Strange, isn't it? The things that go through one's mind as he is about to meet death?
Or, perhaps put more accurately, as death was about to meet him; and it came in the form of a large rock face that jutted up out of the desert like a shark fin, but larger, more square, and much more solid. The other changelings were going to hit sand or perhaps the sagebrush, and what did Hrit get? Hrit got a rock.
He couldn't help but grin wryly at that realization. Lucky him.
He attempted to regain control of his fall again, as he had many times before, but as he had discovered before, his membranous wings were simply not strong enough to force himself upright. They’d been designed for hovering, not crash-recovery, and especially not at these speeds. Funny. You'd think evolution would have figured this kind of thing out.
Then again, evolution had never seen such an explosion of love, either. There was a sense of irony in this whole thing, really. A changeling invasion, stopped by the one thing they enjoyed feeding on the most? That's like an army of ponies being stopped by haybales.
Actually, now that Hrit thought about it, that had happened. Memories of when he had taken the form of a younger colt and snuck away to school came to mind. The battle had pitted Sable Silk (a unicorn who was a much better peacetime ruler than army general) against an army of earth ponies. Problem was, he had decided to attack in the winter, and the earth ponies had the food supply while the unicorns did not. The earth ponies bided their time until the unicorns were nearly starved, and then offered to trade haybales for peace. Sable Silk was found dead in his tent the next day. Of course, that wasn't exactly the same, but still. Fairly similar.
He also remembered his failed attempts of hitting on the teachers when he had been there at that school. Apparently, there were all kinds of rules and regulations and stuff that he hadn't known about that prohibited such relationships (but which had earned him an appointment or two with the school counselor). Shame, really. Some of those older mares were probably excellent lovers and probably a bit lonely, which made for a perfect combination for a changeling seeking to harvest some love.
Love. Hrit grinned. Such a funny concept when you thought about it. Seems like every creature wanted some love. Sure, ponies could love life, love their jobs, love their families; but romantic love (widely considered by changelings to be the most filling of all the types) was sought by all. Everypony wanted somepony to cuddle with, somepony to make them breakfast, or somepony they could make breakfast for. Somepony who would be there in the morning... unlike Hrit; who, as he hardly needed to sleep, could simply feed and then wait until his partner had fallen into REM sleep before slipping out unnoticed into the night.
It had been frighteningly easy sometimes, choosing a target. Always the mare off to the side, always the unloved one, the one passed over when everypony else was asked to dance. Easy pickings. Of course, he could pick up stallions, too, if he chose to take the form of a female, but Hrit had been born male and preferred to stay that way.
Maybe it was cruel? Choosing the weak and helpless, was that a bad thing to do? Hrit paused (as best he could while flying carapace over teakettle) as this occurred to him for the first time in his life. Was he a bad creature? Was he... evil? Were changelings as a species evil? He certainly didn't mean to be. He was just hungry.
Or maybe he was not. He recalled a biology lesson from his younger days. Did anyone fault the wolves for choosing the weak and sickly? No, they called it 'nature' and 'so fascinating'.
At least he didn’t kill his targets. Did the mares he fed on not enjoy the relationship? Would they not look back and think, 'for one shining moment, a colt actually cared about me'? If that wasn't beneficial, Hrit didn't know what was.
Or maybe--and this was most likely--it was merely a fact of life. He needed to feed. They needed to love. Perhaps their relationship was more of a symbiotic one than a parasitic one.
Hrit thought back on his life. He remembered soon after his hatching. Even as a nymph, he had shown great prowess for imitation. He had grown tall and lanky, perfect qualities for infiltration. Though no one would accuse Hrit of being chosen as the next recipient of 'queen's breeding choice' award, he certainly was not unattractive (though the ponies he had loved, left, and lived with certainly would have disagreed with that had they seen his true form).
Hrit shook his head even as the rock wall neared. Silly ponies. Fighting so hard to find love and in the weirdest places. Ponies who had a list of qualities they looked for in a mate--tall, athletic, pegasus, sports cutie mark--somehow ended up happily with a short, well-read earth pony with a painting cutie mark. To Hrit, it seemed like ponies didn't even know what they wanted in love.
But what if that was the point?
Could love be spontaneous? And if it was, why had Hrit always slept alone when staying at the hive? Aside from the fact that his catacomb slot barely fit himself and his few meager belongings, that is. Why had he never found love?
Maybe he wasn't any better than the ponies he mocked for being so 'easy'. Perhaps, in observing their chess game of love, Hrit had neglected his own.
That brought up another question. Did he even know how to love? He'd heard that loving required a soul, and his kind had been accused of not having souls. But how does one know if they have a soul?
Hrit pushed that thought out of his mind. No sense in dying with an unresolved question. Back to love.
No, apparently he did not know how to love. Feed on it, imitate it, certainly; but truly love another? Unlikely at best. This prompted another thought. It was commonly said that the opposite of love was hate, and hate was synonymous with evil. Did this mean Hrit was evil after all?
Knowing he had but a few seconds left, Hrit reflected on his life.
He saw a little baby hatching, examining the slime curiously as it poked its little head out of the egg.
He saw a nymph screwing up his face and concentrating, and suddenly flaring green. That first attempt had yielded a black and red pony with both horn and wings that would have stood out like a fire in the desert in any society whatsoever; but for one so small, that had been quite an accomplishment.
He remembered his first mission. He played with a little filly on a playground. She had giggled and given him a hug at the end when her mother called her back, and there he had tasted his first bit of love.
He remembered his first time at a school dance. The mare he had chosen that night had been... perhaps polite company would say she was 'full figured', but when your cutie mark is a cupcake that’s not too surprising. Apparently their fling had given her confidence, because at the next dance Hrit had attended, he had seen her leaving with a lanky orange stallion.
He remembered volunteering at a hospital. Never before nor since had he appreciated so much the ability to unform nasal organs. But the foals he had seen had loved him just for visiting. Of course, he had promised to return soon and never did, but still.
He remembered talking down a mare who was about to jump off a bridge. Sure, it was only to get a little thank-you affection (which she had willfully provided), but she had lived. Wasn't she working at an ice cream parlor or something now?
Even in this recently failed invasion. He did not hate the guards who tried to stop him; they just didn't understand. Thus they were bound, and not killed.
Hrit came to a conclusion. No, he was not evil; but perhaps he was not as good as he could have been.
With this bittersweet realization, Hrit smiled...
Wha-crunch!
And he thought no more.
