The days peeled away, slowly and somewhat painfully, like chitin from a molt that was not going well. They fell away, devoid of any meaning, merely empty pieces of shell, not even the full shell which might have indicated something. There was no other way to look at it. But it was at least something to metaphorically look at. It broke the tragic monotony of looking at the ceiling for hours at a stretch.
Playing a helpless, dainty Canterlot mare had to be, Double reasoned, much, much more difficult than actually being one. The actual useless Canterlot lump was schooled and bred to her position, trained up from infancy to be little more than a living waste of space. There would be an ease and naturalness to the indolence and vacuity that would pass long stretches with nothing going on.
That was decidedly not Double. Workers were trained to work, of course. They worked hard, to reap a precious commodity from a sometimes recalcitrant source. Finesse and trickery were hard work, especially when the long game was considered, the need to think far down the line to make sure that all the love possible could be gathered, but not a single drop more, lest the game be given away.
A book might have helped. Even such idle pastimes as movies or music would have been more acceptable. She had indulged before as part of her guise, and found they were not unpleasant. Something to stimulate her mind and occupy her focus. It would be for the best to be taken out of her own head. Without the comfort of the concordance, and with the fading memory of it she could only think about herself. It was not the relentless monomania of the egoist, but an internal self-contemplation that had never come forward before when she was a part of the swarm.
“Perhaps,” She said to herself, watching the flaws in the ceiling appear to shift and change in subtle ways that returned to how they were with the flick of her eyes, “This is what the ponies call cabin fever. It is a nice cabin. But I have the fever. My brain burns...”
Her ears perked when she heard the sounds of light thumping from below. Vanilla was working in the kitchen as usual. She couldn't tell what was going on but it sounded... violent. She cudgeled her brain to try and recall any cooking technique which she had ever encountered that involved such a great deal of physicality.
“Perhaps a stroll to see what he is doing.” She said it with strength and conviction, considering the coordination of her limbs and all the steps down to the ground floor, thinking on how she could navigate that section on three legs. She did it all to take her mind off of the fact that she would not move a single muscle until she needed to use the facilities.
She was weak. Helpless. Useless. All her consideration could come to no other conclusion. Her leg was broken, she was dependent on another, and she was incapable of reaching out to her own kind. She had never felt so parasitic, not even while undertaking activities that were literally parasitism. Perhaps it was because she had never thought about her status as a parasite, living on others, because everyling around her did it, and was proud when she did it. That was all gone. Only her fading memories of it remained.
She had a purpose, to return to the swarm. She had to remember that. As helpless and pathetic as she felt, she was there to recover enough to return to the swarm. It was her one goal, to return to where she was needed and wanted, where she was useful.
Surely, other Changelings like her had been injured in a similar fashion and been killed to maintain the integrity of the swarm. And so many of her fellows had been thrown by the blast that they had undoubtedly been killed or injured so badly any nearby Changelings had killed them to preserve the swarm. But... she was still alive. And she was being cared for to return to her prior strength. She would return to the swarm and live, and go back to how things had been.
That was the key. To go back to the way things had been. To cool the fire in her brain in the soothing balm of concordance. She would quiet the chattering voice that sounded like herself but thought such terrible non-Changeling things about the unfairness of killing hurt Changelings and those drones that coupled with workers when the desire grew too much to bear.
That was the nature of the swarm, the way of Changelings. It was as much a part of them as the holes in their bodies and the gnawing hunger within that craved for the savor of stolen love. The hunger needed to be fed, and strength needed to be maintained to do that. They needed to... cull... the unworthy.
“I am worthy.” She spoke loudly to herself, sitting up quickly in bed as if to prove it to herself by her very activity. Workers worked. She was still a worker. She still mattered to the swarm. She was still vital. She still had a purpose. “I will not be culled. By my cunning I have secured a place to heal. I will recover myself. And then I will return. I will return.”
A small motion outside the window drew her notice. She was looking out on one of Vanilla's gardens, and noticed him, or at least part of his head, out tending to the many vegetables and other things. “What a waste of effort and time. So much excessive and prissy care for a single meal.”
Despite her derision, she could not escape the echo of rancor that reflected back to her. She was no different. Ponies cultivated gardens; Changelings cultivated ponies. They could well do just as ponies did, but they had the hunger deep inside for more than just plants and pastries. Nothing could completely fill the void that screamed for love. Even if their bellies were full they were still empty. They could muddle along and do their jobs, but would be more and more distracted by the screaming need.
She felt the gnawing in her soul, deep down where she could not reach it with anything but those drips and drabs of feeling she found in her food. It took the edge away and made her masquerade easier to handle. The pills made her forget it, but the pills made her ignore everything, even her purpose. It was getting easier to hide them. She just needed to stuff them into her pillow, deep inside the fluff.
She looked out the window once more, certain that the angle of light would create enough glare to obscure her face should Vanilla be looking up. She thought she caught the tail end of his head moving downward, like he had been checking the window. She could only guess what he was thinking. His cordiality felt real, and there was some feeling in his cooking. That activity, infused with his feeling, would put him in a good mood.
Yet there was more to him and his emotions. From the first night there had been something there, in the back of his bearing which became more and less notable depending on his level of frustration and rest. He was mistrustful. He was not convinced by her disguise. Yet he had not been accusatory towards her or otherwise confrontation. There had been only cold strikes or false smiles.
It seemed wholly implausible that he had never heard of Changelings; their actions at the wedding had no doubt been quite newsworthy. He was isolated in his home, by choice, and she had not been aware of visitors beyond the doctor. But surely he had newspapers or magazines brought somehow, and needed some provisions which he could neither grow nor dig for himself. He had to suspect what she was. What else could he think?
If he didn't see her for what she really was, and hate it, he was disdainful towards what she appeared to be. That sort of impression had come through before. He had met the expected icy distance of Canterlot nobility with his own coldness. That had been expected; sometimes the dance of courtliness required such chilly receptions. But he had not turned around to give passionate lustfulness, which truly threw her. It was as if it was not an act, scripted by tradition, but a genuine feeling. Yet he had come from the upper reaches. Genuineness had no part of the ways and traditions of the fine ponies.
There was love in his cooking and detestation in his manner towards her. She did not need his love; his lechery would suffice. But he was suspicious of her, for good or bad reasons. His distrust kept him away from him. Only his pony nature kept him tending to her needs and bearing whatever he perceived as negative. That HAD to mean he was not aware of just what a Changeling was. Not even the softest-hearted pony would aid and shelter an enemy of the land.
“What did I do? Or what did I lack?” Double tapped on the sheets with her uninjured forehoof, eyes back to staring at the ceiling. She was doing the dance as she always had. But perhaps a new tune was required. That was the game. The gentle sway of motivations and reactions. Someling had to be paying attention to the subtle indications. It was a careful and calculated thing. Someling had to blink.
She would blink. She had to do it. To react to the action. He was not doing as expected, because she was not doing her part. She had proved her point. She had acted as required. But now it was time to act as the initiator. That happened sometimes as well. Some stallions required the woman to start, even if in public life they never implied such a thing. No trouble. Just another step in the dance. She was cunning and clever. She could do it.
She had consumed a great deal of time with her contemplation, the sun having dipped low and the sounds and smells of cooking wafting up from below. She detected the scent of oranges and a melange of various spices which seemed familiar to her. She had experienced something similar at the restaurants she had been to in Canterlot. It was.... Neighponese as she recalled. Something fried quickly in a pan with a spiced sauce. She also smelled bread being made, with a slight undercurrent of some variety of fruit. He had taken things up a touch. Perhaps HE was breaking. If he blinked first, she would not only win, she could silence the nagging doubts and put away the fear that he knew something.
- - -
“Something a little more... substantial, I suppose. You're not getting hospital food here, that's for sure.” Vanilla stood by Double's bed, looking smug and superior. He was not even hiding his subtle contempt. But it may have been another aspect of the act. It was an unusual move but nothing had been very usual in their interactions.
She sniffed, on the cusp of a change in strategy, but needing to appear to be continuing as before. “Indeed. I could smell it in progress. Neighponese?” Showing knowledge would impress him. She would appear very competent and interested, an important thing.
“Bit of a variation I picked up in my career. I use non-standard ingredients together with a traditional sauce.” The smug pride, the sense of superiority, the boasting look. It was all there. He was comfortable, feeling capable of casually trumpeting his own skills. That was just the state she needed him in. “In addition, two rolls, cooked surrounding slices of prickly pear fruit. Dessert or not is your choice. If you will excuse me, I have my own waiting for me.”
Double nodded and looked down at the spread, to determined what she should eat first. “Yes, yes, thank you.” Baked things had proven most loved. It made sense given his prior specialty. She took up a roll and took a bite. 'W-what is this?' She could feel her facade crack, just for a second. But it was appropriate. Love. There was love in that roll. The heated fruit, the buttery bread, the whole thing was infused with a genuine love born of passion for the art. But there was more. That must have been what took the hits she had heard. The roll dough. She could TASTE the frustration amid all the love, a smoky, smoldering taste that was almost choking.
She was right. Absolutely right. He was losing his patience with her unchanging strategy. She had not been quick enough picking up the signals. But she now had the message. It was time to blink. To make her intentions more readily known and do what he wanted her to do. That would lead to the next stage, and smooth everything over again.
She ate the rest of her meal in relative silence, not really tasting much more than the muddled love and frustration in her rolls and the general flavor of her pan-fried vegetables. She'd need to wait. It would need to happen later, after the dishes were cleared away, and she could prepare her words and herself.
The opportunity came soon enough. She had left most of the frigidity out of her reply when telling Vanilla that the food was tasty. That had had a strange effect on the stallion. He had no commented at all, merely trotted away with an odd look on his face. When he was gone, and had been assured she did not require the facilities, Double started working.
She adjusted the look of her glamour, softening some of the harder lines just slightly, smoothing the spiral of her horn, adding a touch more bulk to herself to be a closer representation of her real form and giving herself an innocent, harmless, matronly appearance, at least in a small way. It also reflected added flesh gained by eating fine food while in an inactive state. It would have been necessary sooner or later; this made it happen and gave it some meaning.
She glossed her coat just a bit; not enough to make it obvious, but enough to be slightly more alluring. It was a game of inches, after all. Her hooves had a slight sheen added to her seeming, and her mane was tweaked into a slight fluff. Every small change was designed to make her looks harmless, innocent, helpless. All in minor ways. The small details did so much; that was the Changeling understanding. Details mattered more than anything.
She finished her short makeover and slid out of the bed, landing on her three good hooves with a practiced ease. She had gotten very good at sliding out of the bed with grace and panache. It was a small victory, to demonstrate her continued dexterity and usefulness. She was not cull-fodder. After pushing down the thought, she made her unsteady way to the door and the hall, buoyed up by the infusion of love from the rolls.
She stumbled down the hall, still not quite steady in her tripod stance. It was increasingly frustrating, yet was ironically becoming less and less of an issue. She was figuring it out. But the lack of even a little coordination was a hard blow to take. Even still, she reached Vanilla's door and opened it with a slight application of magic. There was a smile on her face, tiny, harmless and sweet, though it may have been lost in shadow thanks to the back-lighting from the hall. “I hope I am not bothering you.”
“I WAS attempting to sleep.” He was frustrated. No question. He was trying to disguise it, trying to be a proper pony. But he couldn't hide the contempt. That was what she was there to fix.
“Yes, I see. And I understand. But perhaps... I realize, after much time and reflection I have never REALLY thanked you for this. All of this. Allowing me to share your fine home and allowing me to enjoy your cooking. It is more than I expected of this sort of situation.” Double attempted her best Canterlot walk, the sort of seductive slide that led to awkward non-sex sexual interaction and supping on boorish lust. It was not pretty. But it was survival and food for the swarm. She lit her horn, so Vanilla could see all she had done.“I thought, maybe...”
“Maybe... what?” She put on the best of all her actions. Looking down, pouting slightly, scraping the inside of her mouth in a manner that suggested self-consciousness and shyness. He had to have noticed. He DID seem slightly more focused and interested. He was looking carefully at her, probably noting the subtle changes and probably thinking they were the result of a change in his perception and feelings toward her.
“Perhaps... you don't need to go to bed quite yet. Or quite so alone.” She came closer, tasting victory. She had tasted the love in his food. It was delicious. So flavorful. Perhaps his lust, dross though it was, would have some similar savor to it.
He looked closer, his scrutiny almost burning. He would surely go for it, surely... “No.” With a snort, he was on his other side.
'Impossible!' She staggered back, the motion even more awkward thanks to the spontaneous nature of it. 'Inconceivable! He... he was... he...' “Wh-what? 'No'? What do you mean? Why not? I'm trying to be polite, and kind to you.”
“That's the problem. Part of the problem. 'Polite'? 'Kind'? That's how you show it?” His voice was hard, stern, almost scolding. Not his usual way at all.
Honey flowed from double's mouth, with a dash of whine and whimper to recover from the sudden debacle. “What's the problem with that? I thought you would be happy about that. It would be a fitting reward for all you've done.”
His reaction was the ultimate shock. His frustration, bordering on anger, stabbed through the tension-heavy air, sending Double back even further and almost off of her hooves. But what was even worse, and quite surprising, was the hint of sadness that existed behind that angry gaze. “You think... I know your kind. Know them too well. You think I'm just another cook. A fancy, overly trained food-preparer there to make your dinner parties more trendy and occasionally delicious. That's true. I have that skill. But I have another skill, polished and perfected from all my days in Canterlot. I SEE ponies. I see through them. I see their poison smiles and lying eyes. I can't stop seeing mendacity, manipulation and malice. I quietly see it all. I can see your lies. And it hurts to do it.”
'No... no...' “Hurts... you?” Shame went out the window. She dropped lower, pouted, quivered her lip, did everything she recalled from lessons in appearing sincere and contrite. She was losing.
Vanilla turned away again, looking disappointed and drained of energy. He had a world-weariness that had never come through before, a stallion reliving an experience that had already wrung them out. “I can tell the acting and masquerade. Tricks to get things you want. It's the upper reaches all over again. Games. Games of applying the right face and right posture to do the job. It just... makes me pity you, because I see it so clearly it looks desperate and cheap. Go away. Get some rest. You'll heal faster.”
She was lost. Drifting. She pulled herself back to her room without dignity or finesse, only standing about half the time on her journey down the hall back to her room. “What... what happened? This can't be...” It was all crumbling. Nothing made sense anymore. This wasn't what ponies did. It wasn't what a high-terrace sort was meant to do. She had read every signal, made every motion, even changed her strategy when she detected it wasn't working.
She fell back into her bed and buried her face in her pillow. She knew the pills were in there, hidden deep. Just one would make her sleep, make her not care. Make it all go away. She hit the pillow in frustration, and screamed into the muffling fluff, “What do you want from me!? What can I do to make it all make sense? Tell me!”