He never had so sweet a Changeling

by Gabriel LaVedier

Rating: teen
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Slice of Life, Sad, Romance, Changelings
Length: 49449

Lies, lovelessness, slice of life

Vanilla Torte lives an unassuming life outside of Canterlot, never thinking much about the huge city above.

Then something lands with a thunderous crash in his garden.

Published 2012-06-12 03:14:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-10-02 16:54:16 UTC

Loveless and Love-Starved

Vanilla Torte was poorly named. He was an off-white unicorn with a modest eggshell mane and tail, born from a long line of middle-to-high terrace Canterlot chefs and bakers. His flank bore a torte pan and vanilla bean, and he was, indeed, quite the accomplished baker, if he did say so himself. And if the reviewers in Canterlot said so.

But despite the high praise and the adulations, and the obvious skill, his heart wasn’t in it. It never really was into much. He had worked in Le Chateau Gascon, a third terrace restaurant of some note, and been in much demand. But he just petered out into nothing, moodily going through the motions as time went on, collecting his praises with the same mechanistic impassivity as he accepted his pay.

He had made the papers in a section beside restaurant reviews when he walked away from it all. A tabloid or two even took notice of it, speculating on causes. As he had taken all his savings and let his trust fund funnel into an interest-bearing account, the usual explanations fell flat. Salt or booze addiction, nervous breakdown, shady business deals. Nothing explained the clear-minded actions or the leaving of money to build up. It was as though he had intentionally just cut himself off entirely and vanished into thin air.

But of course, nopony ever actually vanished into thin air. They just went away for their own reasons. Vanilla had grown tired of his passionless life and walked away, taking funds to keep body and soul together. He had purchased a small home in one of the sparse, ill-defined communities at the base of Canterlot’s mountain, placed far enough away from the area to be comfortable but not far enough that he was wholly alone. His neighbors were a fair canter around the mountain base, but he could reach them inside one day and get back home before it got too dark, during the summer.

He had a fair-sized garden, which grew lush greenery for fresh food, despite not being an earth pony. He just seemed to have good luck with that. His home had two levels and from the outside looked like any cozy pony-made home. Inside it was the same, made of wood with small touches of stone. His floors were bare save for area rugs in some of the rooms. His living room was nicely decorated but nothing special, home to a sofa, a comfy chair, a low table and fireplace. His dining room was set for two, though used by one. His kitchen, though using only wood-burning appliances, was well stocked. He could very easily use it to relive his triumphs. His spare room had been made into a den with large fireplace and several well-stocked bookshelves. His bedroom was upstairs, together with a guest room that stood, tended but forever unused.

He was cut off from Canterlot, despite his proximity, and received infrequent reports form his family. He knew, vaguely, something Royal was to happen. But as he didn’t know when, and as it had nothing to do with him, he didn’t take much notice of what it was. All he really noticed was one day, around when it might have happened, the day turned drear and stormy. Rain pounded and thunder boomed. He even thought he had heard one particularly earth-shattering thundering and flash of lighting so powerful it almost seemed like it should have hit right beside him. The only thing that did hit was something out in the yard.

‘This day is going to be perfect…’ That was what she had told them. Their queen. Their mother. Their protector and sustainer had told them their long days of privation and agony were over. With one great surge of power and daring, and sacrifice, they would feast and gorge. They would have all the love they could handle, and more. They would be victorious. They would be safe. They were nothing of the sort. Their dear mother and queen had lied. They were devastated. But worst of all, beyond the failure and lies, they had been separated.

Beyond anything else, nothing hurt a Changeling like being cut off from the swarm. It was not merely a separation; drones and workers left and returned all the time. It was more fundamental. Those that left were understood to be going somewhere, their fellows in the swarm knew they were out. There was communication before, and greetings after.

They did not ‘love’ one another as ponies understood it, which is how they could feed on love and not cannibalize feelings from each other; but they felt familial closeness. They were all one, after all. And in proximity, when out of their disguises, they were in concert, occupying an interpersonal space below hive-mind but above mere concordance. Changelings of the swarm automatically knew the desires of their near swarm mates by taking up subtle cues in their actions, tone and magical resonance.

That was all gone. Those changelings that had not been knocked completely unconscious by the concussive force of magically-enhanced love were too battered and confused to transmit anything or receive anything. That was scary, but the other members were visible. Until the differences in position in the swarm and general strength of the repellant blast separated them. When they were no longer in sight there was only fear.

‘My name is Double Dealing. I am a worker of the swarm. I am a Changeling and that will never change. My name is Double Dealing. I am a worker of the swarm. I am a Changeling and that will never change. My name is Double Dea-…’ Double Dealing stopped trying to assure herself of her own identity as esoteric thoughts of losing identification through separation were pushed aside for thoughts of personal safety as the ground began to approach. Her chitinous shell would either protect her, or serve to scramble her insides. Or crack in a way softer covers would not, making injury worse.

She barely noticed the surroundings as she hit the ground. Comforting spreads of alfalfa and timothy, and some standing heads of lettuce to absorb some impact of her slide. The soil was fertile and well-worked, and thus soft. Her angle of impact helped as well, of course. The combination meant she did not die, and her flexible chitin did not break. She was on the edge of unconsciousness, but was alive.

She had churned up a good amount of mud and plant matter, getting caked nearly head to hind in it. She could feel it over her, covering her features and the holes in her limbs. She didn’t look like herself, a small comfort. All she needed to do was slip away while disguised and still conscious. The plan lasted until she made a move and felt her body alight with a flaming pain.

Something had either been broken or been bruised badly enough to feel like it. Escape was impossible. She could see a light through the caking mud and the haze of pain. Light meant civilization, and that meant ponies. The rain would reveal her for what she was if she did not fight through the pain. She crawled, coating herself in more dirt, trying not to scream.

She had gone only a short distance before she heard a door open loudly, and heard a cry. Her hearing was fading. Everything was fading. Good. The pain was fading. She could escape. But her limbs felt weak. Weaker. Everything was weaker. She saw a shape, light and ghostly coming towards her. How appropriate. The end coming like a ghost. Her head fell one last time, and her eyes closed. The shape approached. She could feel it. The last thing she felt was a touch. Then it all went away.

The cold, empty drifting was something far worse than the nothingness of pure unconsciousness. In that time she had no awareness. There was nothingness, just the momentary snap from pained fading to aimless drifting. She wafted on eddies in the void, blowing like a leaf in the wind, waiting for some anchor of stability to appear before her huge and helpless eyes.

It came in the form of a sensation. A feeling both inside her own body and outside of it. A feeling that permeated the dark world of drifting. The sensation of softness beneath her, of an obvious weight that pushed her into something warm and comforting. It was more than the padded dirt and ooze of the hive. She knew the sensation. It was a bed…

Her eyes barely opened, mind seizing control of her form as soon as she had a real, concrete thing in her mind and on her body. She could see a bed, covered in colorful cloth but caked in dirt. The slight motion of one limb showed she, too, was covered. All the holes of her form were disguised, her entire body was in a cheap and quick covering. Some parts of her, no doubt, were exposed, but in panic and hurry they would look like mere black patches. Her horn was visible but her wings were pasted down and hidden.

The decision had practically been made for her. She merely finalized and formalized it by completing the action implied by everything. She used some bit of her reserve and activated her horn, green light washing down over her body under the mud. She became what she seemed. A black unicorn mare, with a black mane. Her Cutie Mark was a hand of cards and its mirror image. Her usual default for a random body.

Her disguise formalized, and set to protect her should her clueless benefactor return, she set about testing her battered body. The bruises that seemed to cover even inch of her body made it hard to tell what was truly hurt. Why did she have a chitinous shell if it could bruise? Her hind legs moved and were none the worse for wear. Her front legs moved but that shot a stabbing pain through her. The one on the side where she had landed was screaming at her. The underlying support structure was broken. In her current form, that meant the bone. Not bad for such a fall.

She heaved a sigh and settled comfortably on the filthy bed. A filthy bed beat a tumulus, or the dark squalor of a dungeon. And it was unlikely to REMAIN filthy. She had been rescued by some figure, who would check on her in due time. They had probably left her in there, concerned about exacerbating any injuries. Either they would return with help or come to see if she was awake.

They did return, finally. The door slowly opened to reveal a white unicorn. That explained the strange, ghostly presence. Double opened her eyes wide and gave a small motion, to give a hint that she was now awake and ready for tending.

“You’re up. Good. How are you feeling?” He strolled into the room slowly, looking over the filthy body lying on his bed with a small bit of curiosity. It was almost as though something seemed wrong.

“My… right foreleg. I think it’s broken. I may have bruised my ribs.” Her new voice was a surprise to her. Light, melodious, but not so much so that she sounded like a stereotypical “beautiful pony.” She sounded like somepony on the good side of normal.

“I can get your leg splinted and set, but I’d prefer to have a doctor look at it. I’ll call for one as soon as possible. I’m glad you’re not too badly hurt. You looked like you hit the ground pretty hard. What happened?”

A pause. What kind of Changeling was she? No cover story? Foolishness! Changelings lived and (sometimes) died based on the strength or weakness of their cover stories. She thought fast and considered the timing and proximity. “I was in an airship when the to-do happened in Canterlot. I was thrown over the side and managed to use some magic to undo a little of the speed. But it still hurt me.”

Questions bubbled in the pony’s head; she could tell. The one that bubbled to the surface was the last one she expected. “What to-do in Canterlot?”

Was he testing her? Feeling out her honesty? Did he know? She cautiously responded. “The royal wedding. There was a great deal of commotion and some kind of very grand light show. Overly grand if you ask me.” No mention of the invasion. She could claim ignorance later if anything came of it.

“That sounds a bit more dangerous than what I would expect out of Canterlot. Then again, for a really big day, I wouldn’t be surprised. I think I heard about something like that. Anyhow, can you walk? I need to get you cleaned up and splinted before you get any worse.”

Double nodded and slowly slid herself off the bed without using her injured leg. “Yes. I can.” She hobbled over and looked back. Empathy. Contrition. Pony things. “Sorry about your bed.”

A laugh, and a shake of his head. “It’s a guest bed. And there were more pressing concerns at the time. It’ll be taken care of.” He leaned against her as she reached him, helping to keep her upright. “I’m Vanilla Torte.”

“I’m D-” That was close. She had been focused on her leg, and making sure she did not pain herself. She had almost just blatantly given out her name. She needed something much more neutral, something very feminine and wealthy. “Dee Dee.” Crudely constructed but passable. “My name is Dee Dee.”

Vanilla nodded a bit and slowly opened the door to his upstairs bathroom. The tub was low and well-fitted, but large enough for a pony to be well-washed. “I’m sorry, in advance. This might be hard, with your leg like that. And I don’t have any soaps and shampoos for mares. I live alone.”

“That is not a problem. As much as I may dislike the close quarters and the rather… over-familiar contact, I am more moved by the desire to be clean.” A bit over-the-top. But it was pitch-perfect for a Canterlot snob. She had to ignore the pain from various points. It had, thankfully, faded down to a constant but tolerated ache that throbbed every so often. She slowly stepped into the tub.

“I’ll start the shower for you and then give you some privacy, unless you think you can’t do it.” Even as he spoke, Vanilla ran the water, checking the temperature and carefully adjusting it.

“It would be very difficult. And besides, I am used to being tended. Typically it is other mares but I will not refuse tending.” A lie. A bald-faced lie. She had not been tended since she was a larva. She toiled hard for the swarm, for the love she needed for sustenance. “Please, do wash me.”

“Yes, my lady.” Vanilla laughed with a small shake of his head, horn taking up a washcloth and rubbing a quantity of soap on it. He then turned on the shower and let the water soak into the muddy, disheveled coat, mane and tail of the mare before the cloth was brought to bear against the dirty hide.

“Goodness! Such a subtle touch. Are you some kind of professional spa worker?” She had been one, for a week. It was not a pleasant experience. So many rules and so much finesse required at all times. She had a grudging but real respect for such ponies. The magically-controlled cloth was working with the flow of water to both clean AND soothe.

“No. I’m a baker. Was a baker. It takes a little bit of skill and care to get flaky pastry or rich desserts. I carry that over to the other things I do.” Vanilla soaped and wrung the cloth repeatedly, working from the head down. He revealed her horn, a delicate, perfectly black spiral, shining just a bit in its new cleanliness. Her mane, next, tangled and matted but finally clean. He moved slowly, delicately. “Much better.”

"I thank you, mister Torte. Your subtle care pleases me." She had been one of such women before. It was miserable. She could scarcely draw love from all her interactions. There had always been an unspoken understanding that love had very little to do with anything. She had felt so dirty, back in the hive. So dirty. And she was a shape-shifting love-consumer; she was no succubus. Not that she could draw much food out of imitating such a beast. "Perhaps I should fire my current maid and hire you."

“You’d be disappointed in pretty short order, miss Dee Dee.” The cloth came down her neck, Vanilla wiping away any trace of mud, carefully making sure there was nothing left but perfect cleanliness before the next spot was reached. “I don’t have passions for things like this. I have talent by accident but you’d never get me to be very enthusiastic about it.”

She didn’t need to be told. She could feel it. There was almost nothing coming from him. Pony-based compassion and concern for another. But no other emotion. He was so cold in that respect. So like a Changeling to some degree. “Such a shame, sir. I could have made it worth your while. But at least you have your skills with cooking. If it is anything like this, you must be much in demand.”

“Fast track in Canterlot. Le Chateau Gascon, where I baked for the likes of Fancy Pants, not to mention some kind of decorated constables personally known by her majesty Princess Luna herself.” More soap, more water, more scrubbing. The cloth was delicate and gentle along Dee Dee’s legs, especially the one that was broken. Smooth and perfect legs. Proper Canterlot beauty. “Written up repeatedly. Probably could have gone hoof-to-hoof with the likes of Doughnut Joe or the Cakes of Ponyville.”

It was in every Changeling’s best interest to learn how to listen and pay attention very carefully. They were going in blind almost every time, and had to integrate themselves into the life of a complete stranger. Every subtle cue and slight mention meant everything. “I note you… seem to speak in the past very often. I take it that you… are not very much discussed in Canterlot any longer?”

“Not… much.” Her chest and back appeared as the clinging mud was cleared away, his touch just as gentle over her bruised ribs. The delicate curve of an elegant back. “Mostly to speculate on why I left, to remember a particularly delicious treat or to spread unflattering rumors of breakdowns, addictions and illicit activities. I like it. It’s exciting. Certainly far better than the reality, simple passionlessness that led to me trotting away.”

Passionless. She, a Changeling, a love-eating creature, had fallen into the care of a passionless pony, on whom she would rely for almost everything until she could get away on her own. The fates must have been mocking her. “How tragic. A career cut short by a matter of the spirit. What brought this on, do you suppose?”

A pause. He probably never considered it. Then the cloth moved again, over her belly with gentle, respectful motions. Chaste and proper, understanding the limits of careful cleaning. “I think… it was always in me. A void. I was creating, and being praised for it. But it didn’t matter. It was only food. It still is. It mattered to those I fed, but not to me, because I was nothing special. Even if I had been top of the top, personal chef to Princess Celestia, she’d have another chef. There will always be a better one than me. It all just… I wanted to be. And I think I could only feel something if I thought it would matter and be completely special.”

Double’s life was built on the quick assessment of situations, and knowing what every perception meant. She could feel the respect in the touch; it wasn’t practiced deference, mere submission to the social norms. Nor was he biased towards stallions, that would have been apparent to her as well. He genuinely cared about her personal spaces and respected her. Her own horn glowed and gently took the cloth from him, rubbing it on the soap and then working along the lowest part of her belly. “You want to be special? Doesn’t every pony want to be somehow special? Isn’t that what a Cutie Mark is for?”

While the cloth was out of his control Vanilla took up a bottle of shampoo and liberally squirted it onto Dee Dee’s mane, his hooves moving in to gingerly work it up into a full lather, working it deep down into her scalp, to work the dirt up from there and out into the tub, to finish her mane off. His plumbing would complain. But he could afford it. “It’s just a special talent, something you’re good at. But that doesn’t mean I have a passion for it. Not anymore. I did, but it just faded away. Maybe if I could reach that special point. Ah, no need to bother you with my problems. Just need to get you clean and then splinted.”

The cleaning was finally finished. Double slowly used her horn to direct water over her body and rinse off the suds remaining, then allowed the water to wash the dirt and shampoo out of her mane. She squirted out a bit and lathered it into her tail. “Speak freely. In thanks for your kind assistance I can surely offer you my ear for a time. Have you some sort of dryer?”

“I have fireplaces downstairs. Up here I can only offer you towels and some magical heat. I learned to make a certain amount of flame and directed heat in service of cookery.” Vanilla rinsed off the tail and shut off the water, levitating over three towels and a first aid kit from the tucked-away linen closet. “I need to go find some things I can use as splints. Dry off as best you can, and then I’ll be back in to set and wrap that leg, split it then wrap it again. Tomorrow I’ll contact the local doctor. He should be able to get out here quickly.”

Double nodded as Vanilla left, her magic lifting a towel and wiping it slowly over her form, wrapping another towel around her mane to start the drying process. She could transform, wipe her cuticle and be done with it, but he would surely notice. She just dried herself off as best she could, and finally contemplated her fate. She had escaped from serious harm. She had been very lightly hit by the love wave and was still somewhat by Canterlot. She was not badly injured, but was still injured. But most importantly, she had not been discovered. Her rescuer, this Vanilla, did not know of the invasion, but better he know little than risk him knowing anything that could hurt her. If she could feed on his caring she could maintain her necessary functions, together with the supplement of actual food. Changelings ate emotions because their place of habitation had little food, and distilled emotion could be shared easily. But their bodies could still metabolize other things, it was just far less satisfying. Her position was secure. She would recover and be gone.

Down on the lower floor Vanilla was tightly binding wooden skewers with tough rubber tape after snipping their sharp ends. Makeshift, but passably good. They would suffice until the doctor had a look at her. He started back up, but hesitated. He would help her, as much as it hurt to do so.

His loss of interest in his career had been his own doing. But his abandonment of Canterlot had been the fault of Canterlot. He could have lived there, in some low terrace. But the place did not suit him. The fakery, the falsehood, the sheer artificiality of all the finest ponies killed his spirit by leaps and bounds, helping along what was naturally spiraling down. It pained him. And here it was again.

He had seen her in his garden. He had been panicked. But he knew what he saw. And what he had felt. An unspiraled-horn, and a firm, smooth body. Somehow, she had found a way to change. To lie to him with her whole body. In time, he would know why.

Together, Alone

“You did a fair enough job, Vanilla.” The next day. After the bath and Vanilla binding the bundles of skewers to Dee Dee’s leg as a makeshift splint, she had opted to sleep on the stripped bed. It seemed unusual for a Canterlot pony to so easily choose something so plain and lacking in refinement. But it made things easier. The next day Vanilla had made the call bright and early, the only way to get to the doctor with any speed. That doctor, a pale green unicorn with a bright white mane and a surgical mask as a cutie mark, was looking over the job done. “Suffices for a temp job. Normally I’d suggest we get her to the hospital but that’s just too long of a wait. I brought the supplies to make a cast, so I can get right to it.”

“Thank you, doctor. Sorry about the trip you had to take. I know I’m not exactly… centrally located in a friendly position.” Vanilla looked over the doctor’s shoulder as he gently probed Dee Dee’s leg, cringing a bit when she winced.

“Mister Torte, I service a rural community. We are nominally Canterlot-located, but this is very informal and spaced out. I am quite used to a long jaunt to see a patient. But, I must say, seldom a patient this elegant and lovely.” The doctor smiled to Dee Dee, and very carefully laid her broken leg on sterile gauze which was placed on a pile of white paper upon a pillow.

“Oh my, thank you doctor. You flatter me.” Double smiled exactly as appropriate and waved her uninjured leg in a coy, coquettish gesture, a small blush artificially placed over the bridge of her snout. She could tell the doctor was the shameless flirt type, and perhaps a trifle goatish, but in no way a lust-drenched sort. Lonely, but satisfied in the main. Probably very common in the area. Very subtle activation of her horn let her draw in the ambient emotion. It was dross, the mere dregs of edible emotion as far as she was concerned. But she had been in Canterlot society and fed on far less pure feeling as a matter of course. Innocent flirtation outweighed directed lechery, even if the strength of such forceful lust made it more filling overall. There was still a savor to be considered. “I’m nothing special. Just a temporarily-displaced mare.”

“Well, while you are so displaced, this little pseudo-community is richer for your presence.” The doctor chuckled softly and turned to the materials he had brought with him. He first started to massage a packet, mixing some chemicals together within and turning them from a collection of liquids into a sort of flowing putty. “Mister Torte, if you would, please cut me long strips of gauze. I need them… about lasagna-noodle length, if that helps you.”

“I did pastry, but I was around plenty of chefs de cuisine that made Cavallino food. I know exactly the size you want.” Vanilla used his horn, to maintain a semi-sterile environment, taking up a roll of gauze and angled scissors, unrolling and cutting the filmy fabric. “This sure cuts easier than puff pastry or phyllo. I don’t need to worry about it falling apart.”

“Very clean and precise. Perhaps you should consider nursing work. You don’t need to be a crossheart mare, you know? That’s just common, not required.” The doctor chuckled and then turned back to Dee Dee, lifting her injured leg slowly and wiping it slowly with a dark, sharp-smelling liquid. “Sorry for the smell but you need an antibacterial coat beneath the liquid resin that will be underneath the cast. I’m not sure if you have experience with this, but it’s how we’ve been doing this in the modern day.”

“I’ve never had a break like this. It was something of a shock.” The swarm was not… coddling. Injured drones and workers were easy to replace, and consumed without producing. If they could not make honey, or could no longer perform internal hive duties, there was no recourse. It hurt to see some being that had been a friend killed because they were injured. But the swarm had to remain strong.

“Thankfully, she is taking it well. Though is there anything you can give her for pain? She was very battered up by the whole ordeal.” Vanilla continued to cut strips while he regarded Dee Dee. She had taken everything very well. It would have spoken well of her had she been more honest.

“Of course. For bodily harm like this, I can certainly give her something.” The doctor brushed on a slightly-tinted fluid that did not drip or flow too much. Once the entire broken segment was covered he wrapped the coated region in an aura of magic, the liquid solidifying and darkening somewhat. “Some waterproofing and rubbery protection. Don’t worry, it comes off easily.”

“Say, how many of these strips do you need? I’d hate to use up too much of your gauze.” Vanilla had a good pile of long gauze strip stacked neatly beside the pillow. It was like he was making a pastry with it.

“Looks like somepony misses his old job, wouldn’t you say, doctor?” Double laughed softly and examined Vanilla to gauge his reaction. He didn’t seem to react too strongly, merely turned back to the gauze.

“Looks like you are correct miss Dee Dee. That should be enough for now.” The doctor cut open the pouch of flowing putty, carefully smearing a portion of it over the rubbery covering. With the area coated he began wrapping the gauze strips securely over the covered area, the material flowing through the holes in the gauze and soaking into it. He built up layer on layer until the gauze no longer became soaked. He wrapped it in a magical aura and applied the rest of the liquid, adding more layers. “Thaumatic-reactive rigid composite. It works so much better and faster than plaster. Honestly I wonder how we ever got on without it.”

“How long does the cast have to stay on?” Changeling education was limited. Speaking, covert operations, quick excuses, general history, sciences, social structures, math and geography, somewhat like pony foals, but with far more hours per day. They could pretend to be a pony and move in society but they knew almost nothing about the little things. Financing a home, arranging social situations, or anything health-related. Illness was not an issue when non-productivity was a death sentence.

“It was a simply fracture, thankfully. But a fairly big bone. The range for one of your general health is around a month and a half to three months. Outside a hospital setting I’d say your best bet is to go the full three months, then call me in to remove the cast.” The doctor started packing his things back into a large box marked with a red cross.

“Anything special I need to know? I mean, she’ll be staying here for the whole time. I don’t want to get anything wrong.” Vanilla looked… somewhat flustered, but not overly much. His worry was tempered by the natural chill in his bearing.

“Nothing much beyond common sense issues. Keep her off the leg, have her remain reasonably active, good nutrition is a plus, keep her mind engaged to stave off cabin fever. Besides that, there’s this…” The doctor took out a cylindrical red bottle of pills with a white label, a pen levitating over to fill in information. “Two pills every eight hours if there is pain. I know I shouldn’t have to say this, but don’t overdo the dosage. Addiction is NEVER good and overdose is a death sentence.”

Vanilla took the bottle in his magic, eyes scanning over the information written on it. Detailed, clear, easy. “Right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the help, and sorry for bringing you out here on such short notice.” Vanilla rose with the doctor, following him out the door.

“Oh yes, and she really should contact family or other acquaintances, just to let her know she’s alright. I know there was a big to-do up there. And there’s probably a lot of panic going on for the missing, especially in the case of an airship incident. If you’re lucky some family or friends could come and get her. They’re likely to be more hospital-proximate than you are, mister Torte.”

“I understand. And you’re very right, doctor. For her sake on many levels, I need to get that taken care of.” Vanilla showed the doctor out and helped him to load his cart and get things situated before waking him off with a small, cool smile. Once he was out of sight the off-white stallion turned back to the house. With the stranger resting, helpless and mendacious, in his guest bedroom, filled with unknown secrets and alien intents. But even so, he willingly went back inside and closed the door, sealing both of them in together.

Double looked down at the cloth-and-resin band on her leg, the surface reasonably smooth thanks to the pressure of the doctor’s magic acting on the resin-soaked gauze. She gave it a gentle tap with her other hoof. Solid. Deep inside her body was healing itself. If she were to change she might be able to keep it on. It was sized so exactly she was not sure what would become of her holes if she went back to her true body. This was what ponies knew. Comfort for their pains, and compassion for their weakness. And while the swarm prided itself on strength, the weak ponies on which they callously fed had won…

The shutting of the door drew her attention to the fact she had pushed away initially. She was in the house with a complete stranger. She was cut off from her own kind, caught up with food that would not feed her, knowingly or not. The coldness and distance in him made him feel somehow familiar, but he could not drop his form and approach her as a fellow Changeling, to fill her with the comforting security of the hive interconnection. She would need to do something to improve her situation or somehow get out of the place and into more familiar localities.

“The doctor had an excellent suggestion. You need to contact your family and friends, to assure them that you’re alright.” Vanilla came back upstairs with a pad of paper, a quill and an inkwell. “Just give me a phone number and I’ll get them for you. They can come to get you. I’m sure you’d rather recuperate in your own home, closer to a hospital.”

The disguised Changeling looked to the paper with a cool disinterest, while she was internally panicked. She had been caught off guard, again. Perhaps she wasn’t such a good Changeling after all. She was being thrown by the most basic things that larvae were taught. She took up the quill and dipped the tip in the ink, slowly levitating it towards the paper, but halting halfway through. “I know you are attempting to help, and I do appreciate it greatly. But I do not believe that the issue is as terribly serious. It can wait for a time.”

Vanilla mmmed softly, looking at Dee Dee for a moment, then taking the paper and writing implements away. “You HAVE had a very trying time of it. And the doctor advised some portion of rest. I’ll bring in some fresh sheets for you. Might as well make the space comfortable.” Vanilla took the implements out of the room, not seeing his houseguest slump down in relief.

Her breath panted out in gentle puffs over the bare mattress. Even stripped and smelling faintly of stray drops of antiseptic, it was like a cloud. And she needed that comfort. She had no freedom to wander away from a pony that had seen her weak cover story for the flimsy tissue it was. In normal circumstances there was a fluid dynamic, the ability to trot on to greener pastures and away from prying eyes. She’d need to be more careful in the future.

She could not afford to be lulled into a sense of relaxation because it was so isolated. It was a reason to be worried, in fact. Out there, no creature could help her if her host was unkind. The doctor seemed to see the stallion as pleasant, and he knew she was there. But he was not there all the time. And he could well be in on some kind of conspiracy. ‘Double… such conspiracies do not exist. They live only in the horrid movies viewed by those with no taste, such as the pony you imitated so long ago.’ She sighed a bit. Her internal self was correct. She only needed to worry about pointed questions and thorny moments, not knives and needles.

“I know you want to rest, but I thought a fine lady like yourself would want some sheets.” Vanilla came back into the room, holding a full sheet set and two fresh pillows in his horn’s grip. “Don’t worry. I washed them first to get them soft, and stored them in a watertight place.”

“I DO wish to rest. But you are quite correct. I would much prefer a fully dressed bed.” It took a little bit of shuffling and twisting, but three hooves finally his the floor, leaving the stripped bed bare and ready for covering.

The bedding started with a slightly-padded under-sheet, a plain white thing stuffed with a bit of foam. Over that the fitted sheet, in a very pale robin’s-egg blue, stretched and settled smoothly over the mattress. A matching sheet was spread out and tucked under, topped by a light comforter in pale cream with a floral motif. The pillows were covered in cases that matched the comforters and set gingerly at the head. “I trust that is acceptable to you?”

“Acceptable. Very acceptable.” Double looked on the bed, working extremely hard to suppress her desire and adoration. She focused on the coldness she was receiving and gave it back in kind to help with that suppression and the maintenance of her Canterlot detachment. Appearance was reality, as far as a Changeling was concerned, at least in the majority of cases. And that was what sold even the thinnest cover.

“May I bring you anything? You must be getting hungry now.”

‘Give me your love. Give me your lust. Give me your lechery. Give me something but your frosty formality, you Canterlot icepony.’ “I would very much enjoy a large, crisp salad with cress and escarole, drizzled with red wine vinegar, a plate of timothy hay and sparkling purified water. If you don’t have it all, then as near as you can get. I recognize that circumstances are somewhat reduced.”

Vanilla nodded lightly and left the room. “You harmed my crops a little bit but I have some of those things. I, too, grew to enjoy the flavor of such things and learned to cultivate them.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Double alone to slowly slip back under the covers, a shiver running over her seeming skin, a low, pleasured sigh emerging from her lips. The run-up to and the preparations for the invasion had involved even more sparse conditions and rigorous treatment in the swarm. To simply have time to lay, in luxurious softness and joyous comfort... it was so indulgently decadent. She did need to get away. But there was no real harm in taking advantage of the surroundings in which she was caught.

Downstairs, Vanilla was out in the garden. Along around the other side of the house from Dee Dee’s landing place were the carefully-maintained patches of higher-end and more flavorful bits of vegetation. Thanks to the lack of earth pony natural skill, and the necessity of using the natural mana flow and the presence of nutrients, he was forced to grow in carefully controlled areas in rigidly enforced grids with a very careful regime of fertilizing, watering and weeding.

Each harvestable bunch of each crop would suffice to feed a pony, if not for one day then at least for a fair-sized meal. He carefully cut one bunch of escarole and one bunch of the cress, levitating them into a basket he had with him. He then carefully dripped some concentrated liquid fertilizer into the bare bases and roots, to give them the strength to draw on mana while the leaves were growing back.

Back inside the house he rinsed them off, carefully, getting between the leaves, and even making sure the curls of the escarole were clear of debris. He wielded his larger chef’s knives with his magic, the leaf vegetables also held up, allowing him to made grand, graceful chops and swings, swiftly cutting the leaves into salad-sized pieces. He was in no wise a chef de salade, but he had filled in for them before and had done salad work during his initial training. He still had it.

He carefully mixed the greens in a large bowl, tossing them together to get them evenly intermixed. While he had them in the process of mixing he took up his red wine vinaigrette and sprinkled it carefully over the leaves, letting them be drizzled but not drowned. It was a very imprecise thing; everypony had their preference. The norm was to allow the customer to pour themselves, as it also let the chef off the hook. But she had asked, and he was not about to demand she dress her own salad. His own taste was fair, and so the amount he preferred would likely be sufficient.

He had a batch of timothy that had been freshly hayed, sitting in the small dry goods pantry. He measured out the salad onto two plates and then set a plate out, moving a small pile of the hay onto it, trying to get the dry stuff to fall in an artful manner. It was slightly more hoi polloi than haute cuisine, the ingredients notwithstanding, but it might be enough to satisfy the lady above.

He did not have sparkling or carbonated water, but he had plenty of fresh water, clean and pure. He even had a deep, wide glass, very like a snifter, sufficient to provide a good amount of water. To be sure, he included a stoneware pitcher of water.

One bowl of the salad was placed on a large, silver tray, a parting gift from his family, probably intended to make him long for return to the finery of the upper terraces. Beside it was set a salad fork, a cloth napkin, and the glass of water. Lower was the plate of hay and beside it the pitcher. The whole thing set, Vanilla levitated it up and trotted his way back upstairs.

Back in the guest room he found Dee Dee snuggled into bed, looking blissfully happy. Typical. A comfort-seeking Canterlot lady burying herself in all the luxury she could scrape up, even despite her situation. He brought a side table closer to the bed, the soft thump of the legs hitting the floor grabbing her attention. “As you asked. I didn’t have the sparkling water but I think it’s best that you get lots of regular water. I trust it will be to your liking.”

“It will suffice, I am quite certain. You were a professional, after all. I would imagine that your skills have not deteriorated.” ‘I’m not a statue and I’m not your boss. FEEL SOMETHING. Shed an emotion for me. You care enough to keep me alive, show me that caring.’ Double smiled pleasantly, levitating over the bowl and the fork.

“Very good. I made a portion for myself and it’s downstairs right now. I will give you a chance to enjoy your meal in peace. I’ll be up in a bit to clear away the dishes.” With a nod and bow so slight it was almost a mere implication, he was out of the room again, leaving Double alone with food enough to fill her belly.

Double looked around the room as she sullenly levitated her bowl over to herself. The side table that had been used as a resting place for her tray was a polished mahogany nightstand with a single drawer and an empty storage space beneath. The floor was polished wood, already wiped up and cleared of the mud from the previous night. Besides the nightstand and the bed, the room was very bare. There was a matching mahogany chest of drawers, an armoire, a chest at the foot of the red and a closed sliding door that was most likely a closet. It was sufficient for a guest room. But he room was almost as frosty as Vanilla himself. The matching furniture was so formal and stuffy, and it was perfectly polished and clean, lacking any nicks and scuffs from real living. She had been in ordinary homes before and seen what a real, lived-in home looked like, a place of great emotion.

The fork levitated and stabbed into the vinegar-drizzled greens. She pulled them up and into her mouth, chewing passionlessly on them. Her features softened and a small smile crossed her features. Her grinding may have been passionless but her feelings were certainly moved. The peppery mustard greens and crisp endives mixed together with the seasoned vinaigrette that had been perfectly applied to the meal. There was such… care in it. Not passion. It was still largely rote. But there was a taste to it, something only a Changeling might have noted, the tiniest bit of care sprinkled into it.

Emotions, at least the components that were edible by Changelings, could be cast into things. But while most of it was only accessible as a kind of scent or feeling, when infused into food it became a delicious bonus in the meal, a seasoning AND a way to take in empowering nutrition. Food made with passion and care was delicious and bracing. And, as she remembered, even sloppily-made dishes made with a real passion for the consumer, like an anniversary meal or romantic dinner for two, was almost as delicious as stolen love. In fact, it was stolen love, a love for a pony that was not really there. It fed the Changeling body on both fronts.

Down on the ground floor, Vanilla was in his den, eating his salad while considering everything. The bare floor with a round rug, the several bookshelves stuffed with thick books of many subjects, the low backless couch that providing another bit of seating besides the thick, comfortable chair, the side table on a stand holding his salad and water, the cold fireplace needless in the comfortable day. Familiar surroundings. Changed somewhat by having somepony else in the house.

He shouldn’t have felt any differently. She was a liar. Somehow she was a liar and he knew it. Refused to write to or otherwise contact somepony, changed her appearance in some manner, held him at a practiced distance. She was too smooth, too perfect. Nopony would be that dismissively proper without a reason. It wasn’t his business… but she was making it his business.

It hadn’t necessarily been her fault that she had crashed into his yard. But she had done something that made her tumble to the ground, and she HAD hit his property. By intention or accident, she had thrust herself into his life in the most direct manner possible. He had to care for her, because it was the right thing to do. As much as he might have liked to have been left alone, he knew it was no excuse to simply throw her out into the world to some impersonal hospital. It would have been extremely un-Equestrian. It felt right to have her there. Yet it was still a burden.

He munched on the salad and hummed to himself. Tasty. Suitable for serving in a good restaurant. Properly dressed, the greens crisp and well cut, everything looking right and smelling right, the bouquet rich and full. No matter her status as a snotty noble, it would probably suit her taste well. She was getting for free what would normally cost a fair bit.

He considered the salad, chewing more slowly on his mouthful. It was good for a light meal. But for healing there needed to be more substance. It needed tomatoes, and olive oil, soybeans, perhaps some cheese and chopped olives… he caught himself as his horn’s glow enveloped one of the books on the shelf, with the picture of several vegetables on the spine.

“No…” He took a drink of water, washing the flavor out of his mouth and leaving it bare. “No no… changes aren’t that easy.”

Ne'er the twain shall meet

The sun rose on another day in Equestria, spreading golden light over the mountain of Canterlot and all its ancillary units, which included the broad territory which held the home of Vanilla Torte. But it was not just his anymore. In some vague sense his home had been invaded, or at least somehow peacefully annexed, by the foreign power named Dee Dee.

The lead and only citizen of the annexing power stirred in her borrowed bed, softly sighing as she awoke from the Changeling equivalent of a dream. Changelings in the swarm were washed in the concordance-field, able to feel their surrounding Changelings, so as they slept they could get impressions of the others, knowing their actions and things they may say. But alone, while hunting for love, their sleep was comforted with memories of the hive. The memory of feeling the comforting concordance, the impression of all the others around, reassuring the Changeling they were not alone.

Her eyes opened, alleged eyes in an alleged body, a living lie that made her very keenly aware of her separation. As the dream faded from her mind and she was left alone again, she was made aware that she could not simply fly back to the swarm. She was not just days away from flitting back to the warm embrace of concordance, welcomed and accepted. She had no love to offer by way of explanation for her delay, and was injured beside. She was stuck, living on the kindness of a strange pony, who treated her without kindness.

She pushed the sheets off of herself and looked down at her cast-covered leg segment. It disgusted her on a deep, personal level, a feeling that came forward automatically. She had ingested all the lessons of the swarm and the teachings of Chrysalis. Weakness was not only improper but also disgusting. The break in her leg, now that it had been with her for some time, was making her feel weak, and that weakness was grating on her.

Intellectually, she was aware that it was her own body and life. She was not eager to die. But the harsh lesson of the swarm had worked its way into her mind. She was starting to feel the contempt for the injury, as though it was a separate thing, disconnected from her own body. She was now on both sides of the question. Well aware that it was good to be rid of the weakness, even if it hurt to contemplate it; but also being the one who was injured she knew she wanted to live. And were she in the swarm she would beg to be spared that death, even knowing that none of the others would save her, despite how it hurt them to see her die.

She sighed softly and slowly slid out of the bed. She had to get out of her own head. A little exercise might do her good. She hit the ground on three hooves, holding her injured leg up against her body. It was very awkward, teetering around like a tripod with poor weight distribution. She took an experimental step, tottering forward and bring both of her rear hooves up with an awkward hop. It was pathetic.

She tried to make her way back to the bed, hopping and stumbling her way through a turn, then moving with a loud clattering back to the bed, pulling herself into it with a grunt and a grumble. She was suddenly made very aware, in a practical way, why weakness was so heavily punished. She could never possibly do any work hobbling around like that.

The door opened with the soft sound of unicorn magic, Vanilla standing on the other side and looking in with a vague look of concern. “Is there something going on in here? There's a lot of thumping coming out of here.”

“Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just taking a stroll around the room.” Double waved her injured leg dismissively, wincing involuntarily, having forgotten about that in her rush to appear completely blasé.

“I'll bring you some pills. Looks like you might still need them.” Without another word he was gone, closing the door securely behind him.

He strolled casually down the stairs, though he noted that he was moving at a clip that was just a bit more rapid than usual. He was so used to his own hooffalls that he knew when something was wrong. He popped the pill bottle and shook out two pills, also filling a glass with some flat water. It was important. After all, to leave her in pain would be cruel, and very un-ponylike.

He was back up the stairs even faster than before, spurred on by his own thoughts about propriety. He opened the door with another gentle use of magic, poking his head in just a bit, in order to pass along the water and pills, setting them down on the bedside table. “Here. I'd offer you something to eat to make it easier on the stomach but I don't have anything ready made. Don't worry, I'll have some lunch ready. As I recall, painkillers put you out.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She smiled a pulled, imitation smile. Drugs. Dangerous things. Addiction. Overdose. Interactions. And as a Changeling there COULD be improper, minimized or overdone effects, though she was not aware of such a thing from what had been said in the swarm. But to imitate a pony meant to imitate all things pony, which meant taking medicines if the original pony took necessary medication. Though usually it was all just an act. Not actually taking it because the Changeling lacked the disease. But she had real pain. And it offered real relief. A hard decision. “I don't want to keep you.”

“Yes. Of course. I'll be very quiet.” The door closed again, Vanilla's hoofsteps vanishing down the upstairs hall and down the stairs, until they were gone.

The pills stared at her from the side table, sitting innocuously beside the rather ordinary glass of water. She levitated the pills up and over in front of her face. She didn't have TOO much pain. And she didn't want to really sleep. It wasn't in her nature to sleep during the day. Workers worked, and hard. But if she didn't take them, questions would arise. And though she didn't want to sleep, she couldn't do anything except that. Her only other option would be to stare at the ceiling and contemplate her injury.

Imitate the pony, as far as need demands. That was the primary rule of the swarm when time came to infiltrate. As a supposed Canterlot noblewoman, or at least a lady of breeding and standing, she was expected to be a lazy and loafing figure. Her disguise demanded that she sleep, or give it a good crack.

One pill floated over to her mouth, with the glass of water following. The other was carefully placed inside of the armoire, in the most shadowy spot possible. There was no need to look in there. It would go completely unnoticed long enough. That handled, she swallowed the pill with a good amount of water.

While the pill was sliding down Dee Dee's throat, Vanilla was casting his thoughts up to her. He chopped fresh chard, into salad-sized pieces, while his magical flame set a pot of water to boil. He was mostly used to using such a thing for crème brulee, but it also helped to get a stubborn pot of water going faster. He needed it going as quickly as possible. He felt a great deal of sympathy towards the poor mare, thanks to that flash of pain he saw on her face when she tried to dismiss him with a wave. He almost felt great concern...

His head shook a touch. Sympathy and concern were not to be conflated. His sympathy was automatic, necessary, the essence of being a pony, despite any apathy on his part. But concern, real concern, was reserved for those that had earned care, a deeper interest in their well-being. He was not prepared to throw his concern into the greedy maw of a stranger, a stranger that was nothing but a petty little collection of lies and petulance.

The chard cut up properly, he dropped the leaves into two bowls, then carefully rolled over candied walnut pieces with a rolling pin. Those were sprinkled carefully over the cut chard. On the board he had been using for the chard he began to cut up thick, deeply-colored rhubarb. His glowing horn began to slowly pour sugar into the water, which was starting to bubble.

He was in his element. Feeling the power flowing through his horn, the mana gripping, moving, twisting in motions he knew well. His eyes darted around, checking to make certain every thing was working as intended. He could remember not having to do that. He could stand at this station and practically close his eyes, every element moving perfectly at his command. It was so natural. So perfect. So... mechanical.

The knife clattered to the ground as his concentration wavered, the strawberries he was cutting scattering a little bit. Focus. Focus. He could not just rely on mechanical repetition. He was not a machine. He was not just a device. He was a real pony. With the focus back at the fore, he chopped the strawberries together with the rhubarb.

He added a generous drizzle of red wine vinegar to the boiling pot, in an amount slightly more than the sugar he had previously added, and gave it a good stir. With the sugar dissolved and the vinegar integrated he levitated in the chopped rhubarb and strawberries, stirring the pot briskly while covering the bowls of chard with plastic. He took up the knife again and began to carefully, and finely, chop a sugar beet.

Back up the stairs, the pill dissolved in Double's stomach as she stared futilely at the insides of her eyelids. Sleep did not want to come for her. She was no lay-about weakling. She was a proud and very successful worker of the swarm. She worked hard, and slept only as was necessary. And it was not necessary. Yet it was. Her teeth ground as her eyes darted under her black lids.

She was suffering the paradox of obedience. To obey her command to be strong and alert was to disobey the command to blend in seamlessly and arouse no suspicion. She had chosen her story. It was not her fault that she found it hard to obey all its dictates. Sometimes she didn't even have the chance to choose. Frustration grew as she had to contemplate her failure of foresight, trapping her in a rigid box. The first thing that came to mind, chosen instantly. She was going to get more frustrated, but suddenly, her body stopped doing what she wanted.

She wanted to be angry. But she wasn't able to muster up the force to do it. She wanted her blood to boil and her teeth to gnash. But it was not coming up. She thought to the pill in her stomach, the medicine flowing through her disguised body. She had less mass than the average pony, whatever her disguise may have said. One strong painkiller was enough to remove the sore throb from her leg, and also much of the tightness and agitation from her body. She felt so... relaxed. Free of her paradox. Free of her anger. Free of her self-loathing. Her eyes fluttered once and she sighed. It was relaxing. Not especially appealing. But just enough to allow her to lay her head out and get as close to taking a pampered Canterlot mare nap as she could ever get.

She didn't quite not dream. She saw the swarm in her dozing. She heard their modulating buzz and the skitter of chitin on the rocks of their home. She remembered it all. But she didn't quite feel it like she usually did. She had the memory of a feeling, not the feeling. True, it was never a real feeling. But she wasn't feeling it as strongly as before. It was very strange. To sleep and to only look in, like an outsider, on the swarm. But it was still the swarm. She knew it plainly.

She didn't know how long she was there, looking in on the familiar scene. She had a growing feeling of connection, the drug burning out of her system faster thanks to her biology, alien to pony medicine. She only heard soft hooffalls outside her door. Her senses were good as ever. Her eyes popped open as the door slowly opened. “Lunch. Like I promised.” Vanilla stepped into the room, bearing the same tray as the other day. It contained more water, a bowl, and a napkin-covered plate.

She sniffed at the bowl as it was levitated over to her side table. “That smells a bit stronger than yesterday. Did you modify your recipe for this meal?” She looked into the bowl, seeing the chopped leaves covered in some sort of reddish sauce. “And what is on the plate?”

“I thought that you might get bored with the same thing over again. I know you classy sorts.” There was no real malice in Vanilla's voice, but he did not seem overly kind either. “So I made a strawberry-rhubarb sauce with sugar and vinegar, strained it, and then used it as a vinaigrette over fresh chard and slivered sugar beet. I gave you a larger portion today because chard is especially healthy and the doctor said you needed plenty of vitamins and minerals. As for the napkin...” The napkin was whipped off with a flash of telekinesis. Underneath was a thick, flat little pastry thing, looking for all the world like a Kernewek heavy cake, but frosted with a thin layer of simple glaze. “It's a basic milk cake, pan-fried, with a simple confectioner's sugar glaze. It may not be up to your lofty standards, but it is filling, and good for keeping the stomach from getting upset.”

Dee Dee didn't even hesitate to return Vanilla's frosty demeanor with a poison smile on her lips. “Well it looks delicious. Such effort taken for a simple guest. My goodness I really am quite the VIP, aren't I? The cake is hardly up to muster but, well nopony is perfect, am I right? Of course I am.”

Vanilla did not react, except to nod his head and turn to leave the room. “Very good then. Don't hesitate to ask for help if you need it, and just leave the dishes there. I'll take care of them later.” With her ego sufficiently stung, Vanilla left Dee Dee alone to eat.

Double considered dumping the meal out of the window and declaring it preemptively unpalatable. But as her reserves of pure love energy were not sufficient to sustain her physical form, she needed to consume the food he presented to her. With a disdainful sneer she took up her fork and packed a mouthful into her maw.

Only the grit of her teeth kept her from making a sound. The taste... on the surface layer, the thing ponies would notice, she could taste the perfect and heavenly blend of sweet and sour, strawberry midwifed by the rhubarb into the sting of the vinegar with the other spices adding fading notes to the whole. Beneath, where only a Changeling could delve, there was a confusion. Easy, satisfied passion swirled horribly with almost a feeling of disgust, or possibly hate. Was he... secretly disdainful of her?

No... She would have tasted such a thing before, felt it on the air. To infuse that kind of disgust with passion would have taken a sudden revelation. He realized something while cooking and it tainted his emotions. While it was foul indeed, it was food. It was all food. The delicious salad, the tasty passion and the nauseating disgust. It was nourishment. Survival was sufficient. She had to remember, she was not a real Canterlot noblemare. Her disguise did not need to extend to how she acted when alone.

She polished off the bowl of greens and took a drink of water to cleanse all the tastes from her palate. Then she turned her fork to the squat little cake sitting on the tray. Nothing more than a glorified pancake, a grilled creation of milk and flour and whatever other things it occurred to him to throw in. The first bite... the first bite... a sly smile slide across her features. He could lie to himself. He could even lie to her face. But that taste. The harmonious blend of ingredients with dashes of extracts in the frosting and batter transformed a humble cake to something more. But that did not hold her interest most.

She felt love. It danced on her tongue, slid gloriously down her gullet with a tingling shiver following in its wake. It was small, suppressed, muted by practice. But it was there. He had loved to make the lumpen little thing, however humble it was. It was where his heart lay, in the making of such things.

She devoured the cake with a will and sighed. To taste it after so much lack, it was wonderful. Separated from her kind, thrown in with a stranger, put in a state that marked her as unacceptable, never knowing when she might be able to return home securely. The tiny dose of love invigorated her, infused her limbs with the feeling of strength and put a force in her chest. She would be successful in her endeavor this time.

Setting side the fork, and taking another bracing gulp of water, she slid out of the bed with more security and confidence. She hit her three hooves with a heavy thump. She was ready. Certainly, flight and quadropedal movement was the norm. But she was burning with confidence and a sudden strength from the fresh infusion of her preferred food. She could best her own infirmity.

Her first few trots were better, more rapid. She moved her rear hooves several steps with each hop of her foreleg. It resulted in an odd hunching and sometimes made her foreleg wobble when she landed, but she was doing it. She was moving along at an unsteady clip all on her own. No need for help from her horrid housemate. Hop and trot, hop and trot.

Downstairs, Vanilla looked up at the sound of awkward clopping and thumping. She was trying again. None of his business. He turned back to the book he was reading. Daring Do and the Kelpie's Kiss. It was a pivotal scene. Daring had to save Herpy from the embrace of a literal stallion-eater that had enslaved his mind and heart. “Herpy! Wait! She doesn't love you! I do! Don't lea-”

The awkward clops ceased with a single, heavy thud, as of a body roughly striking the floor. The book was tossed away and Vanilla's desperate galloping steps rang through the house as he took the stairs by twos. He flung the door to the guest room open to find a wincing, straining Dee Dee on her bad leg's side, struggling to get back on her hooves. “What happened?”

“N-nothing that should worry you.” Typical weakling pony concern. She pushed up on the floor with all her might and managed to awkwardly raise herself back to a standing position, not falling back onto her side only through the action of petulance. “I was taking a bit of a walk. I think your floors may be uneven. Hardly a surprise in such a house.”

“Yes. The floors. I'll have the butler call somepony about that.” Vanilla rolled his eyes and almost felt the urge to chastise himself for his sudden rush of concern. She clearly wasn't worth quite that much concern. He looked her over again, as she painfully and awkwardly moved herself back to the bed. “Do you need me to bring you to the bathroom, for a scrub or something?”

“No.” The reply was sharp and hard, as she lifted herself into the bed. Then a softened, “No, thank you. I don't feel I need it right now. Please leave me. No need for anything else.”

“No pills or anything?”

“No. I am perfectly fine.”

Vanilla levitated up the dishes and brought them out of the room. “Alright then. I'll leave you be. Just call me if you need to use the facilities, as ever.”

“Oh yes, one thing.” As Vanilla turned to leave, Dee Dee lifted herself in bed and called out.

“Yes?”

Dee Dee put on a neutral mask and nodded her head. “The salad was sufficient. And your cake, it was very acceptable.”

One lip curled, very slightly, quickly smothered down following an acknowledging nod. “Thank you, ma'am. I will continue to maintain high standards. I know what your kind likes.” With that, he was gone again.

The Beast

Days passed, like some sort of gentle breeze. The regularity of them made one day blend into another, night and day folding like butter into dough. That was how Vanilla was coming to see the passing time. He was prisoner in his own home, shackled to the will of a cold and dismissive society mare that lied with her silence. He was expected to be there, to move her to the facilities to take care of her essential functions and occasionally scrub her, being careful of her cast. He was also expected to feed her. Each day, each meal, something new and suitable for the refined tastes of a Canterlot mare. Not that he had trouble, there were an endless stream of recipes available for that. But the principle of it was galling.

Thick, heavy thuds rang around the room, the sound of furious impacts. Thump. Thump. Thump. Regular, repeated, and very hard. Vanilla was pouring out his frustration into his battery. He had the right. There was no pony that would deny him his feelings and this cathartic exercise.

“Ice-cold Canterlot witch!” His hoof hammered down upon the large pile of dough, sending out a puff of flour as the pile flattened. “You can't be civil even once, can you?” He smashed the dough together from both sides, back into a full lump. “You can never turn it off, can you?” He brought both hooves down on the dough. “And you can't!” A punch. “Stop!” Another. “Lying!” A flurry of blows.

He made his way over to the sink, softly panting as he washed and dried his hooves thoroughly. He could have just used his magic on the dough. He had before. Making rolls was one of his many duties, and it had always been a clinical, hooves-off endeavor, for sanitary reasons and because of training and propriety. However, he had his reasons. It had been wonderfully appropriate and very useful. He felt so much better after the outburst.

His horn glowed, levitating the well-pounded dough, into a bowl, a moist towel levitated over the top to cover it up. He set it aside into a corner to rise once more. A smile spread across his face as he used a damp towel to wipe up the flour. It was quiet. Dee Dee did not require his presence, and was not stupidly trying to learn to walk on her own. It was not impossible, of course. But she was simply too uncoordinated. Being a prissy and pampered mare was a distinct disadvantage.

His kitchen clean, lunch dishes soaking, and nothing else pressing on his mind, he was stricken by a moment of uncertainty. What could he do? Dinner would be another simple affair, the rolls notwithstanding, so there was no need for preparation aside from dough rising. He could read. Or... check the garden again. Or wipe down the fireplace mantle. He could try talking to Dee Dee... He shook his head quickly. Because the option existed was no reason to consider it a valid or advisable one.

He was just going to fall into his den and continue his reading. He could see the ending coming from a mile away. But he had wanted it to happen. The author was rather daring for bucking the trend of what had been asked for. Herpy was going to win. That was something to warm the cockles of the heart. And then would come a soft, romantic moment when stallion and mare could...

He was out in the garden, checking the soil around the plants for weeds; checking his mushroom spots for new growth, including a magnificent new sulfur shelf; and making sure the previously-cut leaves were recovering properly from the trim and were back on track towards fullness.

“It was a stupid book anyhow. Pony-eating seaponies. Ridiculous. Like something out of a bad novel set in Umbratarra. And all that for a kiss. Herpy is a fool. Those Canterlot ponies surely wouldn't go that far for a kiss. They had it easy.” He muttered darkly to himself, even more quietly when he was beneath the window outside of Dee Dee's room, even though she was napping once again.

He stopped a bit when he caught himself being so silent, just because he was outside of the mare's window. It was his house! If he woke her up that was just... no. That would be wrong. And that wasn't even why he had silenced himself outside of her window. It was his comment about the Canterlot elite. He might have hurt her feelings. A complete, interloping stranger warranted his discretion.

That sent his mind off in a wholly different direction. Even if the vast majority of the Canterlot highborn were insufferable boors, at best, and backbiting decadent wretches at worst, that was no reason to wholly judge anypony. Fancy Pants, after all, stood as a very clear exception to what seemed to be a rule.

“But she's no Fancy Pants...” he whispered to himself. And it was true. While the stallion could be aloof and very stylishly proper, he was also a jovial, approachable sort. He had been open and accepting of like likes of the Element bearers, without any shame or hesitation. He was honest, and truthful. His openness was refreshing. Candor was lacking in Canterlot.

That was not Dee Dee. Not in the slightest. She was a deceiver. It was an amorphous thing. He could not be certain just what it was. Her story simply made nothing close to sense. Simply dropping from an airship during a fireworks display. The airship did not follow behind her. None of her crew fell anywhere near her. Nopony had come to find her, or even circulated some kind of flier. And the rain... such a thing would hardly be unscheduled. And such weather would hardly be conducive to flying an airship. It was not uncommon, or overly unusual. But it was a very strange thing.

It did not add up at all. She was not an innocent victim of circumstances, she could not have been. There was some reason that she was there, by herself, being wholly aloof and trying to recover. She had judged that it was preferable to leap into the air and potentially injure herself horribly rather that remain in whatever situation she was in.

There were a number of reasons to want to escape from the highest reaches of Canterlot, for mares and stallions alike. Political gamesponyship, land disputes, noble pressure, and any number of relationship-related woes. Perhaps that was the reason. Feelings often produced strong reactions. And if they could bring about great love and strength when done right, as Daring showed, then misdirected or put in another form they could bring the desperation and will to live needed to hit the ground and not give up.

“Marriage...” He muttered, while checking his rosemary. The scent was very reminiscent of the weddings he had catered, a popular incense for filly foolers and populators alike. And not all of those marriages were happy ones. He could tell bride and groom both had their loins directed elsewhere, from the way their eyes burned across the attending ponies. And from the several propositions he had received.

That may well have been what happened. It made perfect sense, all told. If there was a marriage she did not want, it was probably a good idea to run away from it. Richer and more powerful ponies would require more extreme means to escape. It still did not explain why nopony had sent out word or gone looking for her. An open marriage between the wealthy or peers would not be anything to hide or disguise.

It might not have been a pony. Perhaps a richer and more well-connected griffin was arranging some kind of marriage. Being part of the collection of females of a griffin was still very... questionable in pony society. It was certainly not well-received by most ordinary ponies; even the peers, the status-obsessed and money-loving folk that they were, mostly balked at such a prospect, despite any advantage gained in the transaction. If that was being arranged secretly, there would be more covert attempts to find the missing bride. That made some of the evidence fit.

But the attitude... the lies and deception. The coldness may have been natural for her station, but it felt off in a pony escaping an unwanted marriage in a very unwanted situation. Her change in features and figure, however it was accomplished, may have been another layer of hiding from her pursuers. But to show no honest appreciation, or even to beg for help in escaping...

“Money speaks all languages.” Vanilla laughed to himself as he recalled the old adage and carefully prodded the ground around his shallots. Any kind soul, no matter what, could potentially turn traitor if the money was right. Asking for help with no promise of reward was unlikely to match the ability to pour out a bottomless bit pouch and ask about a location. He was not to be trusted.

In the end, however, the logical chain of explanations vanished like dew with one more consideration. Even if she was just going to lie about her past, she did not have to lie about. Being such an insufferable, false-smiling pain was not the way to assure helpers would remain helpful. They would bend and break for even fewer bits than a caring and sympathetic pony working out of the kindness of their heart.

No matter the logical considerations, it all failed and fell apart when all he knew, however little that was, was gathered together and examined. She was a true enigma. Perhaps even a bit intriguing, behind that cold shell of propriety and manners...

His teeth ground together, hoof dangerously close to pressing down upon one of the spikes of his prickly pear cactus. Just because the possibility existed... just because he found the mystery and the confusion and frustration intriguing did not mean he had to indulge the idea. At the end of it all, he still had his initial feeling. The caring, smothered out by the disgust with the lies and the facade set up by Dee Dee.

Heaving a sigh, Vanilla let his magic's grip reach out for his produce basket. He still needed his produce for dinner. And all his contemplating at eaten up far more time than he had intended. That mare... that mare could just do things to him without his consent. Even without her having to say a word. It was no wonder he had vented his spleen on the dough. It had to come out somewhere.

His blade slides smoothly and quickly through the base of a tall, fresh head of nappa cabbage. He also pulled a kohlrabi, cutting a piece of it off and planting it back in the ground, with a good dash of the concentrated liquid fertilizer to ensure rapid regrowth to a usable state. Greens AND a bulbous root segment. A two-for-one vegetable. Always excellent. He also plucked a few of the snow peas, a large red bell pepper and as an afterthought, popped off a couple of the prickly pear fruits, giving their surfaces a quick flame bath before they were settled, cooling, in the basket.

Back inside the house, he fired up his oven and got it prepared for the rolls. Then out came the knives. A large santoku and a smaller peeler. The peeler slid smoothly through the scorched flesh of the prickly pear fruits, slicing away the flesh to a depth that would ensure no tiny bits of spine would remain. The peeler then cut into the kohlrabi's woody external flesh, cutting away the tough exterior to reveal the more tender heart of the vegetable.

The other knife was in motion to take care of its own business. First the bell pepper was sliced in half, the center of it deftly cut and pulled out. The tender flesh of it was then deftly cut into thin strips. The knife then chopped at the nappa, cutting it into rough strips and tossing it with the pepper strips. When the kohlrabi had been stripped the leaves were put on the pile, while the heart of it was cut into long, thin pieces. At last, the snow peas were put together with it all.

Vanilla dabbed at his brow with a cloth; he rather missed his old toque at times like that. But such things had been put away when he ceased to be what he had been. He just moved on to cutting the inner flesh of the prickly pear fruit, making evenly-sized pieces of the flesh. He looked through the pieces, just to make certain the cultivar he had was still producing seedless fruit.

The bowl of dough was levitated out and uncovered. He laid out a metal baking sheet and ran a small film of oil across the bottom. Then another knife came out, while the dough was brought over and stretched slightly. Each motion of the knife was quick and precise, cutting the dough into even blobs. Several pieces of prickly pear fruit were wrapped by the dough, which was settled onto the sheet with some space between each, creating several rows of medium-sized fruit-filled rolls.

With the bread in the oven he could concentrate on the vegetables. He lit the fire on the stove and took out a wok, hitting the bottom with a dash of oil then sending a large flare over the cooking tool, to get it up to the right heat. He could tell just the moment to lift the pile and drop it in, a satisfying sizzle answering the motion. His horn's magic was again moving almost on its own, flipping the sizzling vegetables with one grip, while another reached into his refrigerator for a container of orange liquid.

The orange sauce let off a pleasing aroma as it hit the hot pan and ran in carefully-controlled rivulets over the cooking greens. Through it all he never stopped swirling and tossing, making certain nothing burned and that it was well-coated. He replaced the container in the refrigerator and concentrated on tossing the stir fry, while also minding the time as the rolls in the oven started to add their own subtle hint of scent to the kitchen. He could almost just close his eyes and let it all happen, to do it all by feel, an automatic thing.

“I am not a machine.” He grunted out the words with a subtle hate, eyes remaining firmly open, and watching the cooking carefully. He would decide when it was done. It would be a clear and obvious choice, not a feeling or an automated stoppage. It would be him, and him alone.

“Something a little more... substantial, I suppose. You're not getting hospital food here, that's for sure.” Vanilla was in rare form that night. Though undressed as usual he had all the air of a fully-uniformed head waiter, standing poudly and imperiously beside Dee Dee's bed, holding the covered tray in his magical grip.

The black unicorn lounging in bed sniffed lightly and nodded with her seemingly frozen-on fake smile. “Indeed. I could smell it in progress. Neighponese?”

“Bit of a variation I picked up in my career. I use non-standard ingredients together with a traditional sauce.” He uncovered the tray and set it down with a small magical flourish. “In addition, two rolls, cooked surrounding slices of prickly pear fruit. Dessert or not is your choice. If you will excuse me, I have my own waiting for me.”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Vanilla left Dee Dee with her food, noting she took a bite of one roll first, her eyes growing just a little wider for just a split second. A smile spread across his face.

'Take that, Lady Uptight. You can't always deceive.' With that thought the door closed with a soft sound.

Later on, after Vanilla had retired to bed but before he was asleep, he heard Dee Dee on her hooves again, thumping and scraping along as she had done for several days. She was getting better at it, but she seemed generally disinterested in pushing things. However, she had clearly left her room, and was on her way down the hall. 'Perhaps,' he thought, 'she can finally take care of her own transport to the facilities.'

Dee Dee came up short on her trip, however, stopping right outside the door to Vanilla's room. Any hope that it was merely a stop for rest was destroyed by the slight shimmer of magic and the opening of the door. She stood there, silhouetted in the low hall light. “I hope I am not bothering you.”

“I WAS attempting to sleep.” Some of the simmering frustration finally worked its way into Vanilla's voice, despite his best efforts to smother the inclination. He had to be a bigger pony.

“Yes, I see. And I understand. But perhaps... I realize, after much time and reflection I have never REALLY thanked you for this. All of this. Allowing me to share your fine home and allowing me to enjoy your cooking. It is more than I expected of this sort of situation.” She awkwardly shuffled further into the room, horn lighting a bit to improve visibility. “I thought, maybe...”

“Maybe... what?” Vanilla turned in bed, to look Dee Dee in the face. Her traced his eyes over her features. Soft eyes, cast slightly downward, head bowed just a touch, body lowered as much as possible while still allowing for the awkward mode of walking, bottom lips pushed out just the barest hint, teeth lightly scraping against the inside.

“Perhaps... you don't need to go to bed quite yet. Or quite so alone.” She stepped closer, finally leaning against the bed itself, looking capable of hopping onto it with one quick motion.

He looked more closely at the contrite mare before him. Everything expected in a mare trying to seep apologetic for a minor offense and also offer friendly company. Down to the smallest detail. It wasn't an expression; it was a mask. A fraud. With a snort he turned over again. “No.”

The sound of shuffling hooves showed Dee Dee had been quite taken aback by the rather blunt denial. “Wh-what? 'No'? What do you mean? Why not? I'm trying to be polite, and kind to you.”

“That's the problem. Part of the problem. 'Polite'? 'Kind'? That's how you show it?”

“What's the problem with that? I thought you would be happy about that. It would be a fitting reward for all you've done.”

Vanilla turned suddenly, sending Dee Dee back another few shuffling steps. His face was a mix of restrained frustration and some trace of sadness. “You think... I know your kind. Know them too well. You think I'm just another cook. A fancy, overly trained food-preparer there to make your dinner parties more trendy and occasionally delicious. That's true. I have that skill. But I have another skill, polished and perfected from all my days in Canterlot. I SEE ponies. I see through them. I see their poison smiles and lying eyes. I can't stop seeing mendacity, manipulation and malice. I quietly see it all. I can see your lies. And it hurts to do it.”

“Hurts... you?” Dee Dee was looking on at Vanilla with a pitiful expression, lower lip quivering a touch.

He turned away, with a shake of his head. “I can tell the acting and masquerade. Tricks to get things you want. It's the upper reaches all over again. Games. Games of applying the right face and right posture to do the job. It just... makes me pity you, because I see it so clearly it looks desperate and cheap. Go away. Get some rest. You'll heal faster.”

He didn't pay attention to her slinking away, the shuffle of limbs and some muttering. Whatever she said to herself was her own business. He only needed to concern himself with one matter.

She was becoming bolder about her Canterlot ways. He would have to be on his guard. If he got weak... or considered it was somewhat good to no longer be alone...

“Accursed Daring Do...” were his last words before he fell off into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

Flesh against the thorn

“You gave me all that I would need/ And made my wishes true/ And every night to me you'd plead/ And I'd decline to you.” Vanilla slumped in his den, unfocused eyes staring at nothing, least of all the book he had thrown to the ground. He was scarcely listening to the record he had put on, a slightly-older recording by hippogriff folk crooner Heather Lea. He had found it by chance in a shop on the third terrace and fell in love with the slow and often-contemplative tunes, old and new.

“You are not helping very much today, Heather. That's very unusual.” He closed his eyes and stretched a bit. He needed the distraction. He had to take his mind from the fact that he was being quite cruel. He had not made breakfast, and was near on to not making lunch. He did not feel the gnaw of hunger; as a chef that was one of the first things to depart. But he was basely, and blatantly, depriving Dee Dee. And though a cold-hearted opportunist and seductress, she was still a pony, and an injured one besides. She needed food. She was in no way deserving of suffering like that.

“My book is worthless, and this music is even less than that.” His horn glowed and took the needle off of the record, leaving nothing but a pressing silence to fill the room, cutting off the final verse. “You were not the beast at all/ I fear my-”

He next dragged up the novel and slid it back into place on the shelf. “She'll lie to you too, Herpy. She probably already is. There are other mares and stallions and other things after her. What makes you so special?” The book spine, amid a line of similar ones, was completely silent.

Vanilla stared up at the ceiling. No complaints. No shrill cries, not even the thump of hooves taking her to the facilities or to complain. A mare like that would be on a rigid, servant-served schedule of food. Even in convalescence he had remained fairly regular in his cooking and serving. She must have been... devastated. Or imitating as much. There were no guarantees in the masquerades of the upper class.

Wordlessly, he slipped into the kitchen and looked over his supplies. He had plenty of everything ready to hoof. He owed more than a simple salad and glass of water. He had a bunch of spinach cut and sitting in the crisper. And he had... “No. Not for her. Not for her. … if not for her then why... did... I..?” He pulled the refrigerator open and removed a wrapped package. He slowly opened it up and looked down on the large lump of pale dough. Puff pastry. He had taken hours carefully rolling the layers out, adding butter in small amounts, folding, making layers over and over again. It would turn into a flaky treasure that practically melted in the mouth.

“You still can. You always could. But why did you never?” The package floated back into the refrigerator, and the spinach floated up and over to the counter, along with an onion and container of cream cheese. His santoku came out almost unbidden, drawn over by the grip of his horn and some motion of his own mind. The spinach went to pieces under the blows of the knife while he watched it happen, wondering what was the matter with his life.

Double was, at that moment, thinking about nothing. She had considered dosing herself to forget what she could not have and to silence the snarling beast that cried to be fed. A chemical haze to leave the swarm and Vanilla's refusal far behind, to hide her from her shame. She had failed to adapt and infiltrate. She had read all the signals wrong and presented the wrong face. She had shamed herself and her station.

But she would not. Easy solutions were fine for the thoughtless and weak. The ones to be culled. She was not fit to be culled. She would not be so. She was still strong, still cunning, still alive. But she needed time to think about something. Before that, she needed to think about nothing. The sting of failure and the gnash of hunger had to be drowned out. It was harder than she expected, given the clutching grumble of bodily hunger. Her stomach was empty. She had hardly noticed but it was long past the time of normal feeding.

“What have you done? You should have known better.” She opened her eyes and stared hard at the ceiling. So blatant and base. She thought that was the way. It should have worked. Odds were in her favor. But there still had been that sliver of a chance she was wrong. Her ill luck struck at the wrong moment. Like some of the upper terrace types, this one was not lustful and rapacious.

She had read him wrong because she assumed he was what he was not. He was also, by his own admission, no noble or elevated wealthy one. He was a chef. But she had assumed, by virtue of skill and good payment, he had become one of the wealthy elite.

“The infection is imperfect. Those useless parasites usually are so good at making more of their own, but they failed to turn this one into a similar thing. Like that blue-maned buffoon I could never seduce. Just the radiance of his feelings for that twig of a mare was delicious.” Double rubbed her stomach for a moment, then her head just below the horn.

Would he ever feed her again? She had insulted him on a deep level, and imposed herself on him in a most fundamental way. He could just leave her there, helpless, weak, growing weaker day by day, never realizing that she was draining two sorts of reserves. Could he? She had thought she knew him inside and out. But perhaps his generosity only stretched as far as his trust. And she had destroyed it completely.

The idea faded away before she had even finished fully contemplating it. Ponies were ponies. And the less like the upper terrace ponies they were, the more generous and open-hooved they were. However angry they may become, and however their trust may be battered, they would remain generous, especially to the helpless. She would not be forgotten. But, intentionally or not, she would pay for her mistakes with her hunger.

Her lower legs pulled up slightly as her back arched. Her belly felt so empty. She had always had a little something, whether it be honey in the swarm's living space or food served to the pony she was imitating. There was always plenty to keep her belly filled and her energy up.

“I know I don't deserve to be fed your love. But at least feed me more of your fancy salads.” Her body curled all the more. The memory of the rolls came back to haunt her. The sweetness, the buttery smoothness, the pure love, and smoky frustration. Love, restoring just a little of her supply. But the frustration telling her she had work to do. And she did it. That was where it all went wrong.

She still had work to do. But she could not force his hoof. He had to come to her, so she could supplicate herself to him. That would do the trick. If she could give the appearance of perfect submission and obedience then she could be acceptable in his eyes. It was perfect. Just what she needed. Proof she was still cunning, and a way to ensure he trusted her. Ponies were more likely to trust the helpless, innocent and completely harmless.

Her body calmed and her tension melted away. Even the gnaw of all her hunger from the void was quelled by the perfect peace that radiated from her after finding her next move. One that had no sliver of failure. It was all based on pony psychology, a subject with which she was intimately familiar.

Familiarity was the watchword with Vanilla at that moment as well. He was focusing on his tasks, as he always did, but it was starting to lose its luster, as ever. He wanted to be in control at all times. Yet all that control was creating nothing but tedium. The repetitive motions, the routine cuts, mixing and folding the minced onions and diced spinach into the cream cheese, with a dash of salt and pepper. Routine.

He rolled out his puff pastry slowly and carefully, smoothing it out into a long, thin sheet. He brought up his sharpest paring knife and swiftly slid it along the sheet, cutting the dough into large, regular triangles. Then a scoop of the mix onto each, which was then covered by folding the triangles over, the edges pressed down and sealed with a small dab of water and pressure.

The puffs went into the oven, while the stove top was lit up and set with a pot. He slowly stirred a portion of his favorite red wine vinegar, with a few sprigs of rosemary, basil and thyme floating in it. The reduction and infusion would take some time, but were, as usual, timed to perfectly coincide with the cooking of the spinach puffs. Even the tricky fiddly bits were routine and easy.

He was starting to repeat himself. Not in his cooking, he had never served Dee Dee the same thing twice. In the preparation. In any endeavor, there was practice involved, the repeated trying and trying in order to become a master of the craft. That was fine. But then there came the actual application. The big game, or a concert or an important dinner. In those moments, he had always heard of stress and uncertainty, the wild blind flying as skills were tested, to meet the challenges imposed by the circumstance.

That was not how things had been. It all felt like practice. A repetitive misery of focusing on all the same motions over and over again, every chop, cut, stir and fold. All the recipes in his memory reduced to a simply hoofful of motions. Mechanical activities. It was why each meal felt like practice, why all the passion had blown out of it. He was doing what muscle memory told him to do. That was, he surmised, why he held that focus, tedious as it was. It meant he was still in conscious control.

The time passed, as he expected, and following the skimming of the ingredients from the reduction he was done. The cream cheese spinach puffs were lovingly drizzled with the seasoned vinegar reduction and plated, with a further drizzle. He then bore them up to the second floor.

“My apologies for not bringing up breakfast. I was... very distracted with matters. As a means of apology, allow me to let you dine at the Chef's table.” Vanilla set down a modestly-sized table, with two plates of the puffs and a carafe of carrot juice.

“Oh my... this is very generous of you. Thank you.” She held the sheepish smile of a contrite individual. It was genuine and a disguise. She was sorry for having moved in the wrong way, and knew the thing to do was to appear as apologetic as possible. “It is a great honor to have the Chef's table. But is that not normally restricted to the kitchen?”

“It would have been rather improper to ask you to come down to the kitchen. I don't think you're quite there yet.” Vanilla gave a half-smile that was, unlike the many he had been using, genuinely enthused. “And I thought it would be a nice gesture, to make up for forgetting breakfast.”

Dee Dee manipulated a fork to cut into one of the puffs, unleashing a glorious aroma with the steam, which she inhaled with an almost rapturous delight. She had not realized just how much her missing of breakfast had affected her. It was almost frightening how much the mere smell of it moved her. “They smell delicious. I can only imagine...” She dragged the cut portion through the sauce and maneuvered the morsel into her mouth. She closed her eyes as she chewed, a symphony of flavors flowing over her tongue. “Glorious...” She whispered, after a slow swallow.

Vanilla could tell she was in earnest. No practiced mendacity could be so good. Another twinge of guilt ran through him, as he considered that she was probably so appreciative because she was quite hungry. “I'm glad you like it. It takes a bit of effort to get the puff pastry just right, but it's all worth it when it comes off like that.”

Dee Dee tasted the love. He had made that pastry with care, though what sort she didn't know. She just knew he had infused it with his feelings, unlike the rest of it. It was all delicious, of course, he never failed in that regard. But it was all a bit routine. Rather like the boiled mush some ponies complained about in lower-end restaurants, from an emotional context. “How do you manage to make such delicious things so regularly?”

“I have talent, and rigorous control,” He said, devoid of conceit. It was not a matter of ego, but fact. “I never let my focus waver, I never let myself be seduced by the easy solutions or the mechanistic shortcuts that might steal away what is mine.”

“Of course not...” Dee Dee said, after swallowing another bite and letting the sensation of bliss subside. “Of course you would not dare do such a thing. Though perhaps it is my ignorance of things chef-related. Do you mean 'mechanistic shortcuts' as in those clever devices to chop and mix?”

“No, no... those all serve a purpose. Every tool has a use.” Vanilla's slight smile fell into a hard look. “But I am not a tool. I am a pony. Sometimes my magic can almost take control and do all the jobs while I stand in the midst and let it happen. I cannot abide that. What reason do I have to be there if all I am is a conduit for this force?”

Dee Dee chewed and swallowed a few more times, to slake her hunger and taste the devotion while she thought carefully about what to say. Advice was a dicey business in most cases, but advice to a slighted figure was more so. She had a notion, but couldn't risk upsetting him more. But still... “Why not let it?”

Vanilla paused in his cutting of a puff, quickly looking up to the demure unicorn. “Why not... let what?”

“Why not let your magic take control and wield every tool and ingredient?”

“Because it is not me. I told you, if I am to be a conduit, what is it of me in it, what is it that requires I be there?”

“You practiced, for a long time, to get your skills. You put in the effort and trained hard, doing all the small jobs that made you into what you are.” Dee Dee hid her nervousness behind fast speech and a sip of carrot juice. She was describing herself. She understood professionalism, perfectly. “Your skill is so great you can do it all, standing at the center of the whole thing like a queen leading a swarm. Oh! Or like a... conductor... leading the orchestra! But even more than that. You are also playing every instrument, at once. Your skill shows in what you can do as the leader. Isn't that more impressive?”

Vanilla slowly dropped his utensils from his magical grasp, the field fading as he listened to the ersatz pony. “I never... considered that. It seems sensible... where does the magic come from? Me. The techniques became second nature. They are mechanical because I made them a part of me. Every action and motion is mine. I feel it inside and express it through my acts. And besides all that, I control the selection of the ingredients, the menu, all aspects are my domain. It is all me.” He smiled a bit to Dee Dee. “And it always was. They say it takes an outside perspective to make things clear. I see now that is true.”

Dee Dee gave a winning, if downcast, smile back, and toasted with her juice. “I only know frivolous things. But I also know you helped me. And if I have been unkind to know, understand it was only because things are different where I am from.”

“I know. I wasn't very kind to you either. I've worked in the same place from which you come. I know the rules. I should not have been surprised or reacted like I did.”

“It was not your fault, at all. I played a game I should not have. I expected a response that was not to be. I thought things of you... never mind. I know the kind of stallion you are now. I find that... touching. So different and unexpected.” Dee Dee daintily dabbed at the corners of her mouth. Confession was oddly suiting her. Admitting things to a point felt... good. She could let go, forget the playing and all the details. She could relax.

“You are certainly like none of the noblemares I knew before. And like few of the glamorfillies either. I could think of perhaps two or three of your like. If only I had known this about you before. We might have been much more comfortable.” Vanilla gave a loud laugh and started cleaning up the dishes. “Would you care you put in a dinner order, miss Dee Dee?”

Dee Dee covered a fillyish giggle with her hoof and waved Vanilla off. “No, no. You said it yourself. It is your domain. I just know you'll come up with something delicious.”

“Indeed I shall. I can promise you that much.” With a final smile, and a polite bow, Vanilla left the room.

Double spread out in bed once she was alone, rubbing at her belly. It was ever-so-slightly distended, and was no longer angrily demanding food. And the screaming void within, though never truly satisfied, was softened to more of a whisper by the feeling which had infused the meal. It wanted more. It would always want more. But she was content to a degree. Now her path was more stable.

Careful application of the truth, reasonable compromise and giving on matters, a friendly face and demeanor. It would all help her to last. She might even find her confinement pleasant, rather than tedious. With a friendly figure assisting her recovery she could avoid boredom and cabin fever. A smile spread across her alleged lips as heaviness overtook her eyelids. The food in her belly worked a drowsy magic on her, while she said, “Perfect...”

Down in the kitchen, with the pots and pans being washed, Vanilla flipped through his mental list of recipes, to find something suitable for an apology to somepony he had wronged. And as he recalled his own frustration and shortness of temper with her, he knew he had done it on purpose. Something of some quality would be necessary.

He thought back to the visit by the doctor, how he had cut up the bandage strips in a size like lasagne noodles. He had the semolina, and a very good pasta maker. He had plenty of tomatoes, seasoning and cheese. His eyes slowly closed, and he remembered his days as a plongeur at a modest little restaurant. The exact way to scrub a reduction pot to take off the traces of the previous sauce, as well as the amount of soaking time needed for all the other dishes. With a generous use of steel wool and a soft cloth he began to cut through the dishes, while his mind organized every step of the pasta, from the dough to the finished product.

When he was finished he could select the ingredients from the garden and then put his new liberty to work, to see if he could really just let go and be free with his control. As he completed his mental checklist, and noted that the dishes were completed, a smile spread over his face. “Perfect.”

The Feast: Day of Deception

Once the hurt had passed and understanding seemed to fill the place it had occupied, things became more pleasant in the home holding Vanilla and Double. With Vanilla being less standoffish and aloof he was more approachable, much more cheerful, and poured more of his heart and soul into the things he prepared. For her part, Double had dropped the veneer of an upper-terrace elitist and pared her personality down to what she might normally present to a pony when attempting to be normal.

She was only halfway through her recovery, or perhaps a little more than that. She was not strong enough to do very much. She had perfected the art of hobbling on three legs to the facilities, and did it very well. But she was not in any way capable of getting down the stairs. She was reasonably content with that. Vanilla did not seem to mind coming up to feed her.

Days no longer peeled painfully away, they transitioned with a rising sense of normalcy. She rose with a real smile and went down with soft hum of contentment. Besides the increased happiness of not having to maintain an adversarial relationship, the void within screamed far less as the drips and drabs of second-hoof love fell in from all that food he was enjoying making.

It had not taken too much convincing once he had been stung by guilt and made to see things as they were. How odd... she used truth to help herself, supporting a lie that fed her hunger for love. Truth rather than deception... it was a coincidence. That was all. It had the effect of helping but that was hardly what truth did. Not for Changelings.

Vanilla was far more alive than he had been before. Ever since his retirement from professional cooking he had struggled through his odd half-life. Then Dee Dee came down into his life. It was like those movies he found so odd and unbelievable. The strange mare coming into a life and shaking it up.

It had not been easy to bear, of course. He had always thought of those crazy ladies as unbearable. Fun to watch but surely Tartarus to live with. And while Dee Dee was in no way like those manic mares, she was an insufferable presence. Or had been. After both confronted the irrationalities of their assumptions she had become much more bearable.

He had become bearable as well, he reflected. While had had thought long and hard on her insufferable nature and the unkind comparisons to the horrible mares of the nobility he had responded only to the initial coldness with his own coldness. He had to accept part of the blame for making it an unbearable time. For all he thought of himself as different from the others he had been acting like them.

Thankfully, nothing was irreparable. Conciliation, laughter, admission of the stupid mistakes... not to mention the occasional chef's table meal and light conversation.

”So... this may seem odd dinner table conversation between strangers but can you tell me a little about yourself? I never really like to eat with those I don't know.” A few nights after the late lunch when things had become more pleasant, Vanilla and Dee Dee were eating dinner, a modest repast of greens with plenty of fresh biscuits and a generous vanilla torte, as a point of amusement.

“Strange, perhaps, in ordinary situations. But this is hardly ordinary.” Dee Dee laughed musically and shook her head a touch. “After all, I have been living in your home and taking advantage of your generous hospitality and delicious meals. It seems only fair. Well now... I am, as you correctly surmised, a mare of the upper classes and terrace. I have no title, though my family, at one time, had such. Money came from that, then from canny investments. We did not create and innovate but we supported such with our monetary might once the social might had been removed. But nobility is no great prize, as you seem to know well.” She laughed again and toasted Vanilla with her water glass.

“Ahh yes. The story I have heard a thousand times. It may have taken a thousand years but the nobility is dying by inches. Perhaps some will remain but none take them seriously. I must say, I have decent respect for the likes of you, who accepted the loss of title with dignity and panache.”

“Do not admire me.” Dee Dee waved off the honor with a sour look. “It was not my doing. It was those that came long before that made me what I am. I can claim nothing more than treading in the steps of their hooves. A follower.”

“I know. I did not invent the santoku, the paring knife, the reduction process or the technique for making flaky layers in puff pastry. But I use them. I wield these ancient gifts like a painter with palette and brush. He also didn't invent the colors and paints, but they will be used in unique ways.”

Dee Dee actually looked stunned by that. She sipped at her water for longer than was usual, her eyes casting about for something that clearly wasn't there. “I never... considered... I usually consider my heritage a burden. Nothing more than dead weight that informs what I do.”

“It can be. Why do you think I live here? I'd never hear the end of 'The Tortes are meant to stay in cooking' if I lived up there on the mountain. I accept my heritage and I am good at what it had brought to me. But in some sense I am crushed by it. The grandeur and the sweep, just what it means. I don't like it when it is like that, but I did it for a long while because I was told it was strictly necessary.”

“I... understand...” Dee Dee munched contemplatively on a mouthful of greens, still casting around for something on which she could focus. “In the oddest way I understand. I may not enjoy all that being who I am implies, but it is a duty.”

“A harder one, I imagine. You can't stop being what it is you are.”

“What was that?” She clattered her fork on her plate, a small strain of fear showing in her eyes.

“I mean... I am a chef. It is what I am and what I do, a job as well as a destiny based on my skill. I can stop that, and move to this place, becoming a quiet hermit. But you, you were born a rich pony into the bloodline that claims you. You cannot stop being what you are. You can only be the best example of what you are, a beacon to others. Perhaps you will be the one that creates and innovates, does something unlike the long line behind you.”

Dee Dee considered that, picking at her greens carefully. “You know... you may be right. If I am not satisfied with the status quo of my family, I could break the mold in some sense. Perhaps only a small amount, but I could.”

Vanilla smiled and toasted his guest. “You will have all my support. When you are recovered you will go off and do great things, I am sure.”

“Yes...” She suddenly sounded a little hollow. “Great things...”

“Great things...” Double shook her head and grumbled. She would never do great things. Not as a worker. A failed worker. She would escape culling, the greatest thing she could hope for. The swarm would regroup, return to small infiltrations and know far better than to try anything so foolish as an invasion ever again.

She was content with that thought. She had long anticipated returning to the swarm and just forgetting everything. It almost seemed a shame. True, the stress and strain between herself and Vanilla had been very trying. But there had been more than a few lessons that had been beneficial. And far more than a few meals that she would want to remember forever.

But there was more to it all than pithy lessons and good meals. It was a memory of her failure and the sensation of weakness, something intolerable to her Changeling nature. She was in a strange place. Glad of memories she would do anything to forget, and anticipating a return to a grim, unforgiving life of monotony.

“These ponies have strange powers.” She had never thought poorly of her life before. Or never in those kinds of raw and blatant terms. She had been... content. She thought.

The limitations of the swarm... she had never considered them limitations before. The culling was unkind, and she knew well what unkindness was. The lack of ability to breed or even be together freely was not very kind. The requirement of strength and rigidity. The lack of learning beyond the needed... there was plenty there to add.

All the technology of Equestria was delightful. She had seen the advantage of it all on prior missions, though from a detached perspective, just something to use on the mission or exploit to further her ends. She had not seen much of it in her time with Vanilla, aside from medical technology, but she had heard his record player and enjoyed even the muffled sound of the music, though he tended to overplay that one record. She also knew there was a television and would have been interested in that, though she was almost certain he never used it.

The new desire was strange. She was almost willing to put it down to her dwindling tactile memory of the Concordance of the swarm. Almost. But they were her own thoughts, coming without coercion. Vanilla surely had no influence, not given the hostility of their relationship.

She resolved to let the matter drop. Her belly was full and the void was screaming less intensely. It sufficed for her. But... it didn't. Not truly. She wasn't satisfied with the strange limbo she found herself in. She was lying and telling the truth at the same time. She was uncomfortable with such waffling. She wanted to be all lies. That was the Changeling way. Injecting truth, even the tiniest kernel, made her uncomfortable. Admixtures like that blurred too many lines. She needed to return to full lies or full truth. Yet given the state of her mentality it would not work very well.

She could lie, of course, become overly friendly and saccharine sweet. It would be suspicious but be accepted, thanks to the new friendliness Vanilla had been expressing. But it would hardly benefit her or get her more protection and feeling. The more truth she told, in contrast, would probably frighten him. He had her, a prisoner of battle, an invader. She could try to escape if he tried to hold her, but she would fare even worse in the world than she had being in his company.

She sank against her pillow with a nicker, body shifting uncomfortably. That was not something likely to be resolved, not even by the time she was fully healed. But really, it probably mattered little. He accepted her story as it was. She could do her best to stick out the half lies and it would be good enough.

Down in the kitchen, Vanilla was carefully easing out layers of phyllo, using several before laying down a thin layer of oil and either white cheese or vegetables. He was using a mix of thin-sliced vegetables tossed with oil and herbs, primarily courgettes, carrots and leeks mixed with basil, thyme, bay and fennel. It was a delicate process, given the thinness of the dough.

He was using his focus because the process required it, not because his delicate ego required it. He smiled a bit at how unafraid he was of admitting that was the reason. He had thought himself above the ego-driven, image-fixated nobles. But he had found a small poison stream in himself, born of his isolation and self-imposed desire to not be a tool.

Despite the focus he still had some chance to think about his guest, for whom this dish was being crafted. It was not made to impress her, as the previous had been, but to fill her belly and be a proper dish for her. She deserved it, with her slow growth into honesty. She would open up.

She had already made admissions about her family's lost nobility and monetary abundance. It had been general, focused on giving biographical details that were locked together like a proper story. He could appreciate the good education the upper classes received, especially in literary matters, but it was not a good way of talking about personal matters. It would make for a good novel but he knew she was holding back.

She had confessed to her uncertainty and lack of confidence in herself, given her feelings of being nothing more than a follower, nothing but an attachment on something that had nothing to do with her. He thought he had given her some decent advice, she had seemed to think deeply on it, but still she would not confess more about herself, or the circumstances of her fall.

A mere follower, an attachment locked to some part of something she never chose. She had said a mouthful in her silence and the coy manner of her admission. Locked inside the narrative she crafted according to her education was the truth.

He had been right from the beginning. A rich mare being joined to some other important bloodline. Maybe they were richer, maybe they still had a title. Some mare or stallion selected for calculated reasons without a hint of passion. They may even have been completely undesirable. But the family saw bit pouches or a shield of honors in their future, and used Dee Dee as a chess piece. A thing to be pushed around. A tool. A tool...

They were both afraid of the same thing. He was moved around by trends and modes in dining. He had read a dozen magazines a week to forecast the trends like some old Hipposian soothsayer. It was bad enough of a representation of him as some object to be used by forces beyond his control. But to stand there with the power flowing through him, moving the objects without focus. No wonder he had been so afraid of his own skill, it completed the transformation from pony to machine.

She was her family's plaything. Slid across a map of family lines and bank statements into a strategic position. In the most extreme cases he had heard of she may have been pawned off on some family to give some other sister or brother a better position with yet a third family, who had an interest in the doings of the second. While it was blissfully rare and sharply criticized when found, it still existed as something that could happen.

From simply ignoring her preferences to using her as a trading chit her family had disrespected her in the most fundamental and terrible way possible. She was being used, like a thing. While it was a most extreme response he could see why she dove for her freedom, under the cover of the royal wedding's fireworks. The length of time which had passed was strange, with no notice or bounty hunters coming to seek her.

They either thought she was dead or had been doing something potentially embarrassing and were keeping it quiet. It may have been a maneuver, or a marriage that shocked the Equestrian sensibility on a deep level, like a herded marriage to a griffin.

With a start he realized he was repeating himself. He had had this exact line of contemplation before. Griffin herded marriage and all. The difference was he had actually asked and listened between the words. She had confirmed his mere suspicions. Of course, he had no idea of the nature of the marriage; that was mere speculation. But he had gained some decent cause to guess in such a fashion. It was less blind groping and more logical consideration.

His attention went back to his work, finding his creation complete with a final layer of phyllo and a coat of oil. The thing went into the oven and he set his timer for it. His book was still waiting for him and there were plenty of records to play.

Later that night Vanilla was bearing a heavy burden. He had previously brought up the small table, along with tomato juice, plates and utensils. All that remained was the baked dish and his cranked record player. He thought it was appropriate to have it. The meal was especially nice, and without any live musicians it was the best he could manage. He was also eager to share his musical taste. He hoped she would appreciate it.

“And here we are, the last elements for a proper dinner. The dish, and some music,” Vanilla said, settling the pan down in the center of the table and the record player off to the side, swiftly turning the handle with his magic.

“This like a lot of effort. Is there some occasion I do not know of?” Dee Dee asked, leaning over to smell the still-steaming dish. It was even better up close.

“Just another way of saying 'thank you' for the help you've given me. I never even realized I was so self-involved,” Vanilla said, setting the record to play, letting the sound of fiddles, drums and guitars ring through the room. “It's because of you I can have a repast like this for you. For anyone, really.”

Dee Dee nodded, inhaling deeply as the crust was cut, releasing a heady puff of aromatic steam. “And it smells delicious! What is this?”

“It's a Hipposian dish, the name escapes me but the recipe remains. Olive-oil-brushed layers of white cheese and seasoned vegetables, baked to crisp perfection. It was creations such as these that made me known as more than just a pastry chef. That's the secret to branching out, to seeing what neighbors your limits and touching it. This is a main dish, but it is made with phyllo, something whose properties I know well,” Vanilla noted, proudly, serving out slices for himself and Dee Dee.

“Clever,” Dee Dee noted, waiting for the piece to stop steaming before she cut a piece and took a bite. She nearly fell to the tabletop as her senses were assaulted by an explosion of savory flavor and the sharp taste of genuine love for a task. He had really put himself into the making of it. It was wonderful. She had stopped herself from falling, but she couldn't keep the smile off of her face. “Delicious! Absolutely delicious.”

“Thank you. I've had a lot of reviews from a lot of famous folks, but I'm very glad you give it your approval,” Vanilla said with a slightly nervous chuckle. “You're here, in front of my face, not sitting far away, detached. I can see your reactions. It's remarkably hard to lie with the little motions that just come unbidden.”

The comment seemed to stifle further comment from both of them, leaving them to simply eat and enjoy the music that played lightly in the background. The songs ranged from slow and thoughtful to somewhat raucous, leading to a few head-bobs or gentle swaying in time to the tune.

That went on until a song came on that seemed to be about the legendary fae creatures that were said to live in woodlands and other hidden locales. Somehow, that made Dee Dee very uncomfortable. She squirmed slightly and looked around through the opening verse and the chorus, attempting to drown her energy in consumption and long swallows of juice. But as the second verse let drop the line, “Beware of this prize as a curse in disguise,/ For your mortal life soon will be through. So please c-” she flashed her magic and lifted the needle off the record with a soft grunt.

“Well now... I do think that that will suffice for music for the evening,” Dee Dee said by way of explanation, attempting to look blasé and mild.

“So...” Vanilla looked around, slightly nonplussed by the action but attempting not to offend by showing such puzzlement, “Aside from the sudden end of that song what did you think of the album? I found it by sheer happenstance and have enjoyed it greatly ever since then.”

“I see the attachment and the delight you find. She is certainly a songstress. But as I said, that will suffice,” Dee Dee said, finishing off her portion of baked vegetables and her glass of juice. “Thank you for a wonderful meal, and some wonderful company. It was more than I usually expect of an evening. Oh!” She blushed slightly and waved a hoof. “That came out wrong...”

“No, I understand,” Vanilla said, having his suspicions somewhat confirmed, “I take the compliment as you intended it and will not read more into it than I should.”

“Thank you much,” Dee Dee said, looking at the spread of items. “Goodness... I do wish that I could be of some help somehow but...”

“It's a simple process,” Vanilla said nonchalantly, waving off concern, “I brought them up I can take them down. You probably want to rest. Unless you need some help...”

“No, no, I can manage. I find I am becoming much more dextrous on three hooves, at least as far as reaching the facilities is concerned,” Dee Dee said, moving as carefully as she could into bed.

“If you say so. Don't mind me,” Vanilla said, magically lifting his record player and the baking dish. “Should be a quick job like before.”

Dee Dee settled down in bed and rested her head against the pillow, with a slight smile on her face. The screaming void whispered, and her belly strained from the delicious and filling meal. She thought to the small comment Vanilla had made, about finding what the neighbors of a skill were, to stretch and meet them and get better. It was something to consider.

The near neighbor to her new openness was honesty. Anathema to Changelings, in practice, but things were changing. She was growing, in a way she had never considered desirable or even possible. She was getting love by inspiring it. Not uncommon for a Changeling but she had done it without taking over a loved pony's place. She was doing it on her own, by earning it.

She heard the plates clattering as the table was moved out, with some commentary from Vanilla. He wasn't so bad, all told. A useful pony. And... talented. Kind. Handsome? She did not tend to think that way but he was still pleasant enough to look at. She drifted off with ease, all her body's complaints silenced. It was more than pleasant.

Vanilla started in on the dishes, never one to leave them for another day. It would be over quickly. His magic took the lead, commanded by his own mind. The flow was easy and natural, and still left him free to think. She was opening up, perhaps more than she intended. She had been oddly particular about what had caused her to turn off the music. The song was not generally offensive, but it could strike at certain nerves.

That point she had chosen. Her life being through. It was too raw, too reminiscent of what stared her in the face if she went back to Canterlot proper, to her 'enchanted' life in the very unreal heights of the fabulous city. Some horrible fate tied up in thoughts of bloodlines or money. No wonder she had stopped it. That was certainly a curse in disguise, though she had peeled back the mask and seen the ugly truth behind the beautiful fae figure.

The whole thing made him consider the future, at least the immediate future. She was going to heal, she was perfectly on track for it. He would have to take her back to the mountain, to a family that would use her. It would be unethical, in the extreme, to send her back to a place he knew she would despise. He'd feel like a monster. He could not just send her off... he could, but it would be dishonest. Stuff a pack with food, give her a cloak and shoo her off into the anonymous distance. It would help but leave a family probably hurting in some sense.

There were few good options. He could only think about possibilities and wonder what he was going to do when the time came. He had one more thing he could try but it was beyond foolish, especially considering the history they had had together. He'd do it, and take the consequence. The outcome could even make the decision about the future for him.

The Feast: Night of Truth

It was said, and had been for ages, that unicorns were ponies of fire. It came of an ancient conceptualization of the races according to elemental affinity. The merae were ponies of water, pegasi of air, earth ponies of earth and unicorns of fire, meaning the energy of raw mana manipulation. The Princesses were of all four.

Even so, most unicorns probably would have been at a loss to bear the fire of Vanilla's kitchen. Most normal ponies who had never been through the Tartarus that was culinary instruction could never bear what chefs had to bear. Crushing stress, dozens of recipes to keep in mind, a need for artistry in presentation, not to mentioned the blazing heat of a kitchen going full-blast for a busy night.

That blazing heat was turned up as high as it went, unaffected by open windows or blowing fans. When an oven was set to work at highest capacity there was not much to be done about it save to endure the heat with all the strength it was possible to muster.

Vanilla was a sweating like crazy, beads of perspiration sliding down his mussed coat. He had set his oven to blazing early and set himself to the idea that it would not abate until his job was done. He looked a mess but his cooking was as artful as ever. He stood in the eye of the storm, of dough balls being mashed, of bowls being whisked, of nuts and fruits being carefully chopped. He had a lot of work to do and he had to be sure it was done at the right time and in the right order.

It had been years since he had been faced with a challenge like that. As the head pastry chef he was responsible for providing the dessert spreads most nights, and he had taken on catering jobs for the wealthy, providing delicious sweets for large gatherings of the finest folk in Canterlot. He was very nervous, but much more certain about himself. He was letting the mana flow, letting the skill do what it had to do. His magic memory was perfect, and could even handle such a complicated demand.

'How slowly time seems to go when the company is unpleasant and how quickly it goes when things are a bit more enjoyable. I just assumed that having another pony around would be unbearable. My family certainly proved to be insufferable...' Vanilla thought with a scowl.

'I suppose I can let that go. They aren't here. None of those ponies are here. It's just me and her. From pity to hate to pity once again. Or...' Vanilla considered what he might be feeling about her. All the lies, the coldness, the dismissal, the walls put up between them. It was sad; pathetic, in a way. But she had her reasons, she was escaping some terrible and painful fate, and had only her trained upbringing to blame. She could do very little about it. 'There's no denying... I do feel for her. And she's good looking...'

Vanilla nearly stopped his magical production line as that thought came, unbidden, and asserted itself. It had come from the depths of his unconscious, through his subconscious and splattered itself across his aware mind, which was full of all the details necessary to make it all the more dramatic. He had to see her, broken, bleeding, battered that first night. He saw her clean, her body nothing like what he felt when he brought her in. He saw her, on the bed, healed, languid, thankful...

He didn't pause his production, but he did force his focus onto what each bit of his concentration was doing. He wasn't put off by the idea. She was beautiful, of course. He had never denied that. He had simply been put off by the lies and the unpleasantness of her personality. She was far more pleasant, she was still beautiful, but she was still little more than a liar. For whatever personal reason she would not open up to him, even after all he had done.

That was why, no matter how beautiful he found her, how he felt for her situation, how much he enjoyed having somepony to cook for, he couldn't let himself become enamored of her. She would have to leave, either masked under a dark cloak with a bag of pastry and directions to the nearest small town that would put her completely out of view of Canterlot, or back to Canterlot's heights, likely in the grip of dour servants to her family or in the loveless company of the family itself. He had to remember, she was and would only ever be a guest.

He cast his thoughts from the future to the present, remembering that guest, laying up in her room, probably hungry. He had told her not to expect any food until night. It was nothing malicious, it was a surprise, and he had left her with some basic provisions: a pitcher of water, some water biscuits and a small plate of cubed gelled fruit. It would suffice and keep the edge off of her hunger without spoiling her appetite for later. He imagined at that moment she was still lounging and thinking on what might happen later.

Far from lounging and imagining, Double was on her hooves, though she was enjoying another glass of water and the freshly-baked water biscuits laden with some of the gelled fruit cubes. Even on her many missions, when she could enjoy pony food, it was seldom of such quality. It was never bad, even the poorest ponies enjoyed sufficient food that was healthy and reasonably fresh. But the craft of culinary artistry was very associated with wealth, and this was especially good.

After the snack and drink she returned to her practice. Over the weeks she had gotten quite proficient at walking around on three legs. With Vanilla being more agreeable and kind she had more reason to actually try and practice. She could see, with benefit of hindsight, that it had been very petty, and a bit foolish, to force Vanilla to come up to her. It was as bad for her as for him, assaulting and insulting her Changeling nature. The fact that she had been starting to enjoy it was all the worse.

She could see that, while both were guilty of bad behavior, and a bit of venomous sniping behind false pleasantries, she had been to blame for not really feeling out the situation. Vanilla took her at her appearance, insofar as her affectations showed, and saw nothing but what he had escaped. The less she acted like that kind of Canterlot grand mare the more she found him becoming open and kind. His willingness to listen to her suggestions had put more drips of pride, passion and love into the food. It was nothing like a full meal of stolen love, but it made the beast inside quieter for a while.

She could hear the clatter of pans and pots, and feel the rising heat from the kitchen. It was unlike anything she had felt from the place, as though every fire possible was turned up to full blast. She could only imagine the misery Vanilla was experiencing inside that heat. The kitchen was probably like the badlands she had called home. Still called home. She had to remember, however pleasant, it was all meant to be strictly temporary. She would leave once she was better and capable of slipping back into the swarm without risk of being culled.

The thoughts she had been having were very wrong, so far as her Changeling nature was concerned. Perhaps her lack of immersion in the concordance field was making it harder and harder to remember what it meant to be a proper Changeling. She was meant to find it an acceptable life. But her lounging in comfort, not with a mission, but just to recuperate from her injuries, while having tasty food made by a professional... ponies had it. She could have it if she wanted it.

“I don't want it!” She shouted suddenly, clapping her hooves over her mouth after the cry. She was grateful she could hear the clatter of pans and such from below. That statement surely would have given Vanilla some serious concerns, and focused even more attention on her, piercing, deep attention, the kind that Changelings always avoided. But she had to vocalize that thought, to get it out of her and scream down the craziness in her head. The wrongness in her head.

She wasn't a pony. However she might look, even in her real form, she was not a pony at all. She was a parasite. No, a collector, a harvester, more like a farmer. The distinction suddenly seemed very important, the means of stating it becoming directly connected to her own worth. She had never been stung by being called a parasite, it had been neutral. There was no shame in the facts. But she wasn't just some creature as that name implied. She was cut from a better cloth.

What foolishness. Ponies worried about their reputations, not Changelings. Even with names and personalities, lives, they were a swarm. A mass. They were meant to be cogs in a grand machine, interchangeable and replaceable, doing a basic duty that was idiot-proof. The only reputation was as productive enough or fit to be eliminated. She had always been productive enough and that was all that mattered.

But there truly was more to it; there was always more to it. There was a certain artistry, a certain skill, a pride in capability and the artistry of presenting a borrowed face and integrating into a stranger's life. Some were supremely skilled. Others minimally successful. There were well-known figures, figures with bad reputations and other similar categories. In truth it was truly more complicated than the simplistic idea of cogs in a machine.

Double had never thought of it like that before. Life was easier when the details were glossed and the simple ideas flowed through, rather than the nuances. Life was easier to take as just a collection of workers and drones, rather than a vibrant culture of very unique individuals whose jobs were unusual but highly artistic and creative.

“But not bad... never... never that bad...” She mumbled to herself, munching on more water biscuits and gelled fruit. They had to live. They had to get love to live and thrive. To feed the holing void within and quell that need. They took what they needed, stored honey when they could and did what was necessary to get along.

A look at her cast-encased leg made Double doubt, for a split second, how true that declaration of 'necessary' actually was. The Queen had insisted it was required to live. She had said it would be fine, that they would be fed. She would become powerful but that was an afterthought. The swarm could live.

It... had lived on small raids and minor infiltration, yes. Had for as long as any Changeling could tell through whispers passing in the concordance. It never left the swarm mighty or great, but it kept them alive. That was the ideal that had been planted. To survive. Not just to avoid culling but to let a new generation pass on. It was supposed to be sufficient. But Chrysalis had been an inscrutable queen, and surely she knew what she had been doing.

She had to have known. Absolutely. Only pony intervention and unforeseen magics had ended the hope of the swarm before it came to fruition. Perhaps that was the answer to the endless hunger. Endless food to fill it. Quieting the void. A noble end. That must have been the plan all along. But it had sadly failed and left them, perhaps, far worse off than ever before.

For a Changeling, being known was the worst fate. A fate worse than death because the very fate potentially invited death, from zealous defenders, or from culling for failure. A double possibility of a life ended, worse than the simple certainty of the end.

Now they were known. Ponies would view sudden incorrect actions with suspicion. She knew the ponies were not a paranoid population, and managed their uncertainties and potential dangers well. They would enact protections and learn magic to detect Changelings, maybe rework some of the old legends into more modern and usable objects.

It would be a sorry state, especially if the swarm could not get any love at all, and ran through their stores of honey. They would have to try another raid, simply out of desperation. Nothing but simple expediency. Not the best way to do things but reality was what it was. They had to live it, even as they simultaneously lived lives of subterfuge.

Double grew quite upset. The line of thinking was not doing her any good. She tried to think on the mystery. “A surprise...” she said quietly, thinking on the coy smile on Vanilla's face before he left her the biscuits and fruit. The heat was high and the noise was loud. He had been active in the kitchen before, so she had to consider, with her limited knowledge of pony culinary traditions, what it might mean.

Perhaps he was laboring over something unduly and terribly complex. Perhaps something large and involved like a multi-stepped wedding cake requiring multiple types of pastry and icing as well as decorations. Maybe it was something small and unassuming-looking that required exotic ingredients that needed exacting cooking and which took hours to get just right. It could have been he was just being a perfectionist, making one thing over and over to get it just right.

The smells from down below told her that the cooking was going very well. Her stomach rumbled a touch, seeking more than the biscuits, gel and water. The void was monotonous in its demands for satiation. She had learned to ignore it, in some sense, but not perfectly, and not for long. It would be quieted by the pastry she could smell. They were filled with some variety of love.

She would just need to wait. She resumed her walking practice and let the time slip away, putting scent and void out of her thoughts, with the assistance of the last of her provisions.

The technique seemed to have worked. While she was so focused on walking and pointedly ignoring her various hungers she failed to realize Vanilla had appeared in the doorway and was watching her. He only made his presence known with the clearing of his throat and a soft nod. “I hope I'm not interrupting, Dee Dee,” he said, looking friendly, though tired, sweat still sheening his coat.

“Oh! Goodness... no, not interrupting. Just training. I think I have the hang of this,” Dee Dee said with a smile and tilt of her head. “Is this mysterious surprise of yours ready? I must confess, I have been eagerly imagining what it might be.”

“Yes. The mystery can be revealed. But there's more too it than just one surprise. I'm actually happy to see that you're walking around so well,” Vanilla said.

“Are you, now? And why is that so significant?” Dee Dee inquired, stepping towards the door.

“The surprise would not have half the impact if not. You see I... would like you to come downstairs. I think you're ready. I figured that a mystery might be a good motivator for you to try.”

Downstairs. Dee Dee had not been downstairs since she first arrived. Her poor attitude and inability to properly walk and confined her to the upstairs area. It was an indication she was stronger, more healed. Closer to leaving... “I believe I just may have the skill and confidence to make it down the stairs... if I may, perhaps, lean on you, strictly for... moral support.”

An amused smile crossed Vanilla's features and he politely held back a chuckle. “I'm sure you won't need me there, but I'll gladly stand beside you to offer you an encouraging metaphorical shoulder.”

“Very good. Then I think...” Dee Dee made her was confidently out of her room and turned the opposite of her usual way down the upstairs hall, approaching the steps without hesitation or fear. It was only when she reached the top step that she faltered, looking with some trepidation at the descent and unsure of how to get her good hoof down gracefully.

Very suddenly Vanilla was there, standing just close enough to suggest something without actually pressing against her. “It's an honor to escort a fancy mare. I did it infrequently but it really was very nice.”

Dee Dee slowly and casually moved her bad leg's shoulder against Vanilla's body and pressed against him, shifting enough of her weight that she could lift the good leg and set it down on the next step. “You are such a natural. I hardly know you are here yet I feel your encouragement,” Dee Dee said, working her way down, good rear legs working as usual, her forelegs continuing the process of shifting weight and then moving down a step.

At the bottom of the stairs both ponies looked up towards the second floor with a touch of surprise. A painless, successful move. “Now, close your eyes and press to my side, I'll lead you to the surprise.”

Dee Dee was momentarily overcome by the smell. It was as though every possible scent that any dessert had ever had was trying to swarm her senses, to demand notice. Her stomach practically seized up and she had to stop herself from dashing towards the wonderful scent. She gingerly placed herself against Vanilla and closed her eyes. “You move fast,” she said with a light laugh.

“I believe in being a very proper gentlecolt,” Vanilla replied, slowly and carefully leading Dee Dee the short distance to the dining area. “Open your eyes.”

Dee Dee thought she had died. Died or been made aware all her life was a dream. She thought she was fading away, dreaming a less-unpleasant reality as her mangled body died. But it was real. Every surface before her, the table, the sideboards, the counters, even a spare chair were all set with platters, plates and other things loaded down with pastry. Every example of Vanilla's craft, all exquisitely rendered. Every layer looked flaky and tender, every sweep of icing was perfect, all the garnishes were set down with professional care and artistry.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry or cheer as she looked out upon the landscape of sugared pleasure. She never even knew she had a sweet tooth or had such a pleased reaction towards pony food. But there was no denying the emotion welling up in her. “Th-this... this is unbelievable! I've never even seen such a thing before!”

“I've never made such a thing before. Not alone. For big parties I usually had a Demi-Chef de Patisserie, plus a few Sous Chefs to handle the grunt work while I did only the most important jobs. This was a labor of love,” Vanilla said proudly, looking on his own landscape of food with a nod, like an artist surveying his magnum opus. “This was all because of you.”

“Because of me?” Dee Dee asked, her incredulous tone muted by the subtle awe she still felt in looking over the collection of desserts.

“You told me to let go of my fear and uncertainty. You showed me I wasn't a mere tool, but the author of all I did. Magic was the tool, and I was the conductor, the conduit, the true controller. So many years of being thought of as simply the sum of all my food made me think I had no value as me. But you... you made me see my food was the expression of me, not the definition. I didn't exist as an afterthought needed to make the pastry, the pastry existed because of me,” Vanilla said, smiling aside at Dee Dee.

“This is an impressive 'thank you' for just a bit of advice,” Dee Dee noted, standing stock still and incapable of deciding what she should do.

“The past few weeks have not been 'easy', or they were not at the start,” Vanilla noted, with a light blush on his cheeks, “For various reasons we need not discuss. There is no blame to lay around. Things happened. But at least recently things have been far nicer. Much more enjoyable. And really, I have never felt so alive.”

A light blush sprang up on Dee Dee's face, coloring her cheeks even over the black of her fur. “Yes, well... mistakes were made. And they have not been made again. Progress. Ever something to savor. A new chapter opened and this provides a wonderful cap to it.”

A moment of silence followed, Dee Dee in awe and Vanilla in contemplation of getting his own fire back. His horn glowed and a chair slowly pulled out at the over-laden table. “Please, have a seat and sample all that you like. This was for you. As thanks and in celebration of you coming down the stairs! You've earned it.”

Dee Dee had never really earned much of anything save keeping her own life with her successes. The feeling that washed over her as she sat down, her chair slowly sliding close to the table, was wonderful. So that was what an earned reward felt like. “I hardly know where to start. You've made... everything!”

“Everything I had on-hoof anyhow,” Vanilla said, a bit of a sheepish look spreading on his face. “You should expect to see some of these desserts return. Not too many, I know that it is improper to give too-old food to someone. I will do all I can to eat these. And until I resupply, food will be limited to vegetables.”

“I promise you, I will try to leave as little as possible to put away,” Dee Dee said with a voice full of humor. She was really spoiled for choice, and so she, oddly, picked a very unassuming thing, a simple tart. The warm, buttery aroma carried the distinct undertone of strawberry. A single bite exploded with flavor. The butter, the strawberry, a hint of raspberry adding an extra kick. But below, where only a Changeling could get to... love. He had not been lying. It was more than the pride she had tasted before, more than proving himself. The creation was a labor of love, real love. More than the small drips and drabs of before, it was infused into the treat.

She became ravenous, thoroughly unladylike. But at that point she did not care. She wanted to gag the void, choke it with the rich bounty offered freely to her. Eclairs, cakes, cookies, petit fours, all of them infused with love. Still, nothing like a meal drawn directly off, but it was there and taste that it added to the sublime dishes...

She was aware, on some level, that Vanilla had taken a seat himself and begun eating as well. In the back of her mind she could well imagine his look. Possibly bemused, possibly disturbed, perhaps even fascinated by seeing a proper mare lose all restraint and just attack the spread with a hungry desire.

Vanilla was indeed bemused by the sight. It was very unusual, but it certainly swelled his pride. His skill was such that one taste of his best turned a proper society mare into what could only be described as a foal with their bag of Nightmare Night candy. She was sampling everything, and seemingly finding it all to her taste.

It was all he could have wanted and more. True, he had been trying to show off, trying to impress a mare he feared might have been a bit jaded, and to prove he still had it. But it was genuinely a work of art in thanks for the timely advice she had given, and to celebrate her trip down the stairs. She was getting stronger. She'd have to leave. Before somepony came seeking her.

The crash of reality made the repast a bit wan. The sight of it grew a bit less impressive and the taste became a bit bland. This wasn't the first time he had really been enjoying her company, but it was one of the best enjoyments of her company. Sharing his creations, and seeing how they moved her was really something. She was being very honest about how she felt. “It seems a bit late now,” Vanilla said, clearing his throat, “But I should ask what you think of all this.”

Dee Dee took a few moments to respond, first having to hear and process the question, then having to swallow. “I think... it's indescribable. The smell and look could not possibly have prepared me for the taste of it. I see now. I see everything now. I see the truth in this spread. The reality.” She suddenly seemed on the verge of tears.

“I... never thought a dessert could be so moving,” Vanilla said, reaching out for Dee Dee.

“It's so much more. It has a meaning, a meaning I never even imagined until I tasted it,” Dee Dee said, pulling away and looking aside. “You have no idea what this represents. It just makes me aware... how dishonest I have been. And really... dishonesty is so often my business. A way of life, you could say. You've probably wondered so many things while I have been here...”

It was time at last. She was going to say which fate she fled, what dire family pronouncement she was escaping. “I can help you get away from an arranged marriage, I'm sure I could offer something...” Vanilla began.

Dee Dee actually laughed, her head shaking. “You think it's that? I wish it was. I wish I was a runaway rich mare ducking a marriage. But this...” She bowed her head, sucked in a breath and let her magic go. Green fire sprang up at her horn and washed slowly down her whole body. The perfectly straight spiral transformed into the smooth curve from that night. Her black coat smoothed into her flexible black chitin. Her dark mane and tail transformed into the green membrane that also wrapped around her midsection. Wings, the veined and membranous wings of an insect stood up and fluttered on her back. Small white fangs jutted a touch from her lips. Pupil-less blue eyes looked out on the world. Legs with holes shot through them, her cast still on the broken foreleg, held her up. Her change was complete. She was as she had been that first night. Dee Dee revealed as Double Dealing. Her real Changeling self. “This is something more. Something beyond...”

Vanilla had no words. The green fire was enough to send him towards the kitchen. The full revelation sent him tumbling, scraping along the ground to try and back away from what Dee Dee had become. His magic grabbed out blindly, picking up knives and forks and presenting a bristling ring of metal as he cowered in the kitchen.”Wh-what is this? What are you?”

Confusion could be seen, even on Double's alien features. “Did you not hear? How could you not hear?”

“Hear what? I haven't heard anything about... anything like this!” Vanilla shouted, rising slowly to his hooves.

“The wedding, of Cadance and Shining Armor. Invaded, unsuccessfully. By Queen Chrysalis and her Changelings. Surely you heard. It must have been everywhere...” He must have been toying with her. He must have.

“I knew about the wedding. You told me that you had fallen... from... there...” The real truth of the confession burst onto Vanilla. “I don't get the paper... I don't listen to the news or have a television. I never knew...”

Double stood there, unmasked. Vulnerable. Stupid. She had revealed her real self to someone that did not know what she was. It had been foolish to reveal it at all, and worthless to do so to someone that did not know. “Now you know. Here I am, revealed. The real me. Beneath the seeming. I am a Changeling.”

Vanilla approached, slowly, still keeping his utensils around him. He sought the features. The same smooth horn, the odd legs, the shape he had felt. It was the real form beneath the mud. She was telling the truth, for once. “Why are you even telling me? You were getting cared for and I had no idea anything was wrong.”

Double took a moment to consider it. The idea became increasingly stupid. Her Changeling culture railed against the easy revelation. Yet, it had not been easy. It had not come for no reason. “The food...” She said, looking at the slightly-scattered spread. “I can taste emotions that imbue dishes. It was filled with love, with truth, with real passion. When you took my advice, when you let go, let yourself be free and show your vast creative power expressed in a smooth precision and expertise... that was, wholly and honestly, you. Purified and refined. The ultimate truth. You filled it with truth and love. I've spent so much time here, I felt that... I owed you the same.”

It was Vanilla's turn to be silent, contemplative, yet wary. His ring of metal never dropped nor wavered. They were some very powerful words, but she had lied to him before. Continually. “So, you told me. Well... something new to know about my nation...”

“I am unafraid of you,” Double said, apropos of nothing. “I should fear you with all my heart. You could so easily defeat me. A Changeling is a sneak, a shadow, a creeping thing. We are no match in a one-on-one fight, not even against an untrained unicorn. Only in a swarm can we ever hope to fight and win... when some may be beaten and battered to let others mass and conquer...” She caught her words in her throat, and shivered. “And me... injured, with so little of the power reserve that I need... with one thought any of those carefully tended knives could split my chitin easier than you split vegetables, all before I could hope to be away from you. And if I escaped, I would be helpless. Probably culled if I returned to the swarm. But I am unafraid of you.”

She was quivering. Monsters weren't supposed to quiver. Conquering armies were never meant to be so candid about their weaknesses. Vanilla remembered her early days, the face she had put on. Her later disguise may have been a mask as well. She was apparently a creature of disguises. “Then why aren't you afraid?” He asked, using all his strength to sound strong and gruff, his steps having brought his protective shield of utensils almost to Double's throat.

She lifted her chin and exposed her neck. Culling was her fate if she returned to the swarm. She had hoped to escape it. But if she could not, she could at least choose how it would happen. Make it on her terms. Such a good Changeling attitude. Her words, however, were opposite to the Changeling way. “Because... I trust you...”

The tip of Vanilla's chef knife whispered across Double's chitin, a touch that barely could be said to have happened at all. His horn stopped glowing, and the knives and forks fell with a clatter in a shining semicircle around him. He half-fell, half-lunged forward and wrapped Double up in an embrace, feeling the real her for the first time since he had saved her life. Now she was real. Now she was honest. Whatever she might be, whatever may have happened... he finally had her honesty.

The Emptiness

Vanilla and Double had passed the night in the dining room. They had not had further words; they seemed unnecessary. They had simply held onto one another, surrounded by food. They had even slept in that position, as awkward and uncomfortable as it had been. They awoke a bit stiff, somewhat embarrassed, and had disentangled themselves, to make breakfast out of the vast assortment of food still around them.

Only after taking the edge off of their hunger did they slow down consumption and start to talk. “So... what is your real name? I doubt it's Dee Dee,” Vanilla asked, nibbling on a prickly pear tart.

“Double Dealing,” Double answered, taking a bite out of a similar tart. “I was... under pressure when I was pressed to create the name. But it seemed proper to my supposed station.”

“I certainly never questioned it,” Vanilla said, rubbing his chin lightly. “Though really, I should have. Not because it doesn't fit but... I knew your body was wrong.”

Double tilted her head at the statement, blinking is disbelief. “I thought the figure was perfect. Just thin enough, long enough, a tiny bit of softness. I was good enough to try and be a model but just enough to have an excuse for why I was not. I know my business.”

“The night I saved you in the garden...” Vanilla said, leaning back a bit and looking off at nothing. “I didn't know it then, with you covered in mud and me in a panic but I felt the holes in your legs and I saw your horn being curved and smooth. From the moment I saw your pony body I knew... something was wrong. I wondered how anyone could lie with their entire body. Now I see how but at the time I just thought your duplicity went deep. I guess it did...”

“I am so sorry about that stupidity on my part,” Double said, sheepishly rubbing the back of her head. “I misread the cues you gave. And it's part of my nature to attempt to infiltrate. Oh...” Double coughed into a hoof and gave a grin. “That's how we survive. We have to move in disguises and pretend to be what we aren't. I thought you expected a high-class mare to act like that and then to come on to you once she had expressed her contempt.”

“I've seen it happen... I hated that kind of thing. The fake actions and... well, never mind,” Vanilla said. “Why do you need to go in for all that falsehood and such? What do you do? Steal from ponies, take valuables and food and things that you can use for survival?”

“Remember how I said I could taste the emotions in your food? There's a reason. Changelings can survive on normal food but we have a second need. We also feed on emotions. We draw it off to feed our hunger and drive our power,” Double said.

“Is that why you tried to hit on me?” Vanilla asked.

“Yes. I wanted to replenish my power. I had been keeping my needs low, not transforming or using much magic,” Double said. “I could have maintained the illusion until I healed, especially with more small bits of love coming from your food. But drawing it off is purer and more potent.”

“A new flavor experience, I would love to know what my love of cooking tastes like,” Vanilla said with a laugh and shake of his head. “I guess you have to do a lot of dating, going to ponies, learning about them, figuring out what they like, how they are... I'll bet you'd be great on stage.”

“I do need to learn but... it's... not new folks...” Double didn't want to admit anything. Not so soon. But she had already broken the most important rule of being a Changeling. Hiding the ugliness didn't take that back. “We have a way of temporarily making ponies forget they have seen us. They sleep and then return. It takes a lot of preparation. While we have them, we imitate them. We siphon off the love their families have for them, especially husbands and wives and children. It's not meant for us but we siphon it off anyhow. We can even extract it but that causes severe fatigue and is very noticeable...”

One of the knives leaped up from the floor, held in Vanilla's magical grip, while he slid back a ways. “Does it... hurt them?”

“Only the forceful siphoning, and that's mostly aches, lack of focus, fatigue, general weakness. Like not getting enough sleep or having the flu,” Double said, calmly. If the sudden defensive move frightened or offended her she didn't show it. “I'm not a threat to you. You're more of a danger to me. You don't love me, so I can't get a hold on any love to extract. If I was intent on doing it, why would I tell you? You'd notice right away and stop me.”

The knife clattered to the ground again and Vanilla rubbed his neck. “Sorry. I wasn't thinking. I guess I should have thought that through. Still... it's not a very pleasant thing to hear first thing in the morning from someone I thought I had been getting to know. I guess that was all a lie too.”

“Only any details I gave. Those were pure invention, and rather good ones, if I may be proud of my personal business,” Double said, with a smile on her face. “However, I confessed more to you than I have ever told anyone. More, maybe, than I was willing to admit to myself. It's not a pretty life but we are very ugly things.”

“That seems a bit harsh. You'd think you'd at least think you look nice. The holes are a little odd and the fangs are intimidating but it's not a bad look,” Vanilla noted, looking Double over.

Double giggled into a hoof. “You're very much a charmer. I think that's why I managed to make myself so at home here despite the oddity of the situation.” She sighed and shook her head. “No, we are an ugly species in that we must deceive others in a quest to steal love them meant for someone they actually love. We do unpleasant things to ponies... and don't have an easy life even away from that.”

“You said you were a follower, you considered your heritage a burden. I thought you meant lost nobility and too much money, but it means...” Vanilla began.

“Living underground, in the swarm's hive, basking in the mana buzz of concordance, performing a distasteful task for a Queen who cares little for us, where the price of failure is... culling...” Double trained off with a shiver.

Vanilla looked pointedly down to the cast on Double's leg. “You said if you went back...”

“The slightest sign of weakness... or failure. The invasion was a failure and I am injured. Perhaps Chrysalis would show mercy if I came back whole, we all failed. But injured, I would be a useless dead weight. We would need to slim down and prepare for a hard time, because now ponies know we exist. I had planned to return once I was recovered,” Double said, looking at the cast herself.

“I thought you were going to break the mold, be an innovator, the best of what you are, a beacon to others,” Vanilla said, not looking at Double.

“What I am is a Changeling. The best of a Changeling is a cog in a machine, an interchangeable part to be replaced if something goes wrong. The beacon leads others to similar. It's what it means to be me,” Double said, passionlessly, sullenly nibbling on a slice of cake.

“That can't be true. You must be more than just a cog. You were proud of yourself, you said so,” Vanilla affirmed.

Double was quiet for a bit, still nibbling her cake. “We can be... better than others. Minimum acceptable success is needed. But it's not like being better is rewarded. Other Changelings may be in awe or impressed but there is no prize for being the best infiltrator, the best imitator. I'm proud of what I can do but noling else is.”

“I'm impressed you fooled me so easily. Maybe it was concern and fear, and because as a pony I care so much but... you got me to believe you, with a simple story invented on the spot,” Vanilla noted.

“I did, I certainly did,” Double said with a smile, her wings buzzing pleasantly. “Thank you. I think... maybe we should finish eating and clean up. I don't mind but I doubt you want to bring in ants.”

“Right, right! Like I said, we'll be eating these for a while...” Vanilla laughed, horn glowing and lifting the plates of food towards the kitchen.

Vanilla was lounging in his usual place, finally able to bring himself to listen to his records again. He still wasn't up to reading Daring Do again, but he was getting there. The revelation of the other day was still echoing around in his head, and it was quite a thing.

Dee Dee... Double Dealing was nothing at all as she had appeared. He had suspected that some parts of her story were lies, by omission or substitution. He had known the grand lie of her body had meant something significant. It meant more than he could ever have imagined.

“Changeling...” He said slowly, feeling the name leave his mouth after dancing on his tongue. “The name sounds nice. Too bad it isn't all that nice...” It was hard not to think ill of her. Even setting aside the fact that she was the captive soldier of a hostile foreign power who had rather rudely invaded a wedding, she was in the habit of ponynapping others, taking their place and stealing love.

'To live...' Vanilla reminded himself, with a slow nod of his head. 'She does it to live, both as a food source and so she is not killed.' He wasn't very positive about the act but he could at least understand some of the impetus for it. Basic survival, keeping her hunger and her queen at bay.

But it was more. Double had confessed to being particularly good at it. She took pride in doing that, in infiltrating, in stealing love meant for another. That was certainly much less ambiguous. She prided herself on how well she could hurt ponies and obey rather hurtful instructions.

Vanilla cleared that thought from his head with more consideration. Her pride came from necessity. Basic survival and her queen had made it right. Like a child never taught that breaking things is wrong, she had become proud of being very good at something that ponies considered very bad.

He heaved a sigh as he considered the matter. She had to live, she had to satisfy the desire of the queen. Really, there was no good solution. In Equestria such a thing would have been resolved simply, with sharing and cooperation. But he had to imagine that the Changeling mindset was such that duplicity and deception had simply become the only way it could ever work. It would be a rather hard sell, to be sure.

Could cooperating and sharing even work? Could love be shared if it wasn't felt? It was a strange notion. Vanilla actually got a chuckle out of the idea of a Changeling going to a neighbor to borrow a cup of love. He cleared the idea from his mind when he realized he had effectively created the opening scene of a pornographic movie. 'That's one way to do it...' he thought, blushing a bit.

The idea of free-flowing emotions was a strange thing. As though the feeling, the internal thing was an object like fruit juice or something. The idea was not impossible. Even if he had been bored by the thaumatology courses he knew that mana was all over and had distinct fields, upwellings, flows and such. Love, friendship and other such things had powers in Equestria. Perhaps there was a radiant field that could be siphoned off during emotion.

“Emotional ingredients. Fifth dimensional cookery. I have a new thing to make me crazy...” Vanilla chuckled. Taste. Smell. Texture. Presentation. The cooking dimensions hew knew. Even if the emotional trace was technically a taste, it was an unknown element. It was separate and distinct. The taste came and then the emotional flavor. He could pour skill into a dish, but with no love it would be bland and lifeless underneath. He could accidentally infuse rage, frustration, fear... cooking would become a therapy session. Changelings would probably be good at that...

'Emotional flavors,' he thought, returning his focus. Could he induce an emotion he wanted paired with a dish? Sweet adoration lavished artificially onto a warm cake? Smoky-fiery rage or resentment in a pepper-infused candy? The potential excited him but made him aware of how deceptive that would be. He wanted genuine emotions. Emotions had to be sincere, even if they didn't 'pair' with an ingredient. Sincere...

“Flesh against the thorn...” Heather Lea sang, as the song faded out, oddly apropos for the situation.

“What hurts the most is the most important. I get it,” Vanilla said to the empty room, his magic lifting the needle from the record and lifting the record off and into its sleeve. He then got up from his chair and made his way upstairs.

“Well, now, what a nice surprise. Is it time for a snack? I still have my appetite,” Double said cheerfully, laying on her back in bed and reading one of Vanilla's Daring do books. It was a way to keep herself entertained.

“No, no snack right now. I thought I might... come up for a visit...” Vanilla said, a bit nervously, a hoof gently rubbing the back of his head while she tried to hide a blush. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all. I'm enjoying this book of yours, but I would never turn down conversation from you. It's your home after all, and you've been so nice to let me recover here,” Double said, giving a fang-filled smile to Vanilla.

“It only polite. No... it's not just that... I wish I was better at this...” Vanilla shook his head and slowly approached Double, his hooves moving as though they were filled with lead. “I came up here to talk about something important, but something that I can't seem to get right.”

“Maybe I can help. I've had a lot of experience doing a lot of things, and this sounds like something emotional. You can imagine I'm very good at that,” Double said with a chuckle, scooting slightly to the side and offering a space on the bed.

Vanilla remained standing. In fact, he paced in a tight circle beside Double. “When I thought you were an upper-terrace noblemare or a glamorfilly or something equally monied and haughty I thought everything you did and said was either a lie or just unpleasant by design...” He swallowed a bit and gave a wan smile to the small moue of distaste that met the comments, “But I know better. You wanted to do what you usually did. I understand and can appreciate the skill that requires. I had thoughts about that, about potentials and about you... some of which I tried to discard or at least shove completely aside.”

“I hope you've done that! You can certainly dismiss thoughts about me as an unpleasant mare angling to just take pleasure. Well...” Double blushed a bit and gave a little grin, “I am angling but it is for survival. I was never deceptive in that respect... strangely enough...”

“No, no, I've recovered from thoughts like that, I promise... but some thoughts I shoved away, well, they... they're coming back again. Your honest revealing of what you are and who you are gave me what I wanted since the beginning. The truth. I think well of you now that I know what was under the mud,” Vanilla said, briefly nibbling on his lower lip as he considered his next words. “There were parts of that time... parts that I now see were part of your real personality... the good parts... they.. and I...”

“Slow down. Just breathe, and think, and put your words together,” Double said comfortingly, reaching out her uninjured, holed foreleg to lightly caress Vanilla's passing withers.

The touch stopped Vanilla dead in his tracks. He did not look disgusted. He didn't seem to have any reaction besides halting. He just took the advice. He breathed slowly, eyes closed and facial muscles tight as he concentrated. “The good parts, were very good,” He finally said, eyes still closed. “I thought you seemed nice. I was completely willing to help you escape what I thought was a forced marriage. I cared enough about you to want you to have a life that would suit you.”

Another blush rose up on Double's cheeks, her hoof softly stroking Vanilla's withers in thanks. “You really would have done that for me? That's... that's really nice of you. I think I could always tell you were a good pony. I was afraid for a while that I had angered you so much you would have forced me away or let me wither in bed but... I always came around to the thought that you were a good pony. That you would always be good to me. I guess I was right.”

“It's not just that, though... I wanted you to get away, with some food, a cloak and directions to a town that could keep you safe and anonymous. But the thought of that, I confess... made me sad, because I... I didn't want to see you leave,” Vanilla said, with increasing softness as he reached the last words.

“What... was that?” Double asked, incredulous, leaning her head closer and looking at Vanilla's face, her blue eyes wide in shock and disbelief.

“I would have been sad to watch you go. I would have done it because it's the right thing to do, to keep you safe from the fate I thought you faced. But it would have been hard for me,” Vanilla said, rubbing his neck, hoof accidentally brushing Double's. “Maybe because I got used to you being here, or because I just loved your company or enjoyed having someone appreciate my cooking again, or the good advice you gave me or...”

Double stroked Vanilla's withers again, brushing across his hoof gently as she did, though not on purpose. “I get it. You like having me here. I'm not bad company I guess. And as a pony I made for good company and I at least provided some eye candy,” she laughed, getting a deadpan look from Vanilla that knocked the humor out of her. “So... what are you saying?”

“I thought you made a good-looking unicorn. And what was nice about your personality, that was great. But I hated the lie that you were presenting. Now that I see you, I still like having you here,” Vanilla said, very directly putting his hoof on Double's own. His head leaned aside and he touched his cheek against it.

Double gasped softly. It was considered impossible to get a pony to give any affection out of a disguise. The touch of cheek on chitin sent a rush of love into her. It was small, yes, an uncertain love, confused about so much. But it was there, more and delicious as the drips in the food. The void cried for more then went quiet. “No... impossible... ponies are disgusted and repulsed by our true bodies. We learned never to show them...”

“It's not usual. But we're very open. We can love donkeys and zebras and griffins and other creatures that don't look like us,” Vanilla said, softly rubbing his cheek against Double's hoof. “I care more that this is real. This is what you really are. This was what I had been waiting for... I think I was waiting to fall in love with what you really were.”

Double remained speechless for a time, taking in the slow trickle of blossoming love, something she had never tasted before, and savoring the feel of soft pony fur against her smooth chitin. “I can't believe any pony would wait to see this. I could go back to being Dee Dee. That would be nice for you, wouldn't it? A pony, the pony you fell for, the one you put all these emotions into and the one you made all that food for...”

“I didn't fall for Dee Dee. She never existed. She was a fake. It was you, underneath. Even if I didn't know it...” Vanilla slowly moved closer, until his head was resting on Double's neck. “I was slowly falling for Double Dealing, a hurt, scared Changeling that needed help. Now, it's clear. I can say it. Now that I know who you really are, I love you.”

Green-gold tears gathered at the corners of Double's eyes, as her breathing grew ragged. The love... new-made as it was, confused and slow and halting... it was so pure. Uncut with conditions, lust, mistrust, deceptions of all kinds. Such a rich and succulent treat. It was delicious and delightful and beautiful as anything could be. Her holed legs were thrown around Vanilla's neck and she held him to her body, lest he vanish. “I don't know what to say...”

Vanilla moved his head up, to look into the blue pools of Double's eyes. “Then we won't talk for now...” His head came down and he gave her a kiss. Her little fangs slid over his lips and he made a soft noise of surprise and some delight when he discovered that her kiss tasted like roses and honey.

Double was trapped, pinned to the bed by the kiss. It was wrong, to kiss a pony without her disguise, to feel him when she was so exposed. She was violating everything she knew as a Changeling. But there was so much delight in it, such pure love to fill the emptiness, but more, it was something she had been thinking about. She wanted what ponies had. They had each other. She now had that too. She sank into the kiss, content.

“I've been thinking a lot about emotional flavor,” Vanilla said, a few nights later. They had been enjoying a much more open relationship, able to say good things about other another while showing small bits of physical affection. Double was downstairs again, and they were sharing a large salad with some pomegranate reduction.

“I wish you could experience it. As you've said to me, it would add another dimension to food. I never even realized food had dimensions, I just ate it to stay alive. Now I don't know how I failed to see it,” Double said, daintily munching on her food.

“I thought a lot about artificially inserting emotion to pair with dishes, but that kind of insincere feeling is just unbearable to me. It's not a good thing at all,” Vanilla said with a firm nod.

“Nor is it very good as far as taste goes,” Double noted, rubbing a forkful of leaves through the reduction. “Perfecting a fake emotion is impossible. The artifice always comes through. It's not just bad it's insulting. Sometimes it's not intentional, such as if a chef feels one thing but is forced to seem another way. It creates two tastes. You... did that to me a few times. Love of cooking and frustration, or even anger. I'm... sorry I did that to you.”

“All in the past,” Vanilla said, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. “It... brings up another question. And tell me if this is too personal. If you can taste and eat emotion, is there a stomach for it somewhere?”

Double gave a high, buzzing laugh that finished with a soft chirp. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and composed herself before saying, “There is a special organ inside, there's no real name for it in the pony language. I guess you could call it the emotion-stomach. It works to process emotions, but especially love, into a rich, dense fluid that circulates in us and is part of many processes. It tastes like roses and honey.”

“Oh that's why your kisses are so flowery and sweet. It's your saliva. Perhaps I could try cooking with it,” Vanilla mused.

“You'd cook with Changeling spit?” Double asked, giggling a little bit.

“Real honey is bee vomit. They digest nectar and vomit it up into little wax cells made by chewing up waxy secretions from their abdomens. I use honey all the time, and I don't even personally know the bees whose vomit I'm eating,” Vanilla said, losing his composure near the end and ending up laughing at his own descriptions.

“Fair enough...” Double said, laughing a bit as well.

“So, how do you know when your emotion-stomach is empty? Do you get a rumble in your belly, or... upper chest or back or wherever it is?” Vanilla asked, trying to be serious about it.

“We're always hungry for emotions,” Double responded, suddenly turning very grim and serious. “It's always with us. We have many names for it. The emptiness, the void, the screaming nothingness, the bottomless pit. It cries for stolen emotion, demands for and more. It makes us powerful, certainly, stealing emotion gives our illusions strength and makes us generally physically stronger for a limited time, but we burn our reserves soon enough and the void screams. It's so seldom satisfied we barely know what it means to be content.”

“Wow... I can't imagine a bottomless stomach. It would make food... meaningless. You eat and eat and never finish. I'm sorry to hear it,” Vanilla said, reaching over to touch Double's shoulder.

“It quiets down, but we always know it's there, deep down, rumbling, roiling, demanding. It's not called the screaming nothingness for nothing. When it demands it demands, and it will not be denied. It will drive you to do anything to throw more emotion into the bottomless pit. The satiation is more that the void is muffled... but never silenced...” Double said, voice dropping to a whisper at the end. She leaned slightly into the touch and smiled.

They finished dinner and Vanilla gallantly escorted her back to her room. They parted at the door with a long, lingering kiss. It spoke well of Vanilla, to Double's mind, that though she would have allowed a lascivious tongue-kiss, and he knew it, he did not. He was not chaste, there was a certain passion to the press of lips, but he kept the acceptable limit for a new romance. She'd taken over a few blossoming romances. But they had never felt so good.

Double sank comfortably into her bed, slowly rubbing her green, membranous midsection. There was so much to admire about Vanilla, but his food was really so very high on that list. With the falsehoods dropped his love was free to flow, and did it ever! Every dish was marinated in it, and that flavor would never get old.

More than that, he radiated love for her. Not to the image of Dee Dee, or some abstract idea like social consciousness. For her. In his touch, in his kiss, in the looks he gave her. Love filled them all. She was really giving the yawning void a feast. She hoped it was choking on it. It had tormented her all her life, as it tormented all Changelings. Revenge was sweet.

Vanilla was sweet. She brought her uninjured leg up to her muzzle and sighed though one of the smaller holes, to produce a soft little sound. It was like blowing across the neck of a bottle, though perhaps a bit more odd given that it was done with a hole in her leg. She had done it before while bored. Doing it while mooning and in love was a nice change of pace.

The tone was a little odd. She blew a larger puff of air across the hole. The tone was still off. She pushed her snout at the opening, and found she didn't quite have the same clearance around the circumference as she usually did. It was closing.

“Closing...” Double whispered, fearfully. Chrysalis' image crossed her mind, as well as the tales she had told. She had thought they had been just a myth. But no. Her queen had been right. “But that's... that's just... a legend... Chrysalis couldn't have been right... no...”

Double flopped onto the bed and stared into the darkness. She could swear she could feel every hole in her body growing smaller. Had she been more focused on what was actually happening to her body, she would have noticed that the howling emptiness had gone silent. No matter for how long or short a span, that was not supposed to happen.

Trot to the Grave

Double didn't sleep at all that night. The darkness mocked her. It reminded her too much of the hive, of the swarm she had longed for. Remembering the buzz of concordance was unpleasant. The droning reminded her of being an obedient cog, waiting to deceive, or waiting to die for missing some arbitrary thing. She was told to accept it. She knew better.

The darkness was filled with the whispers of the other Changelings, voices or impressions in the buzz, it all melded together in her mind. She didn't know what had become of the others, she didn't know if they, too, were hurt and held by ponies or uninjured but suffering as targets of blame for Chrysalis' wrath.

If they were hurt did they try to disguise themselves? Did they seek out pony medicine and hope for a place to recover? Some injuries would preclude simple treatment, they could be revealed by forgetting details of internal anatomy or simply by losing control of the change. She could well be the last Changeling left, the others captured and locked away, or culled by Chrysalis.

So many thoughts crossed her mind, all demanding more fear, more focus, more concern. There was a way to shut them up. She thought back to her supply of hidden pain pills. They worked on her, quite well. They wrapped her mind in a heavy cloth and made her chattering imagination silent. They would make her sleep. One or even two or so...

She stopped her magic as it lifted three from their secret location, dropping them and hearing them clatter on the ground in the dark. That was not the answer. That was practically giving in to the fear. “To the inevitable...” she whispered. Another blow along the hole made her bury her face in her pillow.

Inevitability was hard to confront, hard to accept. But she would have to. It was happening to her. The half-recalled myth sprang into full detail. Queen Chrysalis was being proved right. Even if she had been wrong about an unlimited supply of food from conquering Canterlot, she had been right about something that was just as horrible.

A thought pricked through the miasma of fear and misery. A tiny, sneaking, wheedling thought. It was not inevitable. There was a cause. She knew very well what the cause was. She could stop it, or slow it so much it may as well have been stopped.

She could accept things as they were or do something desperate. She didn't want to give in to desperation and panic. That led to harm and heartache. But there was little enough that she could do about what was going on. She had one measure of control. A desperate option, a painful option, but one that would solve her problem.

The darkness went on as her sleepless night dragged, and she considered the price of her solution.

The next morning she was out of bed reluctantly, a mass of aches and stiffness. Her blue eyes had a rheumy quality to them, tinged in silky green-gold. She yawned frequently and merely paced in her room, not even having the nerve to go out the door.

A knock took her out of her fuzzy-headed reverie, and Vanilla's voice sent a mix of emotions swirling in her gut. “Double! Hey there. You want to come downstairs for breakfast or should I bring something up?”

She didn't want to answer him, didn't want to acknowledge that he was even there. But he was there, and his cheerful voice told Double he was going to remain until he got an answer. “I... I think I should stay up here. M-maybe I'll skip breakfast right now. I should... rest. You know, conserve my magical power and such.”

There came a shuffle and a heavy silence. “I thought you said you recovered it with love. And, well...” Vanilla trailed off.

“I... I do, I did. I... I just want to rest. I... slept poorly. I kept rolling over onto things I haven't had to think about for a while. I want to rest some more. I'll get lunch,” Double said, trying to keep her tone at least modestly normal.

“If you say so,” Vanilla responded, clearly disappointed. “I'll grab something to eat and start lunch. Do you know what you want?”

'I want this to be just a horrible dream...' Double thought. “Anything you make is fine, you know that,” She said aloud, trying to put a smile in her tone.

It seemed to work. Vanilla's voice grew cheery and he started down the hall. “Take a nap, I'll have something fantastic for you by noon.”

Double flopped back onto the bed and let out a sigh. She blew across the hole again and heard the same tone as before. The wrong one. It wasn't her imagination. It wasn't a strange dream. Things were happening. A nightmare was coming true.

She did close her eyes, and did try everything should could to lull her fatigued and tense form to sleep but all to no avail. Every little sound caught her attention, some sign of what was coming. The soft sound of dishes, pots and pans made her remember Vanilla was down there, loving her, preparing to execute another excellent meal, just for her. It was more than for which any Changeling could have ever hoped.

He wanted to honor her real body. A pony, wanted to give love and affection to her strange and alien form. There could just have been something wrong with him. He might have been some strange aberration. He might have been lying about Canterlot... no, the food was honest enough. He had to have been what he seemed.

The supreme irony, a Changeling wrapped in the love of a pony who was made entirely of sincerity and forthrightness. Vanilla's earnest love was nice. Tasty, certainly, filling, unquestionably, but also...

She should have been stealing it. Misappropriating it. He was supposed to be focusing his love and devotion onto another, not her. Even onto the imitation face of Dee Dee. That love was misdirected, and ripe for siphoning. She should never have told him the truth.

She had done it in a moment of weakness, a rebellion against all that it meant to be a Changeling. He had given her honesty, had cared for her, had made her separate from the unity of the swarm. She was driven to give it in return. She had disbelieved the stories she had been told as part of the swarm. She was paying for her incredulity. The price for trying to break away from being like a Changeling would be a fate pronounced over them alone.

Her maudlin contemplations, aided by closed eyes and closed curtains, made her rest, if not sleep, and lose track of time. She became aware of the world around her again when a knock gently rang out and Vanilla's muffled, soft voice asked, “Double, are you awake?”

It would have been so easy to lie. It was in her nature, after all. A bundle of mendacity tied together with a thread of smiles and a veneer of acceptability. “Yes,” She replied, a bit weakly.

“Good. I hope you slept well. Can I come in?” Vanilla inquired, in his charming gentlecolt voice.

Double's body knew better than her brain, in some sense. Her horn lit and she automatically opened the door, revealing Vanilla standing there, in his chef's coat and toque. “I'm here to escort you downstairs, and not to support you in any way, of course.”

“Can't I eat up here? Chef's table and all that?” Double attempted weakly. Her thin smile was a bit too fake.

“I'd love to let you lounge around, just because you were never allowed to before. But your recovery has been going remarkably well. I'd hate to have you go backwards, so tackling the stairs is important,” Vanilla said, while trotting over to the side of the bed and subtly offering a leg to help Double out.

It had been a long shot. She knew he was right. She was getting stronger, more nimble, more recovered. She had to maintain it. Practice was the only solution. She rolled out of the bed, smoothly buzzing her wings to help her land deftly on her three good legs. A smug little smile crossed her features as she headed for the door. “I think I can take care of the stairs.”

“I had never thought of that... mostly because I knew your unicorn form. But winging down stairs is tricky, any side motion can be dangerous,” Vanilla noted, following a pace behind.

“You worry too much. I've been flying since my wings were solid enough to allow me. Sure, they've been unused for an extended period, longer than any infiltration, but I can surely manage this,” Double said, stepping confidently to the stairs and using a quick buzz and a sure forward step to take them on.

She had overestimated her step, thanks to it being a hop that was held in a delay as her wings took her slightly up. The long-unused membranes were not flapping in the speed, timing or pattern she quite expected, throwing off muscle memory. Her hoof came down turned more than she wanted which leaned her body and changed the direction of her wings. She stopped flapping them, but it was too late to do anything about it, she was tumbling.

She never passed one step. A potent magical force was holding on, soon aided by firm shoulders. Vanilla huffed softly and adjusted his position to settle Double back on her good hooves. “Don't worry. I've got you.”

He had her. If half of what pony romance movies and books said were true he'd always have her. She moved down the stairs with her head held high, leaning on him as little as possible. She had to thank him, he had saved her from a terrible injury, on top of everything else. “Thank you,” was all she said.

“I was just lucky. I could just as easily have not made it,” Vanilla said, attempting to be casual as he swept a hoof toward the dining room. “Lunch is served. Fresh and ready just for you.”

Double swept into the room, passing by Vanilla and pointedly not brushing against him or saying a word.

The next few days were almost more of the same. Vanilla was worried about it. Double had waved off more than a few breakfasts, complaining of poor sleep, which was hardly something he expected from her. His primary worry, however, had been more about lunches and evenings.

Since the revelation they had been enjoying the open honestly. She was glad to answer questions about Changelings, and he eagerly shared his life with her: Daring Do, his record collection, photographs, newspaper clippings of food reviews. There had come a great deal of touching, kissing, pressing close against one another. It never crossed the line of propriety for a new relationship, but they had been affectionate.

At downstairs meals, however, Double had been oddly silent. Vanilla's attempts at conversations had died when he got small noises or short, curt answers from her. She expressed appreciation for the food and wanted to immediately return to her room. His request for some music or conversations were waved off. Even the initial lame attempt to insist it would be easier having her down there so she'd be ready for dinner was rebuffed. She had done her daily stair-walking.

She had eaten dinner alone, by request, still as silent as she could be while still making requests. And all of that persisted. A heavy pall had fallen over her, and it was quite worrisome. He knew, by and large, she was a 'ling (as she liked being called) of good humor and capability. She enjoyed his company. He couldn't even imagine what had changed.

He was at her door again a few days later. Lunch wasn't ready but he didn't care. “Double?” He called out, after knocking firmly.

“I'm... trying to nap,” Double called back from the other side of the door.

“I don't think you are. I think something's wrong. And I need you to tell me what,” Vanilla said, with a touch of firmness.

“Nothing's wrong. I'm tired and I ache. I haven't been sleeping well. That's all,” Double said, sounding a little annoyed.

“Please let me in. Please let me help you with this. I'm not an expert in things but... I love you. You know I do. You said you tasted it,” Vanilla said, pressing up against the door.

There was a still silence for a long while before Double's tearful voice responded, “Your love is why I have to stop loving you...”

Vanilla opened the door without an invitation. Politeness gave way before his aching heart. He saw the small lines of green-gold tears running down along Double's cheeks. “What's the matter?”

“It's true...” Double said, with a heavy voice. “The queen of liars told the truth. I thought it was just a myth but it's true. And I... I'm afraid of it, even when I should be happy...”

“What? What's true? What did this queen of yours say to you that got you like this?” Vanilla came up to Double's side and wiped a tear away with his hoof, letting it linger on her cheek.

Double started to push the hoof away with her good hoof but ended up holding it there against her chitin, leaning into the warm, loving touch. “She said that no Changeling could ever fall in love with a pony. That we were too alien and disgusting. That our true forms would inspire hate and fear, not love. But if it happened... if... remember how we take love meant for others?”

“Yes. You don't need to anymore. I can give you all you want, just for you,” Vanilla said gallantly, leaning in to kiss Double on the cheek.

Double shivered as the kiss pressed on her, unable to deny how good it felt. “We take that love and process it into honey, into power and to throw it into our empty souls. But only misappropriated love, taken from one creature that was meant for another. It makes us strong. There is a legend that if love were ever given to us, the real us beneath the disguise, it would satiate the void. That love stolen will feed the emptiness and our capabilities, but love given will fill the emptiness. The other night I realized... the void stopped screaming. But this hole...” She blew across the hole in her leg and made the sound, “Was out of tune. It's gotten... smaller.”

“Smaller?” Vanilla asked, peering at the hole.

“I guess they all have. That was the other part of Chrysalis' warning. If it ever happened, if we revealed ourselves to a pony and got that love for ourselves, filled the emptiness within... our holes would slowly fill in as a consequence, a visual representation of what was happening within. And if they closed completely, if we loved enough to fill the nothingness...” The words caught in Double's throat.

“Y-yes? What? What happens?” Vanilla asked, breath growing quick and eyes frantic.

“We... will die...” Double whispered, looking across at Vanilla. “I was afraid, because... every touch, every kiss... is going to take me away from you.”

Vanilla's breath came out in shuddering pants as he processed the words, his eyes shining with tears and his jaw dropped in disbelief. “...dying?” He pulled away from her, staggering back from the bed. “You're dying? And I'm killing you?”

“I reflect... perhaps I am nothing more that a deceitful monster...” Double mused, stroking her chin softly. “Once again, I acted rashly. At least this time it wasn't thoughtless. Oh the thoughts were foolish, but I reflect they were not meant to be unkind. I think I may have hoped you loved me enough to just ignore all this and let us sink into a silent distance. Maybe I assumed you'd just let me fly back to the swarm after I recovered. As you can tell I'm bad at pony romance.”

“Just what were you hoping for? You had me worried. I thought back to the beginning when we were cold and unfriendly, silent strangers living in the same house. I must say I got to like having somepo... someling to love...” Vanilla rubbed back of his neck and grinned.

“I wanted to avoid this, actually. This moment. When you found out that death loomed in the future. I know it was silly, but I guess I hoped I would never have to tell you. I already figured out the antidote to inevitability, which was to stop taking love meant for me,” Double rolled slowly onto her stomach and tapped at the bed with her good hoof.

“I know how terrible this sounds given this situation but... I can't stop loving you, and I wish I could. With all I know, with all the time we've had together, with the truth I know, I can't stop. And I'm going to be the death of you,” Vanilla sighed, hanging his head.

“My dear executioner. I brought this on myself. I ignored the warnings. I let myself perform a forbidden act. This is all my fault. All because I wanted what ponies had, rather than what Changelings have to accept,” Double said, looking aside at Vanilla. His sadness touched her. She could taste it, bitter and salty. She always seemed to be hurting him. “What ponies have... a pony life. I've faked living more than a few of them. They seem very nice, and being in love with you has really been an eye-opener. Tell me... do you like living as a pony?”

“What do you mean? I can't really compare it to anything,” Vanilla stated, looking up at Double.

“Maybe I should ask if you like living as not-a-Changeling. With all that you've heard, the life, the responsibilities the limitations and the skills... would you rather live a Changeling's life or a pony's life?” Double queried, locking eyes with Vanilla.

Vanilla stared into those deep, beautiful blue eyes. He had been guilty of a lingering gaze while they had been close. He was constantly enraptured by her eyes. They were so pure, without sclera or pupil to interrupt from the expanse of blue. He could tell the truth to those eyes, even if it was unkind. “I would want to be a pony. Life is sweet, and there are so many things to see and do when you're free...”

Double slowly closed her eyes, breaking Vanilla's reverie and sending her mind into a consideration. Sweet freedom, at a high price. She thought she was willing to pay any price. There were rewards for it. But the price climbed more and more, until it reached... her very being. After being rescued from ignoble death, fighting for her life and finding what she wanted out of life... she would be undone.

Could she really choose death? Choose to voluntarily walk a path that led to her demise? It seemed foolish... yet she had previously been coldly cavalier about death. Culling as little more than the way things were. She didn't like it but she accepted it. She could even have accepted it for herself because no choice was being offered.

A choice was being offered. But it really wasn't. She could no more stop loving Vanilla than she could stop being a Changeling. She thought back to her reveal, when Vanilla faced her with a ring of knives and forks. She had considered escaping to the swarm, to face Chrysalis and culling. But she had chosen to stay and let Vanilla do as he would. She had assumed culling was her only fate. But she would choose how it happened. She would die on her own terms. She still wished to die on her own terms. “This is my choice...” She whispered.

Vanilla nodded his head, thinking he understood. “I'll let you be. Just tell me if you need anything while you're here. After the cast is off I'll...”

Double practically threw herself out of bed and upon Vanilla, fairly crushing him in her chitinous embrace and pressing a huge, powerful, soul-unifying kiss upon him. She scarcely breathed, and she never made a sound as he initially squirmed and struggled, his motions slowing and stopping. His limbs adjusted themselves into a reciprocating embrace, his mouth and tongue meeting hers in equal passion, drawing in the taste of roses and honey.

“This is my choice,” Double repeated, after breaking the kiss nearly two minutes later. She leaned her head against Vanilla's neck and let out a sigh. “It may not make much sense but this is my choice. I'll do what I wish, and nothing will change that.”

Vanilla was perfectly willing to accept the warm hug, and rest his body against Double's form. But his sensible mind intervened. “But... you said that my giving you love fills the void and your holes. That you'll die.”

Double nodded a bit, giving a cute, if somewhat-odd nibbling kiss to Vanilla's neck, her little fangs sliding across the surface. “Yes, it's true. But I've been making all my own decisions since this began. I chose how to look, how to act, to recover, to change my personality, to reveal myself. I made those decisions. The night I revealed myself I could have gone back to the swarm to die beneath Chrysalis' hoof. I chose to give you the choice. If you had killed me, then I chose that. I wanted it on my own terms... I still do. I still choose what sort of death I want if I can't avoid it. Better this than culling. Better this than living without love after I tasted the most beautiful kind there is...”

There was still doubt etched on Vanilla's face. He pulled back a ways to look at Double's contented features. Or perhaps less contented than resolved, and slightly happy. “But every time I say I love you, or show it...”

“Say it every minute. Touch me so much we become one. Kiss me until you can't anymore. I know what will happen. If every touch is a step to the grave then let me go there on my terms. You said you wanted the sweet happiness and freedom of pony life. It sounds wonderful. I want all that ponies have, even if being a Changeling means I can't have it forever. I'd rather die like a pony than live like a Changeling,” Double said, resolutely. She used her good hoof to pull Vanilla into another deep, solid, long and loving kiss.

He couldn't stop himself. Vanilla knew he ought to. Even despite what Double told him he knew that it was wrong to do what he was doing. He was responsible for what was happening. He knew that he was killing her. Every caress, every kiss was condemning her to death.

But he couldn't stop himself. Not as long as she kept asking.

Becoming Whole

“I don't want to complain... but this feels a little wrong,” Vanilla said softly. He was speaking into the ear-analogue on Double's head as they lay together in his bed. Since the resolution of Double to embrace her impending death they had taken to evening days together, in his room. They did not engage in carnal activity, though both had talked about it. They simply held tight, Double's smooth, cool back against Vanilla's warm and comforting front. He kissed at her ear-analogue and rubbed at it with his snout. “I can't feel comfortable with being your executioner...”

“I know. Maybe I want you in pain while I'm afraid,” Double said, with a half-hearted laugh. “Maybe... I just want all your love. Maybe I hope that this is also stealing it, as long as you're reluctant about giving it to me maybe it won't be the end of me...” She looked down at her good leg. The holes were notably smaller. She heaved a sigh. “But it's not likely...”

“What was the actual legend?” Vanilla asked, pulling Double tighter against his body.

“She told it to every group of Changelings, every bunch of buzzing drones and workers... 'No creature could ever love you. Your right to be loved was taken away long ago. You are parasites. We are parasites. The holes are the mark of what we are. Empty through and through. If some damaged, pathetic little creature ever pours their heart and soul into you, gives love to the shining blackness of your shell and empty blue of your eyes, your holes will close, more and more. You are getting what should be stolen. You are being punished for your insolence. And in the end, when the last hole closes, when the last of what you are vanishes, you will be no more. You will die. And none will shed a tear for you. It is culling the unworthy.' She was not... kind.”

Vanilla squeezed all the tighter, and could almost feel his love flowing into Double. But he wasn't feeling the flu-like symptoms she had described when love was siphoned out of a pony. He was replenishing what he gave her. Or something like that. This was something for an egghead to figure out. “She's nothing like our Princesses, that's for sure. I want to prove her wrong by loving you more if that's possible... and killing you faster. She'll always win this game, won't she?”

“This game is her arrangement. She will have her will. Culled by her hoof or by this legend's conclusion. I would imagine if I came back she would know... and if I did not die she would make me aware every moment I remained alive that she was right and that my nature was fixed,” Double sighed, tilting her head back to rub her snout at Vanilla.

Vanilla rubbed back and kissed at her. “The waiting... I don't look forward to your death but I wish it wasn't so drawn out.”

“I think that is the other aspect of her game. Knowing it, having it in the back of our minds, it's a constant torture. She was never kind, but I never knew how cruel she really was,” Double said, shivering softly and curling up a little bit.

Vanilla curled up right along with her, a blush darkening his cheeks as the posture became a trifle more intimate. It was not at all unpleasant. The feel of her body beneath him, taking in his warmth, his comfort. Like any unicorn he was far from strong, but she was asking him to be her support, to hold up her whole world. “I want to be kind to you, Double Dealing... I want to give you all the kindness you were ever denied...”

“Vanilla Torte...” Double whispered, tears gathering in her eyes, “I have indulged with other ponies, part of my disguise. Marriage beds, marefriends, cotfriends, I've had them all. But none of them ever said my name... my real name... I never knew it could mean so much...”

Double and Vanilla made love while they both cried. They couldn't have stopped themselves if they had wanted to. It lasted for hours, and they never stopped whispering kind words to one another, with Vanilla using every honest bit of flattery that came to mind. Double started off with shallow compliments of Vanilla's technique, but found that wasn't necessary. She needed only say his name and he was content.

Late in the night, when they were finished, Double could feel Vanilla resting on her. He was not asleep, like other stallions might have been. He seemed to be waiting for her to fall asleep. That touched Double deeply. What she could also feel was an uncomfortable itchy feeling over every one of her holes. She couldn't see in the darkness but she could tell they were getting smaller.

'Making love' was apparently a very literal term. She could see how it worked, the feeling had certainly been strong. She had felt it flowing through her, further choking the silenced emptiness in her. It had happened organically, an outgrowth of Vanilla's genuine slow-grown love for her.

The fate facing her may, in fact, have been inevitable all along. They were a perfect pair once they allowed themselves to be. Every day she stayed there brought more chances to become his, and for him to become hers. It was unsurprising they had become twined around one another. They had a lot in common.

Pressure and expectation had softened them up to become a pair. She was rather lucky to have found him; she could have easily landed in the control of a pony who was more politically and socially aware, and could have seen through her story, or a pony with less patience who would have sent her out. She could never have been found, dying inch by inch in the mud.

Even if she was doomed she was better off with Vanilla. If death was the only option in the end, she had found a much better way to go than any of the other manners. Losing her life at Vanilla's side, surrounded by love and adoration for her real self, was certainly a kinder way to go. If she ignored the final outcome, the path to it was certainly more than she had hoped for out of life.

She snuggled more comfortably against Vanilla and gave him a last little kiss on the neck, her fangs sliding against him, as they always did. As she slowly drifted off to sleep she tried to think of how long she had. She wanted to savor every last minute she had left.

“So... how far have they closed so far? Are they worse today?” Some time later. The clock was forever ticking behind everything Vanilla and Double did, and one thing was always on their minds. Vanilla was sitting in his chair, half-heartedly reading one of his Daring Do books, while Double lounged in the main part of the house.

Double was silent for a long moment, awkwardly shuffling around on three legs, before she said, “So I was thinking, tonight I can make dinner. I learned how to imitate competent cooks and such...”

“Hiding it from me just makes me realize it's bad. We both know they're not stopping,” Vanilla noted, putting the book aside. He should have been liking it. The romance was getting sweet.

“I just don't want to tell you. It's not a good conversation for the middle of the day. It's barely an acceptable conversation for the end of the day,” Double said with a soft huff.

“You don't have to hide it from me. You know I measure them while you sleep,” Vanilla said, making his way into the main room, to Double's incredulous look. “Oh come on... you must have known I would...”

The look fell a short while later and Doubled sighed. “I did. I expected you would. You probably have a chart and projections about how long I have.”

“No, no... complex mathematics were not my strong suit. I'm not a thaumatic engineer, I'm a chef. I do fractions and multiplication, not... whatever weird hoodoo is needed to figure out something like that,” Vanilla said, coming up to give Double a squeeze.

“But..?” Double asked, peering into Vanilla's face as she returned the squeeze.

Vanilla looked aside. “A very rough and probably very wrong estimate says... a week. Very close to when the doctor is coming back to see about your leg and take the cast off.”

“I guess it always was inevitable,” Double said, giving a bitter laugh right after. “For the longest time I've been considering that this might have been an accident or it might have been fate. Meeting you, you in particular, was too improbable. Had you found another Changeling or if I had found another pony things would have worked out poorly. We were always supposed to find one another. I was always supposed to leave after that span of time. I thought I would fly away to the swarm. I guess I'm still leaving, in a different way...”

“Don't talk like that. We need to... stay positive,” Vanilla said, throwing himself over Double's back and resting over her in a perpendicular fashion.

“Why? I used to be so good about being a liar but I've found that the truth works better. I'm not going to start lying about this. I'm dying, Vanilla. And our being positive doesn't stop it,” Double said, without malice or excitement.

“Even ponies can lie. Little, happy lies. Saying you think a meal is fine when there's too much spice and salt. Saying you think a hat is festive and colorful when it's a garish mess. Things to smooth over the little bumps that don't need to exist. The little matters of conflicting taste that don't matter. I know this matters but... can't we have a happy little lie about this too? Just once?” Vanilla asked, voice starting to break near the end of the speech.

Double broke one of the primary Changeling ideals with her next breath. She was being offered the chance to lie and get away with it. She opened her mouth and said, “No.”

At that one word Vanilla started to cry, his body lightly twitching as he lay on Double's strong back. “I didn't think so... I don't really know if I actually would have wanted it. I love your honesty, I have since I first got it. But we could have had some happy, positive thoughts for the time being.”

“I would have loved it. I would have taken a cheeky, silly delight in lying, maybe even giggled about it in forgetful moments. And I could have pretended very well that things were fine and that we could enjoy ourselves. But much as it hurts us it's better this way, we can prepare for it,” Double noted, reaching back to softly stroke Vanilla's head.

Vanilla took the opportunity to look at the remaining holes in the hoof. The small ones had already closed up tight. The larger ones were already looking like the smaller ones. Increasingly it was looking like a solid pillar of black. The other legs were the same. And her wings looked less ragged as the holes around the edges and in the main structure closed. “I don't need to measure today. We never should have been intimate last night...”

“I will never complain about that. You're a chef, you should appreciate how well you mix lust, love, desire and just a hint of regret. It is a truly delicious combination. It's really... to die for,” Double said, giving a very soft, but very real, laugh. “I swear... that started as an accident. Then when I started I couldn't stop.”

Vanilla gave a short, breathy puff of a laugh and shook his head a little. “I believe you. I don't mind. If we can't ignore it then let's draw a happy face on our fears and make something out of them, something more than a looming fate.”

“I can do that. A lot of what it means to be a Changeling is to get yourself able to wake up and work when the boss is grim and the work can be unkind. I can find a hundred reasons to live and be happy here. They'll keep things positive for how much longer I have left on that 'live' part,” Double said, with another soft laugh. “Grim humor. Surprisingly, it helps.”

“I'll just keep loving you. I'm a little better at ignoring that I'm the one that's killing you slowly,” Vanilla noted with some good cheer.

“Slowly, softly, kindly. I wanted it on my own terms and I like these terms. They suit me. They seem to suit you too. Don't worry. Changelings don't believe in souls. I won't hold it against you. We're a void, so we just get filled in when we die. At least, that's what Queen Chrysalis always told us,” Double said.

“And now you're getting filled in before... I... think I'm no good at grim humor,” Vanilla said, screwing up his face in disgust.

“Actually, that was just right. Pithy, true, with a little comedic edge and timed just right. I'm sorry I have to go. We really are made for each other,” Double said, reaching back to stroke Vanilla again.

“If we were made for each other, either I'd go when you did or you wouldn't go at all,” Vanilla noted, finally moving himself off of Double's body so he could snuggle up with her, rubbing his face slowly against hers.

“You need to stay. I won't actually be an empty void if someling... somepony remembers me. It's more than any Changeling can hope. I trained myself to forget friends and acquaintances that were culled. Remembering them would have given them meaning, but carrying around the pain would have been too much. Now, though... I really wish I had remembered,” Double sighed, placing a leg around Vanilla, drinking in his warmth and his love.

“I'll remember you. For the rest of my life you'll be on my mind. I'll tell everypony I can about you, everypony everywhere. Even if the Changelings are remembered mostly as a failed invasion force... they'll know one had a name, and that she was the sweetest mare that ever lived,” Vanilla promised, indulging in a long, honey-sweet, rose-heady kiss.

Double was fine with that, as the love coursed through her and tingled just a bit at the borders of her remaining openings. The last Changeling with an identity. They would forget her fellow Changelings, and even Chrysalis. But she felt she could trust Vanilla's promise. Somehow, he would make sure they never forgot her.

'Time's almost up...' Double thought to herself, as she lay beside Vanilla, following another beautiful, long session of making love. The itch in the few holes that remained was fading, but that hardly meant anything. As 'rough and probably very wrong' as the calculation had been stated to be, Vanilla hadn't been far off. She was down to the tiniest pinpricks, and the last bit of lovemaking had likely sped things up. It was her last night.

Vanilla had gone to sleep a while ago, convinced that she had also drifted off. He was so good about waiting for her. She was going to miss that. She was going to miss a lot of things. She had just started learning what it was to live like a pony. If only she hadn't been so eager to say she wanted to die like one. The notion grew less appealing the closer it came to actually happening.

Every day before had been bearable. Because it was in the future. It was something that was to come. It felt less immediate. She always had more time, more time. But there was no more time left. It was the end. She would have to face up to whatever horrid death awaited a Changeling without holes. She didn't feel markedly different, but that meant nothing. It could hit at any moment.

She wasn't relieved, but some of the edge came off of her worry. She could at least focus on more immediate things, like how she could say goodbye to Vanilla. She had been doing all she could to make him happy and make sure he remembered all of who and what she was. She had not done anything to properly prepare him for her being entirely gone.

She could leave him a note. Or a cake. He might appreciate the gesture. She could, perhaps, write out some kind of epitaph and arrange her own funeral. The first Changeling to be given a proper burial. Another milestone from her untimely end. Given how soon it was she could at least have the decency to die in her own borrowed bed rather than ruining his.

“My bed... my room...” Double whispered softly. She thought of the place as hers. It had not been long, in the scheme of things and yet she was feeling a certain possessiveness. She had had no personal effects when she arrived and Vanilla didn't have much to give her besides food. She had the various sheets, pillows... a supply of pills... “My terms...”

The phrase sprang back to mind. Since breaking away from the swarm she had become very good at focusing on her own self and all the things associated with who she was. She had become an individual, not a cog. She had always been who she was but she was no longer afraid to say it and show it. Things were to be on her terms. And most often, death had been the thing most often faced on her terms. So far she had had good luck choosing her own terms. One more time would probably continue the streak.

She slipped from beside Vanilla with all the deftness that her training could provide. Even on three legs she was still a Changeling. She could still slip out into the night, but she did not also have to drag a real pony somewhere nearby. After a moment of hesitation she made her way out of the bedroom and into the spare, to what few things she thought of as hers.

Even being resolved to the idea, she wasn't very quick or enthusiastic about what she had to do. She took her time, paced around the floor a little bit and thought about what she was doing. She was choosing the manner of her end, just like she always had. But not really.

Every prior choice had involved a certain end and an unknown. She had chosen to trust that Vanilla wouldn't kill her. She had chosen to avoid culling by embracing the possible rumor. She knew it was true now but hadn't then. With this final choice she was picking between two certain deaths, rather than gambling on a mystery. She wasn't ready to linger, or suffer. The torment of waiting had been bad enough.

Her horn glowed, opening the closet. The small collection of white pills slowly rose out of the darkness and before her eyes. There was the answer she was choosing. Swallowing them all would smother out not just her thoughts but her life. It would be quick and painless. Appropriate, for pills meant to stop pain. She would be using them as directed, in some sense.

She opened her mouth and dragged the oblong shapes through the air, towards the fangy maw. Before they could arrive she heard a desperate thumping and felt her magic interrupted by an impact. The field released as the pills clattered to the floor. When she opened her eyes she saw Vanilla standing there, panting, one front hoof held out in a position that would have slapped the pills out of the air. “What are you doing? I thought you were asleep...” Double questioned.

“You know I never fall asleep until you do,” Vanilla said, voice a strained, sad tone. “I had hoped you were just going to pace. I got worried when I heard you stop and open up the closet. I didn't know what you had but... why?”

“My own terms,” Double said, flatly. “I go on my own terms, the way a Changeling usually can't. I wasn't willing to just fade out or burn up or flail in screaming agony or whatever fate awaits me when... I wanted to go quietly, painlessly...”

“And without saying goodbye...” Vanilla noted, coming up to Double but stopping before he made contact.

“I got out of your bed,” Double pointed out. “I didn't want to die there and make you have to buy a new one. I thought that was a nice gesture.”

“Are you going to be serious with me?” Vanilla asked, stepping just a bit closer.

“I want to but I have to bleed this fear off...” Double said, sighing and shaking her head. “I'm sorry. I actually had been thinking of proper ways to say goodbye. I was going to leave you a note, or funeral arrangements, or a cake. Something...”

“But you decided to do this instead?” Vanilla asked, looking down at the scattered pills. “Have you just been saving them up?”

“I took a few, back when I first got hurt. I was in actual pain. I found out they work just fine at a half dose, so I hid the extras away, just for appearance's sake. Changeling reflex. I thought maybe I could use them just to relax my mind if I ever needed that. And then, well... here we are, you know the rest of it,” Double said, turning aside and looking ashamed.

Vanilla closed the distance and embraced Double tightly. “You should have said something. I have a stake in this too. If this has to happen... I wanted to be with you to the very end...”

Double rubbed a cheek against Vanilla's, a little smile curling her mouth. “I'd like that. It's a bit less intimidating with you here... but a bit faster in coming...”

Both of them were silent, holding on tightly. They almost could have been dozing, but neither one wanted to miss enjoying what time they had.

Double became aware of a heaviness in her chest, and a throbbing that moved through her limbs. Her eyes snapped open and she looked down at one leg. Solid, not even a tiny poke. It was done. “It's happening...” She choked out, feeling as though a weight was pressed against her.

“What's going on? What are you feeling?” Vanilla asked, eyes wide, limbs trembling.

“A big weight... feels like a big weight is pressing on me...” Double huffed, slowly sliding down to the floor, clutching at her chest and shaking her head. The throbbing grew stronger, surging through her limbs, able to be felt even in her horn. The pressure was beginning to grow unbearable. “I love you...”

“I love you...” Vanilla echoed, holding Double good hoof. He leaned down for a kiss, only to stagger back as Double gave a huff of breath and green fire spread across her writhing form.

Within the envelope of flame things were staying the same. The pressure continued, the throbbing continued, pounding at her temples, feeling like it was trying to beat on her brain. The weight lifted off of her at last and she sucked in a huge, loud gasp of breath. The terrible pressure and throbbing faded slowly as the flames died away, nothing more than normal Changeling magic.

She was left panting, gasping for breath and feeling the last vestiges of her ordeal vanish. She was just staring at the ceiling, a little amazed at having vision. “I'm... alive..?”

“Your... holes...” Vanilla stammered, pointing down at Double's limbs.

They were back, just as large and whole as they ever had been. It was as if they had never even left. Double lifted her good foreleg to her mouth and blew across the hole that had started the whole thing. The sound was perfect. They were back. “What? No... what is this? What happened to me?”

As Vanilla came down to embrace Double, and cry against her neck, Double just continued to stare at the ceiling. She was entirely stunned by several things. Firstly, of course, by what she nearly did. She had almost... only Vanilla's wonderful devotion had kept her alive. But beyond that, there was the other important matter. Something had obviously happened. She had felt it, the heaviness, the throbbing, the pain. That had been real. She closed her eyes to see what else she felt, the lids snapping back open a moment later when she realized what was most different of all.

The void within her. The Changeling's most basic feature, the commonality between them all. She had long since stopped hearing it, at first ignoring it then realizing it had gone quiet when Vanilla had really turned on the love for her. Its silence was a nice change but she could at least feel it there, stuffed. Now... now she couldn't even feel it.

The Visitation

Double watched with slightly blank eyes as the doctor slowly and skillfully drew the rasp across her cast, carefully filing away the material in order to properly crack it apart. She had barely had the presence of mind to adopt her Dee Dee guise again. Only Vanilla's sharp call had broken through her mental distance to just give her the inclination to assume a proper shape.

The time had come. Three months of healing. Of tears and laughter, good meals, bad decisions and one agonized night of confusion and near-tragedy. There was no telling what would happen when she had the cast off, given that she had been changed for part of the recovery period.

A few last scrapes of the rasp finished a network of score lines along the surface, which were carefully cracked with the application of the doctor's magic. The cast split along the scores and the pieces were picked off and set aside, slowly revealing the rubbery coating placed beneath and the leg of the alleged mare.

“Looks good. It's straight, there's no surface damage that I can see. Seems to have come through this just fine,” The doctor said, his horn lighting again and washing over the rubbery coating. The material began to stretch, pulling away from the leg like a giant rubber tube. It was then slipped off, leaving just the mussed hair of the leg. “Give it a try, Miss Dee Dee. Just have a stand on it and tell me how it feels.”

Double obeyed mechanically, placing the leg down on the ground and putting weight on it. The limb held up, though she did not comment on how it felt.

“Dee Dee? How does it feel?” Vanilla asked, motioning towards the doctor with his head.

“Feels good. I can support myself now,” Double answered, still staring at nothing a thousand yards away.

“You did a good job, Mister Torte,” The doctor said, as he began packing up his supplies. “She seems in decent health. I see she got ample rest and nutrition. The leg feels solid but I would imagine it's just a little weak. I'd advise some focused physical therapy. Or if you'd rather do it yourself you can take short, frequent walks, leading up to longer walks.”

“I'll be sure to keep her as active as possible,” Vanilla promised, lightly placing a leg around Double's shoulders.

The doctor just happened to notice the gesture and let a grin slowly spread across his features. “So... did her family or friends ever show up to ask after her?”

“N-no. It seems they didn't really care. You know how fickle upper-terracers can sometimes be. That's okay, she pulled through on her own,” Vanilla said, offering a large and hopefully sincere smile.

The doctor only chuckled. “Not quite on her own, I think. I'll leave you two to what you've developed here. As I said before, Miss Dee Dee, our pseudo-community is brighter for your presence. I'm glad you're going to be around.” With that he bore up his equipment and jauntily trotted out of the room.

Both Double and Vanilla were silent and still for a long moment, the only motion being the lick of flames as Double resumed her proper Changeling form. The formerly-broken leg was revealed to be like the other, shot through with holes, looking none the worse for wear.

Vanilla broke the silence with a cheerful, “Well, that's excellent. You're recovered. So, how about we make something big and extravagant to celebrate?”

“I'm not hungry,” Double said in a hollow voice.

“You've been like this since... since it happened. What's the matter? You're alive! You're alive, healed and now we can get on with the life we didn't think we were going to have,” Vanilla said loudly, from the door to the kitchen.

“Don't you understand? Something happened! Sure, maybe it wasn't what Queen Chrysalis told us but something happened, and I feel changed. I know something changed in me but I don't know what,” Double insisted, pressing against her chest right where she had felt the tight pressure. She knew what it was that was different. She hadn't felt the hungry emptiness swallowing endless amounts of love. She didn't know what it meant, but it frightened her.

“I know that you're afraid. You're good at hiding things like that but I can tell that you're scared. Talk to me and we can work it out. It's just one more service a pony coltfriend can offer,” Vanilla said, with a good attempt at a charming smile and good-natured chuckle.

Double strolled over and planted a fangy little kiss on Vanilla's cheek. “I know you want to help. It's in your nature. Kindness and compassion for hurts, that's the pony way. But this is something... uniquely Changeling. I have to figure out what it all means first. Then if I ever do you can smother me in love, like you want to,” she said, with a buzz of her wings.

Vanilla intended to object, but the kiss had softened him, and the adorable buzz of her wings put the idea of opposition out of his mind. He sighed and gave her a kiss in return. “You're going to leave me, aren't you?”

Double shook her head and pressed her neck against Vanilla's. “Never. Don't worry. I'm not going back to the swarm or going on a crazy quest for answers that might never come. I just need time alone. Time to think about this...”

“So, you're going back to how it was...” Vanilla began.

“No. Never. I'll never be like that again,” Double said reassuringly, placing a kiss below Vanilla's horn. “But I do need some time to think. Maybe if I can figure all of this out I won't be so afraid of it. Or maybe I'll just learn to make peace with not knowing... either way, it will only be good for us.”

“I take it that you won't be wanting the Chef's Table for lunch?” Vanilla inquired.

“I don't even know if I'll eat dinner. Don't say it. I know starving myself isn't the answer but honestly, I don't think I even want the distraction of food settled in my belly. I'm sorry...” Double said.

Vanilla stroked her cheek and gave her a smile. “Take all the time you need. Don't worry. When you need me, I'll be here for you.”

“I know. That's why I'm still here,” Double said, placing another kiss on Vanilla's cheek before moving up the stairs and back into the room she had occupied.

The door shut firmly behind her and she was alone with her thoughts in the sparse space. Bare as it was there was a certain comfort to it, the comfort of the familiar and the personal. By Vanilla's allowance, it was all hers, genuinely hers. Everything in it belonged to her. She actually had real property, even if it just amounted to some slightly-older furniture, a few sets of bedclothes and a guest bedroom. That was more than the average Changeling claimed.

She had given up so much, shedding bits and pieces of what it meant to be a Changeling. Her pledge as she fell in failure seemed silly to her now. To forever be a Changeling of the swarm and nothing else. She was far more. She had given up secrets, lies, her belief in the acceptability of culling and her unwavering trust in Queen Chrysalis. She had pasted the pony ways over the parts of her she no longer wanted, and made herself better for it.

She was happy, and living in a standard and manner far above what she had had. She had a loving stallion that had accepted the alien creature sleeping beside him. He didn't shy away from the touch of her holed legs or the brush of her fangs as they kissed. That alone was worth everything. Good food, property and soft living were all just extras.

The sacrifice of her deceptive nature had demanded a real price, however. Her holes closing had happened, in some sense, even if they opened again. She had felt the pressure and pain, felt the void be silent, and then be gone. She had been altered. It was more than living in a pleasant house with a more-than-pleasant pony. It was even more than just acting differently. Something was fundamentally altered. Something deep inside.

She lay on the bed once more and rested comfortably, savoring the softness she had come to expect. She also looked within, feeling for the old familiar hunger. She felt an actual hunger in the pit of her stomach and briefly felt foolish for waving off one of Vanilla's delicious extravagances. But no mater how she searched and probed within, she could not feel the yawning emptiness, the screaming void. Not even the whispering of its constant demands for more and more. She was no longer filled with a greedy hunger.

“What am I now?” She asked herself, pressing her hooves over her eyes and slowly rubbing them until she saw sparks and swirls. It wasn't quite good for her but it at least gave her a focus. She watched the fading flashes of light and the whirling shapes vanish into the nothingness from which they had come and wondered if maybe they were where her hunger had gone.

In the silence that followed her question and her consideration she became aware of a humming, which was not the muted and distant sound of a record playing or Vanilla baking. A look around eventually led her to look up and see her own horn was glowing green and humming with energy. It was both hers and not hers; her magic was being used but she was not controlling it on her own.

The magic built and surged and hummed louder until it shot off the tip and struck a point in the empty middle of the room. Slowly the magic built itself into a green-tinted illusion, the image of a figure she knew. “Q-queen Chrysalis?” Double asked, with faded reverence and some twinge of fear.

“You disobeyed...” the image said, in an echoing, distorted voice. “I warned you. I told you. I even planted the illusion of your own holes closing with this message to dissuade you.”

“What are-” Double began, awkwardly rising from the bed.

“If you're speaking, try to have some intellect and don't insult your fellow Changelings by forgetting this is a mere illusion. You live with enough to recognize them,” the image sneered, the illusory Chrysalis seeming no kinder than the real one.

“Why did you do this?!” Double shouted, in defiance of the order to silence. “Why did you say we would be killed?”

“You have some questions. I don't care about them, this is just to let you know my disdain,” the illusion continued, looking disgusted and almost offended. “You're dead to me. I would know you from a normal Changeling. You would be culled back in the swarm. You are weak. You are the ultimate sign of weakness, of defiance and betrayal and all that would shatter the power of the swarm.”

“Maybe it deserved it,” Double muttered, strolling forward to thrust a hoof through the image. It wavered but remained, just a trick, though one that few could really manage well. Chrysalis had, indeed, been the author of the message.

“You don't even know what you did, do you? Do you?!” The false Chrysalis shouted in a rage, seething through her fangs afterward. “You did more than defy nature and your proper place, you did more than do what must never be done. You went against the nature of what it is to be a Changeling. Make no mistake, you will always be a Changeling. What were we before this? No record can tell, and it never mattered to me. Those days can never come back, and that is the reality of it. We are now what we will always be. Changelings. But to be a Changeling is not merely a body, it is a manner of being.

“A Changeling is a thief. A deceiver. A parasite. We take what is not ours from those who are giving to another, by trickery and guile. We are shadows and whispers, malevolent siphons drifting through the lives of others to make things a bit darker and then running away to prepare to do it all again. This is the truth. But you found more.

“The emptiness is part and parcel of our nature, the source of magnificent and transcendent power. There is a reason it is forever empty. It was put there as a curse, an ever-screaming curse to call us to suffer. But our wise foremothers conceived of more, because of the nature of that void.

“They saw what comes of drawing in more and more, taking and taking what was not rightfully theirs to be cast into a cup with no bottom. Stolen love feeds that emptiness and desire. You feed the void, grow more mighty and feed it more and more. A Changeling without satiation is a bottomless pit capable of being unstoppable as they steal and steal. Filling the void leads to satisfaction. A sated Changeling is merely strong. But a sated Changeling will never be overpowering again.

“Now you have done it, you miserable fool,” Chrysalis' illusion seethed again, sneering out in Double's general direction. “You have silenced the void in the only way it was ever possible. Love was given, not stolen. It was directed at you, at your horrible, alien figure. Some idiot creature, blind or insane or simply too stupid to deserve life, poured feeling into you in a ruinous cascade that filled the emptiness. I tried to warn you, I showed you with an illusion more powerful than any you could do, and so could not undo. And now you know.

“You can survive on pony food. Fill your normal belly with that trash all you wish. You will never be troubled with the howling pit again saying it is not enough. Your second stomach will rumble when it truly needs but it can be sated. You can be sated. All the theft in the world will never make you more mighty again. You will never become mighty and grand. You will be as you are, a skittering little bug drawing off ambient love and perhaps more of the emotion that brought you to this pathetic state.

“Don't rely on that, little outcast. You are dead to me, and will be dead if I ever see you again. The deluded fool that made you this way will never be yours forever. Hold no illusions about that, my foolish little Changeling. One day, perhaps not long from now, whatever creature you have found will awaken and see you in the light and know what it has done. They lie beside a horrid, disgusting, alien insect. They will pull from your chitinous touch and flee your fang-filled kisses. You will be left all alone. Other Changelings will shun you, other living beings will chase you. None will ever trust you, for you are a double beast: traitor to your kind and a monster to others. Your touch is anathema, your existence an affront to all other creatures.

“Go then!” The illusion screeched, pointing a trembling hoof off into the distance. “Live your execrable life. Live in misery, suffering and sorrow. I will sleep well knowing you suffer, knowing that you weakened the swarm and were punished, knowing that your love will fail soon and that once delusion passes you will have only loneliness and regrets!”

With a deepening hum and small fizzles of fading magic the green-tinged Changeling queen began to fade from view. Double, who had been barely holding back tears and had a pained look of sorrow unleashed a rage-filled cry towards the ersatz Chrysalis. “That was a warning? You mock your own kind for trying to find something more and for not wanting to live as a parasite?! I knew I was right to think badly about you! You never cared about us! Only about keeping yourself strong! No wonder you tried that stupid invasion! No wonder the invasion failed! You fed your emptiness to bursting and still lost when real love hit you! When it hit all of us! I should have understood it then!

“And as for the source of love... he has a name! It's Vanilla Torte! He gave me love I didn't deserve and made me more than a miserable thing like you could ever be! I'll take that future you imagine I'll have! I'll take every last minute of Vanilla's delusion... because I'll have Vanilla while he's deluded...” Double's rage faded as the doubts prickled across her mind. The image of Chrysalis was gone. She was only talking to the empty room and to herself. Her soft sobs and the spatter of gold-green tears filled in the void that had been laden with Chrysalis' bombastic assertions and insults.

The sound of the door slowly opening was like thunder in the quiet room. Double's head whipped around suddenly, to catch sight of Vanilla standing in the doorway, looking almost guilty about being there. “I didn't hear it all,” he admitted, not quite looking up, “but I heard a bit of it. I heard you get out of bed a little harder than was normal and then I heard the shouting... I listened at the door and...”

“Was she right?” Double asked, staying put in the spot where she had started crying. “Is this going to end someday? Are you just going to..?”

“She lied to you before. Lied about everything. I can tell you, she's lying about that too,” Vanilla said, crossing the room to wrap Double up in a warm, tight embrace. “It's not delusion that keeps me here. It's devotion. That love that changed you will never go away.”

Double leaned her body firmly against Vanilla, taking in his warmth, and basking in the sensation of real love directed at her. At the real her. Chrysalis could say all that she wanted. Double had been exiled from the swarm by implanted message. She was still a Changeling, but what that meant was up to her to decide. No uncaring queen was going to dictate that to her again. “My name is Double Dealing...” she whispered, while nuzzling down against Vanilla's neck. “I am no longer a worker of the swarm. I am a Changeling, and what that means is mine to say...”

Epilogue: The Streets of Canterlot

“It's been a long time since I've been back here...” Vanilla muttered as he cautiously strolled up the streets of Canterlot. He had left the grand terraces intending never to return. Yet, he was back, and he was not alone. “This seems like more danger than is necessary. We were perfectly happy down at the base...”

“But I will feel better doing this,” Double whispered. She was back in her disguise as the black unicorn Dee Dee, wrapped tightly in a long, concealing hooded cloak. She was pressing close against Vanilla, directing him to shadowed and sparsely populated areas.

Both had been walking for a long while, taking a very circuitous route through the great city. They had used only hoof-paths up from the base of the mountain through lower communities and through the lowest, historical districts of the bottom terrace. From there, they had gone up, terrace by terrace, seeking emptiness and darkness, hiding when it seemed prudent and dodging every constable they encountered.

“We could take the trams, you know, they service all the terraces, between and within...” Vanilla noted.

“Too risky. They could be searching passengers or have some kind of magical scanner. I'm certain they must have instituted defenses against my kind,” Double said, casting her gaze about with great fear.

“I haven't seen anything that is very different from before. You said that the invasion was a very bad failure for the Changelings. Maybe they no longer think of them as a threat,” Vanilla said.

Double huffed and looked down. “I know I should feel insulted but honestly, Changelings couldn't be a threat like we were anymore. And I'm not even really much of one anymore,” she said, shuffling along more slowly.

As the two slunk their way along they were suddenly confronted by a Changeling, walking along looking cheerful. She happened to turn and look at the two, tilting her head as she regarded the two of them. “Well hello there!” She said, buzzing her wings a little bit. “Why are you wearing that form?”

Vanilla and Double both went still, looking at one another in shock. “You... you're not in disguise. You're walking around in daylight. Did she... did the Queen win somehow?” Double asked, her Changeling form revealed with a flash of green fire.

“'The Queen'?” The other Changeling asked curiously. “What a silly thing to ask. The Queen has been gone since that day, and she's not coming back, not now. Where did you come from?”

“I... was living in a small house at the base of this mountain,” Double replied. “After the invasion I was hurt. And he...” She pressed in against Vanilla, “He helped me.”

The other Changeling got a mushy look on her face and giggled softly. “How cute! Does that mean that neither of you saw any of the news? Don't you have a radio?”

“I, uh... cut myself off form the world there,” Vanilla quickly answered. “I had gone there to escape the headache of Canterlot. Now we're back because... she thought we needed to see the Princesses and beg for her life.”

“Oh no no! After the invasion failed, and especially after Marianne... you probably don't know about her either. She was captured and held in Canterlot. She and her guard fell in love and they became a big, important symbol. The Princesses declared that any Changeling could come forward and become a citizen of Canterlot as long as they renounced loyalty to Chrysalis and the swarm, and promised to obey the laws of the land. You can imagine... a lot of us took the offer. Actually, I think all of us did, even the ones not in the invasion, everyling.”

The revelation knocked Vanilla and Double silent for a moment, the information twisting slowly through their disbelieving minds. Double was the first able to speak, a hole hoof coming out mechanically. “D-double Dealing, former Worker, Harvester and Love-Bearer, Third Wave.”

The other shook the offered hoof and smiled. “Shrouding Mist, former Worker, Siege 'Ling, First Wave. The shield assault groups didn't interact much with the harvesters.” Shrouding looked to Vanilla and grinned. “And who's your coltfriend there?”

Vanilla held out his hoof, a blush lightly tinting his cheeks. “Vanilla Torte. Uh... pastry chef.”

Shrouding nodded as she shook Vanilla's hoof. “I guess a lot of Changelings met ponies after the invasion.” She turned to Double and looked at her legs. “How far are you through Chrysalis' Curse?”

Double held up a leg and looked through one of the holes. “Is that what it's called? I went through to the end, with Chrysalis yelling at me for finding love.”

Shrouding laughed a bit. “Yes. Everyling with someone to love has to deal with the yelling. They make a party out of it now, with friends coming around to make fun of Chrysalis' image. I don't think that's what she wanted.”

Double gave a short chuckle at the thought of ponies and Changelings gathered around mocking the stern and bombastic image of Chrysalis. “I never knew... so I don't need to beg for my life. What do I need to do? Do I surrender to a constable or something?”

“No, no. You have somepony here to give an account of where you were and what you did after the invasion. It's all really just a quick trip to the Ministry of Inter-Sentient Affairs. You pick up a form applying for refugee status and they lead you through the rest. I'm guessing you have a home and a job,” Shrouding said.

“Neither of us need to work, but yes, she has a very beautiful home,” Vanilla said, with a bit of pride.

“Are you married? They accept alias marriages as legal as long as you get your Changeling name appended to the marriage documents,” Shrouding said, winking at the pair.

“Oh not yet. He's still too afraid,” Double said, some of her old attitude coming back.

“Now who was the 'ling that wanted to sneak up on hoof to the palace, and wanted to avoid the trams just in case they had Changeling-detecting security magic?” Vanilla rhetorically asked, giving Double a cheeky smile.

“It was a reasonable worry at the time,” Double snapped, buzzing her wings indignantly beneath her cloak. She put a smile on her face and looked at Shrouded. “Where do we find an office?”

“The Ministry has an office for smaller matters like this on the fourth terrace, you can't miss it. Just ask a constable when you arrive and they'll direct you to the right place,” Shrouding said, pointing up the street to the next terrace.

“Well, it's not begging the Princesses. This sort of takes a little drama out of your story,” Vanilla said, allowing himself a good laugh.

A blush burned on Double's cheeks as she began walking towards the indicated terrace. “As long as it gets done. I'm sick of being cooped up in that house.”

“It's not all bad, is it?” Vanilla asked, somewhat seductively, making Shrouded laugh and wave a hoof as she walked away.

The blush on Double's cheeks deepened, and she walked a little bit faster. “I'm not having this conversation with you in public! It's good... very good. We can leave it at that. Let's just move on to the building.”

As Shrouded had said, once they arrived at the fourth terrace the first constable they found directed them straight to a large, official-looking white marble building. The front of it was marked, Ministry Offices, Inter-Sentient Affairs and Community Relations. Inside the front door was a clean, orderly office space with polished stone floors, wood panels halfway up the walls, with plaster above that, and decorative chandeliers providing extra light beyond the ceiling lights and windows. Rows of desks with busy ponies, and others, stood behind a large counter with many windows, all staffed by friendly looking pony folks. The central feeder line was short, mostly filled with Diamond Dogs and a few Changelings.

It wasn't but a few minutes before Vanilla and Double were facing down a chipper-looking pegasus mare, with a pale blue coat and puffy white mane. “Hello there folks. Applying for an addendum to a marriage document?”

Double stepped up to the window and replied, “Oh, no. I need... I guess it's... a refugee form?”

Comprehension crossed the blue mare's face and she swiftly extracted a few papers from around her. “Brand new Changeling. You missed the first wave but, better late than never. Welcome to Equestria, and we hope you enjoy your new home. Fill out all the forms marked 'Changeling.' Your coltfriend just needs to fill out the supplemental form. Are you living together currently?”

Vanilla coughed into a hoof and looked a little sheepish. “Yes. We live together. She has been with me for over five months, though no one knows she's a Changeling.”

“Found after the invasion I take it. Welcome back to Canterlot, we're glad you chose to be civil and kind this time,” the mare chirped, giving a big and sincere smile. “Please have a seat and fill in the forms at your leisure, then return here with your forms to begin the process.”

Vanilla and Double were given pens and directed to a lounge-type area with cushions and low tables made for writing. The forms were flipped through and the single supplemental form given over to Vanilla. “Is this how ponies work?” Double inquired, as she started filling in her small collection of papers.

“Welcome to Equestria,” Vanilla said with a short laugh. “Ponies love order and precision. The more orderly and precise, the fewer errors, and the fewer who suffer. We want peace, plenty and prosperity. It's been working for well over a thousand years. But the price of all the wonderful security is this. Forms. You get used to it. Documentation protects all sides.”

“The swarm was so much simpler. You squabbled for a while and either had a fight, gave up, or Chrysalis decided based on her whims. I think that should have been a clue things were not quite right,” Double said, tilting her head as she read over the forms. “They certainly have a lot of options. Low-cost or no-cost shoes, food, job services, education. Do we need anything?”

“Check off any boxes marked, 'relocation' or 'wedding planning',” Vanilla said, with a blush and a smile.

Double stopped her writing mid-word, looking over at Vanilla, who had gone back to filling in his form. “This is about the most unromantic situation for a marriage proposal,” she said, with a dark blush.

“Not for a pony it isn't. It's appropriate. We're going to need it. And... I think we both knew it was coming. I just needed the right time to say that we're also moving,” Vanilla said, sitting back after he finished filling in his sheet.

“Moving? Moving where? I like that place. There are so many good memories... and bad ones... but the food alone...” Double said, glancing up several times while trying to focus on the form.

“I can keep it, maybe have it as a vacation home. It's nice to have a little place just for a getaway. But I want to come back to Canterlot. You reignited my passion for cooking, made it actually special and put me in touch with what I had lost. I can be a chef again. I could even be one for myself. Maybe with a competent, eager-to-learn sous chef. We could have a great business. And be wonderful together,” Vanilla said, leaning back with a dreamy look on his face.

Double scratched out a few more lines of text, then flipped back to a prior sheet to add a check mark. “Changelings don't have dreams. Didn't have dreams. I'm guessing every new one to come here does now. And I've got one too. Let's go get these back. We need to start looking for a house.”

The Prisoner's Dilemma

The days peeled away, slowly and somewhat painfully, like chitin from a molt that was not going well. They fell away, devoid of any meaning, merely empty pieces of shell, not even the full shell which might have indicated something. There was no other way to look at it. But it was at least something to metaphorically look at. It broke the tragic monotony of looking at the ceiling for hours at a stretch.

Playing a helpless, dainty Canterlot mare had to be, Double reasoned, much, much more difficult than actually being one. The actual useless Canterlot lump was schooled and bred to her position, trained up from infancy to be little more than a living waste of space. There would be an ease and naturalness to the indolence and vacuity that would pass long stretches with nothing going on.

That was decidedly not Double. Workers were trained to work, of course. They worked hard, to reap a precious commodity from a sometimes recalcitrant source. Finesse and trickery were hard work, especially when the long game was considered, the need to think far down the line to make sure that all the love possible could be gathered, but not a single drop more, lest the game be given away.

A book might have helped. Even such idle pastimes as movies or music would have been more acceptable. She had indulged before as part of her guise, and found they were not unpleasant. Something to stimulate her mind and occupy her focus. It would be for the best to be taken out of her own head. Without the comfort of the concordance, and with the fading memory of it she could only think about herself. It was not the relentless monomania of the egoist, but an internal self-contemplation that had never come forward before when she was a part of the swarm.

“Perhaps,” She said to herself, watching the flaws in the ceiling appear to shift and change in subtle ways that returned to how they were with the flick of her eyes, “This is what the ponies call cabin fever. It is a nice cabin. But I have the fever. My brain burns...”

Her ears perked when she heard the sounds of light thumping from below. Vanilla was working in the kitchen as usual. She couldn't tell what was going on but it sounded... violent. She cudgeled her brain to try and recall any cooking technique which she had ever encountered that involved such a great deal of physicality.

“Perhaps a stroll to see what he is doing.” She said it with strength and conviction, considering the coordination of her limbs and all the steps down to the ground floor, thinking on how she could navigate that section on three legs. She did it all to take her mind off of the fact that she would not move a single muscle until she needed to use the facilities.

She was weak. Helpless. Useless. All her consideration could come to no other conclusion. Her leg was broken, she was dependent on another, and she was incapable of reaching out to her own kind. She had never felt so parasitic, not even while undertaking activities that were literally parasitism. Perhaps it was because she had never thought about her status as a parasite, living on others, because everyling around her did it, and was proud when she did it. That was all gone. Only her fading memories of it remained.

She had a purpose, to return to the swarm. She had to remember that. As helpless and pathetic as she felt, she was there to recover enough to return to the swarm. It was her one goal, to return to where she was needed and wanted, where she was useful.

Surely, other Changelings like her had been injured in a similar fashion and been killed to maintain the integrity of the swarm. And so many of her fellows had been thrown by the blast that they had undoubtedly been killed or injured so badly any nearby Changelings had killed them to preserve the swarm. But... she was still alive. And she was being cared for to return to her prior strength. She would return to the swarm and live, and go back to how things had been.

That was the key. To go back to the way things had been. To cool the fire in her brain in the soothing balm of concordance. She would quiet the chattering voice that sounded like herself but thought such terrible non-Changeling things about the unfairness of killing hurt Changelings and those drones that coupled with workers when the desire grew too much to bear.

That was the nature of the swarm, the way of Changelings. It was as much a part of them as the holes in their bodies and the gnawing hunger within that craved for the savor of stolen love. The hunger needed to be fed, and strength needed to be maintained to do that. They needed to... cull... the unworthy.

“I am worthy.” She spoke loudly to herself, sitting up quickly in bed as if to prove it to herself by her very activity. Workers worked. She was still a worker. She still mattered to the swarm. She was still vital. She still had a purpose. “I will not be culled. By my cunning I have secured a place to heal. I will recover myself. And then I will return. I will return.”

A small motion outside the window drew her notice. She was looking out on one of Vanilla's gardens, and noticed him, or at least part of his head, out tending to the many vegetables and other things. “What a waste of effort and time. So much excessive and prissy care for a single meal.”

Despite her derision, she could not escape the echo of rancor that reflected back to her. She was no different. Ponies cultivated gardens; Changelings cultivated ponies. They could well do just as ponies did, but they had the hunger deep inside for more than just plants and pastries. Nothing could completely fill the void that screamed for love. Even if their bellies were full they were still empty. They could muddle along and do their jobs, but would be more and more distracted by the screaming need.

She felt the gnawing in her soul, deep down where she could not reach it with anything but those drips and drabs of feeling she found in her food. It took the edge away and made her masquerade easier to handle. The pills made her forget it, but the pills made her ignore everything, even her purpose. It was getting easier to hide them. She just needed to stuff them into her pillow, deep inside the fluff.

She looked out the window once more, certain that the angle of light would create enough glare to obscure her face should Vanilla be looking up. She thought she caught the tail end of his head moving downward, like he had been checking the window. She could only guess what he was thinking. His cordiality felt real, and there was some feeling in his cooking. That activity, infused with his feeling, would put him in a good mood.

Yet there was more to him and his emotions. From the first night there had been something there, in the back of his bearing which became more and less notable depending on his level of frustration and rest. He was mistrustful. He was not convinced by her disguise. Yet he had not been accusatory towards her or otherwise confrontation. There had been only cold strikes or false smiles.

It seemed wholly implausible that he had never heard of Changelings; their actions at the wedding had no doubt been quite newsworthy. He was isolated in his home, by choice, and she had not been aware of visitors beyond the doctor. But surely he had newspapers or magazines brought somehow, and needed some provisions which he could neither grow nor dig for himself. He had to suspect what she was. What else could he think?

If he didn't see her for what she really was, and hate it, he was disdainful towards what she appeared to be. That sort of impression had come through before. He had met the expected icy distance of Canterlot nobility with his own coldness. That had been expected; sometimes the dance of courtliness required such chilly receptions. But he had not turned around to give passionate lustfulness, which truly threw her. It was as if it was not an act, scripted by tradition, but a genuine feeling. Yet he had come from the upper reaches. Genuineness had no part of the ways and traditions of the fine ponies.

There was love in his cooking and detestation in his manner towards her. She did not need his love; his lechery would suffice. But he was suspicious of her, for good or bad reasons. His distrust kept him away from him. Only his pony nature kept him tending to her needs and bearing whatever he perceived as negative. That HAD to mean he was not aware of just what a Changeling was. Not even the softest-hearted pony would aid and shelter an enemy of the land.

“What did I do? Or what did I lack?” Double tapped on the sheets with her uninjured forehoof, eyes back to staring at the ceiling. She was doing the dance as she always had. But perhaps a new tune was required. That was the game. The gentle sway of motivations and reactions. Someling had to be paying attention to the subtle indications. It was a careful and calculated thing. Someling had to blink.

She would blink. She had to do it. To react to the action. He was not doing as expected, because she was not doing her part. She had proved her point. She had acted as required. But now it was time to act as the initiator. That happened sometimes as well. Some stallions required the woman to start, even if in public life they never implied such a thing. No trouble. Just another step in the dance. She was cunning and clever. She could do it.

She had consumed a great deal of time with her contemplation, the sun having dipped low and the sounds and smells of cooking wafting up from below. She detected the scent of oranges and a melange of various spices which seemed familiar to her. She had experienced something similar at the restaurants she had been to in Canterlot. It was.... Neighponese as she recalled. Something fried quickly in a pan with a spiced sauce. She also smelled bread being made, with a slight undercurrent of some variety of fruit. He had taken things up a touch. Perhaps HE was breaking. If he blinked first, she would not only win, she could silence the nagging doubts and put away the fear that he knew something.

“Something a little more... substantial, I suppose. You're not getting hospital food here, that's for sure.” Vanilla stood by Double's bed, looking smug and superior. He was not even hiding his subtle contempt. But it may have been another aspect of the act. It was an unusual move but nothing had been very usual in their interactions.

She sniffed, on the cusp of a change in strategy, but needing to appear to be continuing as before. “Indeed. I could smell it in progress. Neighponese?” Showing knowledge would impress him. She would appear very competent and interested, an important thing.

“Bit of a variation I picked up in my career. I use non-standard ingredients together with a traditional sauce.” The smug pride, the sense of superiority, the boasting look. It was all there. He was comfortable, feeling capable of casually trumpeting his own skills. That was just the state she needed him in. “In addition, two rolls, cooked surrounding slices of prickly pear fruit. Dessert or not is your choice. If you will excuse me, I have my own waiting for me.”

Double nodded and looked down at the spread, to determined what she should eat first. “Yes, yes, thank you.” Baked things had proven most loved. It made sense given his prior specialty. She took up a roll and took a bite. 'W-what is this?' She could feel her facade crack, just for a second. But it was appropriate. Love. There was love in that roll. The heated fruit, the buttery bread, the whole thing was infused with a genuine love born of passion for the art. But there was more. That must have been what took the hits she had heard. The roll dough. She could TASTE the frustration amid all the love, a smoky, smoldering taste that was almost choking.

She was right. Absolutely right. He was losing his patience with her unchanging strategy. She had not been quick enough picking up the signals. But she now had the message. It was time to blink. To make her intentions more readily known and do what he wanted her to do. That would lead to the next stage, and smooth everything over again.

She ate the rest of her meal in relative silence, not really tasting much more than the muddled love and frustration in her rolls and the general flavor of her pan-fried vegetables. She'd need to wait. It would need to happen later, after the dishes were cleared away, and she could prepare her words and herself.

The opportunity came soon enough. She had left most of the frigidity out of her reply when telling Vanilla that the food was tasty. That had had a strange effect on the stallion. He had no commented at all, merely trotted away with an odd look on his face. When he was gone, and had been assured she did not require the facilities, Double started working.

She adjusted the look of her glamour, softening some of the harder lines just slightly, smoothing the spiral of her horn, adding a touch more bulk to herself to be a closer representation of her real form and giving herself an innocent, harmless, matronly appearance, at least in a small way. It also reflected added flesh gained by eating fine food while in an inactive state. It would have been necessary sooner or later; this made it happen and gave it some meaning.

She glossed her coat just a bit; not enough to make it obvious, but enough to be slightly more alluring. It was a game of inches, after all. Her hooves had a slight sheen added to her seeming, and her mane was tweaked into a slight fluff. Every small change was designed to make her looks harmless, innocent, helpless. All in minor ways. The small details did so much; that was the Changeling understanding. Details mattered more than anything.

She finished her short makeover and slid out of the bed, landing on her three good hooves with a practiced ease. She had gotten very good at sliding out of the bed with grace and panache. It was a small victory, to demonstrate her continued dexterity and usefulness. She was not cull-fodder. After pushing down the thought, she made her unsteady way to the door and the hall, buoyed up by the infusion of love from the rolls.

She stumbled down the hall, still not quite steady in her tripod stance. It was increasingly frustrating, yet was ironically becoming less and less of an issue. She was figuring it out. But the lack of even a little coordination was a hard blow to take. Even still, she reached Vanilla's door and opened it with a slight application of magic. There was a smile on her face, tiny, harmless and sweet, though it may have been lost in shadow thanks to the back-lighting from the hall. “I hope I am not bothering you.”

“I WAS attempting to sleep.” He was frustrated. No question. He was trying to disguise it, trying to be a proper pony. But he couldn't hide the contempt. That was what she was there to fix.

“Yes, I see. And I understand. But perhaps... I realize, after much time and reflection I have never REALLY thanked you for this. All of this. Allowing me to share your fine home and allowing me to enjoy your cooking. It is more than I expected of this sort of situation.” Double attempted her best Canterlot walk, the sort of seductive slide that led to awkward non-sex sexual interaction and supping on boorish lust. It was not pretty. But it was survival and food for the swarm. She lit her horn, so Vanilla could see all she had done.“I thought, maybe...”

“Maybe... what?” She put on the best of all her actions. Looking down, pouting slightly, scraping the inside of her mouth in a manner that suggested self-consciousness and shyness. He had to have noticed. He DID seem slightly more focused and interested. He was looking carefully at her, probably noting the subtle changes and probably thinking they were the result of a change in his perception and feelings toward her.

“Perhaps... you don't need to go to bed quite yet. Or quite so alone.” She came closer, tasting victory. She had tasted the love in his food. It was delicious. So flavorful. Perhaps his lust, dross though it was, would have some similar savor to it.

He looked closer, his scrutiny almost burning. He would surely go for it, surely... “No.” With a snort, he was on his other side.

'Impossible!' She staggered back, the motion even more awkward thanks to the spontaneous nature of it. 'Inconceivable! He... he was... he...' “Wh-what? 'No'? What do you mean? Why not? I'm trying to be polite, and kind to you.”

“That's the problem. Part of the problem. 'Polite'? 'Kind'? That's how you show it?” His voice was hard, stern, almost scolding. Not his usual way at all.

Honey flowed from double's mouth, with a dash of whine and whimper to recover from the sudden debacle. “What's the problem with that? I thought you would be happy about that. It would be a fitting reward for all you've done.”

His reaction was the ultimate shock. His frustration, bordering on anger, stabbed through the tension-heavy air, sending Double back even further and almost off of her hooves. But what was even worse, and quite surprising, was the hint of sadness that existed behind that angry gaze. “You think... I know your kind. Know them too well. You think I'm just another cook. A fancy, overly trained food-preparer there to make your dinner parties more trendy and occasionally delicious. That's true. I have that skill. But I have another skill, polished and perfected from all my days in Canterlot. I SEE ponies. I see through them. I see their poison smiles and lying eyes. I can't stop seeing mendacity, manipulation and malice. I quietly see it all. I can see your lies. And it hurts to do it.”

'No... no...' “Hurts... you?” Shame went out the window. She dropped lower, pouted, quivered her lip, did everything she recalled from lessons in appearing sincere and contrite. She was losing.

Vanilla turned away again, looking disappointed and drained of energy. He had a world-weariness that had never come through before, a stallion reliving an experience that had already wrung them out. “I can tell the acting and masquerade. Tricks to get things you want. It's the upper reaches all over again. Games. Games of applying the right face and right posture to do the job. It just... makes me pity you, because I see it so clearly it looks desperate and cheap. Go away. Get some rest. You'll heal faster.”

She was lost. Drifting. She pulled herself back to her room without dignity or finesse, only standing about half the time on her journey down the hall back to her room. “What... what happened? This can't be...” It was all crumbling. Nothing made sense anymore. This wasn't what ponies did. It wasn't what a high-terrace sort was meant to do. She had read every signal, made every motion, even changed her strategy when she detected it wasn't working.

She fell back into her bed and buried her face in her pillow. She knew the pills were in there, hidden deep. Just one would make her sleep, make her not care. Make it all go away. She hit the pillow in frustration, and screamed into the muffling fluff, “What do you want from me!? What can I do to make it all make sense? Tell me!”