I don’t know how long I've been here. It doesn't matter, a lot of things don’t matter any more. Not since the guards told me about the decision. I'm to be executed.
The invasion was a disaster and now the ponies are demanding compensation, blood for blood. Mine, for those they lost during the invasion.
So I wait here, until the day I'm to die, I don’t know when and I don’t know how. But like I said, a lot of things don’t matter any more.
The Changeling lay in it’s pitch black, windowless cell. It raised it’s head as hoof steps approached. light appearing from the staircase. Slowly the Changeling moved to a sitting position, waiting for the guards to bring his daily meal. Inwardly he sighed. The food and water would keep him going but without any source of love it wouldn't be long before he died of starvation and saved them the trouble of a dirty basket.
The guards walked up to the cell door and the changeling averted his eyes from the harsh light of the torch until his eyes were accustomed to it. There was a rattling from the cell door, making him look up. They had never opened the door before. Where he in better health he might have made a futile attempt at escape but he was far too weak.
Instead he just watched as a group of four guards filled into the cell and looked down on him.
Nothing happened for a long time, then a last guard walked into the room. The two looked at each other for a short while before the stallion nodded towards the other guards.
As one they moved forwards and lifted him to his hooves with magic, then clasped iron shackles to his holed hooves. It then dawned on the Changeling what was happening. It was time.
He didn't fight it. He didn't have the energy and besides, he’d been waiting for this. He’d face his death proudly and with the honour a changeling should.
The guards stood back, the shackles in place.
“Let’s move.” muttered the fifth guard. there was anger in his voice. and he emitted a cold hatred towards the changeling. He shuddered involuntarily,In a large enough quantity open hated towards changeling's was poison. The cold loathing from the guards around him was bearable (for now) and was only making him feel sick. Still, he supposed it wouldn't matter soon.
the guards turned and began to move, the changeling moving with them. Single file, three in the front and two in the back. Him in between. They made their way through a dozen dimly lit passages, the torch that the guards had brought the only source of light. He kept his eyes forward as they passed by other cells. No one spoke.
Finally they reached a set of stairs and began ascending, at the top he could see daylight. The Changeling swallowed his mouth suddenly dry. This was it.
He stepped out into the light, the sun dazzling his eyes, blinding him for a moment. Then he felt it.
A tidal wave of hatred, loathing and disgust sucker punched him in the gut and he almost dropped to the ground as he gasped in pain. his vision started to blur, his stomach churned and his head pounded.
The guard behind him gave him a firm nudge forward and the Changeling began to move again. Slowly, carefully, putting one hoof in front of the other as he fought back the urge to throw up. Somewhere in the back of his pain dulled mind he became aware that the ponies were shouting at him, though the words were lost to him.
He kept on moving, pushing back against the agony he now felt. It was like wading through mud. Then he stumbled, his front hoof missing the ground causing him to fall onto his side.
That was all it took for his weakened resolve to crumble. The Changeling opened his mouth to cry out, instead he threw up. Pushing his body onto its knees he threw up again, more forcefully this time, the liquid burning up his throat. He blinked trying to see through the tears now streaming down his face.
He looked down at the mess at his hooves. The puddle was a deep red. It occurred to him that along with whatever had been in his stomach he had also been vomiting his own blood. His headache increased as another wave of disgust hit him. He doubled over again throwing up more blood and sick.
The changeling glanced up and saw the three guards in front of him, staring in shock at the dying changeling. Something in their eyes made him angry, some kind of pity behind the revolution. He stepped forward dragging his body forwards a few more steps. He forced himself onwards until his legs once more buckled underneath him. This time when he opened his mouth the cry came out. Had he been able to hear over the pounding in his skull the Changeling would have noticed the crow go silent.
But still the torment persisted. It had taken hold of him now, it flowed throughout his body and burned through his veins. The Changeling coughed, choking on the air. Finally, when the coughing subsided, he spoke. His voice barely above a whisper.
“Kill me.”
The Changeling looked up to the guard who had been leading the way. His white coat was reflecting the sun into the Changeling's eyes making it difficult to make out his exact form, high up there was a patch of mixed blues, to which he addressed his plea.
The Changeling spoke again, louder this time.
“Kill me.”
The guard took a step back, apparently shocked at the Changeling’s words. Still he pushed on.
“Kill me!”
He was shouting now, desperate for the torture to stop. Please just make it stop.
“Kill me, Now!”
There was nothing, silence had a hold of the crowds’ voice and shock restrained their movements.
The Changing spoke once more. His voice was a whimper now as he curled into the fetal position.
“Please…”
Slowly, the guard moved forward. The sound of his sword being drawn barely audible to the half conscious Changeling, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit.
The Changeling closed his eyes. As he heard the strike begin to fall he muttered his final words.
“Thank y—.”