//------------------------------// // Loveless and Love-Starved // Story: He never had so sweet a Changeling // by Gabriel LaVedier //------------------------------// Vanilla Torte was poorly named. He was an off-white unicorn with a modest eggshell mane and tail, born from a long line of middle-to-high terrace Canterlot chefs and bakers. His flank bore a torte pan and vanilla bean, and he was, indeed, quite the accomplished baker, if he did say so himself. And if the reviewers in Canterlot said so. But despite the high praise and the adulations, and the obvious skill, his heart wasn’t in it. It never really was into much. He had worked in Le Chateau Gascon, a third terrace restaurant of some note, and been in much demand. But he just petered out into nothing, moodily going through the motions as time went on, collecting his praises with the same mechanistic impassivity as he accepted his pay. He had made the papers in a section beside restaurant reviews when he walked away from it all. A tabloid or two even took notice of it, speculating on causes. As he had taken all his savings and let his trust fund funnel into an interest-bearing account, the usual explanations fell flat. Salt or booze addiction, nervous breakdown, shady business deals. Nothing explained the clear-minded actions or the leaving of money to build up. It was as though he had intentionally just cut himself off entirely and vanished into thin air. But of course, nopony ever actually vanished into thin air. They just went away for their own reasons. Vanilla had grown tired of his passionless life and walked away, taking funds to keep body and soul together. He had purchased a small home in one of the sparse, ill-defined communities at the base of Canterlot’s mountain, placed far enough away from the area to be comfortable but not far enough that he was wholly alone. His neighbors were a fair canter around the mountain base, but he could reach them inside one day and get back home before it got too dark, during the summer. He had a fair-sized garden, which grew lush greenery for fresh food, despite not being an earth pony. He just seemed to have good luck with that. His home had two levels and from the outside looked like any cozy pony-made home. Inside it was the same, made of wood with small touches of stone. His floors were bare save for area rugs in some of the rooms. His living room was nicely decorated but nothing special, home to a sofa, a comfy chair, a low table and fireplace. His dining room was set for two, though used by one. His kitchen, though using only wood-burning appliances, was well stocked. He could very easily use it to relive his triumphs. His spare room had been made into a den with large fireplace and several well-stocked bookshelves. His bedroom was upstairs, together with a guest room that stood, tended but forever unused. He was cut off from Canterlot, despite his proximity, and received infrequent reports form his family. He knew, vaguely, something Royal was to happen. But as he didn’t know when, and as it had nothing to do with him, he didn’t take much notice of what it was. All he really noticed was one day, around when it might have happened, the day turned drear and stormy. Rain pounded and thunder boomed. He even thought he had heard one particularly earth-shattering thundering and flash of lighting so powerful it almost seemed like it should have hit right beside him. The only thing that did hit was something out in the yard. - - - ‘This day is going to be perfect…’ That was what she had told them. Their queen. Their mother. Their protector and sustainer had told them their long days of privation and agony were over. With one great surge of power and daring, and sacrifice, they would feast and gorge. They would have all the love they could handle, and more. They would be victorious. They would be safe. They were nothing of the sort. Their dear mother and queen had lied. They were devastated. But worst of all, beyond the failure and lies, they had been separated. Beyond anything else, nothing hurt a Changeling like being cut off from the swarm. It was not merely a separation; drones and workers left and returned all the time. It was more fundamental. Those that left were understood to be going somewhere, their fellows in the swarm knew they were out. There was communication before, and greetings after. They did not ‘love’ one another as ponies understood it, which is how they could feed on love and not cannibalize feelings from each other; but they felt familial closeness. They were all one, after all. And in proximity, when out of their disguises, they were in concert, occupying an interpersonal space below hive-mind but above mere concordance. Changelings of the swarm automatically knew the desires of their near swarm mates by taking up subtle cues in their actions, tone and magical resonance. That was all gone. Those changelings that had not been knocked completely unconscious by the concussive force of magically-enhanced love were too battered and confused to transmit anything or receive anything. That was scary, but the other members were visible. Until the differences in position in the swarm and general strength of the repellant blast separated them. When they were no longer in sight there was only fear. ‘My name is Double Dealing. I am a worker of the swarm. I am a Changeling and that will never change. My name is Double Dealing. I am a worker of the swarm. I am a Changeling and that will never change. My name is Double Dea-…’ Double Dealing stopped trying to assure herself of her own identity as esoteric thoughts of losing identification through separation were pushed aside for thoughts of personal safety as the ground began to approach. Her chitinous shell would either protect her, or serve to scramble her insides. Or crack in a way softer covers would not, making injury worse. She barely noticed the surroundings as she hit the ground. Comforting spreads of alfalfa and timothy, and some standing heads of lettuce to absorb some impact of her slide. The soil was fertile and well-worked, and thus soft. Her angle of impact helped as well, of course. The combination meant she did not die, and her flexible chitin did not break. She was on the edge of unconsciousness, but was alive. She had churned up a good amount of mud and plant matter, getting caked nearly head to hind in it. She could feel it over her, covering her features and the holes in her limbs. She didn’t look like herself, a small comfort. All she needed to do was slip away while disguised and still conscious. The plan lasted until she made a move and felt her body alight with a flaming pain. Something had either been broken or been bruised badly enough to feel like it. Escape was impossible. She could see a light through the caking mud and the haze of pain. Light meant civilization, and that meant ponies. The rain would reveal her for what she was if she did not fight through the pain. She crawled, coating herself in more dirt, trying not to scream. She had gone only a short distance before she heard a door open loudly, and heard a cry. Her hearing was fading. Everything was fading. Good. The pain was fading. She could escape. But her limbs felt weak. Weaker. Everything was weaker. She saw a shape, light and ghostly coming towards her. How appropriate. The end coming like a ghost. Her head fell one last time, and her eyes closed. The shape approached. She could feel it. The last thing she felt was a touch. Then it all went away. - - - The cold, empty drifting was something far worse than the nothingness of pure unconsciousness. In that time she had no awareness. There was nothingness, just the momentary snap from pained fading to aimless drifting. She wafted on eddies in the void, blowing like a leaf in the wind, waiting for some anchor of stability to appear before her huge and helpless eyes. It came in the form of a sensation. A feeling both inside her own body and outside of it. A feeling that permeated the dark world of drifting. The sensation of softness beneath her, of an obvious weight that pushed her into something warm and comforting. It was more than the padded dirt and ooze of the hive. She knew the sensation. It was a bed… Her eyes barely opened, mind seizing control of her form as soon as she had a real, concrete thing in her mind and on her body. She could see a bed, covered in colorful cloth but caked in dirt. The slight motion of one limb showed she, too, was covered. All the holes of her form were disguised, her entire body was in a cheap and quick covering. Some parts of her, no doubt, were exposed, but in panic and hurry they would look like mere black patches. Her horn was visible but her wings were pasted down and hidden. The decision had practically been made for her. She merely finalized and formalized it by completing the action implied by everything. She used some bit of her reserve and activated her horn, green light washing down over her body under the mud. She became what she seemed. A black unicorn mare, with a black mane. Her Cutie Mark was a hand of cards and its mirror image. Her usual default for a random body. Her disguise formalized, and set to protect her should her clueless benefactor return, she set about testing her battered body. The bruises that seemed to cover even inch of her body made it hard to tell what was truly hurt. Why did she have a chitinous shell if it could bruise? Her hind legs moved and were none the worse for wear. Her front legs moved but that shot a stabbing pain through her. The one on the side where she had landed was screaming at her. The underlying support structure was broken. In her current form, that meant the bone. Not bad for such a fall. She heaved a sigh and settled comfortably on the filthy bed. A filthy bed beat a tumulus, or the dark squalor of a dungeon. And it was unlikely to REMAIN filthy. She had been rescued by some figure, who would check on her in due time. They had probably left her in there, concerned about exacerbating any injuries. Either they would return with help or come to see if she was awake. They did return, finally. The door slowly opened to reveal a white unicorn. That explained the strange, ghostly presence. Double opened her eyes wide and gave a small motion, to give a hint that she was now awake and ready for tending. “You’re up. Good. How are you feeling?” He strolled into the room slowly, looking over the filthy body lying on his bed with a small bit of curiosity. It was almost as though something seemed wrong. “My… right foreleg. I think it’s broken. I may have bruised my ribs.” Her new voice was a surprise to her. Light, melodious, but not so much so that she sounded like a stereotypical “beautiful pony.” She sounded like somepony on the good side of normal. “I can get your leg splinted and set, but I’d prefer to have a doctor look at it. I’ll call for one as soon as possible. I’m glad you’re not too badly hurt. You looked like you hit the ground pretty hard. What happened?” A pause. What kind of Changeling was she? No cover story? Foolishness! Changelings lived and (sometimes) died based on the strength or weakness of their cover stories. She thought fast and considered the timing and proximity. “I was in an airship when the to-do happened in Canterlot. I was thrown over the side and managed to use some magic to undo a little of the speed. But it still hurt me.” Questions bubbled in the pony’s head; she could tell. The one that bubbled to the surface was the last one she expected. “What to-do in Canterlot?” Was he testing her? Feeling out her honesty? Did he know? She cautiously responded. “The royal wedding. There was a great deal of commotion and some kind of very grand light show. Overly grand if you ask me.” No mention of the invasion. She could claim ignorance later if anything came of it. “That sounds a bit more dangerous than what I would expect out of Canterlot. Then again, for a really big day, I wouldn’t be surprised. I think I heard about something like that. Anyhow, can you walk? I need to get you cleaned up and splinted before you get any worse.” Double nodded and slowly slid herself off the bed without using her injured leg. “Yes. I can.” She hobbled over and looked back. Empathy. Contrition. Pony things. “Sorry about your bed.” A laugh, and a shake of his head. “It’s a guest bed. And there were more pressing concerns at the time. It’ll be taken care of.” He leaned against her as she reached him, helping to keep her upright. “I’m Vanilla Torte.” “I’m D-” That was close. She had been focused on her leg, and making sure she did not pain herself. She had almost just blatantly given out her name. She needed something much more neutral, something very feminine and wealthy. “Dee Dee.” Crudely constructed but passable. “My name is Dee Dee.” Vanilla nodded a bit and slowly opened the door to his upstairs bathroom. The tub was low and well-fitted, but large enough for a pony to be well-washed. “I’m sorry, in advance. This might be hard, with your leg like that. And I don’t have any soaps and shampoos for mares. I live alone.” “That is not a problem. As much as I may dislike the close quarters and the rather… over-familiar contact, I am more moved by the desire to be clean.” A bit over-the-top. But it was pitch-perfect for a Canterlot snob. She had to ignore the pain from various points. It had, thankfully, faded down to a constant but tolerated ache that throbbed every so often. She slowly stepped into the tub. “I’ll start the shower for you and then give you some privacy, unless you think you can’t do it.” Even as he spoke, Vanilla ran the water, checking the temperature and carefully adjusting it. “It would be very difficult. And besides, I am used to being tended. Typically it is other mares but I will not refuse tending.” A lie. A bald-faced lie. She had not been tended since she was a larva. She toiled hard for the swarm, for the love she needed for sustenance. “Please, do wash me.” “Yes, my lady.” Vanilla laughed with a small shake of his head, horn taking up a washcloth and rubbing a quantity of soap on it. He then turned on the shower and let the water soak into the muddy, disheveled coat, mane and tail of the mare before the cloth was brought to bear against the dirty hide. “Goodness! Such a subtle touch. Are you some kind of professional spa worker?” She had been one, for a week. It was not a pleasant experience. So many rules and so much finesse required at all times. She had a grudging but real respect for such ponies. The magically-controlled cloth was working with the flow of water to both clean AND soothe. “No. I’m a baker. Was a baker. It takes a little bit of skill and care to get flaky pastry or rich desserts. I carry that over to the other things I do.” Vanilla soaped and wrung the cloth repeatedly, working from the head down. He revealed her horn, a delicate, perfectly black spiral, shining just a bit in its new cleanliness. Her mane, next, tangled and matted but finally clean. He moved slowly, delicately. “Much better.” "I thank you, mister Torte. Your subtle care pleases me." She had been one of such women before. It was miserable. She could scarcely draw love from all her interactions. There had always been an unspoken understanding that love had very little to do with anything. She had felt so dirty, back in the hive. So dirty. And she was a shape-shifting love-consumer; she was no succubus. Not that she could draw much food out of imitating such a beast. "Perhaps I should fire my current maid and hire you." “You’d be disappointed in pretty short order, miss Dee Dee.” The cloth came down her neck, Vanilla wiping away any trace of mud, carefully making sure there was nothing left but perfect cleanliness before the next spot was reached. “I don’t have passions for things like this. I have talent by accident but you’d never get me to be very enthusiastic about it.” She didn’t need to be told. She could feel it. There was almost nothing coming from him. Pony-based compassion and concern for another. But no other emotion. He was so cold in that respect. So like a Changeling to some degree. “Such a shame, sir. I could have made it worth your while. But at least you have your skills with cooking. If it is anything like this, you must be much in demand.” “Fast track in Canterlot. Le Chateau Gascon, where I baked for the likes of Fancy Pants, not to mention some kind of decorated constables personally known by her majesty Princess Luna herself.” More soap, more water, more scrubbing. The cloth was delicate and gentle along Dee Dee’s legs, especially the one that was broken. Smooth and perfect legs. Proper Canterlot beauty. “Written up repeatedly. Probably could have gone hoof-to-hoof with the likes of Doughnut Joe or the Cakes of Ponyville.” It was in every Changeling’s best interest to learn how to listen and pay attention very carefully. They were going in blind almost every time, and had to integrate themselves into the life of a complete stranger. Every subtle cue and slight mention meant everything. “I note you… seem to speak in the past very often. I take it that you… are not very much discussed in Canterlot any longer?” “Not… much.” Her chest and back appeared as the clinging mud was cleared away, his touch just as gentle over her bruised ribs. The delicate curve of an elegant back. “Mostly to speculate on why I left, to remember a particularly delicious treat or to spread unflattering rumors of breakdowns, addictions and illicit activities. I like it. It’s exciting. Certainly far better than the reality, simple passionlessness that led to me trotting away.” Passionless. She, a Changeling, a love-eating creature, had fallen into the care of a passionless pony, on whom she would rely for almost everything until she could get away on her own. The fates must have been mocking her. “How tragic. A career cut short by a matter of the spirit. What brought this on, do you suppose?” A pause. He probably never considered it. Then the cloth moved again, over her belly with gentle, respectful motions. Chaste and proper, understanding the limits of careful cleaning. “I think… it was always in me. A void. I was creating, and being praised for it. But it didn’t matter. It was only food. It still is. It mattered to those I fed, but not to me, because I was nothing special. Even if I had been top of the top, personal chef to Princess Celestia, she’d have another chef. There will always be a better one than me. It all just… I wanted to be. And I think I could only feel something if I thought it would matter and be completely special.” Double’s life was built on the quick assessment of situations, and knowing what every perception meant. She could feel the respect in the touch; it wasn’t practiced deference, mere submission to the social norms. Nor was he biased towards stallions, that would have been apparent to her as well. He genuinely cared about her personal spaces and respected her. Her own horn glowed and gently took the cloth from him, rubbing it on the soap and then working along the lowest part of her belly. “You want to be special? Doesn’t every pony want to be somehow special? Isn’t that what a Cutie Mark is for?” While the cloth was out of his control Vanilla took up a bottle of shampoo and liberally squirted it onto Dee Dee’s mane, his hooves moving in to gingerly work it up into a full lather, working it deep down into her scalp, to work the dirt up from there and out into the tub, to finish her mane off. His plumbing would complain. But he could afford it. “It’s just a special talent, something you’re good at. But that doesn’t mean I have a passion for it. Not anymore. I did, but it just faded away. Maybe if I could reach that special point. Ah, no need to bother you with my problems. Just need to get you clean and then splinted.” The cleaning was finally finished. Double slowly used her horn to direct water over her body and rinse off the suds remaining, then allowed the water to wash the dirt and shampoo out of her mane. She squirted out a bit and lathered it into her tail. “Speak freely. In thanks for your kind assistance I can surely offer you my ear for a time. Have you some sort of dryer?” “I have fireplaces downstairs. Up here I can only offer you towels and some magical heat. I learned to make a certain amount of flame and directed heat in service of cookery.” Vanilla rinsed off the tail and shut off the water, levitating over three towels and a first aid kit from the tucked-away linen closet. “I need to go find some things I can use as splints. Dry off as best you can, and then I’ll be back in to set and wrap that leg, split it then wrap it again. Tomorrow I’ll contact the local doctor. He should be able to get out here quickly.” Double nodded as Vanilla left, her magic lifting a towel and wiping it slowly over her form, wrapping another towel around her mane to start the drying process. She could transform, wipe her cuticle and be done with it, but he would surely notice. She just dried herself off as best she could, and finally contemplated her fate. She had escaped from serious harm. She had been very lightly hit by the love wave and was still somewhat by Canterlot. She was not badly injured, but was still injured. But most importantly, she had not been discovered. Her rescuer, this Vanilla, did not know of the invasion, but better he know little than risk him knowing anything that could hurt her. If she could feed on his caring she could maintain her necessary functions, together with the supplement of actual food. Changelings ate emotions because their place of habitation had little food, and distilled emotion could be shared easily. But their bodies could still metabolize other things, it was just far less satisfying. Her position was secure. She would recover and be gone. Down on the lower floor Vanilla was tightly binding wooden skewers with tough rubber tape after snipping their sharp ends. Makeshift, but passably good. They would suffice until the doctor had a look at her. He started back up, but hesitated. He would help her, as much as it hurt to do so. His loss of interest in his career had been his own doing. But his abandonment of Canterlot had been the fault of Canterlot. He could have lived there, in some low terrace. But the place did not suit him. The fakery, the falsehood, the sheer artificiality of all the finest ponies killed his spirit by leaps and bounds, helping along what was naturally spiraling down. It pained him. And here it was again. He had seen her in his garden. He had been panicked. But he knew what he saw. And what he had felt. An unspiraled-horn, and a firm, smooth body. Somehow, she had found a way to change. To lie to him with her whole body. In time, he would know why.