...."
10122985
Look out! Dramatic Irony!
Wewt! More story to read,
AAAnnnnd it's gone, read it already. 13k doesnt last as long as it used to thats for sure
And there's the third horseshoe dropping. (Hoofboot?) I'm concerned and intrigued both that Luna was in time to be injured, and that the enemy was skillful and/or lucky enough to injure her at all.
The ennobling of the nobility was quite nice, as was everypony's reactions to it. I can't say I have much experience with peaceful resolution of conflicts through controlled violence, myself, since it wasn't really a part of my upbringing, but I can see the potential benefits in clearing rhetorical deadlocks in societies where it's properly implemented.
10123192
Yeah, when the mutually agreed upon fights work, it's great - I speak from personal experience there - but it reeeaaaaally demands that a lot of other things need to be in place so that it doesn't get out of hand and so that it achieves the desired effect. I think it would have the opposite of the desired effect in a lot of places these days.
And, yes, horseshoes will drop.
This has now become one of my favorite stories on the entire site.
I can only say that about maybe five stories here, but Jacques is, by far, my favorite character across all the stories I read. This chapter - where he goes from smacking sense into them (I honestly think the noogie was more humiliating than the polite beatdown), then teaching them to be better than they are - is why. And YES on them wanting to better themselves!
I normally am not fond of the Human in Equestria stories, but this one is just so good.
Well done. Well freaking done.
(and I hope the next chapter is coming out soon!)
Ah the classic tale of 'nobles who are not noble' being reprimanded for their behavior is always a cathartic tale. And one still relevant as always. I wonder if the trope is as old as the concept of nobility itself.
Also an interesting discussion on the dissemination of sensitive information. Not something you expect to see coming from the 'good guys' camp. I won't deny the concept makes me uneasy, but that's mostly due to how easy it can be to abuse. That's a fine line to tread.
10123383
As the saying goes, "loose lips sink ships."
Wait... Hold up... Why am I finding this story in the Shipping Section of HiE...? Who’s being shipped...? WAIT... JACQUES?! Methuselah DID give Jacques a BROAD dispensation...! Hmm... Very interesting, unless all of the shipping is to not include Jacques...?
10123383
Wars may be fought with weapons and soldiers, but they are won with information and secrets. And wars may take many forms.
But let us ponder for a moment the breaking of the fourth wall. Specifically, how much fun it is! My characters have broken the fourth wall on two nonconsecutive occasions, and it's fun! Everyone should do it! At least once!
These three made me laugh out loud.
I enjoyed the fight scene. I knew as soon as I read it that it was from Secondhand Lions and guessed correctly that there would be the speech and I was NOT disappointed. It was one of my favorite
movies.
I also liked how Oaken helped Rarity be distracted by having her concentrate on what she likes to do.
Having read your explanation for another cliffhanger, I'll generously let it pass. Seriously, I'm sorry you hated this chapter because I really liked it, I'll just be hanging from this cliff until the next exciting episode...
I did not catch that Secondhand Lion reference until I read the Author's Note, and I'm usually pretty good at catching references!
You incorporated that one really well!
Unlike another fan-story that is basically nothing but references...
10123791
Yeah, nope. No shipping with Jacques. Dispensations don't cover priestly vows and, even if they did, Jacques is the only human. It probably got stuck there for AppleFritters or Medheart. I don't know for sure because I don't usually add my stories to other groups, so someone else must have.
10123239
Thank you! That means a lot!
10123383
Yes, that trope is as old as nobility itself. Arthurian literature, for instance, is chock full of it, which is why different versions of Arthur and his knights run the gamut from Most Are Good to Some are Good to Most are Awful depending on the era of commentary and the views of the author. Epics like the Iliad and Odyssey feature such tales, as do legends and fables of Norse, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, and really any other tradition. The theme of nobility/'nobility' and the dangers of abusing power are as old as humanity and, near as I can tell, quite universal.
10123856
Antiquarian pumped his fist in the Sitting At His Desk Private Display of Satisfaction.
10124540
So when did they rename it to Istanbul? Or did Christendom simply not acknowledge the name change for some time?
10124585
As I understand it, it wasn't officially renamed Istanbul until like the 1920s. The Ottomans still called it Constantinople, though they spelled it differently. We get Istanbul because greek-speaking traders, when asked where they were going, would say "To The City," since if you were a trader in that part of the Mediterranean there was really only one city you'd be talking about, and in greek, it'd be pronounced something like eis tan ( or ten) polin. Throw in some Turkish people hearing it and it getting corrupted, and you get Istanbul.
10124540
True, although, and I could be getting myself mixed up with when the Ottomans conquered the city, but as I understood it the 4th Crusaders/Viencians stole a lot of stuff from Hagia Sofia and the Imperial Palace and so on and so forth, so that while far from burned to the ground it was far less impressive than it used to be.
Sounds like Friar is about to found a new Order
10124618
Oh, it was nasty all around, but it was still an impressive sight even after the looting. And, given that the 'Crusaders' who looted it stayed there as rulers for a time, so did most of the wealth (though, to be clear, they'd all been excommunicated for going off the reservation long before they even made it to Constantinople; hence 'Crusader' in air quotes).
10124854
TIL. Was it still the Latin Empire or had the Byzantines retaken it by then?
Great chapter for our hero, not so much for the poor MP!
10125086
Honestly, Jacques probably saw the 'before' and 'after.' Byzantine rule was restored in the 1260s. Jacques would have been happy about the restoration of the Byzantines. The 4th 'Crusade' was a disgrace which earnest Crusaders like Jacques deplored (again, the 4th didn't even make it to the Middle East before they were excommunicated). East/West relationships within the Christian community continue to be haunted by the specter of that evil campaign.
I'm actually not familiar with Secondhand Lions, so I'd have never seen that reference, but that entire section is wonderful. I suspect Jacques may have planted the seeds of at least one Equestrian knightly Order with that speech and the dialogue/instructional session that followed.
I kind of wish we could make politicians settle disputes with some fisticuffs currently...things are deadlocked into complete inaction because people aren't willing to even entertain the idea of anything said by someone in another party, but I somehow doubt it would have the desired response.
10123391
Even in times of peace, that still applies. Due to a few people talking before deployment when I was in the Navy, CNN had reported where we were going before most of the crew knew where we were headed...and we were shadowed by a Russian sub for most of that cruise.
10127875
Oof. That's dumb.
Also, thank you for your service.
With all that has been going on for me this week, to see this pop up in my feed was a pure joy. And not just a new chapter, a big, FAT chapter!
)
) Oh Lord in Heaven, if only there were more men like Fr. Jacques around to help boys become men
This glorious addition made me run a full gambit of emotions: I cheered, I laughed, I felt tears, I was surprised, and I needed to pause to reflect.
It's been so long since I've seen Secondhand Lions that I didn't even realize it until the end (which made me love it even more
My favorite part was easily the duel and best of all, the lesson the good Friar took the time to teach those young stallions later. (Manful tears may or may not have been shed
They dynamic you have going between the good friar and Luna is just a delight
And for that matter, Celestia and Luna as well. They feel so real, like real siblings.
I don't mind another cliffhanger ending
Another gem of a chapter, Magnifique.
Thank you so much and God bless!
10127875
Thank you for your service.
10124530
I now have the image of a sub plot of Jacques acting oblivious to dissuade the wanton advances of thirsty mares
Alondro smiles and nods. A strategy he employed himself on several occasions.
I too greatly enjoyed "Secondhand Lions"... because lions, and the crazy tall tales which turned out to be true.
Also, if you don't want to end things on cliffhangers, you can just have ME show up to deal with the baddies. Trust me... there will be no cliffhangers when I appear. It only ever requires One Punch, man.
Alondro grins in the most horrifying manner imaginable and begins formulating PLANS!
It seems that Jacques preceptors have appeared.
With some effort, maybe they will prove worthy!
So... I've been thinking of this for some time. I actually wanted to do a story about a templar knight some time ago, but it fell through since I don't think I could offer the respect the subject deserves, but figured I'd post this here since it might interest you...
In my verse, Nightmare moon is as much a deal maker as a conquerer. Its not enough for her to be victorious, she either has to humiliate... or worse, have her opponents compromise. And she has the power to do so. She could, easily, give all her ponies everything they desired, and all she asked for in return was their loyalty. They would have the strength and dark power to see their every desire done... and in the end would serve her.
But what to offer the man who has everything? Certainly she can offer him, Jacques, all the earthly pleasures of the flesh, can make him hale and young again, can offer him all the decadence of this life... but his eyes are ever to the hereafter, so what could compare to that?
Jewels? Gold? He lives as a pauper. What use is money save to the benefit of others, and she could to that herself and it would not further her cause.
Perhaps an army. To serve as her Warmaster? No, he is a man of peace, so he says. She desires a ruthless efficiency he lacks even as a human.
Tomes from beneath Saddle Arabia? A whole library to be his, and from, a people to command, to answer to none but her and to act as he desires as their Lord? No, he knows only his God, and he would never truly serve her.
So what is left...
Simple. A church. The first church of Canterlot. The Nightmare of my story had long saw the foolishness of being seen a God, for what would mortals do but throw rocks through her windows. Better a God in heaven, a Queen on earth... and a High Priest to spread a faith to see them made docile with what she sees as doctrine and dogma.
Wouldn't you like that Jacques? To see your faith spread to a world, to be the Herald of Christ in a new age?
10185175
An interesting premise. If you'll indulge me, I can pretty much tell you how that would play out for her:
Friar Jacques answered with a gentle smile that was no less firm for its compassion, "Oh, child, how your wickedness has blinded you to reality. I already am a servant of God, unequal to the task though I am. Your bargain would have me sacrifice my loyalty to God for a loyalty to you, no matter how your honeyed words would make it sound otherwise. Away with your temptations! For it is written, 'You cannot serve both God and mammon.'"