Changeling

by Criticul

Façade

Between the emotional swings and the raw, sticky heat of the midmorning sun, Luna had been left with little strength to continue marching through the woods. Fortunately, she had planned for it—as she always does.

And if there was to be one thing for Luna to be proud of, it was her ability to plan for everything. Even in the earliest sparks of a desire, she could trace a path in herself that would lead her unto that last moment of joy before time revealed another trophy.

Mark every point and consider every variable—it was all an intricate, never-ending game of calculations and blank faith. Today, it was about a sense of absolution—no different than if she was searching for something tangible like water or gold. Her plans would still follow the same formula: barriers, timeframes, strategies, and variables sat like chess pieces waiting to be pushed. Each entity was constructed by numbers—statistics and probabilities—sending spikes through the mind of the strategist.

Luna’s mind was, however, gummed up by the insufferable mugginess.

But again, she had planned for this; there was a small gap in the forest—an empty circle of grassland carved out of the southwestern Everfree. It had taken a while for her to orient herself with the breach, but after an hour’s hike, the tree-line gave in to seas of unending green.

Hypnotized, the princess wandered through the fields until she came upon a rogue Oak tree, where she promptly dropped her gear and returned to the insanity of the crimson journal. Luna rested her head against the tree so that she could stare into the open plains, but rarely did she find the time to break away from the red book, and when she did, it was for little more than a bite of apple.

It was the only variable she had not considered—the only entity that lay between the white and black pieces of the board, carrying in it no color but blank crimson. Who could have written such a blasphemous, glorious little story? What sort of creature would have found so much pain in a near-perfect country?

Luna peered down at the book, which remained at rest upon her sternum. A flicker of anger crawled through her head, joined quickly by the sense of dread. But it was not the sort of dread that came from ghosts or noises in the night—she knew those all too well, and this was certainly not of the sort.

There was something about the book that prompted her to hate its author, even though she had read more than two pages. It was not magic or enchantment, but a plain, straight response that emerged whenever the princess looked at the damned thing. Perhaps it was because she could not understand it, or perhaps it was the way that the author could find flaws in the world—flaws that she never saw before—that she had never truly considered.

Luna pried the book open and held it above her, allowing the unbound pages spill across the grass. There! She had gutted the thing! All that it was or ever will be was strewn across the field as though it were nothing more than litter.

But even when it was in pieces, the thing clung to her skull. The princess snagged the pages just as quickly as they fell, gathering them in one final, disheveled mass.

Inside the binding, a few pages still hung in place. Surprisingly, the journals belonged to the earliest dates—the first rants of the insane—which was in itself an enigma, considering that the first pages are usually the most frequently tugged and pressed.

The princess returned the book to its place upon her sternum but kept it open.

Something was in here—something sickening. It had to be.

--~~--
Im I’m not sure how to start, so I’m just going to write, if that’s OK with you. Maybe I’ll come back later and fix this, but then again, I’ve nevr never been too good at making fixes. And judging from how long it already took me to write this much, I’d say that I’ll never have the kind of alone time to figure out a good way to do it.
But those kind of things have always been my demons weaknesses, I guess. No ambition! There’s alwheys always a way around to lie. There’s always an excuse to hide the truth.
Except with poetry—no, that’s something I’ve always loved about verse. No matter how I write the opening, if it represents my emotion, it’s a success. Never do I feel a constraint I lie about my beliefs, except when writing under the eyes of others.
Oh! That reminds me! I was able to scratch this down this morning while Spring was out in the garden. Something about her just prompted a curiosity of mine—a passion, I guess you could say. Here it is…
I saw her in the garden
The goddess of Spring
Standing beside the wall of chains
She looked at me
Cold skin
Eyes riddled with sorrow
I did not ask her how
She was left here
But I still walked to her
And I asked her
Her name
If only to remember
She told me she had none
Because names made memories
Which she desired to be without
I told her mine
She laughed
Sow seeds, young Barlowe
And I never stopped working there
Because I still knew
A name that I still doubt
I’m not sure if it came out well, but I’m sure proud of it. With any luck, I’ll get back to writing these little pieces with no trouble, but I couldn’t really count on it. There is quite a bit of work to do in the manor, and no matter how hard I work, there’ll always be another distraction to take care of.
Anyhow, I seem to have completely missed the point of the journal. Damnable pride.
My name is Barlowe, which, if you didn’t already realize, was in the poem. I live with my wife, Spring, who worked up the bits to buy a little home of our own. It’s a nice place, really—a small manor far away from the rabble of the city. Spring said that we would be better here with more time together or something like that.
But what I didn’t know And we certainly have been together quite a bit. Neither of us have left the house since we moved in; Spring is “ordering” everything to be carried here by cart, which is surprising considering that we’re so far from anypony else. To be honest, I have no idea where she could have gotten the bits for it, but strangely, I don’t care. For once in my life, I feel at peace.
No more expectations.
No more worries about money.
No more pain.
It was a pain greater than death is nice here.
--~~--

Luna stared emptily into the pages, mind churning over the messages. She saw the code from the beginning—the strange way that the words were highlighted or replaced. She did not take the author to be stupid enough to make such careless errors, nor did she believe that the highlighted words were of any real significance other than their relationship as a whole.

What she received was a simple document riddled with lies and desperation—a stallion found a paradise that he began to doubt. She had heard something similar before: a false joy constructed to drag its victims into dull love. But it seemed that “Barlowe” knew about the creatures long before they’d ever shown their face in Equestria.

And what of the poem? Luna flipped back to the short verse, scanning over each word in search of new messages. Could it be some sort of map? Could it be an allusion to an old folktale? No matter how she interpreted the author, she could not bear to take it as a love letter.

There were too many open ends, each in an uncanny code. Why it was that this one—this sole journal—was subject to the author’s cipher? She had seen the other pages: none shared in the secrecy. Either some were missing or the author had experienced a sudden turn of events that brought him out of the shadows, both possibilities being equally probable.

The princess sighed, gathering all the pages together before stuffing them back in the blood-colored journal. It was the sort of thing she would mull over in her free time, but nothing in it was critical just yet.

Trapped in a snare of heat and confusion, Luna continued to rest against the tree, watching the wind as it rolled over the grass-coated hills. She had found a nice spot along the fields: a place where she could see for miles. Every so often, she might see a pegasus float through the clouds, each one scanning through the grasses for something—some creature—that had escaped them.

Luna could only close her eyes with a smile. Were they looking for her? Had Celestia already begun the hunt?

Or were they standing beside their missing princess, searching for the one thing that she needed.

Given Celestia’s response to the Changelings, it would be safer to assume the former. Luna was safe under her Oak, but soon she would have to leave her home in the shadows—it was written in her plan. As soon as she finds what she is looking for, she’ll have to leave comfort and safety behind. From there, her hooves will be on thorns and needles, but she desired nothing less.

So she waited there under the tree for hours, keeping her mind trained on the movement of the winds. Planning and waiting were two very special talents of hers to say the least: time passed and still her eyes remained locked on the ebb and flow of the grass. Hunger came and went, as did boredom and thirst. Each little pain was pushed aside by raw focus.

But it did come in time.

Luna saw it long before it had exposed itself: a distortion in the grass, where the field refused to bend with the wind. The thing crawled across the hills, keeping its low and steady pace: the princess looked at herself, then the path of the creature. Inside the grass, she would have no way of knowing if she was near or far from the thing.

And if she were to get lost, there would be no flying out of it. So long as the pegasi were overhead, she could not risk revealing herself to the light. Her form was something of a contrast with the field—it would only take a moment for them to swoop down and distract her.

For a moment, Luna imagined the horribly awkward moment that likely stood before her. She imagined the pegasi rolling down to meet her, attempting to catch her in conversation while one of them went out to fetch their first princess. She would dismiss them, but they would return with thoughtless responses.

“Take a vacation. That’ll clear your mind.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to us. Come back.”

“Your sister misses you. Why would you want that?”

“What do you want?”

That had to be the worst one—that last one. What was it that she wanted? Here she had begun a journey of longing, and they could only ask what she wanted, despite already knowing. See, that was the problem. They knew what she wanted, but rather than asking why or how, they asked again about what she wanted.

Absolution was something they just didn’t understand. Personal reasons just seemed illogical and, therefore, were not answers. That was the problem: none of them understood matters of virtue, except, perhaps, Celestia or the guards. Any other civilian would have been distracted with the concept of physicality.

Set an objective.
Accomplish the objective or fail it.
Celebrate or recuperate.
That’s all they ever knew: just that. It bugged the princess—it crawled under her skin: the idea that somepony could be so hollow. Sometimes, when she could not sleep, Luna would crawl upon the issue, but to no avail.
Why continue? Why was it so important to keep on doing these little objectives when the rewards were almost as evanescent as the objectives themselves? She had never met a mare in the country who was completely content with what they have. There always has to be progression or change—previous objectives are too soon forgotten, and so are their rewards.
It was always about the here and now.
They never remember that they forget.
They never remember that all their life was just a progression—a wave—of highs and lows, joined together by “rewards” or “recollection.”
Luna bit her lip as she calculated the speed and direction of her target as it moved through the grass. Meanwhile, her mind clashed within philosophical bounds, predicting the outcomes of her failure and the humiliation along with it. The two reinforced themselves: the logic and the imagination. Emotions sharpened her logic with a serrated edge, and logic extrapolated upon her emotions, creating the reasons why she knew she had to succeed.

The princess stuffed everything back in her saddlebag before gathering her thoughts. The philosophies—the numbers—both faded into nothing, as though they were never needed. All that remained was her honed instinct and a plan: a sprint through blind grass that would end with her at her objective.

And if she was wrong, then it would be the end of her: the end of her self-respect. She would be forced to crawl back to Canterlot, where she would be watched day in and day out. Solitude would no longer be granted to her.

The princess swallowed.

Timing was key.

Calculated motion: a ceaseless sprint to her objective, which crawled upon the hills less than a mile away—the earliest of struggles in this insanity she called “wish.”

Luna took a breath and pounded into the soil, which crumbled under her adrenaline-fueled break.

But for all her speed, she could not outrun the thoughts that rested at the back of her mind like a cancer.

Failure. Humiliation.

Weakness.
--~~--

Another step—another bloody gasp for air—and the creature collapsed. Drifting between reality and its own subconscious, the changeling rolled itself over into the mud. Gore dripped from its severed wing: the light would soon come.

The changeling waited in silence, breathing painfully as the grass whispered in its ear.

“Not yet,” it whispered. “Not yet.”

Or perhaps that was just a bit of its dying imagination. The creature rolled its head to the side; a pair of blue eyes looked down with disappointment. Though, it was hard to say—changelings were certainly not characters of emotion.

And it took Luna quite some strength to keep her resolution; the creature would bleed dry in a matter of minutes—that is, if she were to respond properly.

To respond with coldness—disinterest. Such was the burden of the changeling: one she readily accepted.

The princess could only sigh and stare down at the confused, bloodied creature. Her skin tingled with energy; she did not have long to practice such magic, but it was her only hope.

Luna knelt beside the creature; it had already succumbed to bloody torpor.

From the blue, lifeless eyes of the changeling, Luna watched the creature drift out of consciousness.

Her face was masked by the dark chitin—her wings stripped of bone. All that she was—all that anyone knew her by—was erased, at least until she could reclaim a name she truly deserved.
And in a foreign wind, she felt happiness.
She had a name worth doubting.

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