The Guard, the Woodcutter, and the Changeling

Clambering over rubble and half-burnt timber, Stoccado clambered her way out of the ruins cautiously, expecting an attack to come at any moment. Instead of a fight, all she found were shadows.

At length she wandered into an Equestrian encampment and was astonished to see several elken soldiers walking freely about. Some nearby guards were quick to explain, the fighting had exacted such a terrible toll that when first light revealed the extent of the destruction, the commanders from both sides called for a hasty truce. The war was finally over, whether the leaders of both nations wanted such a thing or not.

When Stoccado asked the guards to explain which war they were talking about, they first dismissed it as a bad joke. Realization and shock crept upon them only slowly, but finally they called for a medic. The diagnosis, that a blow to her head had caused her to lose her memories. They kept her in an infirmary for days, her commander occasionally sitting at her bedside, asking her questions in hopes that her memories might have returned. Unfortunately, as the time passed, it became clear that no amount of rest and no simple Unicorn magic would cure her condition.

With other more immediate concerns on the rise, and as Stoccado proved her competence in spite of her memory loss, they could not justify holding her forever. Before that year's early winter wrap-up, she was walking the long road back South, with a generously provided map to a place that was supposed to be her home.

Rumors and news of the war's end traveled much faster than a long bedridden veteran, and along the way she crossed paths with many kindly strangers who praised her for acts of bravery, and every time she shook her head and told them there was no need for thanks. And though she wore a smile, each time her sense of unease grew. She began to doubt herself, and wondered if it might be easier to settle down in some random town and never face the looming horde strangers who knew the pony she was supposed to be, who would expect her to remember them in return. That gnawing doubt kept her up late into the night, and yet each morning she pressed onward, unable to decide upon different path.

It was a warm winter evening when Stoccado arrived at the edge of a small peaceful village, nestled between a gentle brook and a deep old forest. She ought to have felt right at home in such a place, but instead she worried that with one misstep the warm and welcoming facade would be pulled away. She wasn't sure if she had the courage to face what lie underneath.

Once again, before she could decide on another path, a group of ponies spotted her. In their eyes she saw recognition and excitement, felt the sort of love one feels for an old friend. It made the knot in her chest tug harder, but she realized she could not turn around and go back. Into town she walked, and in doing so she crossed paths with many who waved cheerfully, and many more who stepped aside and watched with concern. They knew she was not acting herself, but were too polite to pry.

When Lathe Turner galloped up to meet her, Stoccado felt a rush of honest love unlike any she felt before, and for a moment the knot in her chest was somewhere far away. Her old friend never spoke for long about her life back home, just a slice of life every now and again. Instead, her lessons were always about the fight ahead. She wondered just how close they had been. Her mother once told her she would recognize love when she saw it, but she still she doubted herself. The elation that followed such raw emotion inevitably mingled with the guilt she carried in her own heart.

As soon as she realized she had been smiling, the smile faded away.

"I am not the Stoccado you knew." Stoccado stepped forward and embraced the stranger, knowing it would be a cold comfort. "She fell in battle."

When she stepped away to leave, Lathe Turner kept pace with her easily, but struggled to find his voice. "Please wait. Would that I understood what has happened, but surely you are worth knowing as well."

Stoccado had no answer for him, and so, as she searched the streets for her home, she explained her story. Her memories were as lost as she was, and she planned to leave town soon. After all, would she not prove a source of unhappiness for her friends? Likewise, Lathe Turner had no answer for her, but he tried to convince her not to make any rash decisions. After all, what difference would a few extra days make but for a chance to find the answers?

With nothing decided, they bid each other good night at Stoccado's front door.

Only after the door was locked behind her did Stoccado try to relax, yet she still felt as though she were a ghost, occupying a home that was both hers and not her own. It was emptier than she had imagined, stocked with simple furniture and few pictures on the walls, but once she set a fire in the hearth, it was not so cold. She spent the night reading letters addressed to a pony with her name.

Lathe Turner found no sleep that night either. Though he had tried to prepare himself for both the best and the worst, he found that he was altogether unprepared for what fate or happenstance had set upon him. Unable to lose himself in his favorite pastimes, he tossed, turned, and stared at the ceiling while he lie in bed, unanswered questions dancing endlessly in his head.

Morning arrived suddenly with a knock on the door. Old friends insisted that Stoccado come with them to eat breakfast, and if she could not remember things, they were only too happy to provide reminders. Apparently, the news had spread through the town, but those old friends still whispered about who, what, and where, as though her condition were still a secret. Everywhere she went, she was greeted with a friendly smile and a wave all the same.

Later, Lathe Turner invited her out to lunch and the two talked, awkwardly at first, about nothing important. They talked about the changing seasons, news from a neighboring town, and Lathe Turner found himself talking when he would rather be listening. Yet it was only long after all the other patrons had departed when they finally went their separate ways, having both agreed to meet again the next day.

When evening arrived, Stoccado ate dinner alone in a house that felt not at all like a home. It was a cold and tasteless meal, as is often the case in the late winter, when the stored food is running out and nothing fresh has yet grown; a meal taken more out of habit than of hunger, and she resolved to leave before staying in town became a habit as well.

Even as she prepared to leave, the days fell into a routine in spite of her efforts. She ate breakfast with friends that were now her own, lunch with Lathe Turner, and her evenings she spent alone, planning her escape. They were plans she might have followed through with, if not for the wild beast that came from the forest.

It was during dinner that the mayor came pounding on her door, pleading for her help. She picked up her blade without a second thought and charged headlong into danger. She knew it was what the pony she was supposed to be would have done.

Tearing its way into a home on the edge of town there loomed a massive snow leopard with teeth and claws of jagged ice, yet even such a formidable creature was given pause by the ferocity of tiny pony wielding a blade of biting steel. They fought in the streets, they fought in the fields, and though neither of the two came away unscathed, the beast was eventually driven back into the forest to lick its wounds. Only after she was certain it would not return, did Stoccado retire herself, seeking the town's doctor to tend to her own injuries.

At length she went to leave the doctor's parlor, but when she opened the door, she was stopped in her tracks by a sudden roar of applause and cheers. Ponies from all over town had gathered and stayed out in the cold to wait for word that she was alive and well. At a loss for words herself, she made her way through the crowd and tried to smile, as one by one, they praised her bravery. But unlike times past, the joy and appreciation she felt was for her and what she did, not for somepony they imagined her to be nor for deeds they only assumed were hers. One by one, the ponies in the crowd went on their way, until only Lathe Turner remained.

Careful to avoid her bandages, Lathe Turner gave her a gentle hug. "I was worried I'd lost you again."

This time, when Stoccado felt the wellspring of love in her heart, she did not turn away in guilt or regret, instead she held Lathe Turner close. "Please forgive me, for I cannot promise not to worry you again. I can promise only that I will try."

"Does that mean...?"

"I still cannot remember anything from before, but I think I know now who I am. And perhaps, where I belong."

When Stoccado finally returned home, it was already the middle of the night, but before she fell asleep, there was one last important thing she had to do. She took her plans for leaving town, crumpled them up, and tossed them away.