THUD. THUD. WHAM.
Something inside Chip’s head was making a racket.
BOOM. BOOM. CREEEEEEAK.
Upon consideration, the sounds seemed to come from the outside. They traveled through his ears and stayed inside his skull, bouncing around his brain.
CREEK. CREEK. HUFF. HUFF.
The changeling felt a pressure on his body – a thousand ton thing was crushing him; wind blew with the force of a hurricane in his muzzle. It smelled like candy; the sweet scent made Chip nauseous, encouraging his stomach to convulse dangerously.
Hesitantly, he opened one eye. He felt like the eyelid was made of stone and wasn’t used in at least a hundred years. Hay, he could hear the ancient rock crumble and groan as it slid.
The colt could not make much of what he saw – the colors registered in his eye, but got lost somewhere between the socket and the mind. Maybe the second eye could help out?
It didn’t. The image was still there, but he had no clue what he was looking at. Hot lava poured through his head and a dry carpet was present in his mouth. He tried spitting it out and was very confused when the material seemed to be stuck deep in his throat.
Chip decided to engage a hoof in investigating the rogue rug – yet again a bad idea. He literally felt each muscle groan and come to life as his fetlock bent and approached the face. A millennium later, he managed to touch the dry object in his mouth. It was a very thick carpet. And was kind of squishy too.
Then, it stuck him. It was a tongue. Moreover. It was his tongue. The discovery was so mind-shattering, Chip had to stop for a moment to process it.
Out of nowhere, a booming voice assaulted his sensitive senses: “MOMMY, MOMMY, WHO IS THIS MISTER LYING ON THE BED?” It was a hundred brass bells being rung by merciless giants, hammering away in the accompaniment of shrieking harpies.
Chip literally wanted to unscrew his head, put it away somewhere and go back to sleep. He even put some muscles into motion to execute his brilliant plan when, finally, the eyes established a miraculous connection to the brain.
Before him, a wooden ceiling. Covered by a silver furred head with big, green eyes. A nose was below that, huffing air into his muzzle. A mouth was even lower! A smiling mouth at that.
“Leave the mister alone, darling,” said a voice from the side, a soothing balm of barely hearable words. “He’s, umm, sick and , uhh, needs to rest.”
“OKAY MOMMY,” boomed the gray head, causing Chip’s head to explode with the force of a thousand hypernovas. “HOPE YOU GET BETTER SOON MISTER.”
The crushing weight on his abdomen vanished -- silently, the changeling thanked for that small blessing. And then he passed out.
* * *
The sun knocked on Chip’s eyelids. It was mighty polite of it to be so discreet, so the colt decided to let it in. Struggling less than before, he opened his eyes. The connection to his brain worked perfectly now, sending near crystal-clear images to his mind. He was in a room made of wood, lying on a soft bed. From the corner of his eye he saw a window – the sun was high up in the sky and not a cloud could be seen. A perfect day to finally get up!
“Nnnnope,” said Chip’s body, refusing to move. His hooves were petrified and the stallion panicked – has he lost feeling? Could he no longer control his body!? Was it happening again?
Something was flailing at the lower part of his vision. He focused on the black, hole ridden rods that waved below him. Those were his hooves? Why couldn’t he feel them?
The answer came crashing down on the changeling as he tried to get up. As he cocked his head, a cascade of pain supplemented by nausea and vertigo nearly knocked him out. Everything spun around in a wild dance, settling down only when he collapsed back onto the bed.
Something broke in my neck, concluded the changeling. He could move his body, but not feel anything besides excruciating pain and confusion. His mind felt bogged down, his memory refusing to cooperate and bring up his medical knowledge from various books. What was happening to him?
* * *
“You okay, Chip?” asked a voice. “You’ve been out cold for most of the day now. Say something, please!”
“Whhhr,” hacked the colt.
“Gosh! He’s okay darling!” called out the voice. “What was that you were saying?”
“Wahhher,” croaked Chip, feeling his throat peel away at the strain it was put under.
“Water? You want water? Right here, drink up.”
He felt pressure against his muzzle – the pressure was wet. Greedily, he sucked, hydrating the carpet he now remembered was his tongue. As the liquid gushed downward, Chip felt nearly ecstatic – it was a nectar, the finest he has ever drank. Because it was wet. It gently sloshed down the wasteland tunnel of his throat, peppering it with motherly kisses of bliss.
“Whoa, slow down, breathe!” laughed the voice.
The water went away. Chip didn’t want it to go away. He tried to protest, but noticed he couldn’t make a sound. His torso begun convulsing as the body finally realized it needed air to operate. His guts churned, threatening to let go of the nectar that rested in his stomach.
“There we go, settle down. Dang, I’ve never seen somepony get this kind of hangover. Night was right, you don’t have a head for drinking. Sailed away after one mug?” The voice was mocking Chip. He didn’t like that. Still, somewhere under his skin he felt that the voice and the wet liquid which he desired so much were mystically connected. He decided not to take chances and possibly offend the voice that could summon ice cold relief to his lips.
“Waaater,” pleaded Chip in a hoarse voice. He winced, offering a dry smile to the keeper of water.
“Of course, drink up. Nice and easy, small sips. Remember to breathe…that’s it…don’t worry, there’s plenty where that came from…”
The changeling was happy he met the voice. It was nice to him. He wanted to cry and sing praise to it and the glorious beverage that was water. He would call it 'Ode to the Water Spirits' and would get down to laying out the verses just after closing his eyes for a few seconds.
* * *
“Daddy daddy! The mister is awake again! You are, aren’t you mister?”
A small creature was standing on Chip’s torso, looking at him with large, gleaming green eyes. The changeling’s memory chugged and strained, like a giant clockwork mechanism, retrieving information about the filly he recognized. Silver Heart. Foal of Autumn and Star.
“Ugh,” started Chip, feeling the dryness of his tongue impede his ability to talk. “Wahher,” he gasped.
“Oh, oh! I’ll fetch it for you! Mooom!” yelled the filly, jumping down and vanishing from sight.
The little thing was back, carrying a tray in her mouth – there was a cup on it, a simple clay mug. Cautiously, Chip raised his head; whatever was broken seemed to have repaired itself pretty well. In slow motion, he reached for the cup with both hooves, carefully picking it up and resting it on his chest. The filly disappeared once again, but that did not matter.
The liquid inside the mug once again sloshed down his throat – it was like drinking liquid love, something that didn’t make much sense in a physical way. The changeling sat more comfortably now, watching his surroundings.
“Feeling better?” asked Night Star, smiling. “I’m really sorry for what happened. I should have acted sooner. You really gave us a solid scare there, Chip. Seriously, nopony has ever reacted like this to cider. Haha, Autumn was scared out of his mind that he killed you.”
“Ughh…” concluded Chip, trying to swallow away the dryness in his mouth.
“ I bet you need more water. Sweetie, could you bring more water for the nice mister?”
“Yes mommy! Daaddy!” shouted the filly, taking a sharp turn around the kitchen.
“Such a precious little angel she is. We were afraid she would be…well, afraid of you. But when she saw you, she just came up to you and started asking questions. Especially why you have both a horn and wings – she assumed you were a princess or something – and why do you have holes in your hooves.” The mare paused, looking at the changeling’s legs. “Come to think of it, why do changelings have holes in their fetlocks?”
“Brrgh…” said Chip sagely. He swallowed again, irritated at the lack of saliva in his mouth.
“Oh, you poor dear. Silver, darling! Where are you?”
“She’s coming,” replied Autumn Leaf, holding a jug and cup in his magical grip; the little filly pranced in her father’s wake. The two items landed on the tray Chip had in front of him. The mug was obviously ignored – it was empty. As fast as he could, the changeling gulped down the contents of the pitcher. This time he made sure to take small pauses to breathe.