For Whom We Are Hungry

Chapters

The Market
"It's in the eyes"
Red Ferns and Other Treasures
Given, not Stolen
Ponyville at Night

The Market

Once, you never dreamed.

But life itself was a dream, then. Time was not a cruel metronome, always ticking at the same remorseless tempo. It ebbed and flowed around you like the tide, rushing fast and oozing slow, with its own heartbeat, as organic as moss consuming a log. Alive, dying, yet eternal.

Your thoughts were not your own, then. You shared them, unconstrained by the limits of your own fragile skull. One day, on a whim, you flew to the top of the hive and perched upon its highest spire and gazed out at the twilight world. A million brothers and sisters saw through your eyes, all sharing the final moments of the day. A few joined you, then more, and more and more until the whole sky vibrated with the sound of your wings. As one, you watched the stars emerge, and you felt a kinship with them. You were the same, you realized – innumerable and beautiful.

You remembered the creches, the deepest, warmest pits in the hive. You remembered crawling atop the bodies of your brothers, biting them, being bitten by them, rubbing your aching new wings against theirs, your blind eyes stinging as the ichor of your birth dried and flaked away. You heard their first mewling thoughts, so like yours, incohate and disoriented. But not alone – never alone. To be a changeling, to be a part of the hive, was to never be alone. You were greater than yourself.

You remembered being born. You remembered dying. It hurt, but always your sisters were there to share your pain. Even when you lay, broken and alone, a thousand miles from the hive, they were with you in your final moments, comforting you, promising you that the pain would end.

And it always did, and you were reborn in fulfillment of her covenant. Always she was there to welcome you back, her child. As long as she lived, and you were hers, you would never die. A thousand years might pass, shedding bodies like a snake sheds its skin, but always you were hers. Always the million minds of the hive whispered to you, sharing your shell as you shared theirs, and ever she was with you, your mother, your queen, your god. You lived and died for her. You went to war for her, and always she was there, a warm cloak for your thoughts, protecting you, guiding you.

Until, one day, she wasn't.

* * *

You wake up staring at the ceiling, still wearing the body of the stallion whose love you ate last night.

That won't do. You bleed a bit of magic, letting it reshape your form into your usual disguise. Tan coat, tanner mane, mud eyes. Three gray rocks for a cutie mark. Completely, entirely forgettable, in other words. Perfect.

You can't afford to be remembered. Ponyville is a small town, but even here you are bland enough to slip through the cracks. Don't smile. Don't make eye contact. Never give the impression that you are worth knowing.

It is how a mouse lives, in the den of lions.

You make your bed, because that is what ponies do. You cook your breakfast of boiled oats, because ponies eat breakfast. It does nothing to ease the gathering ache in your stomach, but you force it down anyway.

Your life depends on how well you can pretend, and that means attending to all the silly rituals that dominate pony lives. Eating, sleeping, talking. You hate talking the most – it is pitiful, using sound to share your thoughts. It takes minutes to convey the same information the hive could share in seconds with their linked minds. It is banging rocks together compared with a symphony.

But it is what ponies do, so you do it too. Anything to fit in.

Today is Saturday, which is your day to visit the market, because that's what ponies do. You can't stay hidden forever – that draws its own sort of attention. On Saturdays, you hide in plain sight.

The sun has already started to warm the morning. The frost that rimed the grass last night is gone, melted into countless shining beads of dew. They wet your fetlocks as you walk, and you wish you had worn a scarf. Changelings have little tolerance for the cold, and even wearing the body of an earth pony does little to dispel the chill remaining in the air.

Ponies see you, and their eyes slide away like water flowing across oiled glass. Part of it is your mundane, forgettable appearance; another part is the faint ember of magic always burning in your heart. It's not much, not anymore, but it nudges their attention away. It doesn't make them forget, for no magic can do that, but it lets them know you're forgettable. Their minds do the rest.

The streets are already full when you reach the center of town. You step into the crowd like a heron dipping its feet into a stream. The ponies flow around you, water around your stone. They spin away in eddies, already forgetting you exist.

Perfect.

Something about the day – the light, the weather, the scent in the air – reminds you of the first time you saw Ponyville. It is a bad memory.

You were bleeding at the time. Maybe. Things were a bit hazy, but there was pain. Disorientation. You remembered Canterlot, and then a bright light that tasted like love but burned like the sun, and then the sensation of flying, although not with your wings.

You don't remember the landing. Or the impact. Whatever. That's probably for the best.

You woke up before anypony found you. Other changelings, survivors of the battle of Canterlot, were not so fortunate. Most were still insensate when they were discovered, still wearing their true forms, their beautiful, chitinous bodies.

You were surprised when, days later, ponies warned you about the black invaders, the insect monsters. Partially surprised to still be alive, of course, but mostly surprised by their ignorance. Changelings are not black – they are only black to ponies' weak eyes, which cannot see the full range of colors. They cannot see ultraviolet, or the dark burn of infrared. They are half-blind, compared with you. They will never see the iridescent beauty of a changeling drone, or the stunning, blinding spectacle of your queen, who radiated a million invisible colors.

Come to think of it, now, neither will you.

You pause in the street and look down at your tan coat. It has ruffled in the breeze, and you smooth it down with your hoof.

A pony bumps into you and mumbles an apology. You are gone before he even turns around.

The market at the center of town is busy, even this early in the morning. Ponyville is an earth pony town, and earth ponies do not waste the day. Perhaps if they had wings, and could fly anywhere in minutes, they'd be a bit lazier; perhaps if they had magic, and could use it for their bidding, they would not work so hard. But they have none of these things, only that firm earth pony work ethic, and so they are already awake and busy.

A few of them see you, despite everything you've done to make yourself invisible, and they smile and wave as you pass. You smile back. This is not a disaster – hiding in plain sight means acting like a pony, and that is how ponies behave. They are friendly. They are kind.

Except when they find unconscious changelings in the woods. Then they are not.

You berate yourself for even allowing that thought to cross your mind. It does you no good to dwell on the past. What matters is now, right now, this very minute as you walk through the market, smiling at your neighbors, being happy. Being a pony. Ponies don't think about their sisters lying in the autumn leaves, their wings broken, their skulls crushed.

Ponies don't think about that. You don't think about that. You stop thinking about that. Stop it. Stop.

Stop. You stop in front of a young mare's stall that is filled to the brim with specialty fruits and other produce. Bananas, plantains, banana-plantains, mosses that taste like peppermint, starfruit, apple-cucumbers, potatoes, and even more exotic things. Life on the edge of the Everfree Forest is sometimes dangerous for the ponies of Ponyville, but it also lends itself to unique sales opportunities.

The mare, a cinnamon-coated earth pony whose sole expression seems to be a delighted smile, beams at you as you approach. She smells like fresh dirt and thistles and hope.

“Hey Gin,” she says, using that ugly mocking pseudonym you accidentally created for yourself. To be fair, you were dazed at the time, still wondering why you weren't part of a changeling army conquering Canterlot. All things considered, Gin Star was close enough to a real pony name that nopony questioned it, though you sometimes get some odd looks.

“Good morning, Cinnabar.” You plow through the words like eating chalk. Talking is so slow, so painfully slow, you sometimes wonder how ponies managed to cobble together a civilization at all. You could pantomime your intentions faster than using words. “How are you?”

“Good!” She practically chirps the word, and you can taste the exuberance in her voice. Literally. It is delicious, though sadly does nothing to ease your hunger. “Got anything for me today?”

You realized, shortly after arriving in Ponyville, that you needed work. A job. Not only because you needed money, but because earth ponies had jobs. All of them. Every single earth pony you have ever met has a job that they love and could talk about for hours. You know this through sad experience.

Earth ponies have jobs. You needed a job. You found a job. It's not bad, all things considered, and if you get eaten doing it, that's still better than starving to death or melting into a pile of green goo during a failed metamorphosis.

You don't talk about your job, though. You hate talking.

“A few things,” you say. You unbuckle the plain burlap saddlebags draped over your sides and begin pulling out specimens from your trips through the Everfree. Cinnabar doesn't need all of the items you've collected – many will go to other ponies here in the market – but there are a few she wants. More importantly, she'll pay for them. Even more importantly, she'll be happy, and happiness tastes very good indeed.

You set a bough of shivernettles on her counter, careful to only touch the stems with your teeth. Shivernettles aren't painful, not like regular nettles, but the toxins in their spines have a mildly hallucinogenic effect on mammals, and when brewed into tea become intensely relaxing. They would have no effect on you, of course, but Cinnabar doesn't know that.

She lets out a quiet “Oooh” at the sight, and you lap up the delicious emotion when she isn't looking. Before the feeling fades, you pull out your next find.

“Spiderbrambles!” She squeals with glee and carefully nudges one of the stems. The tiny flowers, dozens of them per stalk, are all living, fully functioning spiders. They skitter away from her hoof, as far as they can, and then freeze in place. Her breath stirs the cobwebs they have begun to weave.

“I can never find these things,” she says quietly, still eyeing the spiders. “I thought I found one, once, but it turned out to be wild mustard with a bunch of real spiders on it. They weren't too happy with me, either.”

“You just have to know where to look,” you say. It is the longest string of words you've put together in days, and it feels like hours pass while you force them out. Cinnabar's ears flick in your direction as you speak, but her gaze and attention remain fixed on the spiderbrambles. “Next to freshly fallen ash saplings, you should try.”

“Mhm.” She plucks the spiderbramble stalk from the counter and plops it in a glass of water. Within a few days it will send out rootlets, and she will be able to plant it in her garden. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Be careful with this.” Normally you don't have to warn her – Cinnabar knows her plants – but this could cause real problems if mistreated. You stick your nose into your saddlebags until the last item finds you, and you let it wrap around your muzzle. When it has a good grip, you carefully bite the loose end and pull it out.

“Celestia!” Cinnabar gawks at you, or more precisely, at the tiny severed vine attempting to constrict your face. She backs up a step, and then starts to lean forward to help.

You stop her with a raised hoof. After a minute, the vine grows tired and relaxes. You set it down on the counter and work your jaw absently.

“Arbormaw tendril,” you say. “Dangerous, but useful.”

“I'll say.” She vanishes beneath the stall for a moment and reappears holding a earthenware jug. She sets it on its side next to the tendril. Sensing the darkness inside, the severed vine sluggishly crawls toward it, looking for all the world like a leafy inchworm. When it is fully inside, she tips the jar upright and pops on the lid.

“How in Equestria did you manage to get that?” she asks. “Those things can eat ponies.”

“Was a small one.” You shrug. “Overreached. Bit off a piece.”

“Huh, well, if you get a chance, tell the mayor where you found it.” Cinnabar ties the jar's lid on with a stout piece of rope and sets it on the ground. It wobbles and teeters as the vine inside bashes at the walls of its new prison, but after a few seconds of this it lapses into a sullen quiescence. “She'll want to send a team to burn it out.”

You shrug. What the mayor does or does not want is of little concern to you, and an arbormaw deep in the Everfree Forest is only a threat to ponies with too little common sense. It's not even the most dangerous plant in the forest, much less the most dangerous creature.

You exchange a few more pleasantries with Cinnabar, which is to say she chirps and buzzes while you reply with grunts or monosyllabic words. Other ponies might think it rude, but most of the town is used to your taciturn nature by now, and anyway, you're not sure Cinnabar is capable of being offended. Some ponies are like that – their natures are so ebullient that that nothing short of a natural disaster is capable of bringing them down from their perpetual high. The pink one who's always planning parties is like that as well.

You try to avoid her.

Eventually Cinnabar peters out, and you mutter something about other ponies and escape.

There are a few ponies who regularly pay for such curiosities you find in the Everfree. Compass Call, a pegasus stallion who buys the lodestone larvae you dig out of the Everfree's iron ore veins. Winter Green, whose collection of phoenix nests burns itself up every month or so, and needs you to find her new ones.

There are ponies who could fetch such things, ponies who aren't afraid of the Everfree and have the necessary talents to harvest its dangerous fruits. But these ponies are rare, and they tend to specialize. You, though, with your liquid nature and changeling magic, manage what most ponies cannot: finding these treasures, snatching them up, and escaping with your life.

It's a living. You like living. Everyone wins.

The sun is well on its way to the zenith, now. Standing beneath it, at the height of day, is like crouching beneath the eye of an unblinking god, a god with a deep and abiding and admittedly well-founded antipathy for your kind. To the ponies around you, Celestia is a kind and loving queen, but then, they've never had reason to feel her wrath. Hopefully, they never will.

You stick to the shade as much as you can. You find a tree, a tall and stately poplar whose springtime branches are yet to fully bud, but their boughs block some of the sun's rays. You'd be happier if it were a bit warmer, but at least there is no breeze today. You even manage not to shiver while you wait for the crowds to thin.

A gaggle of foals bounces past you, laughing as they chase an inflated red ball across the square. They don't seem to mind the cool air at all, and you can already see sweat glistening on their coats.

It took you a while to grasp the concept of “foal” when you arrived in Ponyville. Among your kind, there are no such things; each changeling hatches with its full mental capacity. Even before your birth, the dreamsong of the hive already shaped your thoughts. New, young changelings (the terms mean the same thing to you) are simply smaller than full-grown changelings. After a few summer molts, the size difference vanishes, and only the state of a changeling's wings gives any clue to their age – elders develop holes and rips that never fully heal, until they die and are born again.

But not your queen's, of course. She is ageless. Or she was – you're not sure what has become of her after Canterlot.

The foals continue their play, chasing the ball around and through the legs of the adult ponies still milling about the market square. It puzzled you, at first, that ponies would tolerate such frivolity from their children, but apparently such hyperactivity is normal for small mammals, and you've learned to accept it. Their happiness eases some of your hunger.

A few other ponies loiter in the shade with you. They appear to be mated pairs, though your perception of such matters is still incomplete. You notice they seem to be focusing on individual foals, and you can taste the love and affection flowing from them.

Parents, that's the word. These must be parents, and the foals their offspring. They are not all from the same tribe – you're still figuring out the genetic basis for wings and horns or the lack thereof – and some of them bear little semblance to their children, but the emotions are never wrong. Their love is like another sense, as real as sight or taste or scent, and you could use it to match the families with their foals in the dark.

Once, a love like this sustained you. It was a fire that burned in your heart, in every heart of the swarm, a thousand million sparks of love, all radiating from your queen. The ponies who mock her, who fear her, they know nothing. They saw only a monster coming to enslave them as they deserved. They didn't know – couldn't know – of the love she felt for you. Even when she sent you to die, it was with love. It was all you ever knew.

And now it is gone, and you sip from the waterfall of love these ponies feel. Stealing it in the night, lapping at their heartblood.

Like a thief.

“I am not a thief,” you mumble it beneath your breath. “Not a thief. Not a thief.”

A few of the ears near you flick in your direction. You duck your head and fall back into silence.

On some unseen signal, the foals finish their game and break apart. They drift in twos and threes away into the town, or toddle back to their parents. That's mostly the smaller – the younger – ones, you notice. The older ones, those with a few more molts – years – are more independent. They probably gather their own food and bring it back to their nests.

As the foals depart, so too do the parents, and you're left standing by yourself beneath the swaying poplar tree. Time to go home.

The streets are thinner now, no longer a river of ponies but a thin trickle, like a summer stream that creeps between the gravel and cobblestones of its bed. You imagine the ponies are leaves, drifting in the wind, and you are flying between them.

A huge stallion hauling a wagon filled with apple-packed baskets crosses your path, and you pause to let him pass by. You've seen him before, this one, the largest earth pony in town, with a coat the color of mammal blood – red, you remember – and a bisected apple on his flanks. He smells of apples, as always, and sweat and dust and determination. He is not a pony who lets things slow him down.

The wagon creaks, a sound you've never heard before. A quick glance reveals that the spokes on one of the rear wheels have cracked. It's unlikely that ponies can hear the sounds – your ears hear different pitches than theirs. You consider for a moment warning this stallion about his wagon, to reap the wages of affection such a warning would surely earn. On the other hoof, that would draw attention to you. You don't like attention, especially not from strangers. Granted, this stallion isn't a real stranger, but the principle—

It doesn't matter, as it turns out. The failing wheel strikes an outsized cobblestone, and three of its spokes snap like twigs. The whole wagon, apples and all, begins to tilt.

If that were all, nothing more might have happened. But the sound of the snapping wheel startles the stallion, and he spins around, perhaps forgetting the yoke still strapped around his shoulders. He is a big pony, and strong, with muscles in his shoulders that probably weigh more than your entire body. The motion unbalances the wagon even further, the load of apples shifts, and the entire thing tips onto its side and begins to fall.

Directly onto a foal who is walking by.

You're not sure what happens next. Time freezes, and you don't remember deciding – one moment you were a spectator watching an accident, the next you were right there beside the wagon, practically beneath it as it fell. It didn't seem like a big wagon before, but now that it is falling toward you it is the size of a building, the size of a train car, loaded with a warehouse full of apples.

Strangely, none of that matters. Not the terrible size of the crushing wagon, or the dozens of ponies surely staring at you now. None of that matters. None of it occurs to you.

You give the foal a rough shove with your shoulder. It's not much – you're not very strong, even when wearing an earth pony's body – but it's enough. You barely leap away in time yourself before the wagon crashes onto its side, breaking, spilling hundreds of pounds of apples all across the road.

Time resumes its normal pace. You're panting for some reason, like you had just flown a hundred miles. The shock of the ponies around you leaves an bitter, electric tang on your tongue, and a cold wave crashes over your body as you realize what just happened. You nearly died. You nearly died, and there's no queen to bring you back anymore. No hive, no swarm, no rebirth. You nearly died, and that would have been it. After countless thousands of years, the end. Goodbye.

Fear, that's what this feeling is. It tastes terrible.

A quiet sound catches your attention, over the babble of a dozen ponies pointing and gesturing at the crash. A few feet away, a mound of apples shifts, and up pops a foal's head, its mouth open and its eyes blinking in surprise. It is sand coated, with a seafoam mane and eyes like the sky. It – he? she? – seems just as confused as you.

Your ankle hurts. You look down and see there's a good reason for that – a splinter of the wagon the size of a manticore's fang has pierced the illusion of a pony's coat, pierced the black chitinous exoskeleton beneath. A steady flow of dark green ichor bleeds out onto the cobblestones.

This is not good. You cannot transform your leg back, not with that wood shard in it. Even if you could rip it out with your teeth, the wound itself would still show, and the ponies gathering around the wagon aren't stupid. They know what green blood means.

You hold your leg against your chest and look around. So far nopony has noticed the injury. They're all clustered around the red stallion and the foal, who seems unhurt aside from a few apple-related contusions. All of their panicked eyes are on the foal. They care for their young, these mammals.

The foal, though. The foal is watching you. The foal sees you. The foal sees the smear of green fluid leaking from your leg all over your chest.

You turn and run.

"It's in the eyes"

You race through the town as though you still had wings. Ponies shout and jump out of your way, but none seem to be giving chase, not yet. You're moving too fast for anypony to get a good look at your injury.

The foal, though. The foal saw, and he – she? – will surely tell the others. Then the taste of shock and relief will fade, replaced by a wave of anger and fear. They will band together, these ponies, and hunt you down. Your disguises won't matter – they have spells to suss out your true form, and you'll end up like those changelings in the woods, the ones who were caught before they could hide.

You don't want to die. Not like that.

There are other towns nearby. You consider simply running straight for them, or heading into the Everfree. They probably won't chase you there. You could escape and try again somewhere else. More carefully this time.

Your ankle hurts. You ignore the pain and continue running, sticking to the gaps between homes. A shadow flits across the road before you, and you crouch against a nearby wall. A pegasus, high above – he doesn't seem to be searching for you, though, and you scurry on away.

The edge of the town is just a few houses away. If you run, you can be in the woods in seconds. Nothing can catch you in there.

But you decide to take a chance. Instead of the woods, you run a few hundred more paces, to the lonely cabin you call your home. It is neatly made outside, with a trimmed lawn and bright paint. It is a house a real pony might live in. A safe place to hide, usually.

Not anymore, of course. Once the mob gets going, no home will be safe. Ponies are peaceful creatures as a rule, herbivores, but they are ferocious when a predator threatens the herd. They dominate this world for a reason. Every other creature that crawls or swims or flies, monsters though they may be, lives in the ponies' shadows.

You toss the door open and slam it shut behind you. There's no lock – this is Ponyville – but a closed door will stop the mob for at least a few seconds, you hope. They're so polite they'll knock before bursting in to kill you.

You probably have a few minutes. There's no taste of a mob yet, no anger or fear or hate filling your mouth like bile. In fact, the town tastes much the same as it always does on market days – busy and tired, but with a thin layer of happiness beneath it all. The foal must not have convinced them yet.

Good, more time for you. You pull a pair of canvas saddlebags out from under your bed. They are filled with as many spare bits as you've been able to hoard and a selection of clothes appropriate for the cold. Sleeping outside on frosty nights, away from the hive, can be fatal for a changeling. A scarf and saddle won't keep you comfortably warm, but they might keep you alive.

You grab a few items from the shelves as you pass, little things you can sell for more bits. Pieces of silverware and a glass hummingbird sculpture. Rare seeds from a previous trip to the Everfree, still drying on your windowsill. They will buy you a few more days in another town.

Good, this is good. You seal the bags, toss them over your back, and consider the wound on your ankle. The wood shard is still lodged in your carapace, but the green ichor leaking from the wound has solidified and begun to blacken. You grimace.

You should have treated it first. Now it will hurt more. Before you have any second thoughts, you bite down on the exposed bit of wood and slowly work it out of your leg. It hurts, but pain to you isn't like pain to ponies – it tastes different. For you it is simply a sensation, a warning. For them it is debilitating and horrible and disgusting. You hate being near ponies in pain.

Finally, it is out. You spit the slimy wood onto the floor and let a bit of magic flow from your heart. The wound sparks a brilliant green, burning, and in moments the flesh is whole. Another burst of magic restores the illusion of a tan earth pony's coat, and once again your disguise is perfect.

Perfect. You give your saddlebags a shake and open the door.

A small foal is standing there. It has a sand coat and a seafoam mane.

You stare at each other for a few moments.

You close the door.

This taste in your mouth, it is panic. It is coming from you, you realize, and you take a long, deep breath. You need to relax. You need to stay calm.

There is a timid knock on the door, followed by silence. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the foal's breathing on the far side.

You still don't taste a mob. Perhaps there is none.

You open the door again. The foal has not moved.

Interesting.

The foal is a colt, you decide. His muzzle is a bit too square, his shoulders a little wide. He's older than you first thought, as well. The ratio of his head and legs suggests he has several molts, at least one more than you expected. For some reason he is smaller than most ponies his age.

He is afraid of you. You can taste fear dripping from him, and he cannot stop his legs from trembling. He is so afraid he can barely move, and yet he has followed you here, and knocked on your door.

Ponies fear death. You've been around them long enough to know this. It's possible this colt is smart enough to realize he nearly died a few minutes ago, and this is why he is afraid. Most young mammals think they are invincible, in your experience, but perhaps this one is smarter than the rest.

You move your hoof forward an inch, and the taste of fear doubles. The colt flinches but doesn't bolt. He stares up at you with those water eyes – blue eyes – and you freeze.

He is afraid of you. He is terrified of you.

It burns your tongue. “Please stop,” you whisper.

The colt jerks again. His jaw works, and eventually he manages to stammer out a response. “S-stop what?”

That was not smart of you. You didn't think, you just spoke, and now this colt has another reason to wonder what you are. You take a deep breath before answering.

“Why are you here?”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” the colt says. His eyes are huge, and they slowly travel down your body to your leg, to the injury you just healed. Only a perfect, solid coat remains, and he stares at it.

Right. You follow his eyes, and realize a smear of dark green blood still discolors your chest. He has noticed it too, and quickly glances away.

“And I won't tell anyone,” he says. “I mean it. I won't tell.”

Oh gods, he does know. The microscopic bit of relief that had begun to rise in your chest blows out like a candle in a rainstorm. Fear grips you, freezes you in place. For a long moment you cannot even breathe.

The colts sees this. “I mean it,” he says. “I won't tell. I promise.”

“You won't tell?” you repeat.

He shakes his head weakly. “No. Promise.”

You stare at him, tasting him for any hint of deceit or trickery. There is none – only the earnestness of a foal and a tiny, sweet note of gratitude.

He might be telling the truth.

Maybe this is not the end.

“Okay,” you say. You stare at each other in silence again, and then you close the door.

Quite a while passes before you hear him walk away.

* * *

You wake up hungry. Again.

It's been a week since 'the incident,' as you've taken to thinking about it. A week since last market day, and you have not stepped hoof outside your house.

Whatever tiny bit of relief the foal gave you didn't last more than a night. Lying in your bed, it was too easy to imagine him talking to his parents, or to the other foals. He would tell them what happened, and eventually your role would come out. Maybe not all of it – he might not even mention your injury, or your true nature, but it would still cause attention. Ponies would want to talk to you. They would try to get to know you.

So, no. Nothing lies down that road but disaster. You've survived this long because you avoided notice, not by being the town's hero, savior of innocent foals.

You can't even remember deciding to save him. You must have been confused, or startled into acting. The shock of the accident got to you, is all.

Those thoughts, or some variant of them, are all that have gone through your head the past week. You huddled in your bed, your bags ready on the floor, ready to grab and fly away at the first taste of a mob. Every day you grew hungrier and a bit weaker, but not even that was enough to send you outside. Better to starve slowly than get your head beaten in with a rock quickly.

And now it has been a week, and it is market day again.

Perhaps enough time has passed? Ponies are busy creatures, and a week is a long time. Your memories go back many lifetimes, hundreds of years. In the deepest recesses of your mind, you dimly recall a different land, a vast desert with no landmarks but wind-driven dunes of sand, hundreds of feet high. In it there were no ponies, only a young queen, barely larger than a drone, and a few blind hatchlings. You remember mewling in that dark heat, buried beneath the sand, searching for your sisters. Your racial memory is deep. To you, a week is nothing. A flutter of your wings. To ponies, especially to foals with only a few molts, a week is a long time. Perhaps long enough to forget.

So, you decide to go to the market. You have a few seeds to sell, and if you don't go, you'll starve before the next nightfall. That makes your decision fairly simple.

You walk slowly to the market square. It is warmer this week, and no frosted grass cracks beneath your hooves, but the gnawing hunger in your belly and weakness in your limbs keeps you to a snail's pace. Nearly an hour passes before you finally limp into the center of town.

Cinnabar greets you at her stall, as chipper as ever. She doesn't notice anything different about you – you're an expert at hiding things, after all. And hunger is something you've grown used to. It's like an old friend, always at your side. You exchange a few words with her – as few as possible – and she buys a few of your seeds. If she wonders why you don't have anything fresher from the Everfree, she keeps her questions to herself.

Just talking to her is a small bit of nourishment. It whets your appetite for more.

With no more oddities to sell, you wander over to the old poplar, where parents have gathered to watch their foals play. A few of them lounge outside its shade, splayed out on their backs or sides, basking in the early spring sun. The sun has no happy memories for you, but they seem to be enjoying themselves, so you find an open patch of grass and lower yourself to the ground. It is still cool, and a bit damp, but after only a few seconds the sun begins to warm your back, and you feel your ears sag as every muscle in your body relaxes.

Time passes. The parents are close enough that even though you are not the recipient of their emotions, you can taste them nevertheless. Their feelings run the full gamut – happiness and contentment, mostly, but worry as well, and irritation, and anger, all hidden in the mix. You close your eyes and follow the tastes as the town flows by around you.

A new flavor suddenly intrudes. Apprehension and fear, both sour. You open your eyes and see a colt with a sand coat and seafoam mane standing a few feet from you.

You're past being afraid yourself. There's no point in it anymore, not when hunger is far more likely to kill you than a mob of angry ponies. You flick your ears back against your skull and wait for the foal to speak.

He digs the edge of his hoof into the dirt. “Uh... hi. I mean, hello. Sir.”

You give him a slight nod. “Good morning.”

You've never seen a pony drowning, but you imagine this is what it looks like. The colt shuffles from hoof to hoof, exuding nervous energy. It tastes like camphor. He opens his mouth, and a sound starts to emerge, but just as quickly he ducks his head and lapses into silence.

Neither of you speak for a full minute, even as the scenes of small town life proceed around you. Eventually, the colt gives up trying to talk, and instead reaches back into his saddlebags with his muzzle. The bags are burlap, and worn, with small holes and patches along the corners. They look ready to fall apart at any moment, but before they can, the colt pulls out his prize – a huge, ripe apple, brighter than blood and still smelling of sunlight.

The colt leans toward you, carefully, as though he were reaching over the edge of a cliff. The apple dangles by its stem from his teeth.

You raise an eyebrow. “For me?”

The colt nods, setting the apple bobbing. “Uh huh.”

You don't need the apple – you don't need food, period – but you're in public, and ponies would find it odd if you didn't accept this offering. Slowly, so as not to startle the colt, you lean forward and grasp it with your teeth. The skin dents but doesn't break, and you set it down between your legs.

“Big Macintosh gave it to me,” the colt says. He sits back on his haunches, and the scent of anxiety is gone now. “After the accident. He said I could have as many apples as I wanted.”

You consider the apple for a moment in silence, then look back to the colt. “Why give it to me?”

“I want you to have it.” The colt rubs his foreleg against his chest and glances away. “And you looked hungry. I know what that's like.”

Your lungs freeze, and for a heartbeat you cannot draw a breath. Nopony should be able to see that – your disguises are too perfect. You could be on fire and nopony would notice beneath your illusions.

“It's in the eyes,” he mumbles, still looking away.

Wonderful. You blink like a hummingbird, trying to clear whatever pall he noticed. “I'm not hungry,” you say.

He doesn't answer. Around you, ponies begin to pack up their stalls and prepare for lunch. The crowds ease as the herd is drawn home or to the town's various delis for food.

Hunger has no taste. It is one of the few feelings ponies possess that does not trigger some reaction in your senses. You could be in a town on the verge of famine, and you would taste their despair and misery, but not their hunger. It cannot nourish you.

You wonder if this foal is hungry as well.

“What's your name?” you ask him.

“Saw Dust. What's yours?”

You take a second before answering to consider that. Most ponies name their foals something aspirational or meaningful. Saw Dust is neither of those.

Whatever. “Gin Star,” you say.

“Is that your real name?”

The foal already knows the truth about you. There's no danger in going a step further. You shake your head minutely. “No.”

“Oh.” He considers that. “Neat.”

For the rest of the lunch hour you are both silent, though at some point you split the apple and give back one of the halves. The colt – Saw Dust – inhales it in a few bites, while you take longer with your half. It tastes like satisfaction, with a bit of bitter nostalgia when you eat the core.

Oddly enough, it eases some of your hunger.

Red Ferns and Other Treasures

The next morning, you strap on your Everfree saddlebags and step out the door. It's a warm day, cloudless, and you already know it will be the hottest day yet of the year by the time the sun sets. Perfect for changelings, in other words. A good day to go hunting.

Except. You reach the edge of the forest, only a few hundred yards from your cabin, and come to a stop.

Saw Dust is waiting for you. He has his beat-up saddlebags around his withers, and his hooves are set wide and firm, as though he's expecting a fight.

“I'm coming with you,” he says. His jaw is clenched, and his ears fold back against his skull.

Impossible. You shake your head. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.” He stomps a hoof for emphasis. The earthy scent of determination surrounds him.

You try reason. “It's dangerous.”

“I'm tough! I'll help you!”

“You'll get in the way. What do you know about the Everfree?”

“I know lots!” He pauses. “It's... got stuff in it.”

That is a true statement, but it hardly supports his argument. “No. How did you even know I was going?”

“Cinnabar told me this is where you get her plants. She said you're the only pony who goes in there.”

“Did she tell you why that is?”

That gets him. He grinds his hoof into the dirt, the same gesture as from the market. “She... she said it was dangerous and I shouldn't ask you about it.”

And you win. That was easy. “Good. Now, go home.” You trot around him, along the path leading into the forest. After only a few steps, you hear him rushing to catch up.

Wonderful. You sigh and turn around. He is waiting right behind you. “I said no.”

“I... I don't care!” He draws in a big breath, so deep his chest swells and his eyes bug out and his cheeks bulge before he releases it. “I'll tell! I'll tell everyone if you don't let me come.”

It doesn't even faze you, this lie. You can smell his bluff – rotten, like fruit left in the sun. He will never tell another pony your secret. But there is something more there, beneath the deception. Something bittersweet, citrus and sharp. It turns your head, and you blink in surprise.

Desperation. He is desperate to come with you.

“Why?” you ask. “Why do you want to come? It's not fun in there.”

“I just... I want to help you.”

“Why?”

“Just because.”

“That's not an answer,” you say.

“I know. I just do, okay? Please?”

Sadly, you're low on options. As he already knows, he can simply follow you, regardless of what you say. You seem to be stuck with him.

“Fine,” you grumble. You turn back to the path, and let him walk alongside you as you proceed deeper into the Everfree's verdant shadows. “Have you ever been in the Everfree?”

He shakes his head.

“What about other woods?”

He nods. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Well, the Everfree isn't like other woods.” You stop and hold out your leg, blocking the path. “There are monsters in here. Things that would eat you or me in a few bites. You need to listen to everything I say, and do exactly what I tell you. If I tell you to freeze, freeze. If I tell you to run, run. Understand?”

The colt gawks at you, and you realize it's probably the most words he's ever heard you say. Eventually he nods, and you both resume your walk down the path.

“What are we looking for?” he asks. His voice tastes timid, as though he is starting to understand he should be afraid. Above you both, the trees on either side of the path have closed off the sky. Only fragments of its light break through the canopy to reach the ground now.

Everfree blueberries is the correct answer. They are not like regular blueberries, which you can purchase by the quart from the market. They are not even related to regular blueberries, though they share the same leaves and fruits and flowers, and they both grow in swampy, warm parts of the woods. Everfree blueberries contain a powerful sedative in their fruits, and they are delicious. A pony who eats one invariably eats another, and another, until they are gorged on them and cannot help but lie down for a nap against whatever log or tree they found the berries on.

The berries themselves are not fatal. The plant's roots, however, which quickly grow into the sleeping pony and begin to feed on them, usually are.

You decide not to look for Everfree blueberries on this trip. “Red ferns,” you say.

The colt trots alongside you for several yards before answering. “What?”

“Red ferns. They're like regular ferns, but red.”

“Oh.” Another few steps in silence. “Is that all?”

“Their fronds supposedly taste delicious.” You start to slow as the path narrows. Ponies rarely venture this far into the forest – looking back, you cannot even see the sunlit glade where you met Saw Dust. Roots churn the dirt beneath your hooves, and you have to step carefully over them. “Cinnabar sells them to restaurants in Canterlot for a small fortune.”

“Why don't you sell them in Canterlot?” Saw Dust bounces up onto a boulder that lies across the path. The rock is slick with water, though it hasn't rained in days.

“I don't like Canterlot,” you say. It's a mild version of the truth.

The path officially ends a few hundred yards later when you reach a small stream. On the far bank is only more forest, unbroken and shadowed. The stream is wide enough that sunlight pierces the gaps in the canopy overhead, and you stop with Saw Dust in one of its rays.

“Do you see this stream?” you ask. You wait for him to nod before you continue. “If anything goes wrong, run back here. If you can get to this side of the water, you're safe.” You pause. “Probably. Keep running back to town, obviously.”

Saw Dust stares at the stream with wide eyes. For the first time, you can taste a bit of his fear, and for a moment you think he might decide this isn't a good idea after all.

But no. He bobs his head, and together you step across the flowing water.

It is like night in the Everfree, even though the sun is high overhead. Little light penetrates to the forest floor, and what does is quickly lost in the perpetual fog that shrouds even the shadows here. The trees themselves are large and stately, their trunks like columns holding up the roof of the world. Here and there, encountered as you walk, one of them has fallen, opening up a glade in the mists. The sounds of insects surround you, and high overhead you hear the chirping of birds.

None of this is particularly worrisome to you. These are only the edges of the Everfree, the margins, where a pony might be forgiven for mistaking this for a regular woods, albeit an ancient one forgotten by time. The true Everfree, the mad, bleeding heart of nature, lies miles ahead.

You choose not to say any of this to Saw Dust. His eyes are wide, and the hair of his coat stands on end. Each cracking stick beneath your hooves sends him skittering, and he sticks close to your side. His fear is a sour cloud following you around.

And yet, he stays by your side.

Bravery has no taste – it is not an emotion like fear or panic or hatred. It is, rather, action in the face of paralyzing fear. It is what a pony does, not what he feels.

“How are you doing?” you ask, careful to keep your voice low and calm.

“I'm fine,” he answers too quickly. He licks his lips. “What are we... How do we find red ferns?”

You wait a while before replying. Another mile passes, and the shadows in the forest around you deepen. “The Everfree changes things,” you say. “I've been here before, hundreds of years ago, and it was much the same. The deeper one intrudes, and the longer one stays, the more the Everfree leaves its mark.”

Saw Dust gawks up at you. “How old are you?”

That's... an interesting question. One that doesn't have an answer, at least not as ponies would understand. “My last hatching was a dozen years ago. I remember... I don't know, actually. Thousands of years, I think. We don't keep track of time like ponies.”

You can tell he doesn't understand. He blinks a few times, and then shakes his head before focusing back on the uneven forest floor. “Okay, so... what's that have to do with ferns?”

“Red ferns are only mildly touched by the Everfree,” you say, hopping up onto a fallen log. Ahead, the forest brightens, and you can see the edges of a clearing. “You can find them on the edges of the forest, where we are now. We won't go much deeper today.”

The clearing quickly comes into view, and you pause at its edge. It's true that the more dangerous of the Everfree's inhabitants – manticores, timberwolves, and dragons, to name a few – don't usually wander so near its borders, but “usually” doesn't mean “never.” And in a clearing like this, where the dark halls of the forest give rapid way to the bright sun, and your vision is clogged by the rampant growth of greedy, clutching shrubs, it would be very easy for a predator to lie in wait.

In fact, you're counting on it.

“Wait here,” you whisper to Saw Dust. He gives you a jerky, tight nod, and you step into the dense undergrowth surrounding the clearing.

Your sight is lost immediately. Thick leaves and branches push against your coat, clawing at you, trying to keep you from the open glade beyond. You ignore the scratches and push onward.

Finally, sunlight touches your face. You close your eyes and let the spark of magic flow out from your heart, and the earth pony disguise melts away. Just as quickly a new illusion takes its place, something very different from a pony. Feathers sprout from your face and shoulders, and you rear back as your forelegs twist into wings. Scales erupt from your skin, quickly covering everything down to the tip of your tail, and you open your beak to let out a quiet hiss of warning.

Nothing answers. You step into the clearing as an adult cockatrice, a creature few monsters in the Everfree would willingly challenge. Only silence and emptiness greets you.

You can't smile – you have a beak, now. But if you could, you would, and you stretch your vocal cords, shifting them to produce sounds beyond anything a real cockatrice could manage. “It's safe, come in,” you call.

There is a rustle from the bushes, followed by a pained mumble. The leaves rattle some more, and a moment later Saw Dust pops into the clearing. He shakes his mane to dislodge the leaves sticking in it, and then he looks up.

When he sees you, his expression is surprise more than fear. You're almost disappointed. Maybe it's the chicken head.

“Is that you?” he asks.

Well, so much for surprises. You let the illusion drain away, and the cockatrice disguise vanishes in a swirl of green flames, leaving only the naked chitin with which you were born. “It is. We're safe here. No monsters.”

If anything, he seems more impressed by your true form. Rather than answer, he bounds over the swelling grasses and slowly, hesitantly reaches out a hoof toward you. You nod, and he touches you, sliding his hoof along your leg. “Wow. Is this the real you?”

“All my forms are real,” you say. “This is the one I was born with, though. Now, look around. What do you see?”

Saw Dust pulls his hoof away with some reluctance, and then spins around in a circle. “Um, plants?”

“Yes, but what is different, here?”

“We're... we're not in the forest?” He stops and frowns. “Or, we are, but we're in a clearing in the forest. The plants here are different than over there.” He points his hoof back to the wall of vegetation through which you came.

You nod. “Correct. Many of the Everfree's treasures are found in these liminal places. Thresholds, where forest becomes glade, or stream becomes swamp. They are where you must also be careful. Monsters love these places as well.”

“Is that why you were that...” he stops, clearly at a loss. “That thing?”

“That was a cockatrice. If there had been any monsters hiding here, it would have scared them off.” Probably. You hope, at least. You've found the broken, tooth-marked bones of many cockatrices in your wanderings of the Everfree. Saw Dust doesn't need to know that, though.

“So, red ferns grow here?”

“They might.” You turn and begin to pace along the edge of the glade. “Follow me.”

Saw Dust stays in your footsteps as you walk. It is a large clearing, nearly fifty meters across, and you have visited it before. You know a few spots where red ferns sometimes grow, especially this early in the year. Ahead, there is a fallen tree, covered in moss and lichens, and you beat a straight path toward it. A cloud of bees swarms around the fallen trunk, but you ignore them, walking through their harrying buzz toward the uprooted bole of the tree. You hear Saw Dust pause at the edge of the swarm, but after a moment he takes a deep breath and plows through them as well.

Finally, you reach the bole of the fallen tree. It is a tangled mass of roots and dirt, much taller than you, and in the pit it left behind a pool of muddy water has gathered. In a few years the tree will rot, and most of the dirt will fall back into the hole, or the water will silt up, and nothing will remain of this scar. But for now it is a break in the glade, which itself is a break in the forest, and that is two thirds of what a red fern needs to grow.

There, nestled in the shade beneath the fallen trunk, you see a spot of crimson. You point it out with your hoof, and Saw Dust lets out a delighted gasp.

“It's... it's red!” he says.

“Yes. Can you squeeze in there and grab it? Just pull it up by the roots.”

It's a tight fit, but Saw Dust manages to claw his way through the loose dirt to the fern. He grabs it by the base with his teeth and gives it a sharp yank. The plant resists at first, but ferns have weak, fibrous roots, and soon a tearing sound heralds his success. He scampers back out, smeared with dirt and rotten bark, with a fern as bright red as blood held proudly in his mouth.

He spits it out and makes a face. “It tastes like nails,” he says.

Like spite. “That's the iron. It's why it's red.” You lift up the fern and place it in your saddlebags. “Did you see any others in there?”

He shakes his head. “Why are they like that?”

“Magic?” You shrug. “They only grow in the Everfree, on the spot where an animal has died.”

The next several hours pass in a breeze. Saw Dust asks questions, and you answer them as best you can. Your jaw begins to hurt, so unused are you to prolonged speech, but you don't complain. If anything, the act of talking seems less onerous than usual. Easier. Like drinking water, rather than chewing wood.

The two of you find another three red ferns, by which time the sun has begun to dip back toward the horizon. Rather than risk the Everfree after dark, you strike back toward town. You spend the last mile of the walk wondering if you should take Saw Dust back to his home, but as soon as you reach the edge of Ponyville he bursts into a run, giving you a final wave before vanishing amidst the town's rows of houses.

Huh. You watch him go, and return to your cabin for the night.

Given, not Stolen

The weeks pass, and spring advances into summer. You relish the gradual warming of the world and leave your scarf at home when you venture outside.

Ponies are also creatures of the summer, you've learned. Their foals, especially, abandon their homes as soon as the first light of dawn breaks over the east, and it takes all of their parents' cunning, skill, and sometimes sheer strength to drag them inside at night. The simple joy of summer fills the air with a unique scent, like strawberries and fresh grass. You snack on it from time to time, and it helps ease the ache of your hunger.

Yesterday was the last market day of June, and with the advent of summer the market became a crowded place indeed. Your wares sell briskly now, and more ponies wave or smile as you approach. You thought it might be carelessness, but soon that cautionary note faded, and now you try to enjoy the day without succumbing to the old fear.

That was yesterday. Today is another day in the Everfree, and you meet Saw Dust at the edge of the forest.

“It's dangerous,” you say. You always say it, a short ceremony before you begin.

“I know,” he says. Before you can reply, he is already bouncing away with all the energy of youth, into the shadows beyond.

You catch up quickly, and together you venture into the woods. Hours pass with only the occasional word, as you point out subtle dangers or items of interest. You've long since given up hope that he will see reason and stay in Ponyville, where it is safe.

And truth be told, you don't mind the company. Changelings were never meant to be solitary creatures.

Eventually you reach a open area, wide and rocky, cut through by streams that shape the land into a mix of ridges and gullies. The deepest are nearly canyons, and you stop at the edge of one, Saw Dust by your side.

“What are we looking for?”

“Fossils,” you say. “This land used to be a sea, once upon a time. The bones and shells of the creatures that swam in it sank to the bottom, and now they are entombed in these rocks.” You kick an outcropping with your hoof, breaking away a chunk of white limestone. Within the fracture are dozens of tiny shells, long and spindly or wide as coins. Saw Dust lets out a quiet hum of interest, and then kicks at the rocks as well.

You want the bigger ones, and you spend the next hour walking Saw Dust through the ravines, where water has carved open the stone for you. You don't even need to pick at the walls, here; enough rocks have fallen as talus to pick through for decades. You find a trilobite and an ancient nautilus shell, and then you set him loose to hunt.

By the time lunch rolls around you both have saddlebags full of ancient fish bones and fern prints and sand dollars and petrified wood and a colorful red stone that Saw Dust insists is a ruby but is probably just a nice carnelian. You let him keep it anyway.

You settle beneath a spindly locust tree to rest, and Saw Dust produces a pair of golden delicious apples. He passes you one, and you accept it to be polite.

When his apple is nothing but a memory, he wipes his sticky chin with his hoof, and looks up at you. “Hey, Gin?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“What's your real name?”

Ah. You take a bite of the apple before answering. “Instar. I was still dazed when I met the first pony here, and they heard it as Gin Star. I've been using it ever since.”

“Oh.” Saw Dust looks down at his sticky hooves. “Uh, do you want me to call you that?”

“Gin is fine. It's a pony name, even if it's a bit odd.”

“Okay.” He lapses back into silence, but you notice he keeps glancing at the half-eaten apple between your legs. You pass it over, and he devours it in a few bites.

“Don't you ever get hungry?” he asks, his mouth still full of apple mush.

Always. Every moment of the day, you want to say. Instead you shake your head. “Changelings don't need food. We're psychophageous. We subsist on thoughts, especially emotions. The stronger, the better.”

“Oh.” You can tell he doesn't understand, but that's for the best. He chews his mouthful a few more times and swallows. “Who are these fossils for? I've never seen anypony at the market with them.”

“They're not for the market. The librarian studies them, and she pays well for good specimens.”

“Cool.” He bounces back to his feet, and you slowly stand as well. “Do we need any more?”

You give his saddlebags a critical glance, then your own. It's already heavy on your shoulders, and you suspect that inside are at least two or three specimens the librarian will want. With any luck, Saw Dust will have one or two as well.

“I think we're done,” you say. “Let's head home.”

For a moment his smile fades, and the taste of satisfaction that surrounds him is replaced with a sharp tang. Just as quickly it is gone, and you are left wondering if you ever tasted it at all.

All the way back to Ponyville he is silent, except for the rattle of stones in his packs. He is not upset – you would taste that – but apparently he has no desire to talk. That's fine. You can understand that.

The sun is low in the sky by the time you reach the edge of the forest. Ahead, foals still shout as they flee from their parents, and the town slowly winds down for another evening. You stop, and after a few steps Saw Dust does as well. He turns back toward you.

“Is Saw Dust your real name?” you ask.

He nods. “Uh huh.” There is no taste of guile, or any other emotion for that matter. After a moment, you nod, and the two of you continue the rest of the way into town. As you reach the first road, you bid goodbye to Saw Dust, and head toward your cabin.

You are not an expert on pony names, but you know a thing or two. You know they say something about who a pony is, or what parents must think of them.

You ponder that long into the evening.

* * *

It is autumn, and already the trees have caught aflame. Even the Everfree, which stands outside so many of nature's laws, is not immune to the turning of the seasons. Above you, the foliage is blood and gold and sunsets.

It is beautiful. You could spend hours just watching the leaves flutter in the wind. Sadly, Saw Dust is not so patient.

“Come oooon!” You can taste the frustration in his voice, like wet sand. “This is boring. Let's go!”

“In a moment,” you say. The mornings are cool now, and every minute you wait is another minute for the sun to warm the world a bit more. Soon enough you'll be wearing your scarf again.

Saw Dust huffs at your response but settles down by your side nevertheless. He leans against you, and eventually the taste of his frustration fades.

Nearly an hour passes before you finally stand. Saw Dust jerks back awake and yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “About time,” he mumbles.

“Patience is a virtue,” you say. “We're going deeper in today. I need you to be careful. Do you understand?”

He is suddenly alert, the annoyed look on his face replaced by the seriousness you remember from your first meeting. “Uh huh. What are we looking for?”

“Dragon scales.” Before he recovers from his shock, you are already walking into the woods.

The hours pass quietly. Saw Dust is as comfortable in the Everfree as you, now, and he navigates its various hazards with ease and skill. You realized, some months ago, that you were probably breaking some law or other by constantly bringing a foal into such a dangerous place, but then, you're not exactly a legal resident of Ponyville to begin with. Besides, Saw Dust gave you no choice in the matter – the very least you can do is teach him to be safe.

Dragon scales come from dragons, you explain as you walk. He apparently knows that, to judge from the way his eyes roll at your pronouncement, but you continue with your explanation.

“It's not safe to try and take the scales from the dragon itself,” you say. “Instead, we wait for two dragons to fight, and then pick up the pieces.”

“Oh.” Saw Dust trots alongside you as he considers this. “How do we know when they fight?”

“Fall is mating seasons for dragons. The males will fight over females. We just have to find where they've fought, and the rest is easy.”

Sadly, that first part is not easy. Hours pass as you wander through the Everfree, your eyes and ears and nose all attuned to the sounds and taste of combat.

Nothing. You come to a stop near a low mountain, one of the foothills that lead into the Everfree's heart. You could have sworn there would be dragons all over the place. Instead you find only the Everfree's usual collection of unusual beasts, most of which retreat at the sound of two ponies. Even in this, the center of the whirlpool, monsters are wise enough to leave ponies alone.

“Are you sure there's even dragons in here?” Saw Dust asks.

Not anymore, you aren't. You sigh and turn around, heading down the slope back the way you came. “Perhaps not. Maybe next week, then.” You can taste his disappointment at your words, but there's nothing to be done for it. Not every visit to the Everfree is a success.

Time passes, and the sun sinks lower in the sky. Shadows lengthen, and the silence of the forest slowly fades, replaced by the buzz of cicadas and the call of birds. You look up at the trees and smile.

“Hey, uh, Gin?”

You turn and see Saw Dust looking up at you. You can taste his exhaustion, and after a moment's thought you kneel, letting him climb onto your back.

“Thanks,” he whispers in your ear.

The miles pass quickly. The canopy is thinner now, even in the deep forest, and you can track the sun's progress all the way home. When finally it nears the horizon, you can just make out the spires of Ponyville's tallest houses in the far distance.

“Gin?”

You turn your head. “Yes?”

“What are changelings like?”

Huh. You've never been one for introspection, so the question catches you off guard. “Like me, I suppose. The hive shares its thoughts. We're never alone, but we're not much different from each other, either. All except Chrysalis.”

“Who?”

“Chrysalis. Our Queen.” You close your eyes and try to remember her brilliance, her magnificence. “She was our mother and our god. I can't tell you how wonderful she was.”

But you somehow do. All the way back to Ponyville you regale Saw Dust with tales of your mother, how she loved you, how you all loved her, how she was strong and beautiful and brilliant and kind and wise and patient and all the things a mother must be. How you ached to be with her when you were apart, how you begged to do her bidding when you were near. All the way home you talk, more words than you have ever said in your life it feels like, all about her. All about your mother.

“...and that's why we loved her,” you finish some time later, finally at the edge of town. Saw Dust is curled up on your back, his hooves tangled tight in your mane. It stings a bit, but you don't mind.

“Oh,” is all he says, his voice soft and lost. You taste some strange emotion, one you've never encountered. It is faint, and tart, and it stings your nose but not in an unpleasant way.

How odd. You stop and consider it for a few moments. You are still musing when Saw Dust speaks again.

“Gin?”

“Hm?”

“It's kind of dark,” he says. It's not quite true – there's still a fair amount of light, even thought the sun has just fallen beneath the horizon. “Can I... can I stay with you?”

You ponder that. “Would you like me to walk you home?” You're not even sure where his home is.

Silence. Eventually, he shakes his head.

“Well, I guess it won't hurt,” you say. “Do you mind sleeping on a couch?”

He snorts, and an odd taste floods your mouth. He is amused. “No, that's okay.”

Well, then. You shelve your reservations and trot the rest of the way to your cabin. He is fighting to stay awake by the time you arrive, and you set him down gently on the couch. It is nearly large enough to serve as a real bed.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He is losing the fight, you see.

“Of course,” you say. You start to turn away, but something nags at the back of your mind. You puzzle at it, standing beside the couch, and then finally ask the question that has been bothering you for some time.

“Saw Dust?”

“Muh?” he says. He blinks at you with bleary eyes.

“Tell me about your parents.”

His eyes suddenly clear, and he stares up at you. The seconds tick by in silence before he rolls away.

“I can’t. I don’t remember them.”

Ah. You wait to see if he has anything else, but eventually his breathing slows, and you can taste no more emotions from him. You pull a blanket over his shoulders and head to your own bed.

Sawdust. A byproduct. Something unwanted and brushed away. You ponder the ways ponies name their young in the hours before sleep claims you as well.

* * *

You dislike winter.

So do most ponies, but for you winter is a dangerous time. You are warm blooded, but not hot blooded like they are. If an earth pony falls asleep in a snowbank, they wake up a bit chilly. A pegasus wouldn't even notice the cold. You'd be lucky to wake up at all.

But still you go into the Everfree, every week after market day. Saw Dust won't let you stay home. So you bundle up, with several scarves and boots and a wool hat, and you trudge through the snow on the forest's margins.

It's his first time leading the hunt. “Find a pine, and plum, and bamboo, all growing together,” you tell him. “These three friends of winter have their own special magic. Even at winter's zenith, they remain green and alive. Be careful, and good luck.” With that you settle down on a boulder in the sun, and wait.

He is cautious at first, barely venturing out of your sight for the first hour. But as the sun grows higher in the sky, he rangers further afield, until the trees hide him from your view, and only the crystal clear air of winter lets you hear him. In time, even that fades, and you are left alone.

Hours pass. You counsel yourself to patience. For nine months he has roamed the Everfree with you. More than any pony in Ponyville, he knows its dangers. He will be safe.

But even so, images bedevil you. You see him slip on an unseen patch of ice and shatter his leg. You see a cockatrice, for some reason awake when it should be in hibernation, catching him unaware. You see him gorging on poisonous fruits. You see him wandering into a dragon's cave.

You see all these things, and it takes all your willpower to ignore them. You close your eyes, and let the sun warm your coat.

Eventually, as the sun begins its early descent, you hear the crunch of snow beneath small hooves. You open your eyes, and a few minutes later Saw Dust trots out from the trees, a sprig of plum leaves, a bough of pine needles, and a shaft of bamboo all sprouting from his saddlebags.

You smile at him. “Congratulations.”

“Eh, it wasn't that hard,” he says. He is panting, and his legs are covered with small scratches, and his coat is filthy with dirt and slush. But he is grinning as well. “Will they sell for much?”

“Oh, a few bits, I think. But that's not what I meant.” You pull off one of your boots with your teeth, and point at his flank behind the saddlebag.

He frowns and follows your gaze. There, emblazoned on his sand coat, is the image of a forked branch, shaped like a Y, with two short ends and one long. A divining rod. A tool, magical in its power, for finding all that is lost.

He stares at it in silence. His jaw hangs open, and when he turns back to you, his eyes are full of tears. There is so much joy it nearly chokes you, and you want to laugh.

He bounds forward and wraps his legs around your chest. You return his embrace, and for a little while at least, the cold no longer bothers you.

* * *

Later, hours later, the sun has set and darkness reclaims the world. You put away the last of the dishes and trot into the living room. Saw Dust is already passed out on the couch. He is still smiling.

You smile as well.

You head to your bedroom and climb under the covers. There are still months left of winter, and gathering supplies from the Everfree is difficult when snow covers the ground, but you are hopeful. How could you not be, after such a day?

You hear a creak from your bedroom door, followed by the patter of small hooves on the wood floor. You peer over the side of the bed to see Saw Dust looking up.

“Uh, it's kind of cold,” he says. It's a lie, like rotten fruit in the sun. “Can I... can I stay with you?”

Wordlessly, you pull aside the blankets. He hops up onto the bed and curls into a ball, nestled against your side. He mumbles something into your coat, and after a few minutes he is asleep.

Once, you viewed an ocean of love from a desert. You lapped at the meanest trickle of it, desperate for even a drop. You stole it. It sustained you, this theft, but only just. It kept you from death.

Now, as this foal huddles against your side, taking refuge from the dark, you are in a river of love. You are drowning in it. It flows through you, untameable, carrying you away in its current. This is love, freely given. It fills you.

You are not hungry, not any more. You can never be hungry, not after this.

You have love now. Given, not stolen. Yours. You can give it back if you want, and it doubles, and thus the ocean replenishes itself.

Before, you survived. Now, you can live.

Author's Note

Special thanks to Ferret, Ponydora, Corejo, Cynewulf and especially Filler for their superb editing help.

Ponyville at Night

It is instinct that guides you to this house.

There are hundreds like it in Ponyville. By day they are colorful and tidy and distinct, each stamped with the character of its owners – playful or stately or garish. But when night descends, the colors fade, and the special gardens and ornaments fall into darkness, and only their shapes remain. Raw geometries that blot out the fading pastels of the evening sky, until that light too fades, and the moon paints the houses all the same with silver and shadows.

But inside, the houses still pulse with life. In this one, a stallion and a mare have just finished feeding their foals and chasing them around the house in preparation for bedtime. Two foals, you think, both female.

You know this, even though you cannot see past the curtains, or smell anything other than the seared radishes and braised carrots drifting from their chimney. You know that inside you would find laughter and unwashed foals fighting to avoid their nightly baths, and scented beeswax candles that are never lit. You know these things as if you are standing among them, not crouched between the prickly stems of some unnamed garden hedge lining their lawn.

You wait until the lights go out, one by one, until only the last remains, flickering from the second floor.

It's time. You dart across the grass, feeling it tickle the soles of your hooves. You stay to the shadows, away from the warm glow of the gas streetlights that hiss and sputter in their glass cages. You pause for a moment, letting the sound wash over you, and you close your eyes and let it carry you back, before all this, before Ponyville, before Canterlot, before you hid in shadows and beneath bushes, before you were hungry, before you knew the cold touch of fear between your wings, before...

The wind shifts, and the sound of the lamps fades. The reality of your situation returns, and you swallow the lump of memory in your throat. That was foolish of you – anypony could have seen you there, half-cloaked in shadows, skulking through somepony's yard like a thief. Which you aren't.

You aren't. You repeat that over and over again.

The house is made of smooth-cut timbers painted a shy pink that you can barely see in the clouded moonlight. Small tendrils of ivy cling to its side, starting to bud and send out the season's new feelers. They are black against the pink walls, and as you wait, pressed against them, barely breathing, you see a tiny mote skitter between their lines. A spider, out for a nighttime hunt. As if sensing your gaze, it freezes for a moment and holds perfectly still, and then it darts away into the shadows.

You silently wish him luck.

It's time. You take a deep breath, so deep your chest swells and your lungs ache. You hold it as long as you can – thirty seconds, a minute, two. When your legs begin to tremble and the edges of your vision go gray, you slowly exhale, willing the shakes to cease. You breathe out your fears, your hunger, your guilt, and let only the spider's stillness remain.

You place your hooves against the wood walls, feeling for the gaps between the planks. It would be easier to fly, of course, but even on a cloudy night like this you can't take that chance. Too many pegasus ponies lounge on the clouds above, their sharp eyes attuned to the flutter of wings. It's too risky, so instead you press yourself against the wall and start to climb.

The window is only a dozen feet above the ground. You reach it in a few seconds – you are a good climber – and oh-so-carefully raise your eyes above the windowsill, making sure you don't let any of the warm light from within spill onto your face.

That would be bad. You know this, even though it has never happened – you've never been caught.

There are voices inside. Two of them, both sleepy. A mare mumbles something, and a stallion whispers back. Bedsprings creek, and you hear the heavy thud of his hooves on the floor. They walk away, through a door whose hinges badly need some oil, and all is silent again.

You wait and watch. The mare rolls across the bed, gathering the covers over her. It's still cool at night, this early in the spring, and even ponies with their warm winter coats like to feel snug in bed.

A loud, groaning creak shakes the house, followed by the sound of water flowing from a shower head. Faintly, you hear what might be the stallion's voice, raised in a quiet song whose words only he knows.

It's time. You try the window and find it unlocked, of course. They're never locked, not in Ponyville. It's part of what you would love about the place, if you could ignore the stabbing pains in your belly long enough to feel anything other than hunger. Slowly, achingly slowly, you ease the window open and slide through the gap.

This is the hardest part. You only caught a glimpse of the stallion, and heard his voice only in whispers, but it will have to suffice. You focus on that image of him, of a brown coat and short, tangled mane, of his scent – clover, and rocks in a stream, warming in the sun. It's a nice scent, very subtle for an earth pony, and you let it carry your mind away for a moment, away from all that you have become, to some empty place where there is no hunger, or fear, or skulking about in the shadows at night. Only the sun and warm rocks and clover and peace.

Enough. You've stalled enough. You push away the silly daydream and focus on what matters – the image of the stallion, his voice and his scent. You focus on them, and you close your eyes, and let the magic work.

There is so little magic left in you, now. Only dregs. Once upon a time, this spell would have seemed simple to you, foal's play, but now it drains every bit of energy in your body, until only your bones and desperate desire to stay alive keep you from slumping into a pile of goo.

And maybe that will happen anyway. You've seen it happen to others, when they let themselves grow too weak. They try the spell, can't sustain it, and then they're gone. Lost.

But it's not your time for that, not tonight at least. Your heart opens, and out spills the little magic that remains. It begins with a green fire around your chest and quickly builds until every inch of your body is aflame. The heat sears you, burning away everything that was, and you are reborn.

You're taller now. Larger. Your hooves could crack rocks, and you could carry this entire house on your back. You draw in a deep breath, enjoying the different scents that flood your nose. Ponies have a sharp sense of smell – not as sharp as yours, of course, but they smell different things than you. The world is more beautiful to them. How could it not be? They are the gods' favored children, and all of life exists to please them.

You shove that thought away and focus on your new body again. It looks like a match, and you know without speaking that your voice is perfectly his. But none of those matter as much as the scent – ponies might forgive a coat a few shades off, or a voice too sharp or mellow, but their noses never lie. Every pony has a unique scent, and that they never forget.

You're pretty sure you got it right. And if you didn't, you'll die, so you should probably just hope for the best. There's nothing else you can do now, after all.

There's no need for stealth anymore. You step around to the far side of the bed and climb atop the covers next to the dozing mare. She smells of feathers and pine sap, and she reeks of sex. The mattress slumps beneath your weight, and she rolls over to press her back against you, mumbling softly in her sleep.

The warm taste in your mouth is love. You drink it like a pony dying of thirst, desperate, ravenous, devouring every scrap of it you can. You don't have the time to savor it – the stallion will return any moment, and to be discovered like this is as good as death. You gulp down huge lungfuls of this mare's love, and for a moment the terrible stabbing pain in your belly starts to ease. Not sated – no, you are never sated – but something less than starving, now. Something like you used to be, back in the hazy reach of memories you desperately try to forget.

There is another creak from the house's plumbing, and the sound of water from the shower trickles away.

It's time, and you could almost cry. There is so much love here, between these two, an ocean of it, and you can only sip it through a straw. You could spend all night beside this mare, drinking her love, and never consume more than a single snowflake in a blizzard. You are a pony dying of hunger beneath a thousand apple trees bearing a million ripe fruits, all forever out of reach.

You start to sob, and choke back the sound as the mare stirs. You've waited too long, and now you risk being caught. The sheer terror of that potentiality banishes the taste of her love, and you roll out of the bed just as the stallion reaches the bedroom door. You crouch against the wall, hidden behind the side table, as he climbs into the spot you just left. He pauses a moment, as if puzzled by some unexpected lingering warmth, but then he settles down, and even from across the room you can taste the flood of emotions – love, hope, joy, exasperation – between them. You want to scream.

The light clicks out, and the room falls into darkness. You wait until their breathing slows to a steady pace and creep back to the window. You slide it open and vanish out into the night, silent as a ghost, leaving nothing in your wake, your theft complete.

But you are not a thief. You are not a thief. You say that to yourself again and again as you skulk through the shadows to your nest.

You will not starve. Not tonight.

But the sun is still hours away, and already you are hungry again.