T4M 4: Queen of the Castle

>You march up and down the battlements with a grim frown, watching for any sign of the enemy.
>Banners flutter in the wind, proud symbols of your rule over this castle. The greatest ever built.
>It towers over the surrounding countryside like a mountain, daring anybody to try to take it from its rightful queen (that’s you).
>The walls are made of solid stone blocks, each one taller than your daddy – and he’s pretty tall. Built into them are dozens of little holes through which arrows and hot oil will pour down like rain on whoever is dumb enough to attack you.
>With satisfaction you inspect the stonework and take stock of all the defences in place.
>You are ready for whatever may come – and you’re sure that something will. You can smell it on the breeze. It smells like apples.
>This is the calm before the storm: war is coming.
>Even now someone is coming towards you.
>Surely no enemy would be so stupid as to attack alone.
>Is this a messenger, then?
“Halt!” you call as she comes within yelling distance. “Friend or foe?”
>“Huh? Annie, it’s me, Apple Bloom.”
>Exactly what an enemy spy would say.
>You duck down behind the battlements and wait for her to come closer. As soon as she’s in range you greet her with an explosive barrage from your cannons.
>The shots fall all around her, scorching the earth, but she carries on.
>She’s brave, you’ll say that for her.
>“Annie! Goldarnit, why’re ya throwin’ cushions at me?”
“That was a warning shot! Don’t come any closer or I’ll blow you away!”
>She keeps on walking.
>Well, you warned her. This time you won’t hold back.

>Seizing the perfect moment, you let loose one of your cauldrons of boiling oil directly over the enemy’s head.
>With a yelp she leaps back just in time to avoid a direct hit, but the scalding liquid still drenches her thoroughly as it splashes on the ground.
>The newly-made moat of boiling pitch sizzles as she stomps her hooves in it in irritation.
>“ANNIE. QUIT THAT.”
>You frown. She must have some sort of magical protection to have survived something like that.
“Never! Death before dishonour!”
>“I’m comin’ up there, Annie. You better not throw anythin’ else at me.”
>True to her word, she’s begun scaling the winding ramp that approaches the gate.
>With grim determination you load your cannons again and let loose with a blast that knocks her back into the moat.
“Coming up here? Pffft. You and what army?”
>She looks up at you, annoyance in her expression turning at last to grim determination.
>”That’s how it’s gonna be, huh? All right. I’ll show ya what army, ya no-good clubhouse-stealin’ cushion-throwin’ varmint!”
>She turns to flee, and you take a moment to savour your victory.
>There’s no time to relax, though.
>She’ll be back, and she’ll bring reinforcements.
>You need to reload your cannons and refill your supplies of hot oil.
>With that done, you munch on a cucumber sandwich from your picnic hamper as you wait.
>It could be a long siege, after all.

>You’re ready and waiting when the enemy returns with backup.
>Three of them now, striding fearlessly across the approach to your citadel.
>This place was built to hold off armies – still, you won’t underestimate them. These must be the enemy’s greatest champions, ferocious warriors with the strength of ten or twenty men each, or else a crack commando unit sent to infiltrate and undermine your defences.
>As soon as they’re within range you open fire with a fusillade from your cannons, scoring glancing hits on two of the enemy.
“QUEEN ANNIE SAYS GO AWAY FROM HER CASTLE, RUFFIANS. TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED. WITH EXTREME PREDIJUICE.”
>They fall back for a moment, discussing something amongst themselves. Possibly the meaning of the word predijuice. You’re kind of glad you’re not close enough for them to ask you, because, even though you know what it means, you’re not sure you could explain it properly to them.
>They’re huddled together out there beyond your range for a good while.
>Maybe they’ve seen sense and they’re going to come on with a white flag of surrender?
>In which case obviously you’ll blast them anyway, you’re not going to let spies into your castle just because they have a white flag.
>All at once they break apart and begin running on three separate courses, spreading out as they enter your range. Smart.
>You begin firing, focusing your cannons on one target at a time. The roar of the guns rings out over the plains as the shots explode all around the attackers.
>They stumble and falter, but the advance continues as you’re forced to duck back inside to collect more ammunition.

>As soon as you show your face on the battlements once more, the counterattack comes.
>Rearing up on their hind legs, each of the attackers flings something at your position.
>The brightly-coloured orbs arc toward you and your eyes widen as you realise they must be some kind of explosives.
>You duck back behind the parapet barely in time to avoid the worst of the blast, throwing yourself to the floor.
>Something sprays over you, drenching your back. They must be using your own tactic of boiling oil against you, or else some kind of deadly acid bomb.
>You shrug off your terrible wounds and stand up, your face set in grim determination as you grab hold of some ammo and go to return fire.
>Your cannons roar once more and one of your attackers gives a yelp as you land a hit right on her snout.
>More bombs come flying at you but you pay them little heed, continuing your frenzied cannon barrage.
>One explodes directly above you and soaks you to the skin, even as you grab another one out of the air and chuck it back with all your strength.
>It bursts on the ground right in front of one of the fillies, drenching her purple mane.
>She shakes herself off like a dog, her little wings buzzing furiously to dry her feathers.
>“You’re goin’ down, Annie!”
“Surrender now and we will allow you to live peacefully as our pheasants.”
>You strike a regal pose, but have to duck as the pony produces another bomb and chucks it in reply to your generous offer.
>The battle is joined in earnest now, the calm of the hot, sleepy afternoon shattered by battle cries and the blasts of explosives.
>All of you are thoroughly soaked by the time the fillies’ supply of bombs has run out and they take to picking up your cushions – um, cannonballs – and firing them back at you.

>Lost in the battle-rage, you don’t notice at first when one of your enemies slips away from the firefight.
>You keep trading shots with the other two for some time, and it’s only when they begin to fall back into a more defensive position that you have time to take stock of the situation and notice that the white filly is missing.
>Did she give up and run home, tail between her legs?
>You fill your lungs to yell something gloating at the remaining two, but a stray thought stops you in your tracks.
>Would she really give up so easily? This elite, resolute hero of a thousand battles, as she must be to have survived the explosive barrage you’ve already loosed upon her?
>So if you assume she hasn’t surrendered, what else might be going on here?
>And why are the other two fillies picking this moment to make a tactical withdrawal?
>Could it be that they know something you don’t?
>A shuffling noise comes from behind you, and the icy grip of a deadly certainty clutches at your heart.
>You’ve been infiltrated.
>Gradually, trying hard not to give yourself away, you reach for a weapon.
>“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” comes a voice from behind you, as hard and cold as frozen steel. Cute, squeaky frozen steel.
>“Turn round slowly. No funny business.”
>You do as you’re told, only your eyes blazing defiance as you look your enemy in the face. Maybe you’re staring into the jaws of defeat, but you’re still the rightful queen of this castle. If this is the end, you’ll meet it with the dignity proper to your royal birth.
“Hello, Sweetie Belle.”

>“…hello, Annie.”
>She holds one of the deadly balloons in her right hoof, but still there’s a look of caution and respect in her green eyes.
>It seems like she knows well enough that you’re most dangerous of all when you’re cornered, and she’s not letting her guard down.
“Welcome to our castle. We congratulate you on beaching the defences.”
>She looks confused for a moment before breaking into a small giggle.
>“You mean breaching, right?”
“We always say precisely what we mean,” you return frostily.
>She giggles again before her expression hardens. “Uhh… anyway. Enough is enough, Annie. We’re taking our treehouse back.”
>You give her a sad little smile.
“Treehouse? Oh, Sweetie Belle… you have such small dreams. Can’t you think bigger?”
>“Wh… what do you mean?”
“You’ve captured the castle. You’ve taken the queen prisoner… and you’re thinking about treehouses?”
>She shuffles her hooves.
>“Well… but…”
“You could be a queen, Sweetie Belle.”
>Well, maybe that was hasty. No need to give away your throne so easily.
“Or at least a princess!”
>She bites her lower lip, looking doubtful for a moment.
>“N…no. No, Annie. It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be over. That’s up to you. At least think about your options.”
>“They’re counting on me…”

“I’M counting on you. I knew you’d come, Sweetie. I’ve already made you a throne next to mine.”
>You hurriedly drag another beanbag over and plonk it down in the big pile of cushions and rugs where you’d been comfily whiling away the afternoon after setting up your defences.
>That done, you give the little white pony a winning smile.
“See?”
>“…you knew I’d come?”
“Of course,” you say with your best secretive smile, strolling over to the table in the centre of your throne room. A pitcher and two glasses stand there already, and you pour two glasses of fancy expensive wine.  “Let’s talk things over, shall we? Care for a glass of wine?”
>She looks thrown.
>“I, uh, I don’t drink wine, Annie…”
“Of course you do. All Princesses drink wine, silly.” You hand her the glass and hiss under your breath “it’s just juice.”
>“Oh! Oh, err, right.” She takes a sip and swills it around her mouth, looking thoughtful. “A good vintage,” she says in refined tones. “Well balanced, with vanilla and plum notes and subtle spice of liquorice and old shoes on the finish.”
>You look at her with respect. “Woah. Where’d you learn that?”

>“My sister,” she giggles, blushing faintly with pride before setting her face to an expression of royal dignity. “I mean, um, one picks up such things naturally, of course. Being a princess and all.”
>You grin broadly.
“Of course one does! We are so glad that you have come around to the royal way of thinking. We were almost worried that you had let those dirty pheasants outside make you forget who you were.”
>“Oh no,” she says with a slight sniff. “I was a royal spy all along, of course.”
“Of course you were,” you agree with a smile. “So… maybe you should just give me the bomb?”
>She looks at the water balloon in her hoof, as if surprised to see it there.
>“Oh… oh yes.” She gives a nervous laugh, looking back at you. You meet her eyes, willing away the little spark of doubt that you see there.
>You hold out a hand, stepping closer to her.
“Give me the bomb, Princess Sweetie Belle. It’ll be safe with me.”
>“….okay. I trust you, Annie,” she says carefully. “QUEEN Annie.”
>She passes you the bomb. Its cool, squishy form fits nicely in your palm, ready to burst, practically begging you to use it.
“Wise decision, princess.” You pull her up into a hug with your free hand and raise the water balloon high, preparing to bring it down on her head and drench her completely, securing your victory.
>She returns the hug and nuzzles into you, warm and soft. Her mane smells faintly of something -lavender? Your mom used to buy soap that smelled the same way.
>Round little cakes of it, pure white with a faint pinkish colour just like Sweetie Belle’s velvety coat.
>Slowly you lower your hand back to your side, your triumphant grin shrinking to a tight little smile.
“…Yeah. Wise decision.”

>“…Hey! Hey, Sweetie Belle! Did you do it?”
>Scootaloo. The voice comes from just outside. She must be on the ramp.
>Gently you lay a finger across Sweetie Belle’s lips and turn to face the door, weighing up the water balloon in your hand.
“This is our castle,” you whisper. “Yours and mine.”
>Sweetie Belle nods.
“You ready to defend it?”
>She nods again, firmly.
“Then follow my lead.”
>You’re not quite sure what that lead is going to be, yet, but you’re confident that some sort of inspiration will strike.
>There’s a murmuring outside and then with a terrible crash the great oaken doors of your citadel explode inward and your fearsome foes come barrelling through, two fuzzy little tumbling bundles in yellow and orange.
>The two fillies regain their feet and take up combat stances, glaring dangerously at you where you stand with one arm still around Sweetie Belle’s neck and the water balloon in your other hand.
“Ah. I see you’ve finally decided to join us.”
> Scootaloo’s wings buzz angrily.
>“Annie! What have you done to Sweetie Belle?”
>“Yeah! Sweetie Belle? Are ya okay?” Apple Bloom asks with some concern in her voice.
“You sent her off alone to trespass in my castle,” you say coldly. “Left her to face all the danger, while you waited outside.”
>“I didn’t want to!” Scootaloo says.
>“Me neither!” Apple Bloom chips in.
>“We both wanted to be the one who did it. But Sweetie Belle wouldn’t listen to us.”
“Well what’s done is done. You were the ones who decided to attack my castle. Sweetie Belle took the risk. Whatever happens to her now, you’ve only got yourselves to blame.”

>“Wh-whaddya MEAN whatever happens to me?” Sweetie Bell squeaks, making a show of trying to wriggle free of your arm.
>You grin your widest, gap-toothiest, evilest grin, and raise the bomb in your other hand.
“We do not know if you pheasants will understand this, but WE are a QUEEN. This castle is ours by birthright. We will never allow you to define these proud halls with your muddy hooves.”
>“Defile,” Sweetie Belle whispers.
“What?”
>“You said ‘define these proud halls.’ It’s defILE.”
“Shhh, they didn’t notice.”
>“Oh, okay. It was a good speech anyway!”
“Of COURSE it was.”
>“What are you two whisperin’ about?” Apple Bloom demands, shaking off what you assume must have been an awed silence after your show of regal supremacy.
“We… we were just informing your friend Sweetie Belle of all the horrible fates that await her in the dungeon if you pheasants push your luck.”
>“PEASANTS, not pheasants,” Sweetie Belle hisses.
>You glare at her.
“I mean, err, nooooo!”
>She makes a somewhat convincing display of terror, redoubling her apparent efforts to squirm free of your grasp.
>“We’re not gonna let that happen,” Scootaloo says, taking a bold step forward.
“Weren’t you listening just now?” you snap, brandishing your water balloon. “I won’t ever let you win, not when my throne depends on it. One step closer and I’ll blow us ALL to smithereens!”
>“You wouldn’t,” Scootaloo says. She sounds grimly sure of herself, but she does stop walking for a moment.
>You hold her eyes with yours, grinning maniacally, daring her to keep coming.
“Try me.”
>“Ah… ah think she means it, Scoots,” Apple Bloom says.
>“Fine,” Scootaloo says in a low voice, a dangerous look coming into her eyes.

>“Fine, Annie.”
>She takes a firm stride forward.
>You hold the bomb higher, letting go of Sweetie Belle as you rise to your full height and stare the filly down.
“Are you sure about that, Scootaloo? Are you ready for this?”
>“You won’t do it anyway,” the orange filly sniffs. “You’re too chicken.”
>You give an insane laugh.
“Me, chicken? Is that what you’re counting on? Are you ready for what’s going to happen when you’re wrong?”
>“I’m ready,” she growls. “If that’s what it takes. You’d rather die than lose your castle? Fine. I’d rather die than let you keep it.”
>Your eyes narrow.
>The filly takes another step forward and your arm tenses, ready to fling the bomb to the floor, when you feel a sudden grab at your leg.
>“Annie, no! Don’t do it! This is OUR castle now. Don’t throw it all away.”
>“YER castle?” Apple Bloom yells in outrage, bounding forward to Scootaloo’s side and glaring at Sweetie Belle. “You… you TRAITOR. Ah KNEW it! Ah knew there was something wrong when Ah saw you and her together!”
“Sweetie Belle is a princess now,” you say loftily. “Have some respect.”
>“That’s right,” the little unicorn says, lifting her nose in the air.
>“Well not for much longer,” Scootaloo says grimly. “Soon she’s gonna be a BLOWN UP princess.”
>She takes another step forward, Apple Bloom following at her side.
>They’re almost close enough to jump you now. You’re going to have to act soon.
“Sweetie, listen to me,” you say quietly, looking her in the eyes. She’s still clinging to your leg, looking up trustingly at you.
“We’re royalty. We’re better than these commoners. Do you know why?”
>“I-is it because we’re rich and pretty and stuff?”

“Well… we ARE really, really rich and pretty. But no. That’s not why we’re better. We’re better because we’re NOBLE. We’re better because of pride and honour and, and majesty, and grace. And they can never take that from us.”
>“But… but the castle.”
“The castle is just rocks, Sweetie. With or without a castle, you’re a princess, and I’m a queen.”
>“So… we just let them win?”
“No. They don’t win. They don’t really want the castle. They want to take away our royalty. But they can’t. No matter what they do, we’ll never lose that unless we give it up ourselves.”
>“So you’re saying we just give up the castle and walk away?”
“Hahahahah NO. I’m saying we blow them all up and die a royal death.”
>She gulps.
>“O…okay…”
>Scootaloo is impatiently scraping a hoof on the marble flagstones of the throne room.
>“Are you two traitors finished jabbering yet?”
>You shrug.
“I guess.”
>“Then LET’S DO THIS.”
>Wings buzzing furiously, she leaps at you in a diving tackle as Apple Bloom charges hot on her heels.
>You look down to Princess Sweetie Belle and smile, knowing that the two of you will be dining tonight with your royal ancestors in Valhalla.
>Wait, that’s Vikings.
>Where do dead queens go to have dinner?
>She smiles back.
>You hurl the bomb to the floor, and in one explosion the last heirs of your glorious kingdom perish forever along with the lowborn scum who would have seen them humbled.
>One single blast to end the rebellion along with the royal line itself.
>Only your legend will live on. The legend of a queen and a princess who chose to die a fiery death rather than give up their birthright.

>A few minutes later, you’re all drying yourselves off.
“…well, I guess I should hang my jammies out to dry while the sun’s still out.”
>You peel the soaked clothes from your body and wrap yourself in a fluffy towel.
>You notice Scootaloo eyeing you curiously throughout the process as she rubs at her wet mane with a towel of her own.
>“How come you’re always wearing something or covering yourself, anyway?” she asks after you come back in from hanging up the pyjamas.
>Her tone is still kind of aggressive.
>You decide to let it slide; it’s not her fault, peasants are just born bad losers.
“…’cuz,” you shrug. “People don’t just walk around naked.”
>“Why not? Ponies do.”
“Because you’re animals,” you say in a superior tone.
>“Better than being aliens,” she snarks back.
“I am NOT a -”
>You notice her smug smile and bite your tongue.
“Oh, forget it. Look, it’s just how humans do things, okay?”
>“I guess. It’s just sort of weird. Like you’re hiding something.”
“…okay, you got me. I’m hiding my terrifying alien privates. So don’t look while I’m changing, or your eyes will melt out of the sockets and you’ll go nuts with fear.”
>“Pffft. We all saw you when you got washed in the river yesterday anyway, y’know…”
>“ Just drop it already, Scoots,” Sweetie Bell says. “Rarity always says that a mare’s privacy is sacred.”
>“When did she tell you that? The time she caught you going through her diary, or the time you snuck out and followed her on that date?”
>Sweetie Belle blushes hotly. “…both times, actually.”
>“Well, whatever.”
>The orange filly turns back to you.
>“Be as weird about clothes as you want, I guess. Just promise that you won’t pull a stunt like this every time we leave you alone up here.”
“Of course not,” you say with a sweet, reassuring smile.
>“Good,” Scootaloo nods as Apple Bloom gives a sigh of relief as well, fixing her bow back atop her half-dried mane.
>Your smile turns into a wicked grin.
“I mean, it’d be boring to do the same kind of thing every time.”