Forgotten Children

How many faces does one have to wear? How many lifetimes does one have to live? How many friends and neighbors, lovers and enemies, places and times, suns and moons does one have to witness? When will it finally be enough?

The timberwolf moved quietly through the thick underwood of the Smoky Mountain forest thinking these things. The damp forest floor was cool to his feet, but the claustrophobic wilderness created a stuffy, humid atmosphere. This was where he felt most comfortable. A place to hide, a place to hunt, and a place to think. Here, among the wild things, where he had plotted and planned many a lifetime.

These dense forests were as old and wild as the fabled forests of Everfree, but less known and hence, less explored. The Smoky Mountains themselves held many nooks and caves home to wild and fierce dragons, but down in the foothills the timberwolves were the primary threat. That is, threat to the weak and equine.

“Same thing,” he muttered to himself.

The forest was his quintessential being; dark, secretive, and dangerous. It allowed him to blend seamlessly into the background and be at one with the forest. Not so different than the world of the equines. There he still had to blend, and be invisible. But it was much more exasperating. The forest didn’t care how brutal you were. In many ways it required it. Further, the forest didn’t require you to have friends like those damn ponies did. Feh! Friends!

“Oh friends are magic!” he could hear the gossip in his head. “Didn’t you hear? There’s now a princess of friendship! Oh she’s so young, she’s so pretty, she’s so lucky!” Ponies were always so insistently, sickenly optimistic. They live in a pretty little rainbow world. The food never runs out, no one ever scorns them, they’re not chased and hunted and hated.

But oh! They are free to hate, of course. Hate those that are different. Hate those who don’t conform. And kill those they deem “harmful” to their little world and their fucking tyrant. Prove that you are useful to the all-powerful white bitch and stay in line, and you can squeak by on whatever freedom she might see fit to allow you. Raise a voice that maybe thinking is a good idea and see where that gets you.

The timberwolf stopped, and pondered that little experiment. One conversation to ponies he thought had been like-minded had almost been the death of him. Only his ability to blend and disappear into the shadows had kept him from a cold cell that night. And the outpouring of apologies to the community, to “his” princess, so sorry for having a fucking brain!

He slowly continued his trek, sniffing the air, carefully attentive for any signs that he was no longer alone.

The griffons were no better, narcissistic and militant. “Go Fuck Yourself” was practically their national motto. At least he enjoyed the violence, but their damned pride in their tiny little empire like they owned the world was just as bad as the fucking gumdrops and rainbows that showered over Equestria.

“Why does it have to be so hard?” he asked himself. “Griffons can fight each other to the death, the ponies can live in blissful ignorance under that power-hungry fraud they gave power to, and the changelings should be able to do as they please.”

Which, ironically, is not as dastardly as ponies believed.

The timberwolf had mused the “invasion” of Canterlot many times in his head. It seemed so odd - an outright show of force? Why not just maintain the covert operations like himself? It is possible another species had encroached far enough into changeling territory that She acted out of territoriality or anger, but it still made no sense. Now every species was talking about changelings. And how they needed to be discovered and wiped out or drove away. Mostly the former. But there are still dark places in the world to seek refuge in, and there is doubt that they will all be discovered.

A sharp crack of a breaking twig snapped him out of this thoughts and back into focus of his surroundings. He lowered himself nearer the ground to hide among the underbrush, his rear legs cocked under him to allow for that quick pounce if needed. The woods fell silent, and very softly a slow procession of footsteps could be heard as they landed on dry leaves. The timberwolf waited, his leafen ears at full alert to pick up on these most minute clues to who or what was coming towards him.

He peeked his snout out just enough for his changeling eyes to see past the bush in front of him. Being so low to the ground, he could only see further thickets and shrubs moving about as the thing approached. A familiar scent reached him: it smelled of earth and grass, of rot and meat. He knew that his family had come to meet him.

Baring his sharpened wooden teeth, he thrust his legs out from underneath him and pounced from the underbrush, landing directly in front of the encroaching timberwolf pack. He growled deeply and fiercely, standing tall and proud.

The other wolves, being not of this changeling ilk, immediately went into a fighting stance, haunches raised and heads lowered, their teeth dull in the dim light of the forest and sap saliva leaking from their mouths.

The changeling kept his high stance and let out three loud, sharp barks to the pack to remind them of exactly who they were facing. The oldest of the pack perked her ears up, and sniffed curiously. She approached the changeling carefully, and upon closer inspection discovered that her long-lost alpha had returned. She sat immediately, wagging her tail-branch. The rest of the pack reluctantly followed suit, save for one male and the younger cubs. The changeling recognized these as the offspring of this sire.

The changeling and the sire approached one another. The changeling did not back down, did not flinch. Natural timberwolves were but branches, twigs, and leaves held together by primal magic, but he was made of much stronger stuff. His natural shell was thick and tough, and the magical coat of branches he’d built around himself had been reinforced by real branches picked up while wandering the forests of the Smoky Mountain. Timberwolves were strong and fierce, but ultimately fragile.

Knowing this, before the sire could move in to start the fight, the changeling swept one of his long forelegs in a mighty blow to the wolf’s head. It was all that was required to send branches, twigs, leaves, and bits of wood scattering about. The sire’s body dropped like lead to the forest floor. The primal magic that kept them together had a very short refractory period, and so the changeling bent quickly and found a large piece of wood that was likely the sire’s upper jaw, and roughly jammed it in between his own shoulder branches as a trophy. He also took a single tooth spike and fitted it in between two of his own.

The natural timberwolves saw his move as an act of dominance and taking over the role of alpha of their pack, but to the changeling it was excruciating as his own real teeth bent and cracked as the rough piece of wood was jammed between them. He howled his agony to the pack, who submissively stepped back from his rage.

Shaking in pain and anger, the new alpha looked over his new family. Two females, one old and one young; 6 males all of median age, and two male pups. He carefully walked between them. They had been hunting for him, and would now need a strong leader to help them find food. He continued his inspection to the back of the pack. One pup rolled on his back as the changeling approached. The other did not. Looming large over the young wolf, the changeling bared his teeth to test the little one.

Foolishly, it bared its teeth right back.

A shattering crunch rang out as the changeling brought his weight down on the little one, smashing his small and fragile parts into many more pieces than they had been originally.

The young female whimpered as she lost one of her sons, but only looked away.

Satisfied, the new alpha turned and led his family deeper into the foreboding forest.

…

Timberwolves, while composed of loose branches and twigs, are surprisingly nimble and quite strong. They are actually manifestations of a dark and long-forgotten magic that exists in the uninhabited places of the world. While not truly “born”, they are created from one another. The strongest of the pack are imbued with a larger portion of this magic. In time, will become the alphas. Being that they have additional power, they can also afford to lose some. If an alpha male and an alpha female should meet, they can combine some of their shared excess magic into the creation of a new pup.

The changeling had learned all this from many years running with timberwolves. He had used that disguise off and on between the “lifetimes” he had lived among the other species of the world. More recently, he led the pack as their alpha. And when he felt confident in his return to polite society, he knew that his pack would always welcome him back. This time the welcome had been violent, but it was not always so.

Equines have relatively short lifespans and in their own ways can be very fragile. It had turned out to be surprisingly easy to set up a little “accident” whenever his assumed life was not going according to his plan. Then he would sneak back to the woods to be with his timberwolf family.

The changeling led his pack towards the mountains, but knew that they needed to eat what he did not. Unfortunately for him, he also needed sustenance that they were unable to provide. Years of experience guided him, and he knew the solution immediately. He turned his pack west and cut around the base of the mountain, leading them towards the sea.

The Alles family had kept their farm and homestead on the southern edge of the forest. But while he was there, the changeling knew of several other scattered farms along the western edge. But just like the Alles family, these farmers knew their location and the inherent dangers that came with it. They will be prepared for a timberwolf hunting party. “But where is the fun in that?” the changeling thought to himself.

He stopped and gathered his surroundings. The foothills of the mountains should contain any number of small caves he could use for a den. Searching carefully, he found one such opening. HIs pack paused as he tentatively made his way inside.

The cave was low and damp, but unoccupied. He scraped at the floor, finding a few bones scattered about. Judging by their size, they were likely rabbit or possibly squirrel. They had long since been chewed clean of any meat and discarded as trash. This hovel was once a den, but had not been occupied anytime recently.

Moving back toward the exit, he murred at his pack. His two females and their pup came trotting over, and he guided them into their new den. The females lay at the ground and he nuzzled each, letting them know he approved and would care for them. The pup found one of the old bones on the floor and, holding it lightly in his mouth, set it on the floor in front of the changeling timberwolf.

Looking down at the small offering, he bent and sniffed it but looked away. Manners are not just for equines. He appreciated the offer but was not interested in the gift, so the pup took the bone back and gnawed at it, trying to sharpen his teeth. They would be safe here under the protection of the older female. He had work to do.

He wiggled his way back out of the den’s tight opening, and addressed the rest of his pack. His barks would mean little to nothing to other species, but to his wolves the message was clear: follow me, we are going to hunt. The changeling led his pack westward, following game trails and spreading out as they went to find a scent.

It was not long before a distant bark piqued his attention. Stopping, he listened carefully. Somewhere in the forest, a scramble of leaves sounded as something large chased prey. More barks soon followed, as brothers joined in the hunt. Hopefully the pack had hit upon the trail of some large animal. So much excitement for a squirrel would be disappointing. Regardless, this provided him with an opportunity to start his own hunt.

The air started to lift as he neared the western edge of the forest, the cool ocean currents permeating the forest to some degree and that same fresh air lifting the musty scents of the forest. As calming and refreshing this would be to most, for his keen senses, it made detecting others far easier.

He closed his eyes and sniffed the air deeply, pulling in familiar smells that registered in his memories. Wet, damp, earthy; freshly tilled soil. Crisp, sharp, and bitter with a touch of sweetness; fresh herbs and vegetables. Sweat and musk; a worker in the fields.

Sounds accompanied with these smells to help him form a clearer picture of what lay beyond what his eyes could see. A heavy thudding as hooves trampled among the bare dirt of an unplanted field. A scraping, clinking sound meant a hoe digging rows into the field, moving small rocks out of the way for new seeds to be planted. A banging of a door swinging open and shut in the wind, and the soft ripple of water in a stream or pond.

Through closed eyes, the changeling saw all these things. But he did not yet see a target. That would have to wait until later. He backed slowly away, and towards his pack deeper in the woods. They were easy to find; a barking, chewing, snarling sound came from a low hollow. Standing on the top of the rise, he could see his pack had surrounded a doe, keeping it from escaping as they took swipes and bites at it. The doe danced around the the radius of the shrinking circle, bleating its terror.

As it hopped away from one attacker, another lunged in from behind and snapped its jaws around the deer’s hind leg, just above the knee. The doe cried in agony as the force ripped through her tough skin and blood flowed forth from the ragged wound. She kicked desperately at her aggressor, and the wolf released her. It would not be long before she tired from her exertions and collapsed. Blood loss would make her incoherent and groggy, and then the wolves could feed.

The changeling kept his position, sending out tendrils of this consciousness to see if there was anything to be had for him. All hooved animals were at least partially sentient, but this one had not in its heart but pain and fear. Tears welled in the doe’s eyes as the ground became red, but her instincts would not let her escape her fate, pushing her mind and body to continue to resist. He sighed and sat, waiting for it to be over.

Another snap of jaws at her back pushed her right into the waiting jaws of a wolf, who came down with shattering force on her shoulder. The deer tried to escape but the wolf held tight, pulling the deer’s front arm from its socket. She collapsed to the ground and writhed to escape the wolf’s jaws, but he still held fast, ripping her shoulder muscles in the process.

The doe jumped back up, escaping the wolf’s grasp, but as weight landed on her loose arm, she quickly fell again. Tears fell freely along her cheeks and were quickly dirtied in her thrashing about the ground. Her body now coming to the truth that her fate had been sealed, her struggles reduced in intensity and became less frequent.

Sensing the end, the changeling and the pack closed in on the wretched form laying on its side in a pool of its own blood. One male of the pack opened his jaws, sap saliva leaking out between their wooden teeth. He approached the rear of the deer, and it weakly kicked at him. He reared back in preparation for a mighty bite, but was interrupted by the changeling headbutting his side. The wolf yelped as his wooden parts went flying, and the changeling growled at the rest of the pack. He got to eat first and if he left anything for them they should be grateful.

The remaining wolves backed up as their brother’s parts slowly rearranged themselves back into his canine form. The changeling turned his attention to the deer, unable to move but still conscious. He targeted her damaged shoulder and stuffed his snout deep, taking hold of her tough sinewy shoulder muscles and sawing with his teeth to pull them free. Pulling the deer along the ground, he placed his front paw on the doe’s neck to stifle her groans and to help finish ripping the chunk of flesh free.

The changeling did not need to eat real food, but it did not harm him either. Despite that, he loathed raw meat. especially taken from a fresh victim such as this. The hot coppery blood did not overpower the strange feeling of skin and hide against his tongue. The hair mixed in with all of this would stick in his mouth for hours, despite his best attempts to remove it.

He dug in again, hitting bone his time and causing to doe beneath him to jerk and struggle anew. His pressed harder on its throat, and the restricted air flow caused her to become still one again. The changeling looked one last time for any thoughts of hers that he might be able to feed upon, but now fear and pain were replaced with overwhelming despair.

Swallowing hard and trying not to gag, he leaned down to the deer’s neck. Softly, so not to be heard by his pack, he whispered to it, “Thank you.” With that, he roughly tore at her throat, crushing her windpipe and breaking open her artery. The doe coughed up blood. Another rough cough and she was still.

The changeling motioned for his pack to feed and drag the carcass back to the den. He followed his ears towards a stream running through the wilds. Sticking his face repeatedly under the cold water, he could not wash the disgusting taste out of his mouth. He did not particularly enjoy what he had done, but he did it for both his own good and the good of the pack. As in all things, appearances were more important than how one felt about things. Appearances kept you safe. Kept you alive and off the radar. Today, it kept his pack fed. Tonight, it might keep him fed, too.