//------------------------------//
// The King and the Changeling 
// Story: The King and the Changeling 
// by Impossible Numbers 
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There once lived a colony of breezies foolish enough to live within the land of the ponies.

Some said that they had been left behind one year, and, forced to survive among Equestrians, they had simply made a new home and forgotten the delights of the true one. Others said that they were rebels, outlaws, and misfits who fled their natural world for this one, not in spite of the danger but because of it. A very few suggested that all breezies once lived in the realm of big creatures, and that those of the colony were simply the ones who refused to seek a softer, cushier home elsewhere, but these few were always shouted down by the elders and ignored by the youngsters.

One of these odd breezies was a King. He was none other than the violent Helmet Shell, with his armour stolen from the nests of eagles and his poison thorn ripped from the stem of a Deadly Dodder plant. From one dawn to the next, he led his swarms on raids against farmers, stinging with his thorn any ponies who tried to shoo him away. He led them on to drive out bees, wasps, and even birds so that he could conquer their hives and nests. He led them through nightly celebrations as they feasted on honey and yolks and stolen grains and fruit. He led them on as they ransacked the countryside for bark and flowers and twigs and nettles and grass stems to decorate their homes. And he led them on as they ambushed lurkers, poachers, and angry villagers, so that the ponies soon learned not to stand against him and his colony.

It was midsummer’s night when King Helmet Shell led his colony into the dark forest of the Everfree, and despite their small size and delicate wings, they soon sent an unlucky family of timber wolves running through the trees. The breezies raided the den with glee, for it was much larger than any home they had ever stolen before. He didn’t have to wait long before his subjects were clamouring for a raid, and he hovered over them with a grin stretched across his face.

“Brothers and sisters!” he cried out in the language of the breezies. “A home of such grandness deserves an equally rich plunder to fill it with. Let us celebrate by bringing the fear of death and pain upon all the villages nearby!”

As always, his speech drew a hearty cry of assent, and he, as always, led them through the darkness, scything at vampire fruit bats and plucking feathers off sleeping owls until they flapped away in panic. However, the colony did not enjoy much of this sport before they found their way blocked.

King Helmet Shell peered at the stranger. She must be a pony, he thought, for she is the right shape and I can see her muzzle under the hood and her hooves under her cloak. He was rattled all the same. No pony he’d met had borne stripes of light and darkness on their bodies, nor had they ever been found alone or a long way from a town or village. His trusty thorn slashed through the air to make a point.

“Stand aside, old pony,” he said gruffly. “I fear no creature in this world.”

To his surprise, instead of running away or staring at him with blank incomprehension, the figure smiled at him. When she spoke, her voice was sing-song and surprisingly cheerful as though she were enjoying a private joke.

“Though true it is that fear you’ve spread,
I am afraid you’ve been misled.
No soul can thrive on dread alone,
But love and friendship can atone.”

King Helmet Shell heard gasps and whimpers from behind him. Although he turned around and checked this cowardice with a few thumps and curses, he could not deny that he was a little unnerved himself. However, he had no intention of showing it, and his voice was loud and angry.

“I care nothing for your foolish riddles, old crone, though I congratulate you on your bravery and learning. However, you have fallen short of true genius if you believe a simple nursery rhyme will stop the colony of me, the King of the Breezies. Forward, my brothers and sisters!”

And he lunged for the stranger’s nostrils, where a cut of his thorn would leave her writhing in poisoned agony. To his shock, she darted back far faster than he’d expected, and somehow there was nothing left in their path but an empty cloak strewn on the soil. No one had even seen her running.

“Coward!” he shrieked after her, and already he was feeling much better for it.

Trying to forget what had just happened, he rallied his colony by charging ahead, thorn outstretched and mouth shrieking with bloodlust. They soon left the forest and found themselves in the biggest apple orchard they had ever seen, with hills and valleys stretching into the distance and covered by nothing but apple trees of all shapes and sizes. They quickly swarmed over the lot, leaving their terrible marks: trees scratched white all over, apples reduced to cores, branches pulled out of the canopy. A few ponies came out of the barn to swipe at them with rakes and brooms, but the breezies soon sent them running back indoors. Within minutes, a third of the orchard was stripped and dead, and the breezies hauled their bushels back to the den for a glorious night of feasting and food-fighting. The apple cores and seeds were hung up like chandeliers and strung into chains across the roof of the den.

Little did they know that overhead, an ugly insect watched from afar, even through the ground itself. In its eyes, blue mist swirled, and a distant face peered through and whispered instructions to the twitching, dangling antennae. It twittered to itself and vanished into the darkness.

The next night, they had grown bored with attacking the local monsters and animals, and King Helmet Shell decided that he should outdo himself once again, especially after what happened the last night. Once more, he hovered over his subjects and was greeted with cheers and waves.

“Nothing can stop the terrible might of the breezie swarm!” he shouted until his little lungs were hoarse. “We will show those farmers that the legends and stories told in our name fall far short of the horrifying reality!”

They all cried out; “More delicious apples! More delicious apples!”

“Yes!” he yelled back, and he licked the drool off of his lips. “These apples are the sweetest and juiciest we’ve ever eaten! As the lords and ladies of this land, we deserve another round of this ambrosia!”

They rose at once, and he charged screaming into the night, lopping off whole twigs and leaves from all the branches between him and that distant farm. However, halfway there, he started peering into the bushes for any sign of movement, and it was only a few minutes later that he found the cloaked stranger standing in his way again.

This time, there was no smile on her lips, and she seemed strangely calm for someone facing his beetle-backed, splinter-wielding, feather-adorned warriors, just to describe the ones nearest him. He groaned and held up a forelimb to signal that they should wait.

“What do you want, you blundering beast?” he said with bad grace. “Do you want me to hand over my thorn, or are you content just to lecture us again?”

This time, the figure nodded and spoke in a more serious voice.

“A travesty it is to seek
To hurt the ones whose lives are bleak.
I wish to spare a farmer's life
Of terror, grief, and needless strife.
That family can do no wrong.
Their lives have all been rich and long.
A tender soul would never try
To bite them, make them scream or cry.
From gentle hearts there comes a feast
Of smiles and songs; kind words at least.
Yet you insist on eating dread;
Why not feed well on love instead?
Or turn back now; please spare my friend,
For greed will lead you to your end.”

At this, the breezies chuckled and broke out into loud and mocking cheers. This time, King Helmet Shell didn’t bother with a warning, but simply shot towards the stranger’s face and stabbed as hard as he could. And this time, the stranger exploded into a cloud of glowing green mist that sent his subjects screaming and rushing for the nearest leaves and branches and knotholes and leaf litter. The King himself stared and trembled until the cloud had vanished and he was left alone in the forest darkness.

“A sorceress!” wailed the hidden breezies. “She is an evil, creeping sorceress! Oh woe is upon us! Woe! Woe!”

“That’s enough!” cried out the King. “Come out of your hidey holes, you miserable maggots!”

Meekly, all the breezies came out and pretended that his ranting and raving was not directly at them personally, but at their fellows collectively. Each one thought he or she had simply been brave and sensible by hiding and watching the enemy without being seen, and that everyone else had been a shameful coward.

“Now let’s put this disgraceful display behind us!” finished the King. “Redeem yourselves by defying her threat and taking what is rightfully ours!”

Hearing these words, every breezie cheered and rose up over the canopy, determined to prove how brave they really were. Soon, the Apple family land was laid out below them as though it were fruit in a bowl. This time, they dived into the orchard and cut off all the leaves and twigs regardless of whether they had apples on or not. Many of the trees were stripped of fruit; then, the breezies stabbed their thorns into the trunks so that the poison would seep through their insides and kill them. They forced their way through gaps in windows, doors, and even badly made walls, and fell upon the huddled ponies until they were covered scalp to bottom in boils and stings. They even turned the cupboards inside out and stole anything they could eat. Within an hour, they were carrying yet another third of the orchard’s yield back to the den, along with pieces hacked from the kitchens and the larder.

Despite their heroic efforts – at least, heroic from their point of view – the breezies did not sing and dance that night. They ate quietly, and any cheers soon died when faced with the blank stares of their comrades. No one decorated the den that night, not even the King who usually loved doing so. That night, they were all thinking hard about what would happen the next night.

Still hidden far over their heads by the dark between the stars, the ugly insect stared down and rubbed its tiny legs with glee. A cold cackle echoed from the depths of its scrying eyes, and a face peered through each one like a reflection in a mirror, both seeing through blue smoke. The insect shuffled its clicking mouthparts, listened to the new instructions, and once again vanished into the darkness.

By the time the sun had risen and set, the King had led three so-called raids in order to steady his nerves, but all the creatures had long since fled their part of the forest, and the plants around them were either dead or dying. For hours, the breezies rested within the den and quietly wondered what terrible revenge would befall them.

Once the last trace of sunlight had vanished, the King felt he had suffered enough, and he went to his subjects with none of the fire that usually burned brightly inside him.

“Whatever we face,” he said simply, “we shall face together. We face the land of Equestria and all it can throw at us, or we perish trying. We are no feeble breezies, who float through puffs of wind and cry when we lose our way. We are true breezies. And only a true breezie would go out tonight and punish the farmers and their friends for trying to keep us down.”

After he had held his thorn aloft and yelled the traditional war cry, he was delighted to see his subjects rise from the damp earth and draw their weapons as one. He beckoned them forwards and screamed, “CHAAARGE!”

His cry was answered. Every breezie screamed the word back at him until they were a single monster of noise blasting their way through the trees. They slashed the trunks until the withered blackness crumpled around them. They sliced at any worm or insect foolish enough to crawl over rather than under the leaf litter. They swiped at the air itself.

All at once, they were engulfed within a sudden green mist. Many breezies cried out and fled there and then. To the rest, King Helmet Shell yelled at them to hold their places. He sliced at the mist and his thorn glowed green, but he could feel it pouring down his throat and choking him. As quickly as it had appeared, the mist vanished with a whoosh.

“Sorceress!” he shrieked. “What have you done to us? What curse is this that you have wrought upon us?”

For there she was, now standing with all limbs splayed as though ready to leap at him, her hood lowered to reveal the jingle of golden earrings and the thick Mohawk mane of another land. She was shaking with anger.

“Do not blame me for what was due.
The only one to blame is you.
You think your brutish ways are strong,
But hurting others? That is wrong.”

Even the King moved backwards through the air. It was as though the voice was so powerful that the swarm was facing a sudden gale of burning sand and sparks of fire.

“Answer me!” he yelled. “What have you done to us?”

“I heard you mock your breezie kin,
And fail to see their strength within.
So I have played a little joke,
And made you feebler at a stroke.”

Now she was smiling at them, but only around her mouth. Her eyes were still cold and boring deep into the breezies’ helpless minds.

“You think mere love is such a shame,
And strike it down in pride’s own name.
Well, now it is your only food.
In hopes you’ll change your rotten mood,
On love you’ll feed forevermore,
And when you reach into the core,
Of friends and kin, you’ll soon concede,
Such miracles make better feed.
Perhaps you’ll even come to cherish,
What once you’d raid and leave to perish.
So if you plan on striking back
By harming with a cruel attack
My Apple friends: a pointless waste!
For you'll enjoy no juicy taste
Of apple flesh, no victory.
Unless you listen close to me.
You'll leave that farmer's fruit in peace
Or else your 'happy days' will cease!
Now sheathe your blades, please eat your pride.
Go seek the sweeter joys inside!
And when you do, you’ll learn your place,
And make yourselves a better race.”

But if she hoped to show them sense, she’d hoped for too much. Rage and shame had blinded the King, and in spite of himself, he went for her face and this time succeeded, cutting a chunk clean off her ear, to the gasps of his many subjects.

“You think you have finished us with this cowardly ruse,” he hissed in her ear, “but we will not be kept down for long. We spit at those breezies who live in harmony with the monsters of this land like foals hiding behind mothers and fathers. No curse will hold us back.”

He waited until she had stared him down and galloped away, and then he shook himself and rallied the remainders of his colony to head on to the farm. Now, however, all spirit had gone out of the swarm. They were all wondering if the curse had been true, and what they would do if it was.

Trailing them high in the sky were the magical blue eyes of the ugly insect. A voice in the blue swirls was humming to itself and whispering spells that tarnished the very air around the small creature. Obediently, the insect drifted downwards for a closer look.

It seemed like an eternity before the breezies once more fell upon the farm, but this time they hovered beside only one apple each. Ever so carefully, they nibbled at the skins. A few more adventurous ones took bites out of the flesh underneath. All of them spat and groaned and wiped their tongues, as it was now the foulest thing they had ever placed in their mouths, including the raw soil and dirt they’d once eaten for no better reason than to show that they could.

All of this was too much for the King, who didn’t have the will to cut down a single apple. He fell to the grass and wept. While he wept, he cursed the sorceress who had stolen his joy of life from him. Until all his subjects joined him on the grass and bowed their heads in mourning, he didn’t hold back a single drop, and soon there was a puddle under his tiny hooves.

“So,” he said once he’d wiped his eyes and stood up, “half of the curse is true, but let us find out whether the other half is also true. To the barn!”

They flitted after him with little enthusiasm and surrounded the barn. They could see the family curled up around a table, all huddled and patting each other and whispering words of comfort. These acts of love drifted out of the windows and doors and gaps like a pink mist, and as it washed over the breezies, they felt warm and fuzzy, as if they had been wrapped in woollen hankies and nestled before a crackling fire. Soon, all of them were rising higher and flexing their limbs with a new strength.

“What a wonderful feeling!” said one.

“It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” said another.

“It’s not just my mouth,” said a third. “It’s as if they’ve taken those sweet, delicious apples and fed them to every part of me. I’ve never felt so alive!”

King Helmet Shell watched in astonishment as his subjects began to grin and link themselves arm-in-arm and dance and sing, but he was troubled. The songs were not the belly-slapping war songs he’d taught them, nor were the dances those of warriors turning combat into graceful steps and swings. It was as though his fellow breezies had been replaced.

Part of him could savour and relish the sweet love oozing out of the barn, and he wanted to join them in their frolicking. Yet part of him hated having his tastes wrenched from apples and forced onto something as offensive as love, and he could hear in his head the cackles of that sorceress who thought she knew better than him. He was a King, and he was determined to act like one, no matter the cost.

Finally, he charged forwards and slapped two of the closest breezies so that their heads banged together.

“What are you doing?” he yelled at them. “Are you now puppets to that sneaky hag? Have you no shame? We do not resign ourselves to fate, and we do not resign ourselves to fates others have wrought upon us. We make our own way in the world!”

At once, the colony fell silent. Many remembered the good old days, but the rest were unhappy and crossed their forelimbs against him.

“It is all very well saying that,” one said, “but how do we do it? We cannot break the curse of a sorceress without fulfilling the hag’s wishes, and if you don’t want us to do that, then what can we do?”

It was at these crucial words that the ugly insect slipped through a gap in the barn and set to work in the kitchen, smashing plates and dropping jugs on the family’s heads. Surprised, King Helmet Shell peered through the window and watched. Before long, the Apple family were flailing brooms and chairs at the ugly insect until it slipped back outside and flew up to the setting moon.

“A pox on that Elven Witch!” said the eldest of the family. “She’s becoming more and more adventurous. I tell you this; one day, she’ll come out of the forest herself, and then it’ll be the end of us.”

“But it’s already the end of us,” said the youngest of the family. “We’ve lost nearly everything, and those breezies are going to take the rest.”

“I’ll bet the Elven Witch sent them herself,” said the middle-aged pony of the family. “She’s probably powerful enough to control such monsters. Maybe if we hand over the last of the apples, they’ll spare us. Maybe we’ll even be rewarded. It can’t hurt to fall into her good graces for once.”

The rest of the family were so shocked that she was soon shouted down. Outside, the King grinned and nodded his head, for he was – despite his ferocious nature – slightly clever, and thus he believed himself to be very clever indeed.

“My subjects,” he said quickly, “our salvation is at hand. A Witch also lurks in the forest, and it seems she is as terrible and powerful as the sorceress who cursed us.”

“Are you suggesting,” said one of his fellow breezies, “that we plead and beg and make ourselves slaves and servants to her?”

“No, you fool! I suggest that we merely pretend to bow to her wishes, and trick her into restoring us to our rightful nature. Then we will betray her and wreak a terrible vengeance on all creatures of magic once and for all!”

Even the doubtful breezies liked the shape of this plan, and they all rose with him as he set off to follow the ugly insect into the forest. The sun was now shining through the gaps in the trees, but onward they flew, stopping only to chase off a wandering manticore and throw stones at a serpent in the river.

To their horror, the sorceress stepped out onto the path and glared at them from behind her hood. Even the King had to stop himself from squeaking with alarm.

“You must have lost your common sense
To even think of this pretence!
What happened to your earnest hearts?
You could have learned the noble arts
Of friendship, love, respect, and care;
Instead, you want to go in there?”

The King trembled, but as soon as he saw his subjects trembling in turn, he stiffened. A glower burned on his face, all the more fiercely because the sorceress had spoken words that his own heart was whispering to his head.

“Even now you seek to torment us, you tyrant of the forest!” With a flash of his thorn, he summoned his subjects to his side, their own weapons bristling. “Not boiling with envy, are you, or is it fear of the great one’s power that makes you simper so?”

Only nervous laughs met his words. He tried to see the secret feelings of the sorceress in her eyes, and looked for the slightest twitch or flicker on her face. When she spoke again, he saw her hooves shift to brace for a leap.

“The Elven Witch has faces two:
A smirk for her; a mask for you.
To seek help from a demon’s tricks?
You’ll end up in a greater fix!
This crazy stunt will spell your doom,
So venture not into the gloom.”

Slowly as a leaf falling from the canopy to the ground, the King lowered the tip of his thorn. His whispering heart was urging him to back away, and his fear beat against his ribcage as though trying to batter some sense into him.

“Why should I trust you?” he said in what he hoped was a measured tone. “I have – I mean, you – yes, you have disgraced us once already.”

Just then, the ugly insect appeared before the breezies. They flinched, but when they looked back, they could see two faces, one peering out of each eye. Its gaze pinned them to the air, and when it spoke, they heard strange echoes as though a dozen voices came from a dozen places around them.

“Yes,” the voices said, “why should you trust her? She has proven your worth as insects. Elsewhere, she may be queen of the forest, but in my domain she is but a peasant before royalty. Out here, just beyond my domain, she still has a chance. Invoke my name, however, and you shall have a chance. Not much of one, I admit, but better and greater than this sentimental, preachy weakling can provide.”

Behind the insect, the sorceress raised a hoof with a jingle of rings.

“I play no games and speak no riddle.
She’ll play you like a humble fiddle.
Let not my saintly tones conceal
My iron words, my will of steel.
Go not into that Witch’s den;
You may not wander out again!”

Out of thin air, a green rope appeared. Before the King or anyone could so much as cry out in alarm, the ropes snapped around the sorceress, sealing her legs together and gagging her mouth. Far behind her, a shimmering wall of green light rose up as flames to the canopy.

“Invoke my name, the Elven Witch,” echoed the voices from the insect’s eyes. “This measly stripling’s not as rich in art and cunning, though she tries to have her shortcomings disguised. You come into my eldritch field and I’ll provide a wholesome yield.”

Scarcely had the echoes died away when the King glanced from the bound sorceress to the crescent grins peering through the blue smoke of the eyes. Perhaps, he thought, there was time to turn away…

No, said a strong voice inside him. That was a coward’s way. A leader takes no orders. He makes his own destiny, and will be given no one else's.

“Elven Witch,” he cried out in a strong voice. “On behalf of my loyal breezies, I accept your invitation.”

Gleeful cackling met these words. A moment later, the flaming barrier parted, and a round hole beckoned him and his swarm inside. Yet, as he passed the struggling sorceress, their gazes met for a moment, and he snapped his eyelids shut and turned his head away. By the time she’d struggled enough to free her mouth and shout after him, she was an echo far behind, and his own heart sank and wept for the path not taken.

As they moved on, the forest closed in and all sunlight was cut out. Mist rolled around them, and the air was rank and thick like a swamp. Soon, the King’s keen eyes caught sight of a cave, and they followed the ugly insect through the mouth.

They found themselves in a slimy world of green ooze and hanging bulbous sacks of pus. The Witch stood beneath the dangling sacks and grinned horribly at them when they settled down before her. Her ugly insect landed on a twitching ear and turned to watch the swarm, its blue eyes fading to black. The King hummed when he saw the same thing happen to the Witch's horn.

“Breezies!” she said with exaggerated surprise, for she already knew what they were here for. “Come no further into the cave! Here lurks the strange and lonely Witch, a mere changeling banished from the realm of ponies for the terror she spread with but a weak and simple hex. Many venture here to test their might against me. None leave this place the same.”

Hating himself for doing so, the King landed on the sticky ground and bowed low, waving for his subjects to do the same.

“Witch,” he said. “I have heard of your power. We are but humble creatures, seeking nought but the sweet taste of life and the thrill of every day and night. A cruel monster has stolen this gift from us, so we beseech you: please restore what was taken, and my subjects shall swear an oath of loyalty unto you.”

Of course, the King had been careful to keep his name out of that oath, and his hoof hovered briefly over the hilt of his thorn in anticipation. The Witch cackled at him and clapped her hooves like a child.

“How delicious,” she hissed. “I’ve been watching your ‘seeking’ on that wretched farm for three nights now, and I simply love what you’ve done with the place. Those ponies talk of love and respect for all fellow creatures, but it is a pack of lies. They only love themselves.”

“We know!” cried the breezies. “We’ve tasted it.”

“You don’t know the half of it! Three years ago, the farmers had a newborn foal who they never failed to remind me was the apple of their eye. On the first night, she was snatched away from them by the Elven Ponies, and I was abandoned in their little nest. They could have cared for poor, helpless, starving little me, but they shuddered when they held me, flinched when they looked at me, and cried out in fear when I tried to speak to them. They called me a ‘changeling’. They cast me out of their home within a week. Even the Elven Ponies have long since vanished, and I have sought in vain for any trace of their kind. How I long to destroy the whole vile act and everyone involved in it!”

King Helmet Shell saw his chance and crossed his heart before her. “Then the way is clear! Grant us our powers, O Changeling, and we will wreak vengeance on the farmers who wronged you. This is our offer to you.”

The Witch hissed at his use of the word 'changeling', though he had not meant to offend. However, she calmed herself with a horrible thought and gave them a silky smile.

“Very well,” she said. “I will make the spell for you.”

So the Witch set about gathering rare herbs and sickly-looking mushrooms and dark crystals, but as she worked she smirked to herself and giggled at the mere thought of the evil she was about to do. The breezies waited as patiently as they could while she dragged a steaming cauldron into the middle of the cave and threw all the ingredients into it.

“How delightful,” she said, and she licked her lips. “I am ready to cast the spell, but first I need you to pay a price. The spell will not work without it.”

“Name your price,” said the King.

There was a leering smirk on the Witch’s face as she said, “I will need the body of a breezie to make the spell. If you are serious about regaining your powers, then you must make a sacrifice. For the final ingredient, one of you must willingly dive into the cauldron.”

The King heard the gasps and murmurs of his subjects, and he spluttered and pulled out his thorn. “What treachery is this? You wish to play with us?”

“This is no laughing matter,” said the Witch smoothly. “That is the nature of the spell. For it to work on breezies, it will need to consume a breezie itself. Of course, if you have any better ideas for regaining your powers, you can certainly try to leave, but I don’t take kindly to those who insist on wasting my time.”

The ugly insect was hovering over the brew, and the King swore he heard a tiny snigger from its black and twisted head. He did not waste a second, however, but bowed his head and dropped his thorn on the ground, where it stuck fast.

“Very well,” he said. “For my comrades in arms, who have served me all my life with neither doubt nor treachery, and who suffer now on my account, I shall finish the spell.”

Every breezie behind him wept and wailed as he flew up to the sulphurous fumes and peered over the lip of the cauldron, but his swarm needed him, and he knew he had disgraced them by letting them fall to a preachy sorceress. Everything was under his leadership. If he was going to restore his loyal subjects to their former glory, and if he had any chance of redeeming himself, then nothing would come between him and that cauldron.

However, just as he was about to dive in, one of the breezies who had questioned him at the farm now rushed forwards and vanished with a gloop deep into the green ooze, turning it dark red. He uttered a curse in shock and jumped backwards.

“No!” he cried. “You fool!”

The Witch cackled with glee and summoned the red fumes from the ooze, spinning it round and round the cave until they were all flailing within the whirlwind. At once, the breezies could tell they had fallen into a trap. Their bodies lost all colour and toughened, cracked, and crinkled until it was shiny armour. Their eyes glazed over and fangs forced themselves out of the gums. Parts of them sank inwards under the rot, and their flowing, silky wings shrivelled to bumblebee specks waggling helplessly on their backs.

“What have you done to us?” cried the King as he was swept past.

“Have you not been listening?” said the Witch. “Did you not hear how the Apple family spoke of me? I am an Elven Pony! I care nothing for such petty concerns like revenge, and I certainly don’t care about the petty concerns of a bunch of nasty little pests.”

“You mean this was all just for your fun?” The King was fighting the push of the whirlwind, and as it met the flames of his anger, real plumes of fire trailed behind him.

“What else did you think?” And the Witch giggled and cackled and nearly fainted with bursts of laughter.

Finally, the King burst through the winds and snatched up the thorn he had left stuck to the slime, and his thorn glowed green. As it rose, it caught traces of the dark red curse and now glowed with eldritch darkness. The ugly insect blocked his way, but a slash of the thorn sliced it in two. With a cry, he hit the startled Witch in the chest and stabbed her through the heart.

At once, she shrieked and the spell stopped. Breezies rained down all around her as she blackened and lengthened and wailed in agony. Now fangs were plunging through her gums, skin tightened over her bones, and her pupils turned to slits. Soon, she was a rotting, blackened mockery of herself, tiny wings feebly waving as they forced their way through her spine.

“What have you done to me?” The Witch stared at her hooves where the rot had burrowed through to the other side. “I’m hideous!”

At once, she went to the depths of her cave and rallied as many crystals as she could, all shining with the colours of the rainbow, and she tipped them into the brew. There was a flash, and she put a hoof in the brew and rubbed the rainbow ooze over her twisted spire of a horn. It flashed green, and she was her old self again.

“Not so funny when we’re the ones casting the curses, is it?” The King laughed openly at her and flashed green. He too was his old self again.

“Laugh while you can, insect,” hissed the Witch. “This cannot cure us truly. Take whatever form you like. You’ll still be a nasty little pest inside.”

“And so will you, O Changeling!” said the King, who by now was feeling very smug. “We have both gained nothing. Now rot in this cave.”

However, when he tried to lead the dizzy breezies out of the cave, he found the way blocked by a wall of green ooze dribbling its way down from the ceiling. Not even when he summoned the whole colony and kicked it did it so much as ripple.

“Where do you think you’re going, slave?” hissed the Witch. “Have you forgotten our deal so soon?”

“What deal?” yelled the King. “The one you just broke by betraying us for fun? Forget it.”

“I promised you I would restore your powers,” said the Witch. “And I will. The spell is ready. All you have to do is wait. Besides, how far do you think you’ll go when you cannot refresh yourself with real food?”

“What about that spell you cast just now?” The King pointed the thorn at her.

“That was just high spirits,” said the Witch quickly.

The King did not know whether to trust her and most of him insisted she was lying, but as has been said before, he was a slightly clever breezie, and even in his rage he could see a plan forming. He pretended to smile and chuckle, and elbowed his nearest subjects until they joined in.

“High spirits indeed!” he said. “Well, if we can all change back into our old forms –”

“Into any form you like,” said the Witch. “Skin-deep though it will be, we are all changers now. Changelings, even.” At this, she giggled to herself.

“Then no harm done. Despite your little joke, I still wish revenge on the ponies who have stood against us both. All of them, if we can do it.”

At these words, the Witch laughed. “All of them? You may scare a few townsfolk, little breezie, but there are powerful ponies more terrible even than me. It would be a foal’s errand to try and take them on.”

Despite her strong words, she was thinking to herself and licking her lips at the thought. The King was sure now that he had her.

“Not if we were to sneak up on them,” he said. “Make us big and walk like ponies. Let us sneak among them and feed off their miserable love and friendship. Then, we will tear their towns apart from the inside, and we will all have our revenge upon them. If you swear to grant us our taste of food, then my subjects will follow you anywhere.”

The Witch listened and stared at him with shock. She sat down upon her ooze and chewed over his words, but he could see from the glint in her emerald eyes that she was simply delaying to save face. Finally, she stood up again.

“Very well, O King of the Changelings,” she spat, and she reached down and tore off one of her own horseshoes and dropped it in the cauldron’s brew. “Ponies you shall be. But this is the last deal we make. You’re far too clever by half for such a small-brained bit of vermin.”

At these words, the King felt his head stretch and widen, and he was full of more life than he had ever felt before. His antennae forced themselves into his head, but then his limbs bulged and rose with muscle, and he howled with laughter and surprise as the eggshells that once held him shattered and his thorn was lost to a gigantic hoof. He turned, and all around him were his subjects standing by, some in pony form and some still bearing the black armour and vapid blue eyes of the Witch’s curse.

“Imagine how much fun I’ll enjoy,” he said to the Witch who had also grown slightly and now towered over him, “once I can dine on the flesh of a rosy apple again. How sweet would it be, O Queen of the Changelings?”

But this time he had gone too far.

The Witch held back a cry of rage with a sweet smile, and she invited his subjects over and promised to kidnap the first foal from the first town they came across, the better to try their powers and work their way up to the greatest prize of all. Every breezie cheered at the news, for they still pined for a really good raid, and all of them were dreaming of the sorceress screaming under their vengeful stings.

The King himself kicked the wall of ooze away and went through the hole to peer out of the cave. He could see the midday sun through the canopy, and he sighed, for he would never forget the joys of a true feast.

“I wish,” he whispered to himself, “that I had never drawn all this upon myself. That Witch is too tricky by far. And to hurt others for fun!”

He could not forget the look on his loyal friend’s face. The King felt he should have been the one to dive into the cauldron, for it had been his choice to go to the cave. Then the cackling of that Witch echoed inside his head, and his heart turned to stone.

He swore there and then that he would seek out the sorceress… and then he would try and understand what had suddenly become a complicated world. This Witch was not someone he felt he could trust anymore, and when he heard her cackle, he could hear the echo of his own hearty laughter behind it. Well, no more, he thought.

“But first,” he said, and as he spoke the cruel grin warmed him like the campfire of a long-forgotten feast, “I will put my cruel skills to good use. Tonight, when this cackling monster sleeps, I will rid the world of her and plunder her cave for anything we can use. I shall take her own weapons and burn her soul out of this world and thus purge my soul of its canker. Only then will I sow my new life: on the ashes of the old. Just one more raid, and then we begin again. Fate can allow me that much.”

Unfortunately, the Witch's eyes glowed blue, and her face appeared on the ooze behind him. Despite its death, the ugly insect sniggered from beyond the grave. Her ears twitched upon hearing this vow. She uttered a silent curse and peered out across the swampy land, almost seeing the fumes as she invoked their many names.

Soon, the weight of sleep was upon the King as the fumes of the forest billowed over the mud and worked into his mind. Surprised at his own yawning mouth and drooping eyelids, he nevertheless bowed to his body's wishes and went back inside to rest. Before long, all the changelings were overcome by the fumes, and one by one they sank onto the ooze and slept.

That night, as the entire colony slept and the King was troubled by dreams of his planned betrayal, the Witch drew a silver knife from a crevice within her cave. She hated the mere sight of him, and every twitch of his troubled face seemed to mock her.

“You’re too clever by half,” she hissed, and she made sure the dreams troubled him no more.

Thereafter, the oath-bound subjects woke and found that there was no King of the Changelings. There was only the Queen.