Xenophilia: Further tales.

by TheQuietMan

73: No bravery in your eyes anymore.

No bravery in your eyes anymore (only sadness).
Chapter published 13 Oct 2014

***************

Trying desperately not to lose his footing on the slick floor, he runs, through darkened tunnels that close in on him with every step, feet slipping and sliding on the mucus covered floor, stumbling as traction is lost and found time and time again.

He’s back there; back in the tunnels, back in the hive. The glowing walls, the dripping slime, the squelchy underfoot... whatever it was. There’s the occasional bout of silence amidst the otherwise indecipherable background noise; part mindless buzzing, part a language he can't understand.

He turns a corner, and another, takes a side tunnel, veers left at a fork... he should have crossed back over his own path by now, surely? Left hand on the wall, keep turning left, turning left, turning left.

The glow recedes, the tunnel up ahead is pitch dark, just a slight glimmer in the far distance... the light at the end of the tunnel maybe? Steeling himself, he pushes into the darkness, concentrating on the distant light, eyes on the prize.

He’s almost through the patch of darkness when his foot catches on he knows not what.. momentum pitching him forward onto his knees.

Turning, trying to rise, he finds his foot is caught, something snagged on his shoe.

In a panic he jerks and kicks, trying to wrench himself free, all the while scooting back on his behind, fingers grabbing what purchase they can on the slick uneven floor.

Foot finally freed, he pushes himself back, his spine presses up against the tunnel wall.

He can see what it was that had snagged him.

Lifeless eyes stare back at him from the other side of the tunnel, eyes that had previously glowed a dull yellow, now just dull. The drone lay, lifeless, thorax crushed by bucking hooves, the body slumped and immobile.

Lifeless or not, he can feel the corpse’s gaze on him, eyes on eyes.

As he rises, desperate to put as much distance between him and this... reminder as he can, the drone’s face twitches. It starts at the eye, just a twitch, followed by a tiny movement around the ear. Then... nothing.

Backing away slowly, he stops, frozen in place as the drone’s lips start to move. He expects... he doesn't know what he expects... a screech maybe... unintelligible chittering perhaps?

What he doesn't expect is a soft whisper, in perfect Equestrian.

One word, the same single word over and over.

Why?

Turning, he runs, down the tunnel, to anywhere but here. Slipping, sliding, grabbing whatever handholds he can as he flees. Any idea of sticking to a single direction is abandoned as he runs.

Slumped against tunnel walls, half hidden in the darkness of the side tunnels, more corpses stare at him from behind dull, lifeless eyes, waiting for him to pass them by.

None move, none twitch, nothing at all, except for their lips... their lips move, pushing forth the same one word question, the words dogging his heels, wrapping around him as he runs..

Why?

The smell... by God the smell. It drifts along on the non-existent breeze, becoming stronger by the second, as if it’s fuelled by the words following him. Spoiled food, rotting fish, well aged manure, trash heaps on long hot summer days... the smell owes much to each of these aromas, but it is more, much more than these.

If death has a smell, then this is it.

Turning a bend, he can see that the next section of passage is empty, and for this he is momentarily grateful. But it doesn’t last.

From darkened offshoots, drones shuffle forth... heads hang loosely on uneven shoulders, limbs drag on stone floors. They move slowly, jerking from step to step, like the classically undead.

Many... most... damn near all are injured- deformed bodies wrapped around twisted skeletons.

As they shuffle closer, their one word question preceding them, he can see patches of chitinous skin peeling away, revealing not the green flesh and blood he had expected, but patches of pastel coloured coats of fur.

Why?

A flank here, a crest there... the occasional pegasus wing pokes through from a partly peeled barrel, a horn from a fractured forehead, a sprout of tail here, an eruption of mane there.

As one drone continuously bumps its head into a wall he can make out a cutie mark peeking from between shattered chitin... a pair of dolphins, chasing each other's tails. On another drone he catches sight of a golden trumpet.

Why?

A single drone moves directly into his path, blocking his escape. Its face is a mess, all around its eyes and down its cheeks are smeared with congealed green blood, the skin around its eye sockets twisted and pushed inwards.

But the worst thing... the eyes themselves are gone, just blank, bottomless holes of pure darkness.

From deep within the blackness two orbs form; rose colored irises around large soulful pupils. Green liquid spills and falls from around the eyes like tears, rolling down cheeks and falling to the floor.

LIps quiver, skin flaking loose to reveal pale blue beneath. The mouth moves, muscles pulling as more dark brown skin falls away. A soft voice flows... Rainbow’s voice.

Why?

He holds his hands up in front of him, to fend off the drone as more and more skin falls away, dark brown giving way to sky blue. The same green goo that covers this... Not-Rainbow’s face covers his hands. Turning his palms towards his face, he can see that they’re coated... drenched, the liquid slowly seeping down from his thumbs, across his palms, and down past his wrists.

Backing away, flicking as much he can from his hands, he turns, runs, blindly away, down any tunnel that presents itself to him. Hole-filled hooves reach for him from the darkness, staggering figures stumble into view, just to fade away back out of sight again. Chitin cracks, skin flakes away, sloughs to the floor. Colours become more numerous- pinks, yellows, blues and greens. Their single-minded question following him wherever he fled.

Why?

But the eyes... the eyes remain the same... always dead, dull, devoid of life.

He runs, and runs, and runs. Slipping and sliding, rough rock tears at the skin of his hands and knees. Stumbling, staggering, moving wherever the tunnels take him.

The tunnel ends, finally... thankfully.

He bursts into an open space.. still enclosed but much larger than the tunnels.

It is just as he remembers- the high arching roof far overhead, the sickly orange glow of the wall mounted orbs, the dark and destitute displays of stained glass, the remains of a once impressive throne now rotting away at the cavern’s core.

The stench had beaten him there, lain in wait for his arrival. As had the bodies. But in this case, they are immobile, lifeless, strewn as they are around the room, scattered about here and there.

Off to one side is a huge pile of corpses, all thrown together haphazardly- legs, heads, bodies, all mix and meld, making it impossible to tell where one drone ends and the next begins. The colours mix and merge- blues and whites and creams and oranges. One thing that they all have in common is the smell- the smell of death... death and decay.

At least they are silent, their lips still and unmoving. Thank heaven for small mercies, no? If there was indeed anything to be thankful for in this hideous nightmare of a sight.

From the edge of the room, off to his side, there is movement. He turns, finding the changeling queen sitting in front of one of the glass displays, its large panel dark, its imagery hidden from view.

She stands, turning towards him. Her eyes glow, much brighter than the orbs across the walls, brighter than anything else he has seen in the hive so far.

She moves, stiffly at first, staggering towards him. Her mane is limp, hanging lifelessly from her head. One of her fangs is missing, the side of her mouth twisted and puffy from the impact that had knocked it free. A large gash on her neck leaks green blood, copious amounts of the life giving fluid rolling down her chest and legs before dripping to the floor.

Why?

Around the gash on her neck, skin starts to peel- small flakes at first, quickly followed larger chunks, then full blown sheets of chitin fall to the floor as she moves. Brown gives way to gleaming white, pristine fur shining through as all across the left side of her body becomes uncovered, exposed from foreleg to flank.

From the side of her barrel the largest wing that he has ever seen unfurls... an alicorn wing, easily dwarfing that of the alicorn princesses.

The side of her face sags, skin dropping away, revealing more dazzling white fur from forehead to chin. The front of a single glowing yellow eye falls free like a massive tinted contact lens, leaving a single stunning iris of the most vibrant of greens in its place. At the eye’s centre the jet black pupil pulls at his gaze- hinting, whispering, promising that the secrets of the universe are held within its endless depths.

Behind the was-once-a-changeling-queen the strands of her tail fall to the floor, as at the same time her mane falls from her scalp- both piles of hair losing their colour, the previously vibrant orange fading away to grey as soon as they touch the floor. From their previous homes, coils of fire erupt, waving and weaving their way through the air before forming into an ethereal mane.

My children... Why would you do this to them?

She, this unholy gestalt of changling and alicorn, advances towards him, stepping over her own abandoned skin. He can feel the heat from her mane, pushing against his own skin, curling his eyelashes, tearing into his hair.

He holds out his hands in front of him, as if they would protect him. The heat scorches his skin, baking the blood that covers his palms, the liquid boiling dry before burning away, taking exposed skin and flesh with it. The pain was excruciating... but meant nothing to him right now.

Why, human? How could you?

Even with the flames around her, his burning skin and bubbling flesh... she didn’t seem angry, the thermal onslaught born of neither great vengeance nor furious anger. No, she was more... she wanted to know... needed to know.

They just wanted to live! How could it come to this?

But nothing came to mind. No reasons, or explanations or excuses. Nothing he could say could make it okay, could ease a mother's pain, could make the hurt go away.

There was nothing he could say... but he said it anyway.

I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.

*********************

The return to reality was a sudden one.

Lifting an arm, Lero let it drape over his face, blocking the single shaft of moonlight that poked in through the crack in the curtains.

In the darkness of the main bedroom of his herd’s Canterlot apartment, the human’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light. The edge of the ceiling, where it met the far wall, drifted into focus, his eyes moving down to the ornate frame of the large mirror on the wall across from the bed.

From beside him, Lyra’s gentle snores broke the silence. For a pony so adamant that she didn't snore, she sure did a lot of it. Still, at least she was a whole lot quieter than Rainbow-. that girl snored like a buzzsaw in heat. But, as their pegasus herdmate was out in charge of the Wonderbolt’s night watch this week that left Lyra in charge of nocturnal noisy-times until Sunday.

Technically it hadn't been Rainbow’s turn to take the graveyard shift but, as Soarin’s herd had come into heat last weekend, the poor guy had been so worn out that by Tuesday she’d given him the rest of week off and taken on his shift herself. But, what with Rainbow being Rainbow, she’d made sure to tease the life out of him about it first.

Letting his hand drop, Lero reached for the other mare that would, or should, be sharing his bed this night.. and found nothing but empty sheets.

Doing his best not to disturb Captain Snorey Hooves, Lero turned to where he had expected to find Twilight. Finding the unicorn’s spot empty he patted the sheets, finding no residual body warmth.

Shuffling himself along the bed, again careful not to wake his sleeping wife, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. He needed to take a leak anyway so he might as well see where Twilight had wandered off to. Either checking up on the kids or passed out in her study he’d wager.

Leaving the bedroom, he wandered down the hall, not really thinking about where he was going, letting his feet carry him to the bathroom. His feet conveyed him to where he needed to go, his body going through the motions without him, his mind elsewhere until the job was done.

Back into hallway he came to the door to Twilight’s study, finding the door ajar, no light coming from within. Pushing the door, he found the room empty, books strewn all across the floor and desks just as their owner had left them. An entire wall painted with blackboard paint held equations he didn’t comprehend, diagrams he couldn’t understand.

For the first time in... God only knew how long now, he thought of his father. Was this what it was like when he’d wandered into his own wife’s study- indecipherable scribblings hanging from the walls, tomes piled up in every corner, far too many books to fit onto the shelves.

Leaving the room, Lero moved down the hall to the nursery. Pushing the door open he found his prize, his lavender coated wife. She was asleep on the floor, her legs tucked up underneath her, her head slumped against the side of their daughter’s cot, her chest slowly moving in and out with every breath.

Smiling to himself, Lero retrieved a blanket from a pile by the door, unfolded it, and tucked it around his herdmate’s sleeping form. It wasn't that chilly tonight but Twilight did seem to feel the cold more than the rest of them, especially since little Star Song had come along.

Using a finger, he wiped a small patch of drool from his wife’s chin, wiping it on the blanket before leaning down and kissing her on the forehead.

Peering into the cot, he found his daughter laying on her side, fast asleep with one tiny forehoof stuffed into her mouth. Her own blanket was tucked lightly around her but she’d managed to dislodge her little wooly hat at some point since Twilight had come to check on her.

Reaching down, Lero gently lifted Star Song’s head, pulling her hat back into place, making sure that both of her ears were poking out of the earholes. As he let her head down again, carefully sliding his fingers free, his daughter burbled in her sleep before returning to chewing and sucking at her forehoof.

After watching for a few moments, his daughter showing no signs of stirring, he carefully backed out of the room and into the hall.

The next door down was Sweet Spirit’s room and, as always, she’d left the door wide open.

Poking his head around the door he found his eldest daughter fast asleep in her bed, all sprawled out on her back with her covers twisted around her legs. Lero knew better than to try rearranging her blankets as she’d only kick them off again within minutes. Rainbow swore blind the girl was part pegasus as she never seemed to get cold, no matter the season.

Grasped in the young - though by no means small - filly’s hooves were a pair of dolls- though Rainbow also swore blind that they were ‘action figures’ and not ‘dolls’. In one hoof she had a Commander Spitfire doll, a ‘Fully Poseable Captain Rainbow Dash Action Figure’ in the other... both with ‘real wing flapping action’, or so the manufacturers had promised.

From up on the walls the face of ‘The Great and Powerful Trixie’ stared down, watching ever vigilantly from the huge hoof-signed poster that took up a huge chunk of wall-space. On the opposite wall Wonderbolts posters had to share valuable real-estate with the gawping faces of the latest colt-band sensation that Lero was sure his daughter was way too young to be this fascinated by.

Again, from out of nowhere he was struck by the memory of his dad. Was this scene just the same as had happened time and again in a world so far away? Was Lero replaying the acts of his own father as he watched his children sleep, safe in the knowledge that the things he'd done, the things he'd seen, even the actions that he wasn’t particularly proud of, had all been so his children could live in a better, safer world.

Had there been nights when Aristotle had awoken from bad dreams, just to find solace by watching his children sleep the sleep of the innocent.

Was history so cyclical that the same scene played out again and again and again.

Would his children, and their children, and their children beyond that, go through these same actions over and over.

Pulling Sweetie’s door at least partway closed behind him, Lero wandered off down the hall and into the kitchen. Absently snagging an empty glass from a countertop and filling it from the tap at the sink he gulped down the cool water, answering a thirst that, if he was to be honest, hadn't even been there in the first place.

Leaving the glass by the sink, he wandered over to the huge family size refrigerator in the corner of the room. Pulling the door open, he was greeted by a multitude of items that he had absolutely no intention of eating.

Holding the door open, he let the bright light from within the massive ice-box bathe his face, leaving a huge bipedal silhouette on the otherwise dark wall behind him.

Leaning forward, his forehead met the top lip of the doorway, the magically cooled air rolling out of the refrigerator to nip at his skin all the way from his chin to his toes.

How long he stood like this, he had no idea.

Had this been what it had been like for his father? Nightmares? Flashbacks? Nightmares mixed with flashbacks?

Even as a kid, Lero hadn't been stupid. He’d seen how dad had reacted to any mention of the first Gulf War, or his later service with the United Nations forces around the east African coast, how they’d both brought memories the older man had long buried back to the surface.

Then, as he’d gotten older, and his dad had been more forthcoming about the things he’d seen and done in a distant life long before his son had even been born, Lero had understood, at least a little, about why his father had been so dismayed when what eventually had been known as The Dustbowl War had flared up back in twenty sixteen, the twenty four hour news channels unceasingly beaming the action to ears and eyes all around the globe.

The look Lero had seen on his father’s face as he’d relived the past, this same look had been echoed on the faces of the soldiers - some barely older than Lero himself - coming home, back to their homes and families, over the following years. He’d heard the phrase ‘the thousand yard stare’ many times in his life... but these brave men and women, many seemed to be staring even further than that, maybe as far as the ends of the Earth.

Forehead still against the edge of the fridge, pinpricks of frost poking at his skin, Lero was startled, brought back to the here and now by a sound... a gentle knock at the kitchen window.

Closing the refrigerator, the sudden absence of the interior light dropping the kitchen back into darkness, Lero’s eyes struggled to adjust as he gazed out of the floor to ceiling windows. He could make out a large shape standing the balcony, waiting for him to answer. He didn’t need to see the fine details to know who it was- few ponies would knock on their kitchen door, and only one at this time of night.

Opening the door, he found - as expected - a large black form standing there, nebulous mane billowing in the ethereal winds, concern etched across teal coloured eyes.

A jet black wingtip reached out towards him, coming to rest on his shoulder.

Do you want to talk about it?

And he did... he very much did.

Comments

[Super_Big_Mac]

There's no truer bravery than the ability to know you're about to step into hell, and do it anyways. Not for personal glory, or admiration, but rather because you're doing it so someone else doesn't have to. Much as I like to distance myself from overblown patriotism, I'll always respect the soldiers who have fought for our country. God bless.

[warpd]

So Lero does regret killing changelings. Didn't think he had any empathy for them.

[RedMage0661]

What Lero did, he did to protect his family and only as a reaction to a threat. That kind of violence traumatizes a person, unless that person is a psychopath. Now that he isn't threatened, his subconscious is throwing his actions back in his face in an attempt to deal with the trauma. Or it could just be Terra reacting to the wholesale killing of her children (even if justified).

[Pvt PartyPooper]

Oh god the thought of his daughter going total fangirl on some boyband is too adorable.

I swear the timescale of his life keeps shifting forwards just a little bit more.

Let the pretty princess pony winghugs commence.

[FanOfMostEverything]

Was Lero replaying the acts of his own father as he watched his children sleep, safe in the knowledge that the things he'd done, the things he'd seen, even the actions that he wasn’t particularly proud of, had all been so his children could live in a better, safer world.

This sentence and each of three following it need to end in question marks. As it is, it sounds like they're being mumbled by an underpaid voice actor.

Aside from that? A fantastic and realistic look at the aftereffects of an adventure. And Luna, one of the few ponies who can truly understand, is there for him. Thank you for this.

[MrBackpack]

I'll be honest here, I've been beginning to doubt following this story, and much of the Lero-verse with that 'Magical-Mystery Cure' change up thing going on, but its nice to be back in the fold and really enjoying this universe once again.

Thanks.

[Red Bomber]

I forgot that Luna had a completely different form in this fic.