i count my blessings
War ain’t pretty.
That’s something that was taught to me real early on in life. I’ve never been one to take things for granted, and every night before supper, I count my blessings. Kept on it just the same all throughout my years of living—if you could even call them that. A quiet, thoughtful moment while sniffing the food to think of everything I love and how quickly it could be taken away from me. Then came the gratitude that I still had them. Never take anything for granted.
Easy to say, I think, and harder to do, but I always did my best. Especially as a young colt, Ma told me to be thankful. Be thankful that my “shit for brains pa” ain’t here anymore. Up and left us. At least that’s what she always told me. I don’t really remember him, though I reckon that was for the best. All I can remember was the beating and the drinking and the crying. I don’t want to remember that.
I guess I don’t have to. Especially not here. So I count my blessings. I’m glad I’m alive. I’m glad my wife is safe at home. I’m glad my kids have grown into wonderful ponies. I’m glad they’re safe, even the young’un. At least, I hope so. I don’t like to speculate.
I’m glad my troop mates are breathing. I’m glad we haven’t seen much action in the field yet, and I’m glad for these rations that keep us fed. I wonder if they come from home, too.
My eyes slide open as I take in the meal in front of me. You can really hardly call it that, to be honest. It’s like a pile of mush that vaguely smells like fruit. Mostly, it smells like that syrup it’s dunked in to keep it from spoiling in the can. But hey, any eating is good eating. The dingy, fluorescent light flickers above us, and we all collectively sigh as we each take the time to scarf down our meals.
Next to me is possibly the most trustworthy stallion I’ve ever known. He’s been my friend since foalhood and he’s never once left my side. Burnt Oak’s his name. Good to have on my team; his coat’s the colour of mud and he blends in really well with all those grays and camo they make us wear. I stand out a bit more, what with my buttery coat and bright red mane. That’s why Mama called me Bright McIntosh, after all. But hey, that gray and camo I mentioned? Helps with the blending in. Mostly.
The canned apples aren’t that great, but they’re better than the peaches we eat sometimes. The almost rancid taste makes me frown with every bite, though. Whatever, better than nothing, I guess.
“Hey, Mac?”
With a mouth full of apples that taste like they’ve been candied in manure, I turn to look at Oak. “Yeah?” He looks tired. His blue eyes are sunk into his head, framed with the shadows of many sleepless nights. I wonder if I look like that too.
Oak, for his part, at least manages to appear strong. He looks at me with those intense eyes. “When do you think this fight will be over?”
I frown. Not because of the apples this time. At least, not fully. I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat, which was mostly the apples, and shrug. “I dunno, Oak,” I admit quietly, glancing around at the room of other stallions and mares, each sharing the same wish. “It’s hard to say. We gotta just go one day at a time.”
He doesn’t say anything, just nods. I notice he doesn’t say much. Probably why his voice is so deep and silky, or at least that’s what Ma would say. Stallions of few words tend to have that nice, deep voice. I wish I talked less as a kid. Hah.
My oldest is like Burnt Oak. They all even call him Uncle Oak, but Little Mac takes after him the most. Or, I guess Big Mac. He hasn’t been little for a long time. Big Mac is just like Oak—strong, sturdy, dependable, and doesn’t say much. I guess you could say he’s like a tree himself. Both of them.
I finish up my meal and excuse myself from the group. We sit in what you could call a bunker when we aren’t outside. It’s like we’re in waiting, but it doesn’t feel like we’re the hunters. I climb the stairs and sit behind the walls of rock, still in cover, but in the cool breeze of the outside. It’s dark and cloudy, but it’s always like this. It’s like there is no sun, just a dim lamp where it should be, hidden by smog and smoke and clouds that beg to be watered.
A heavy sigh escapes from my throat as I lean against my usual spot and reach into the little pocket built into the sleeve of my uniform. Inside is a locket with a picture of my family in it. I open the loose compartment easily and chide myself for not fixing it. Regardless, seeing the ponies I love makes me smile. The beautiful grin on my wife’s face is easy to mimic, and I gaze longingly at my kin. Ma isn’t in the picture, but my kids take up the room anyway. I wish they were still little, but two of them are full-grown ponies now. At least little Apple Bloom is still young. From my Buttercup’s letters, though, it seems she and Apple Bloom were sent to a safe spot up in the north. I wish they had taken Little, I mean Big, Mac and Applejack, though.
But somepony’s gotta keep us fed.
And just like Oak, those two are so dependable.
Inside that little locket is everything I am thankful for. I close it gently and swiftly tuck it back in its pocket.
My short-lived break is forced to an end as I heave myself back up onto my hooves. Just as I’m about to reenter the musky hideaway, though, a strange noise catches my attention. My ear flicks at its subtle, yet noticeable, disturbance and my head swivels back just in time to notice a single black speck in the horizon. No, wait. I squint, and I realize that it’s not just one. There’s a whole group of them flying toward us! It hits me, then, what that noise was. Wings. Gross, buggish wings.
“Hey! Hey!” I trot down the stairs as I yell at my companions. “Changelings!”
In perfect unison, they all perk up, training and instinct kicking in. Almost instantly, I notice myself and my peers all geared up within a matter of seconds. I set into position and we charge out of the bunker. I’m careful not to accidentally trigger the hidden knife and stab it into the ground, or worse, my own hoof, and we meet the murky, dying daylight again.
The hissing noise of changelings fills the air, literally, as they overshadow us. We only have one pegasus in our group, and he takes to the sky without hesitation. I focus my gaze on one of them before they can even try to confuse us. Right in front of me, he turns into a mirror copy of Star Spur, one of the stallions fighting right by my side.
We have an advantage, though. The outfits we wear are threaded with magic, and they glow slightly when changeling magic is nearby. I’ve never seen a changeling able to replicate that.
I quickly bring up my guard and trot forward, ready to strike. There isn’t much an earth pony like me has other than size and brute strength, and Celestia as my witness, I intend to use as much of it as I can. The changeling once again changes, this time turning into Thunderlane to gain an aerial advantage. I duck right before it can swipe me with a hoof and turn around just as some kind of bugbear is slamming down on me. On my bracer, there’s a blade. With quick, practiced precision, I unsheathe it and stab forward, catching the changeling in the leg.
Green, sticky liquid bleeds out from the wound, odd against “Thunderlane’s” dark coat. In the changeling’s hesitation, I reach up and bring it slamming to the ground. With my sharp blade unsheathed, I strike down and catch it in the back. With a flash of green and a pained hiss, it reverts back to its original, chitinous form and tries to squirm away.
Before I can even do anything, a flash of purple shoots a neat, little hole through the changeling’s skull. I quickly trace the origin back to Amethyst Star. Though, with her clever use of magic, the nickname Sparkler is well earned. I give her a thankful nod and trot away, trying to erase that image from my mind.
My eyes scan the area, and I’m happy to see that most of my group is holding their own against the changelings. I see Thunderlane swooping from above, while two changelings are held down by blue magic. The sound of magic and death fills the air. I push it away.
My next focus is on a sole changeling pretending to get by disguised as a mouse. It would have been a great disguise, if not for the telltale green blood leaking from a cut on the side. Through the fighting and chaos, I push through and to my target, who notices my arrival and turns into a giant bear instead. It catches me off guard and I shy away from a hefty set of claws.
Still, though, I feel the ripping of fabric and flesh as it digs into my forelegs. With a yelp of pain, I fall back and look at my wounds. They drip warm and red, but it’s not horrible. I can still stand at least. Enraged by my pain and fueled by the adrenaline that’s running its way through my veins, I push forward once again, standing on bloodied hooves, and push against the changeling bear as hard as I can. It lashes out once more, but the claws barely scratch the surface of my back before another pony joins the fight.
Stood atop the toppled-over bear is Burnt Oak, my lifeline. He jabs the bear in the shoulder and drags along its side with a speed that I could barely understand. The changeling reverts to something smaller: a wolf, and turns over, now pinning down Oak.
Snapped out of my pain, I roar and buck the changeling away with heavy, well-practiced hooves. I glance at Oak and wordlessly help him up. We nod at each other and press forward together. The changeling charges back, now flanked by three of its own. None of them bother with the disguises and instead bare their long, jagged teeth at us.
The lead changeling is the first to move. It flies to us and extends a hoof with a long blade strapped to it. With the view I got, I noticed that it was from one of our own. I can’t even bring myself to wonder what could have happened there before another changeling pins me down beneath a surprisingly strong set of hooves. Its tongue flickers at me as it hisses, and my only reaction is to swipe.
My knife slices the changeling’s throat, stopping its hiss dead in its tracks. Blood squirts from it, gurgling and bubbling out as a single, hole-filled hoof reaches up to its neck. I shut my eyes as another gush of blood sprays out, covering me in it. I push it off of me and gag at the feeling and odour of changeling blood on my body. There’s no time to worry about it, though.
The flying changeling returns, except this time I can’t avoid it. A blade slices through my shoulder, and I instantly feel the pain of muscle being torn and blood oozing from the wound. I reach up to touch the wound and my hoof returns covered in even more blood. It makes me dizzy, but I have to prevail.
Burnt Oak yells something at me, and I look over just in time to see him push back a gored changeling, a long gash on its side deep enough for a waterfall of green, murky blood to stream from it. He points up over me and takes a step back.
I see it in almost slow motion. The bag is detailed with the symbol of a bombsmare. Possibly Sparkler’s. My eyes quickly dart around. I don’t even see her. As Oak’s hoof steps down on the saddlebag, I reach out quickly, as if there was something I could do.
“No!”
BOOM.
Burnt Oak is rendered into a splatter of red, and his insides spray all over me. I blink away gore and wipe away blood in time to see what was left of my best friend in a pile on the ground. Barely a leg and what could have been a part of his head. Red and pink litter the immediate area around him, and I am no longer green with changeling blood.
The changeling next to him was decimated as well, though it was very much more still intact as its body, missing its bottom half, reached out uselessly, and with a tiny flicker of green flame, failed to transform. Then, I noticed a changeling leg near me, and that made my stomach turn.
I heaved out vomit, tasting the apples that I had just eaten on their round trip back out of my body. The acid burns my throat, and before I can even process anything, I’m pounded to the ground from above once more. My face smashes into my own pile of puke as the ground makes a hard impact with my muzzle. The changeling brings down a sharpened blade onto my back, and I’m thankful for the armour I wear. Another blessing.
I whirl around, droplets of spit and blood and vomit flying from my muzzle, and crush the changeling beneath me. Pure instinct takes over and I snort in my effort to stand over it. The changeling hisses as I stomp down on its blade-wielding leg, and the misery of Oak all comes crashing down on me.
I see red, I feel red, and I am red.
I throw a punch, accented by my own blood before my hoof ever reaches the changeling’s face. Time stops around me as I stomp time and time again. Impact after impact, my hoof grows sore and green blood sprays everywhere. The changeling snarls and hisses and changes shape. It becomes Thunderlane. I hesitate, but I continue.
It isn’t really him.
This changeling, I noticed, was bigger than the others. It hisses words but I don’t care to make them out. In my head, all I can see is my best friend. I see him with my kids, with my wife, with my family. I see him, and he is family. I see him when I blink and when I shut my eyes from the blood dripping in them. I see him in that darkness, punch after punch and crack after crack.
I count my blessings. I’m thankful I’m alive… I’m thankful that my wife is alive, and my kids… I’m thankful for Burnt Oak, for saving me. I’m thankful that he will live on in my children.
I force my eyes open and blink away the red in them. The changeling hisses still, its face now battered and bruised. It won’t do. I can’t stop myself from pressing down all my weight on its neck. It writhes, but I’m bigger, and it can’t do anything. From Thunderlane, to Amethyst, to Burnt Oak.
Its breath runs out while he wears the face of my best friend.
Today, I found out that changelings don’t revert when you kill them.
I step away from the impostor and stand on shaky hooves. I’m covered in blood of two colours. I’m covered in green, and I’m covered in red. I feel like a holiday decoration, and the battlefield is the mantle. I look around, the blood loss finally getting to me. We aren’t doing so well anymore as far as I can see. I see Sparkler now. She’s on the ground, just like Star Spur, though he falls next to her. Thunderlane is alive, but I can see his tears and the way his hooves shake beneath him as he flies in circles around another changeling.
Then, I notice there are ponies everywhere. They must have come in from the other station placements. But for every pony, there are two more changelings. Magic and explosions fill the air, and all I can see are the remains of my best friend.
Three more changelings drop in front of me, and I jump back like a rabid dog. My mind swims a little bit, but I can’t let his death be in vain. I back up, trying to regain my composure, but it doesn’t come.
If death is coming, then I gotta go out fighting.
I stand my ground as best as I can. I can’t tell if I’m crying, or if it's blood that’s dripping off my face. There’s too much happening. The ground shakes at irregular intervals, and I hear death all around me, and yet, the changelings in front of me barely budge. They look at the ground for a moment, and then at each other. I prepare as best as I can, but assault doesn’t come.
Instead, in a coordinated flash of green, my family stands before me. My darling Pear Butter and our children, save for Apple Bloom. They stand there, looking at me, contrasted by the murky grays of battle and the sounds of war.
In Big Mac’s eyes, I see Burnt Oak’s spirit. In Applejack’s smile, I see his kindness. In my Buttercup’s presence, I see love, and I feel it.
“Take them back! Take them back!” A voice cuts in sharply. “Come on Mac! We got them!”
My gaze staggers to the voice – Thunderlane chases after a running changeling but continues yelling. “They’re going to retreat! Take them out!”
I look back at my family. How can I do that? I glance down at my foreleg, the sleeve now drenched in blood, and I realize that the pocket is ripped open. The locket is no longer in there.
Panicked, I look around, but all I see is Pear Butter holding it up in her hooves. No. Not Pear Butter. I see the changeling who is pretending to be her holding it. Behind her are… the other ones, and they all share the same twisted smile.
My head pulses and my heart aches as they approach, licking their sharpened teeth. Before I can do anything, though, a shot of purple drops my son. That causes Applejack, or the one who looks like her, to jump after Amethyst Star, who staggers back. “Get out of there or fight!”
She is pinned down by my daughter, and I can’t turn away in time to not see her throat be ripped out by those sharp teeth. There is no cry of pain as I watch Applejack rip her apart. And I’m left facing my wife, the love of my life. She bares her sharp teeth, and I need to remind myself that it’s not real.
“Come on and let’s end this!” she yells in a voice that’s very much not hers.
My training disappears, and I tremble like a newborn foal. Buttercup, or the thing that looks like her, approaches me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Applejack, covered in red blood, be taken out by an explosion of blue. The green that litters the ground reminds me it’s not real, and I turn to face the changeling in front of me.
“You ain’t my Buttercup,” I growl and will myself forward through the shaking limbs and blood loss. “I’ll take you down for her, just you wait.”
With that the changeling runs forward and lunges, leading teeth first into an attempt to bite. I gain a second wind and manage to avoid it just barely, though I can’t get my knife out in time. I twirl back around and my head spins with the effort. I see double, two of my wife coming after me. For a split second, I almost embraced it, but the reminder of sharp teeth bring me back to reality and I instead reach out with my blade.
It stabs deep into her—its stomach, and with a hiss, a cough of green drips from the peach coat that belongs to my wife. I clench my eyes shut. I can’t look. That earns me a whack to my face that almost knocks me back, but I stand as strong as I can.
I force my foreleg up and dig through the soft coat of Buttercup. I imagine anything else, but all I see are the ponies I love dying. I see Burnt Oak explode, I see my son drop, and I see my daughter, covered in somepony else’s blood, crumple. Tears roll out of my eyes as I open my eyes again. I can’t even tell what’s real anymore.
Pear Butter, my wife, bleeds out at my doing right in front of me, and all I can do is continue my carving until her guts spill out. They’re all the wrong colour, and soon, I am left staring at the gutted corpse of a thing that looks like my wife. I’m surrounded by the ponies that I love, and I’m surrounded by their death.
And the sound of war grows louder, and the sound of death grows louder. I shut my eyes and shake off the bracer with the knife. My blood spills onto the ground with it. I take a step back, and I look at what I’ve done. I look at the gored remains of my wife, discoloured in the places that matter, and I can’t help but turn my head and wretch. I see red, I feel red, and I am red, but it’s like there’s no more in me. I’ve bled it all out.
Only bile comes up as I crumple to my knees and vomit all over again. Every time I blink, I see the death of my family, of my best friend. But it’s not real. It’s not real.
The world spins around me, and there are muffled noises. If what Thunderlane said is true, then we should be winning, or at least better. But I don’t know if I’ll see it. All I see is red, death, and anguish. I hear ponies approach me, and say something about medical attention, but none of that matters anymore.
As the pain in my body slows to a stop, I count my blessings.