//------------------------------// // Dangerous // Story: The Unicorn and the Stranger // by PhycoKrusk //------------------------------// The next morning, Rarity checked out of her hotel and had her luggage brought to Driftwood’s bungalow. He had insisted that since she was closer to finding what she was looking for on the ocean than in town, she should be as close to it as possible, in case of any sudden epiphanies. Concerns over sleeping arrangements were waved away, and he'd brought out a small mattress he kept around ‘just in case’. After a light breakfast, they went into the surf again, Rarity carrying a board of her own this time, and they quickly lost track of the day until the summer sun above them grew too hot, even in the cool water, and they retired back to the bungalow to clean up and eat lunch. When the afternoon had cooled, they walked into town rather than going back into the ocean. Driftwood purchased only two tomatoes and a loaf of bread, while Rarity decided to splurge on a bottle of fine wine. They returned to the bungalow just as the sun was beginning to set, and promptly set to dinner, enjoying the bread, a salad of lettuce and mustard greens with the tomatoes and carrots and sautéed squash and onion served over rice, the kitchen and stove barely big enough for all of it. After dinner, they retired to the porch to enjoy their wine and watch the sun finish setting, listening to music played on the very old phonograph. It was just after sunset that, without fanfare — somewhat uncharacteristic for her, it was decided later — Rarity leaned forwards and, closing her eyes, gently pressed her lips against Driftwood’s. The feeling was not electric to start with, neither did it become so when he almost immediately leaned back into her just as gently, but it was warm and welcoming and inviting, and remained so until Driftwood softly laid a hoof on her shoulder and pushed her slowly away. “Driftwood?” Rarity asked, more bewildered than hurt. “Are you sure about me, Rarity?” he asked in return. “I’m not like those glitzy Canterlan stallions I'm sure you have eyes for at all. You've seen how I live, and I barely have any money, and while I'm feeling especially proud of my charms at this moment, those won't buy you any of the life or things a mare like you deserves.” Rarity smiled softly at Driftwood's self-deprecation. “I have seen how you live, and I know you barely have any money," she replied, laying a hoof across her breast. "But you've touched my heart in a way only a few others have, and touched it honestly. Money will buy things, yes, but it won't ever buy fondness, and I am very fond of you.” Driftwood smiled widely, but quickly steeled his gaze. “There is more,” he said. “Something you absolutely have to know about me before your decision can be in any way informed, and if you mean this, and you really choose me, then I refuse to deceive you.” “Darling, so long as you don’t mean to murder me or have intentions towards my dear younger sister, I doubt what you say will change my mind,” Rarity said. Driftwood hesitated for a moment, and then rose up from his resting spot, walking to the door before looking back to Rarity. “Inside, first,” he said. “What I have to tell you, it’s a secret to everyone.” Knitting her brow, Rarity stood up and followed him inside, closing the door after herself. Unable to stand still, Driftwood had walked to left wall where the old phonograph sat, lifting the needle from the record as Rarity approached his side. “Driftwood? What is it?” she asked softly. Taking a deep breath, the earth pony turned to her with barely concealed worry and said but four words: “I am a changeling.” Rarity froze, eyes wide, uncertain of how she should feel; truthfully, she felt like a gazelle that had just discovered the individual she had intentions for was a lion. Her gaze drew enough steel into it to match Driftwood’s, and then grew harder. “Driftwood, that joke is in poor taste, and not at all funny.” “You’re right.” Driftwood's answer was immediate and without hesitation. “It would be in poor taste, and it wouldn’t be funny, and that's why I’m not joking. I’m a changeling, Rarity. I’ve always been one, and the earth pony called Driftwood is a product of my imagination, a set of clothing I wear to fit in. What do you think of me now?” Rarity was uncertain what she should think, exactly. After a moment, she took a deep breath set her jaw. “Prove it,” she said. “Change.” Driftwood was quiet for a time. “As it is, we can still pretend this isn’t true. We can’t pretend nothing is different, but we can pretend that I’m not a changeling,” he said nervously. “If I change, that’s it. There’s no more pretending.” The feeling in Rarity’s chest matched the one in Driftwood’s voice. “If you change,” she said. Driftwood sighed forlornly, and green fire washed over his body. When the flames disappeared, the earth pony was gone, and a changeling had replaced him, dark chitin and everything else — nearly, at least — that came with it, and Rarity, wide-eyed, immediately backed into the wall trying to move away to someplace safer. For what was surely a long time, neither of them moved. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Rarity,” the changeling — Driftwood — said. “I won’t hurt you, and even if I wanted to, then showing myself was a poorly thought out way of doing that.” As the shock and fear Rarity felt made way for more useful thoughts — those of escape — they also made way for the betrayal of cold logic. Whatever her feelings about the honesty of changelings, Driftwood at least had told her an absolute truth: If he meant to harm her in any way, revealing his true nature when he otherwise had her trapped was a terrible misstep, and the fact that he brought this to her attention immediately made it unlikely that it was accidental. There was something larger at play, no doubt. Perhaps it had something to do with his appearance, for although he possessed the sleek, grey-black body she recognized from Canterlot, he still possessed the same mane he’d had before — with the same color of sun-lightened maple wood — even if it hung limply from his head like a sheet, and rather than featureless pools, his eyes retained their dark viridian irises, even if the pupils had turned to slits like those of a cat or dragon. He looked less like the majority of changelings she had seen previously, and more like their fell queen. There had to be something larger at play. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice smaller than she meant for it to be. Driftwood was unmoved by the question. “I believe I’ve already explained myself,” he answered. “Please, explain yourself again,” Rarity said, with more confidence than she’d had a moment earlier. “If you really chose me, and I feel that at least for a little bit, you did, then I refuse to deceive you. You bared yourself to me, so here am I. My truth, laid bare.” Rarity’s mind raced, searching for the angle she was missing. She could not help her gaze traveling towards the front door any more than Driftwood could help noticing her do so. “I would prefer you didn’t leave,” Driftwood said suddenly. Instantly, Rarity’s ire was focused on him again. “I am your prisoner, then?” Driftwood kept his gaze steady, even as a frown tugged at his mouth, when he answered. “You might tell my neighbors and burn my house to the ground,” he replied. “I’ve heard that’s been the typical response lately.” For a moment, Rarity forgot to be afraid and lunged towards the changeling. “Do you really believe I would do something like that?!” she demanded. “Did you really believe I would intentionally hurt you?” Driftwood asked in response, far too evenly for Rarity’s liking. “That’s different!” she shrieked. “How?” “Because!” Rarity bit off her response before she voiced it. Driftwood was a changeling, that was true, but as an answer, that wasn’t quite enough. Because he had lied to her? That was also — and unsurprisingly — true; he was a changeling, and while she couldn’t fault him for conforming to his natural instincts, that still left her at square one. She moved her attention to the wall, unexpectedly taking interest in a particular imperfection in the wood. Because he had wormed her feelings out of her? Again, he was a changeling, but more so, baring those feelings to him had enabled her to confront and largely conquer them. A few other reasons strayed into her mind, only to be immediately dismissed because they were too absurd to even bother repeating. “Very well. It’s not different, and I won’t leave,” she decided, glaring at Driftwood again. “But I demand that you leave my presence so that I may think!” Driftwood did not immediately react to Rarity’s order, but stood still and watched her for several seconds. “As you wish” he finally said, turning and walking to the front door. Before he reached it, he stopped again. “Rarity? You do know that I’m not dangerous, don’t you? That I’m telling you what I am so you’ll understand the situation?” “It brings me no great comfort to know a changeling believes itself to not be dangerous,” Rarity replied. Driftwood’s gaze returned to the door. “No more dangerous than you are,” he said. Then, he opened the door and stepped outside, leaving Rarity alone to think.