The sun rose on another day in Equestria, spreading golden light over the mountain of Canterlot and all its ancillary units, which included the broad territory which held the home of Vanilla Torte. But it was not just his anymore. In some vague sense his home had been invaded, or at least somehow peacefully annexed, by the foreign power named Dee Dee.
The lead and only citizen of the annexing power stirred in her borrowed bed, softly sighing as she awoke from the Changeling equivalent of a dream. Changelings in the swarm were washed in the concordance-field, able to feel their surrounding Changelings, so as they slept they could get impressions of the others, knowing their actions and things they may say. But alone, while hunting for love, their sleep was comforted with memories of the hive. The memory of feeling the comforting concordance, the impression of all the others around, reassuring the Changeling they were not alone.
Her eyes opened, alleged eyes in an alleged body, a living lie that made her very keenly aware of her separation. As the dream faded from her mind and she was left alone again, she was made aware that she could not simply fly back to the swarm. She was not just days away from flitting back to the warm embrace of concordance, welcomed and accepted. She had no love to offer by way of explanation for her delay, and was injured beside. She was stuck, living on the kindness of a strange pony, who treated her without kindness.
She pushed the sheets off of herself and looked down at her cast-covered leg segment. It disgusted her on a deep, personal level, a feeling that came forward automatically. She had ingested all the lessons of the swarm and the teachings of Chrysalis. Weakness was not only improper but also disgusting. The break in her leg, now that it had been with her for some time, was making her feel weak, and that weakness was grating on her.
Intellectually, she was aware that it was her own body and life. She was not eager to die. But the harsh lesson of the swarm had worked its way into her mind. She was starting to feel the contempt for the injury, as though it was a separate thing, disconnected from her own body. She was now on both sides of the question. Well aware that it was good to be rid of the weakness, even if it hurt to contemplate it; but also being the one who was injured she knew she wanted to live. And were she in the swarm she would beg to be spared that death, even knowing that none of the others would save her, despite how it hurt them to see her die.
She sighed softly and slowly slid out of the bed. She had to get out of her own head. A little exercise might do her good. She hit the ground on three hooves, holding her injured leg up against her body. It was very awkward, teetering around like a tripod with poor weight distribution. She took an experimental step, tottering forward and bring both of her rear hooves up with an awkward hop. It was pathetic.
She tried to make her way back to the bed, hopping and stumbling her way through a turn, then moving with a loud clattering back to the bed, pulling herself into it with a grunt and a grumble. She was suddenly made very aware, in a practical way, why weakness was so heavily punished. She could never possibly do any work hobbling around like that.
The door opened with the soft sound of unicorn magic, Vanilla standing on the other side and looking in with a vague look of concern. “Is there something going on in here? There's a lot of thumping coming out of here.”
“Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just taking a stroll around the room.” Double waved her injured leg dismissively, wincing involuntarily, having forgotten about that in her rush to appear completely blasé.
“I'll bring you some pills. Looks like you might still need them.” Without another word he was gone, closing the door securely behind him.
He strolled casually down the stairs, though he noted that he was moving at a clip that was just a bit more rapid than usual. He was so used to his own hooffalls that he knew when something was wrong. He popped the pill bottle and shook out two pills, also filling a glass with some flat water. It was important. After all, to leave her in pain would be cruel, and very un-ponylike.
He was back up the stairs even faster than before, spurred on by his own thoughts about propriety. He opened the door with another gentle use of magic, poking his head in just a bit, in order to pass along the water and pills, setting them down on the bedside table. “Here. I'd offer you something to eat to make it easier on the stomach but I don't have anything ready made. Don't worry, I'll have some lunch ready. As I recall, painkillers put you out.”
“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled a pulled, imitation smile. Drugs. Dangerous things. Addiction. Overdose. Interactions. And as a Changeling there COULD be improper, minimized or overdone effects, though she was not aware of such a thing from what had been said in the swarm. But to imitate a pony meant to imitate all things pony, which meant taking medicines if the original pony took necessary medication. Though usually it was all just an act. Not actually taking it because the Changeling lacked the disease. But she had real pain. And it offered real relief. A hard decision. “I don't want to keep you.”
“Yes. Of course. I'll be very quiet.” The door closed again, Vanilla's hoofsteps vanishing down the upstairs hall and down the stairs, until they were gone.
The pills stared at her from the side table, sitting innocuously beside the rather ordinary glass of water. She levitated the pills up and over in front of her face. She didn't have TOO much pain. And she didn't want to really sleep. It wasn't in her nature to sleep during the day. Workers worked, and hard. But if she didn't take them, questions would arise. And though she didn't want to sleep, she couldn't do anything except that. Her only other option would be to stare at the ceiling and contemplate her injury.
Imitate the pony, as far as need demands. That was the primary rule of the swarm when time came to infiltrate. As a supposed Canterlot noblewoman, or at least a lady of breeding and standing, she was expected to be a lazy and loafing figure. Her disguise demanded that she sleep, or give it a good crack.
One pill floated over to her mouth, with the glass of water following. The other was carefully placed inside of the armoire, in the most shadowy spot possible. There was no need to look in there. It would go completely unnoticed long enough. That handled, she swallowed the pill with a good amount of water.
While the pill was sliding down Dee Dee's throat, Vanilla was casting his thoughts up to her. He chopped fresh chard, into salad-sized pieces, while his magical flame set a pot of water to boil. He was mostly used to using such a thing for crème brulee, but it also helped to get a stubborn pot of water going faster. He needed it going as quickly as possible. He felt a great deal of sympathy towards the poor mare, thanks to that flash of pain he saw on her face when she tried to dismiss him with a wave. He almost felt great concern...
His head shook a touch. Sympathy and concern were not to be conflated. His sympathy was automatic, necessary, the essence of being a pony, despite any apathy on his part. But concern, real concern, was reserved for those that had earned care, a deeper interest in their well-being. He was not prepared to throw his concern into the greedy maw of a stranger, a stranger that was nothing but a petty little collection of lies and petulance.
The chard cut up properly, he dropped the leaves into two bowls, then carefully rolled over candied walnut pieces with a rolling pin. Those were sprinkled carefully over the cut chard. On the board he had been using for the chard he began to cut up thick, deeply-colored rhubarb. His glowing horn began to slowly pour sugar into the water, which was starting to bubble.
He was in his element. Feeling the power flowing through his horn, the mana gripping, moving, twisting in motions he knew well. His eyes darted around, checking to make certain every thing was working as intended. He could remember not having to do that. He could stand at this station and practically close his eyes, every element moving perfectly at his command. It was so natural. So perfect. So... mechanical.
The knife clattered to the ground as his concentration wavered, the strawberries he was cutting scattering a little bit. Focus. Focus. He could not just rely on mechanical repetition. He was not a machine. He was not just a device. He was a real pony. With the focus back at the fore, he chopped the strawberries together with the rhubarb.
He added a generous drizzle of red wine vinegar to the boiling pot, in an amount slightly more than the sugar he had previously added, and gave it a good stir. With the sugar dissolved and the vinegar integrated he levitated in the chopped rhubarb and strawberries, stirring the pot briskly while covering the bowls of chard with plastic. He took up the knife again and began to carefully, and finely, chop a sugar beet.
Back up the stairs, the pill dissolved in Double's stomach as she stared futilely at the insides of her eyelids. Sleep did not want to come for her. She was no lay-about weakling. She was a proud and very successful worker of the swarm. She worked hard, and slept only as was necessary. And it was not necessary. Yet it was. Her teeth ground as her eyes darted under her black lids.
She was suffering the paradox of obedience. To obey her command to be strong and alert was to disobey the command to blend in seamlessly and arouse no suspicion. She had chosen her story. It was not her fault that she found it hard to obey all its dictates. Sometimes she didn't even have the chance to choose. Frustration grew as she had to contemplate her failure of foresight, trapping her in a rigid box. The first thing that came to mind, chosen instantly. She was going to get more frustrated, but suddenly, her body stopped doing what she wanted.
She wanted to be angry. But she wasn't able to muster up the force to do it. She wanted her blood to boil and her teeth to gnash. But it was not coming up. She thought to the pill in her stomach, the medicine flowing through her disguised body. She had less mass than the average pony, whatever her disguise may have said. One strong painkiller was enough to remove the sore throb from her leg, and also much of the tightness and agitation from her body. She felt so... relaxed. Free of her paradox. Free of her anger. Free of her self-loathing. Her eyes fluttered once and she sighed. It was relaxing. Not especially appealing. But just enough to allow her to lay her head out and get as close to taking a pampered Canterlot mare nap as she could ever get.
She didn't quite not dream. She saw the swarm in her dozing. She heard their modulating buzz and the skitter of chitin on the rocks of their home. She remembered it all. But she didn't quite feel it like she usually did. She had the memory of a feeling, not the feeling. True, it was never a real feeling. But she wasn't feeling it as strongly as before. It was very strange. To sleep and to only look in, like an outsider, on the swarm. But it was still the swarm. She knew it plainly.
She didn't know how long she was there, looking in on the familiar scene. She had a growing feeling of connection, the drug burning out of her system faster thanks to her biology, alien to pony medicine. She only heard soft hooffalls outside her door. Her senses were good as ever. Her eyes popped open as the door slowly opened. “Lunch. Like I promised.” Vanilla stepped into the room, bearing the same tray as the other day. It contained more water, a bowl, and a napkin-covered plate.
She sniffed at the bowl as it was levitated over to her side table. “That smells a bit stronger than yesterday. Did you modify your recipe for this meal?” She looked into the bowl, seeing the chopped leaves covered in some sort of reddish sauce. “And what is on the plate?”
“I thought that you might get bored with the same thing over again. I know you classy sorts.” There was no real malice in Vanilla's voice, but he did not seem overly kind either. “So I made a strawberry-rhubarb sauce with sugar and vinegar, strained it, and then used it as a vinaigrette over fresh chard and slivered sugar beet. I gave you a larger portion today because chard is especially healthy and the doctor said you needed plenty of vitamins and minerals. As for the napkin...” The napkin was whipped off with a flash of telekinesis. Underneath was a thick, flat little pastry thing, looking for all the world like a Kernewek heavy cake, but frosted with a thin layer of simple glaze. “It's a basic milk cake, pan-fried, with a simple confectioner's sugar glaze. It may not be up to your lofty standards, but it is filling, and good for keeping the stomach from getting upset.”
Dee Dee didn't even hesitate to return Vanilla's frosty demeanor with a poison smile on her lips. “Well it looks delicious. Such effort taken for a simple guest. My goodness I really am quite the VIP, aren't I? The cake is hardly up to muster but, well nopony is perfect, am I right? Of course I am.”
Vanilla did not react, except to nod his head and turn to leave the room. “Very good then. Don't hesitate to ask for help if you need it, and just leave the dishes there. I'll take care of them later.” With her ego sufficiently stung, Vanilla left Dee Dee alone to eat.
Double considered dumping the meal out of the window and declaring it preemptively unpalatable. But as her reserves of pure love energy were not sufficient to sustain her physical form, she needed to consume the food he presented to her. With a disdainful sneer she took up her fork and packed a mouthful into her maw.
Only the grit of her teeth kept her from making a sound. The taste... on the surface layer, the thing ponies would notice, she could taste the perfect and heavenly blend of sweet and sour, strawberry midwifed by the rhubarb into the sting of the vinegar with the other spices adding fading notes to the whole. Beneath, where only a Changeling could delve, there was a confusion. Easy, satisfied passion swirled horribly with almost a feeling of disgust, or possibly hate. Was he... secretly disdainful of her?
No... She would have tasted such a thing before, felt it on the air. To infuse that kind of disgust with passion would have taken a sudden revelation. He realized something while cooking and it tainted his emotions. While it was foul indeed, it was food. It was all food. The delicious salad, the tasty passion and the nauseating disgust. It was nourishment. Survival was sufficient. She had to remember, she was not a real Canterlot noblemare. Her disguise did not need to extend to how she acted when alone.
She polished off the bowl of greens and took a drink of water to cleanse all the tastes from her palate. Then she turned her fork to the squat little cake sitting on the tray. Nothing more than a glorified pancake, a grilled creation of milk and flour and whatever other things it occurred to him to throw in. The first bite... the first bite... a sly smile slide across her features. He could lie to himself. He could even lie to her face. But that taste. The harmonious blend of ingredients with dashes of extracts in the frosting and batter transformed a humble cake to something more. But that did not hold her interest most.
She felt love. It danced on her tongue, slid gloriously down her gullet with a tingling shiver following in its wake. It was small, suppressed, muted by practice. But it was there. He had loved to make the lumpen little thing, however humble it was. It was where his heart lay, in the making of such things.
She devoured the cake with a will and sighed. To taste it after so much lack, it was wonderful. Separated from her kind, thrown in with a stranger, put in a state that marked her as unacceptable, never knowing when she might be able to return home securely. The tiny dose of love invigorated her, infused her limbs with the feeling of strength and put a force in her chest. She would be successful in her endeavor this time.
Setting side the fork, and taking another bracing gulp of water, she slid out of the bed with more security and confidence. She hit her three hooves with a heavy thump. She was ready. Certainly, flight and quadropedal movement was the norm. But she was burning with confidence and a sudden strength from the fresh infusion of her preferred food. She could best her own infirmity.
Her first few trots were better, more rapid. She moved her rear hooves several steps with each hop of her foreleg. It resulted in an odd hunching and sometimes made her foreleg wobble when she landed, but she was doing it. She was moving along at an unsteady clip all on her own. No need for help from her horrid housemate. Hop and trot, hop and trot.
Downstairs, Vanilla looked up at the sound of awkward clopping and thumping. She was trying again. None of his business. He turned back to the book he was reading. Daring Do and the Kelpie's Kiss. It was a pivotal scene. Daring had to save Herpy from the embrace of a literal stallion-eater that had enslaved his mind and heart. “Herpy! Wait! She doesn't love you! I do! Don't lea-”
The awkward clops ceased with a single, heavy thud, as of a body roughly striking the floor. The book was tossed away and Vanilla's desperate galloping steps rang through the house as he took the stairs by twos. He flung the door to the guest room open to find a wincing, straining Dee Dee on her bad leg's side, struggling to get back on her hooves. “What happened?”
“N-nothing that should worry you.” Typical weakling pony concern. She pushed up on the floor with all her might and managed to awkwardly raise herself back to a standing position, not falling back onto her side only through the action of petulance. “I was taking a bit of a walk. I think your floors may be uneven. Hardly a surprise in such a house.”
“Yes. The floors. I'll have the butler call somepony about that.” Vanilla rolled his eyes and almost felt the urge to chastise himself for his sudden rush of concern. She clearly wasn't worth quite that much concern. He looked her over again, as she painfully and awkwardly moved herself back to the bed. “Do you need me to bring you to the bathroom, for a scrub or something?”
“No.” The reply was sharp and hard, as she lifted herself into the bed. Then a softened, “No, thank you. I don't feel I need it right now. Please leave me. No need for anything else.”
“No pills or anything?”
“No. I am perfectly fine.”
Vanilla levitated up the dishes and brought them out of the room. “Alright then. I'll leave you be. Just call me if you need to use the facilities, as ever.”
“Oh yes, one thing.” As Vanilla turned to leave, Dee Dee lifted herself in bed and called out.
“Yes?”
Dee Dee put on a neutral mask and nodded her head. “The salad was sufficient. And your cake, it was very acceptable.”
One lip curled, very slightly, quickly smothered down following an acknowledging nod. “Thank you, ma'am. I will continue to maintain high standards. I know what your kind likes.” With that, he was gone again.