We Are Not Monsters

by Shocks

Rating: teen
Tags: Changelings, Queen Chrysalis, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad
Length: 2589

Chrysalis laments on what it means to be a changeling.

Chrysalis laments on what it means to be a changeling.

This is a submission for the latest Rage Reviews!-F*** THIS PROMPT #9

Published 2016-01-10 22:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-10 22:30:02 UTC

We Are Only Changelings

To be born into life as a changeling is to be born…different.

That is not to say that our differences are as petty or ignorant as that of the differences between a pony and a griffon or minotaur and zebra.

We are born with the ability to see the world in a way that no species will ever truly understand, or appreciate.

It is inheritably natural to us, as natural as a pegasus gliding through the air to the zebrafricans and their ability to understand the earth and utilize her gifts.

When a changeling enters this world, they are not birthed much like the other mammalian creatures that live and thrive on this planet.

No, instead, they are hatched from the sacks of cocoons, usually the pupa rupturing their own birthing film with their small, delicate horns.

To an outsider, it may appear to be a rather unsettling process. To watch a living creature struggle inside their supposed prison, desperately trying to free themselves with all their might. The fact that it is a child struggling with this burden only places terrible imagery in their minds, the concern misplaced.

To a changeling however, this could not be a more joyous thing to witness in a lifetime. The fighting that a larva does is unlike that of any child born on this earth. They do not have their mother’s strength pushing them out along with their wiggling, nor the medical advisors ready to assist as necessary.

For a larva, to have it fight solely for its right to live is the first sign of its dedication to survival, its refusal to let itself fall into the great sleep.

When its eyes first open, it does not immediately begin to cry. Instead, it looks around almost owlishly, seeing but not seeing. To any fully grown drone or infiltrator, it is a look that remains embedded in one’s epidermis for all time.

Then, they begin to move around, sluggishly at first, letting their new muscles follow the commands of recent consciousness. It will vary on the child, but many will swim around in the rather small confines of their egg, in movements that I must admit are much like a dance, the swift and rolling moves hypnotic to the eye.

Once the young one finds that it can move around no longer, that they’re young minds have comprehended they are trapped inside the very thing that has sustained them for so long, they begin the push.

Many will find multiple spots along the cocoon to strike at randomly and will continue to pressure these areas until something gives, their fervent struggling spurred on by their adolescent minds. With their natural gift of fang and horn, the task is accomplished by a combination of the two effectively.

While any way to free themselves is always praised, I must admit that this is not my favored method.

Much like my own emergence, there is something about the way a larva will poke and prod its birthing chamber, seemingly attempting to find weakness where it can shows something that is far more…impressive, in a word, than the rather frantic paths of their brothers and sisters.

They find that small hole, that slightly weaker area that may be so minuscule in its entirety that they might completely miss in the small amount of time they have. But admirably, they seize upon it with their will alone. Pushing forward with their barely hardened horns, they strike this area with all their worth. The larva give all they have in this sole spot, and refuse to let the might of their egg hold them back. They fight, and fight, and fight still, not with a fever like the others, but with a single raw determination.

In the end, the child’s horn is the lone drill that strikes forward and pierces the heavens with its might.

I must admit it is somewhat a mix of relief, happiness, and a touch humor that the larva emerges tumbling out of their egg, often spilling onto the floor in surprised heaps.

I refuse to say that this occurred to myself.

This is when the brood maids rush to the young ones, that they are to receive assistance, and only when the first cries echo inside the birthing chamber do those around cheer.

To hear the cries of the welcomed child is a sound I will forever cherish, the wails unmistakable and simply divine to the ears.

I will understand that this is not interpreted by others much in the same way, and in perhaps in any other situation this cry would invoke a rapid response by any changeling nearby, but I digress.

Our children do not wail nearly as much as those of the other species.

I have yet to fully understand if this is a blessing or a curse.

The rearing of a changeling is much in the same ways similar to that of any child. They are coddled and held tightly by the caring and loving parents, and are cherished greatly through their short youth.

Then, when the first signs of comprehension begin to bloom in the young ones mind, they begin the education that any basic drone learns in their time.

The first thing they must understand simply, is that the hive is family. That it is you, and you are it.

You are one, you are all.

They learn that they are apart of something that many outsiders will never, truly, truly understand.

To be part of the hive is something that cannot be told, but be experienced.

This is the time that they are exposed to the mind, that they join the utter ocean that is its presence.

Even I cannot comprehend it.

It is a door that remains locked inside any changeling, only found with the proper instruction. Upon unlocking this gateway, they are launched fully into the network of thoughts, feelings, voices, countless voices of those around them, above them, below, them, beside them, of every changeling already linked into its depths.

I have a running image in my head of an outsider trying such a connection.

Their insane screaming brings a smile to my lips.

It is something that can never be removed from a changeling. The mind can never be destroyed; though its voices can fade to whispers the farther one dwells from their hive.

But it never leaves. It is always our companion. Always our friend. It is effortless for one to lose themselves to the symphony of sounds and words of its musical, to simply let go and be immersed into its hold.

I don’t know why I attempt to replicate its experience. Perhaps it is simply so that outsiders will catch a fleeting taste of its beauty? To hunger and crave for but a second of its majesty?

Or does it emerge from the fact that I wish for them to experience it? To live as I do?

I am unsure.

And somehow, that terrifies me.

From their entrance into the hive mind, life continues on normally for any changeling in similar fashion to that of a pony, griffon, whatever the grand creator wills.

They live their lives.

They grow, they age, they prosper, they fall.

They eat, they hunger, they play, they work.

They run, they hide, they fight, they flee.

They live…they die.

Death is perhaps the one thing that no matter how much they attempt to dissuade it, outsiders will always share in common with us.

But they will not want to.

They will despise those for even entertaining the thought.

They will never be anything like us.

Like. Us.

Because to be a changeling is to be a monster, is that not correct? To be a creature of darkness, to hide in the shadows? To steal the ones another loves, only to use false mimicry to take from them the very thing they cherish of the ones closest to them?

To take their love, and to feast upon it as if it is some meal to be fought over? To simply consume it in its entirety, as if it were nothing?

No, we do not commit such acts. It is those that claim we do this, that cry to their neighbors and fellow citizens, that terrify startled mothers and force her children to cling tightly to her chest.

That riles and angers protective fathers whose sole purpose is to defend their family to the end.

That unite entire communities under the banner of fear and fright.

Those that poison the mind into a state of corrupted belief.

These creatures, these are the true abominations.

A changeling is not soulless. They are not heartless.

They are not undead.

They are not a construct of darkness.

They are alive, and they are sentient.

They breathe.

They feel.

They know pain, and they know sorrow.

They know joy, and they know happiness.

They know life, and they know love.

Utterly shocking, to think we know love. The very species that stands alone to harvest from it.

But it is true.

We share a love that courses from one changeling to the next, the unconditional love that is a hive and its swarm. The love of the queen and all her children. The love of all brothers and sisters, young and old.

It is a fact that many will never know, or never care to.

It is the simply disgusting, unthinkable, outrageous fact, that in order to survive, we must procure the emotions of those around us, and use it to sustain ourselves.

Because the simple act of survival is too horrible to comprehend for the other sentients of this earth.

It is not as if we are so monstrous that we can only sustain ourselves on our taste for emotions alone.

We eat much of the same food as our equine and avian companions, our sharper teeth leaning towards much more toward the latter. It is not particularly filling by any means, but it provides the necessary elements our bodies require to function.

And when we thirst? We drink from any source of water we have available, for if we do not, we would expire like any other.

Yet, it is all overlooked by our need to feed upon the feelings of those around us, to take something that they cannot feel, that they cannot hold, that they cannot grasp, that they cannot horde as if gems.

A changeling can be disguised as an outsider for all their life, live peacefully among their neighbors, be loved by their community, and thrive in the lingering environment of passive emotions.

Then, it is all shattered in a single moment.

They are revealed, and suddenly, they are the monster.

They are the creature to be feared, to be run out of town and forced into squalor.

Yet, they have committed no foul deeds.

They have caused no crimes, done damage to naught property nor person.

They, who have been respected and accepted among their fellow citizens, are now a completely different creature from the one that they originally knew, ostracized out of simply trying to rid the town of a demon.

The irony is so palpable I sometimes choke on it.

Though in some way, I may actually understand such a bigoted reaction.

We require emotions to fully thrive, but out of these, love stands on a level all its own in allowing us to live.

It is a force that is once again indescribable to an outsider, though I am sickened to believe there is one that knows what love truly feels like to a changeling.

Pure bliss.

That is the only words I can say.

Above that, it is impossible.

And I believe, it is that very euphoric feeling that has caused us to suffer the greatest.

Much like those that lust for wealth or power, changelings are gripped with the greed to acquire more love. It may vary from drone to drone; will to will, personality to personality.

But it is there. A silent whisper.

Why not more?

Why stop?

Do you not wish for more?

Wouldn’t more be nice?

And that call is answered more than many wish not too.

This does not make us gluttons however.

This, makes us fallible.

This, makes us alive.

We recognize our faults, and maybe if others took a moment to acknowledge something as rudimentary as that, changelings wouldn’t be the feared creatures we aren’t.

But no, when a changeling enters a town, it does not care for the others that live there, it does not care for their lives, their families, it only cares about itself, and the love it can extract there.

It does not care when it asks how someling’s day went, or how their fellow coworker’s family is doing, or what the postling has been doing.

It clearly does not care for these things.

It only cares about the love.

Maybe, in some way, we create our own downfalls by getting to close. By letting ourselves get to close.

We connect, we bond, we share, and we hold each other, and soon we enter the hollowed ground.

The sacred area that some will never allow others to trod. We are walked through the gates of the heart, and we behold its splendor.

And so quickly, those gates will be sealed shut to us, forever forbidden to reopen again.

In the end, we are forced to take what we simply need. We don’t take any thing. We don’t seek it because we want to.

We yearn for it because we have to.

We hate others simply because they hate us for trying to live.

Anger and resentment is festered inside a changeling, but it is never born with it. It is not an inherent part of our being.

It is a weed.

A weed that grows into a garden solely because those around it are already consumed by its grasp.

This is what it means to be born different.

This, is what it means to be born a changeling.

Alternate Ending(?)

Author's Note

This was a bit of a last minute addition, just a little something extra for those wanting more.

Honestly, if you really liked the first part, I'd just recommend leaving it as is, as this may ruin some of the immersion? I guess? Of the story.

Alternate Ending(?)

“Why…why are you telling me this?” the voice was clearly uncertain, and she assumed they were undoubtedly nervous.

She raised her head from its slumped position, her vision partly blurred from her unkempt mane falling before it.

The voice came from the only slit in the steel door that was the gateway to her cell, the pony standing somewhere outside it asking the still unanswered question.

She didn’t answer immediately.

Her eyes trailed upward, her head leaning back and causing a slack in her chains, the metal links rattling against one another, their echo rising toward the only source of light her prison offered.

A small pinprick high above her, the distance immeasurable to her chained self, was the only glimpse she had of sunlight, the light source quite notable in her confined chute of a cell.

Chrysalis blinked under its rather minuscule glare, finding its strength more powerful than she anticipated.

She remained like that for a few minutes, perhaps longer.

A small trail of water eased its way down her cheek, finally dropping onto the unforgiving earthen floor without notice.

Strange.

She didn’t think the rain made it down here.