Chapter Five - The Mare's Choice
Chapter Five
The Mare’s Choice
This story takes place way back, long before the Princesses, and long, long before Hearth's Warming Eve, but it happened right here in Equestria. See, long before the three tribes of unicorns, pegasi and earth ponies turned up, Equestria was populated solely by earth ponies.
(...or unicorns, or pegasi, depending on the audience. It paid to be flexible. Although Tales could see the purple mare in the second row fuming with the historical inaccuracy)
Back then the land was divided into many small kingdoms. These kingdoms might just be a valley, or a few acres of woodland, but some were bigger, and the biggest of them all was Canterlot. From the grand stone castle on the side of the mountain, the great King Art Quilldragon ruled his lands with the help of his Knights of the Round Table.
(“Hmph, they never proved it was round,” muttered Pretty in Purple. “Academic consensus was that it was rectangular.”)
Well, they were supposed to help him rule. In truth, they’d generally just take time out to go and cavort with the deer, who still lived in the woods of Equestria. They’d arrange games, mock battles, with the Knights on one side and the deer on the other, and chase each other down.
Now, on this occasion, the Knights and the king were doing the chasing, rushing about the forest looking for the deer and trying to pull them down. Being earth ponies, they had endurance on their side, but the deer were faster and lighter on their feet. They ran rings around the Knights, leading them on a merry dance through the woods.
King Art was getting hacked off by all this, so he decided to strike out on his own. He crept through the woods by himself, looking for a likely target and soon enough, he found one. A white hart stood with a small retinue of nervy-looking deer in a clearing. If Art could get him, it’d be a victory for sure.
So he leapt out of cover and dashed across to them, that white hart in his sights. The deer broke and ran in every direction, but King Art paid them no heed. He ran after his foe, dodging between the trees, turning on a dime when the deer did, getting closer and closer and closer. They ran on, through the forest and alongside the river, King Art puffing and blowing, but still determined to get his hooves on that deer.
And he was just about to leap up to pull it down when it feinted left. The King, without the deer’s agility, answered the call of inertia and rocketed straight into the river. The hart trotted off into the woods, chuckling to itself. King Art clambered out of the river, coughing and spluttering.
He lay for a while on the riverbank, getting his breath back. He blinked and rolled on to his front, only to find himself looking at a pair of big, black, iron horseshoes.
The horseshoes were attached to two long, black iron greaves, and from there to a solid, black iron chestplate, and then on to a black iron helmet which contained two big, yellow eyes. Oh bugger, thought the King. And well he might, for this was none other than the Black Knight. Tall he was, and imposing too, dressed head to hoof in black armour, and he was grinning, with all his big yellow pointy teeth.
“So, King Art,” he said, smug as anything. “Seems I have you at a disadvantage, don’t I?”
King Art tried to smile. “Aye, that you do.”
“You know, it’d be the easiest thing in the world to buck off your head here and now,” said the Black Knight, nonchalantly.
“Aye, that it would,” said Art, in no position to disagree.
“Do you think I should?” said the Black Knight. “Then your kingdom would be mine. None of your knights are around to stop me.”
King Art stood and pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a good six inches shorter than the Black Knight.
“That’s true, I am defenceless, and it’d be easy to kill me now.”
The Black Knight grinned all the more at that. “I could, but you know what? I’m not going to. I’m going to have my fun first.”
King Art tried to look dignified, even though he was still dripping wet from his dip in the river. “And what’s that to be? Are you going to run me down like a wild beast? Gouge my heart out with a spoon? Bite my legs off?”
“Worse,” said the Black Knight, “I’m going to set you a challenge.”
Well, that hardly sounded worse to King Art. He was a pretty strong, wily pony, and he was fairly confident he could beat anything the Black Knight threw at him.
“Alright then, what’s your challenge?”
The Black Knight’s grin grew wider still, showing off more of his teeth. “You’re going to come back here, in a year, with the answer to my question.”
“Okay then,” said King Art. “What’s the question?”
“You'll never get the right answer,” said the Black Knight, grinning. “'Cos you see, the question is: What is it that mares desire more than anything else in the world?”
(Tales felt the atmosphere change. Glances and murmurs were exchanged, and there were a few isolated giggles. He made a point of making sympathetic eye contact with the small male contingent of the audience)
Well, King Art was feeling more than a little worried by that, but he was never one to let on.
“Hah! Only that?” he said, with false cheer. “That's easy!”
“You say that now,” said the Black Knight, “but if you don’t find the answer, the right answer mind you, you’ll be for it.”
To make his point, the Knight drew a hoof across his throat, as if King Art needed telling twice.
So, with that question in mind, King Art went back to his court at Canterlot to explain the challenge to his Knights. They all gathered around the Round Table (“Rectangular!”) to discuss what they should do about it.
“Why don’t we just find where this Black Knight bloke lives and beat the snot out him?” said Sir Gadabout, who it was said had been born with fists for brains.
“See, I would,” said King Art, “but he’d beat us right back. They say he’s not a mortal pony, and that he’s had every limb removed, only to grow them right back the next day.”
“Hmph, let’s see if he can re-grow his head,” muttered Sir Gadabout, but no one listened to him.
After some discussion, they agreed that they had better find the answer, and that the best way to do it would be the world’s first Public Attitudes Survey. They ventured forth into the kingdom of Canterlot, asking every mare they met, ‘what is it you desire more than anything in the world?’
And they got plenty of different answers. Mares wanted love, they wanted friendship, they wanted jam, tea, socks, money, a new house, the list went on.
(Tales could barely hear himself think over the general tittering, and the less salubrious suggestions the mint-green mare in the corner was whispering to the pony next to her).
King Art was none too sure they were the necessarily the right answer, but nonetheless, he wrote them all down dutifully.
So they searched the kingdom, asking every mare they met, until, eventually, the day rolled around again, when King Art had to see the Black Knight.
He went with his Knights this time just in case. They were making their way through the wood, when an old mare stepped out in front of them. And she was old. Old, old, old, old, old. So old the world ‘old’ stopped sounding like a real word. Her hair was grey and wiry, her face was wrinkled, her lips were thick and rubbery, and-
(Tales saw a lime-green earth pony of advanced years glaring at him from the third row. He stopped himself)
-anyway, she stepped out in front of the knights.
“Oi! You lot!” she said.
King Art pulled up short. “Hullo, ma’am, what can we do for you?”
“Nah, ‘s more about what I can do for you,” she said, grinning with all her teeth (all three of them). “See, I’ve got the right answer to your question.”
King Art frowned. “Hang on, how d’you know we’ve got a question? More to the point, who the devil are you?”
“'Round here, they call me Rag Nail. And never you mind how I know. Point is, I’ve got the answer. I know what mares desire more’n anything in the world, so if you want to live, you’ll wanna hear it.”
“Okay then, what is it?”
Rag Nail kept grinning. “I do sommat for you, you do sommat for me. I’ll give you the answer on one condition.”
King Art shrugged. Whatever she wanted couldn’t be as bad as dying. “Alright then, crone. Name it.”
“I want to marry one of your knights.”
King Art’s jaw dropped. He stared at her, hoping she was joking.
“You can fight among yourself for that honour,” she said, smugly.
He blanched and ran a hoof through his mane. Who the devil would want to marry this old harridan?
“Alright then,” he said, turning to his knights, “which one of you wants to marry this old harridan?”
A grand total of no one said yes.
“Come on, chaps, please?”
Still no one.
“Anyone?”
Nope. King Art was about to swallow his pride and offer himself up, when Sir Goin’, the youngest knight, put up a hoof.
“I’ll do it, my liege,” he said, grimly. “What kind of Knight would I be if I left my lord to such a fate?”
King Art and the others sighed with relief.
“There we go then,” said King Art, turning to Rag Nail, “you’ve got your half of the bargain, now give me mine.”
“Very well, y’lordship,” she said, “lean in, and I’ll whisper it to you.”
So he did, and she told him the answer. Instantly, King Art’s face lit up. Of course!
He was grinning from ear to ear now, as they set off. They met the Black Knight by the river, where he was sharpening a hoof-axe. When he saw the Knights arrived, he stood and sauntered over to them. It was anyone’s guess if he meant to make the light flash so menacingly off his axe.
“Alright then, let’s get this over with,” he said, standing nonchalantly. “I’ve got heads to be cuttin’ and a kingdom to be rulin'.”
So, they unrolled their long, long list of answers and read them all. The Black Knight laughed off every single one. King Art started to fret as the list was whittled down (he'd had a good feeling about 'money' and all), but he refused to look worried, certainly not in front of the Black Knight and very certainly not in front of his knights. Eventually, the Black Knight turned to him.
“That it? Shame, I was hoping you might find the right answer, but apparently not. Welp, put your head down, and we’ll get this over with-“
“Wait!” he said, “I have another answer!”
The Black Knight sighed. “Oh? Well, let’s hear it then.”
King Art took a deep breath to calm himself, then said, “What mares desire more than anything else in the world, is sovereignty. The ability to choose for themselves, and have their own way.”
(There was a cheer from the audience, and the handful of blokes in the audience gave Tales a desperate kind of look. He couldn't help but laugh)
The Black Knight's jaw fell open.
“How on earth did you know that...?” he said, incredulous.
“Oh, it was just a matter of asking the right ponies,” said King Art, checking his front hoof nonchalantly.
The Black Knight was furious! He stormed, stomped and stropped about, and eventually harrumphed and left, grumbling all the way.
Well, King Art was happy as Larry after that. After all, nothing cheers you up like knowing you’re not going to die. The knights returned to Canterlot in high spirits, fully prepared for a long afternoon, evening and night of carousing (and they were experienced carousers. No one could carouse like them. They were devils for a spot of carousing). However, as they drew nearer to the gates, they saw somepony waiting for them. Hunched, grey-haired and with a glare that could blister paint. Rag Nail was loitering like a bad smell.
“Oh, King Art, you survived! What good news!” she said, smiling broadly with all one of her teeth. “Now, am I getting married today or tomorrow?”
What could he do? Sir Goin’ had promised, so it was officially His problem. And Goin’ didn’t like it, but he had no choice. What kind of Knight would he be if he refused?
So it was arranged for them to be married that day. Of course, it was a full royal wedding, with all the pomp and ceremony that entails. Sir Goin’ wore his best armour, and his... bride was dressed up as best she could be. She at least looked presentable in her dress, but that couldn’t hide the fact she wasn’t the most genial of ponies. She passed wind at the altar, substituted the vows for ones of her own that blistered paint, and pelted the bouquet so hard it did a bridesmaid some serious damage.
It got worse at the reception. She slopped soup everywhere, she talked with her mouth full, and didn’t even bother trying to eat with any kind of manners, stuffing her face into her plate.
(Tales noted a white unicorn in the vicinity of Pink and Purple turning faintly green.)
She was, in short, an embarrassment. All the ladies of refinement (and colts of a different persuasion) who’d had their eyes on Sir Goin’ muttered and glared. How could he marry this grotesque old biddy? What did he see in her?
Thankfully, there came a point where she ran out of people to embarrass and offend and chose to leave. She staggered upstairs to the bedchamber, full of fine wine and finer food. Sir Goin’ stayed downstairs, not wanting to go and face what awaited him in bed. He hung around with the knights, enduring their jibes and jokes, knowing that anything they could do would be peanuts compared to the hideous thing he had in his wedding bed. He stayed for as long as he could, but eventually, he had to go.
He slunk upstairs, careful to be as quiet as he could. He crept up to the door of his room, and opened it just a crack. In the bed, he could see a lump where his... ugh, his wife, lay. Luckily she was snoring, with a sound like a bandsaw going through a table leg. Thank god! thought Sir Goin’, she’s asleep.
Carefully, he crept across the room, slid up beside the bed, twitched the covers aside and quick as anything, slipped in and twitched them back. His wife was still snoring behind him, and he felt his breathing slow. By degrees, he calmed down.
He was just about to settle down to sleep, when a pair of lips brushed his ear, and he heard a voice say, “And what about a good night kiss?”
Now, Goin’ had faced dragons, he’d faced manticores, he’d faced boggarts, bogeybeasts, Black Shuck and knuckers, but that was all small fry compared to this. Never before had he felt such total and utter bowel-knotting fear. He didn’t want to move. Every muscle in his body revolted at the idea of shifting so much as an inch. He tried to think of a way, any way out of this situation, but, damn it, he was still a knight. He was supposed to be fearless, noble, courageous and all those other things, and if that meant... what it was he had to do, then he’d damn well do it.
He shut his eyes tight and turned his head to hers slowly, not wanting to see what he’d shacked up with. He puckered his lips and leaned forward, fully expecting to meet his rubbery, wet, hairy doom.
But, he didn’t. He met quite the opposite. Warm, soft, sweet smelling. He opened his eyes, and immediately didn’t believe them. What had been a hideous, trollish, ill-mannered old biddy, was now a beautiful young mare, with a long raven black mane and big fluttering eyelashes.
“Who the devil are you?” said Sir Goin’, quite shocked.
“I’m your wife, you dolt. I'm Rag Nail.” she said, with a laugh like two champagne flutes chiming.
Sir Goin’ laughed nervously. “No you’re not. My wife’s... different to you.”
She rolled her lovely eyes. “Dear, that is me,” she took a deep breath. “It’s... it’s a curse. During the day I have to be... well, you met her. But at night, I’m myself, as you see me now.”
Sir Goin’ boggled.
“But, you see, now you’ve married me, you have to choose,” she said, her face set serious. “See, I can be like this during the day, or during the night. But, the rest of the time, day or night, I’ll be that crone you saw earlier.”
Now, this was a lot to lay on a guy who’d gotten married (and had a pretty stressful time about it) a few hours before, and Sir Goin’ was not a night owl. He was at his best mid-afternoon, maybe early evening, but definitely not at godawful past midnight. The point was, he was in a bind.
I mean, he was thinking he could have her be herself at night, and a crone by day. That was looking like a good idea right now, with her so very... close. He wondered idly how she’d look in tube socks...
Ach! But what kind of Knight would he be if he did that? He couldn’t leave her to be a crone in court. It’d be hell for her, running the gauntlet of jealous, bitchy maidens every day. No, better to leave her to be herself during the day. But that’d mean he’d have to sleep with... eesh, it didn’t bear thinking about. He mulled it this way and that, but whatever way he thought about it, he drew a blank.
Finally, he shook his head. “Sorry, I really can’t choose. You... you decide.”
And with that, she embraced him, tears of joy streaming from her eyes.
“You magnificent pony!” she said. “You’ve done it!”
“I have?” he said. “I mean, yes, I have! Wait, what have I done?”
“You’ve broken the curse, you pillock!” she said, grinning. “You’ve saved me!”
“But... how?”
“By granting me sovereignty, of course. By giving me the choice!”
So it was, the curse was broken, and all was well. Lady Rag Nail got to be herself at all hours, Sir Goin’ had a beautiful wife, and King Art didn’t die horribly. And if anyone noticed that the hag Sir Goin’ had married had mysteriously vanished, well, they didn’t mention it.
* * *
Tales bowed his head, and was greeted by a loud clatter of applause this time. Tales looked up to see Pretty in Purple was muttering to her companions, but they didn’t seem to be paying too much attention. The audience was on his side, it seemed. Inside, he sighed with relief. Right, now you’ve got them in your hoof, give them something good. Then we can be off to Connemara.
Something with local appeal, maybe. Of course, he didn’t he know about any town south of Manehattan. In Manechester, Herd’s Hollow, Buckston he’d be fine, but Ponyville...
Actually, there was one thing. Discord. He was a gold mine of stories. Some stories about Discord happened in Ponyville (although it wasn’t worthwhile believing everything you heard).
“Now, how about a newer story?” he said, over the cheers. “‘Cause I got one no more than a year old right here!”
“YES,” cheered the audience, except Pretty in Purple, who was still muttering about historical accuracy. Tales decided to pay her no heed. What did she know?
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The story of Sir Kay, very nice.
This was perfect. Just like the original.
OH NO DON'T DO IT
"
Finally, he shook his head. “Sorry, I really can’t choose. You... you decide.”
The mare gasped at him. "You've done it! you've actually done it!"
“I have?” he said. “I mean, yes, I have! Wait, what have I done?”
“You’ve broken the curse, you pillock!” she said, scowling. "Now I'm stuck as that old bag forever!"
So it was, the curse was broken, and all was well.
Almost.
”
Couldn't resist, sorry
...
i.imgur.com/R5Z0CtE.png
This is my absolute favourite chapter.
I know this may seem out of place and time, but still.
This is my favourite chapter, because I already know the story.
I heard it twice, differently.
The first was in a book called 'the Canterbury Tales', the second in the Original King Arthur stories. So I know what you did there. Quilldragon...
"When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre
'E'd 'eard men sing by land and sea
And what 'e thought 'e might require,
'E went an' took it--same as me!
"The market girls and fishermen
The soldiers and the sailors too,
They 'eard old songs turn up again,
But kep' it quiet--same as you!
"They knew 'e stole, 'e knew they knowed
They didn't tell, nor raise a fuss
But winked at 'Omer down the road,
An' 'e winked back--the same as us!"
"And now thou must make up thine mind and must abide by thine decision, even if thou really, really wants to change it later!"
"Dang it! I knew there was a catch!"
I can't believe it but this storytelling is actually good.