The Braided Pony

The Human army rode out of Elfland with less fanfare than they rode in with. No cheers, no boisterous crowds of flower-tossing Elves. They had just the greying sky and the electric scent of coming storms. One storm, a tempest of Goblins. They crossed the swiftly flowing, nameless stream and made camp.

"Your troops fight for gold. Or silver," said Trecy, the troop's Serjeant-at-arms. He was speaking with his leader about their sudden departure: the morning after the reception in Alfrodric's court. "And the Elves do need our help against the Goblin Horde."

"Elven gold fades like the morning dew. Believe me there is no pot at the rainbow's end. Unless it's a chamberpot," replied the army's captain. The commander of the Human Free Company was called Lord of Hotspur, but, in fact, that was the name of his huge broadsword, a massive bit of sharpened steel with twin flame-shaped guards at its hilt. The weapon hung down his back from a leather bandoleer.

"We can go back."

"You think we should?!" The captain rubbed his forehead. "I will tell you upon the morn."

When Trecy left, he laid his sword against the tent-pole, and lay himself down upon his cloth cot.

And he is in his dreams:

He sits upon his horse. His only favorite horse: a grey old nag, whom he brushes, shovels out the stall for, and feeds carrots to. It is the mount he rode as a squire, and the mare is long dead. Today, he had a puissant stallion. He didn't know its name. Didn't care.

"Come on, girl," he says. They ride down the narrow street to the Braided Pony Tavern. As he approaches, a landau pulls up. A tall male exits. It is Alfrodic the Elf Prince. His ears have the fey points on them. Then Marianela comes out. Her blonde hair rests upon her bare, slender shoulders. He comes here for her, because she asked him to. He follows them in, watches them at their table. He takes an ale from the barman. Should he go over? He doesn't know? Why is she here with him? He decides to leave.

— She really screwed you over, Egbert. Didn't she? asks an older man at the bar. He calls him by his birth name.

He turns seeing two things above all else. First an old, scarred man. He sees himself. And in the mirror beyond the bar, he sees himself again, but a younger visage. A young man, without scars, and greyless hair. He is as he was once, and the speaker is as he is now.

"But you're me? And I'm —"

— You're twenty again, one year from the armour, and the coveted title of 'sir'. But no, I am not you, good knight. I am Hotspur. Your blade. But who would listen to a talking sword, even in a dream? I'm borrowing your good looks.

"How are you Hotspur? It's a piece of steel."

— Because I am a magic sword, silly. Hotspur to you, Væ victus to the scribbling scribes with their penned histories, claidheahm bhFiann to the Sylvan Pixies, Gelstong to the Dwarfs. I like that one the best.

— You stiffed the bartender. Didn't tip him. Not even a pfennig. Always felt bad about that. Right? Wasn't his fault, but hers.

"I was embarrassed; I just wanted out of there," he said. "I saw her in the Elf-court. She hadn't aged a day."

— Pshaw. Just Elven magic. A pointy-eared parlor trick.

"I had asked her to the play by the Chamberlain's Men."

— Never liked lakers, Hotspur interjected, disparaging all actors.

"She said no, but then within a fortnight she said I should show up at the Braided Pony. She did! I asked the scullery maid what it meant. The old woman said Marianela had changed her mind.

— It wasn't an invitation, Hotspur said. Only a friendly suggestion. Even charwomen can be wrong. You wanted to set things right. I'll give you that.

Hotspur sipped from his flagon of Zinfandel, and hooked a thumb back at the mirror above the bar. The mirror shows not a true reflection, but a long ago scene. What are the words his image is speaking? "We had a misunderstanding. And I wasn't too nice to you. But I'm over that now."

— You lied. You were still angry, turning your embarrassment to rage. But then she made her attempt.

"Bertie," Marianela says, still in the mirror. "If you don't ever want to see me again that is alright. I understand. Maybe I led you on. I just need to know what you want."

— 'Led you on.' Not your term. You called her words you never called a woman before, and none since. Words you couldn't have accurately called a man. I'm impressed with the lexicon! But then I'm a sword.

"I never said it to her!"

— No, still you said it to your peers. She didn't know?

"I do not know if she did."

— Well, you saw her again. Didn't you? She did herself well. Consort to that Elf Prince. And what did you do?

"I left."

— You took your toy soldiers and fled. It's not about shame or anger anymore, is it? I see that now. Once, maybe. But now it takes less of your courage to face the Goblins than it does to face her. She harmed you; a deeper cut than any goblic yataghan sabre could ever have delivered. You fear her more than dragons.

— Ah! Because no sword is between you two. I'm flattered, but you overestimate my prowess.

"I cannot harm her."

— And leaving didn't? Leaving physically now. Emotionally then. Or maybe I just don't understand your language well enough. But then I was only forged in a hot furnace and pounded straight on a hard anvil.

"Your orders, sir?" asked Trecy upon the morn.

— Just what are your orders? whispered Hotspur from its sheath on Egbert's back.

"Mount up. We ride to Elfland."

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