Maybe it's the chaotic magic drifting from the east. Maybe it's the alchemical byproducts in the water. Maybe it's her missing presence. But probably, it's all these things and more. Whatever the cause, you feel malaise. Nothing new. You're always feeling that way.
When the changeling kingdom first integrated into Equestrian society, ponies were aghast at the rampant, constant hunger most 'lings had been facing. The changelings, for the most part, shrugged it off, claiming it to be a way of life. But Equestrian citizens were mortified by sensationalist news reels straight from the badlands and lurid newspaper articles written by survivors of Chrysalis's mad reign, shocked by the pervasive starvation and suffering their fellow equines had suffered.
You can relate.
It's not even the hunger. You're used to the rationing, and really, it's not so bad, nothing like what you hear is happening in the cities. No, it's not the hunger, at least not for calories. It's the emptyness. Perhaps, you sometimes wonder, you are a changeling. It certainly would explain how lost you feel without her. But more likely, you fear, you're simply a loser.
What kind of stallion stays at home while his fiancée fights on the front line?
A pathetic one, that's for sure.
Please, don't feel guilt, beloved, her letters implore you. We need strong ponies like you at home to grow the food and build the tools that keep Equestria fighting. Your role is no less important than mine.
Sitting on a creaky rocking chair overlooking almost nothing, you're certainly not feeling that way.
Nothing to do.
Never anything new.
It's been like this for almost three years.
Supposedly, quarries nearby are an important source of mercury. Or were at one point; the rumble of freight trains is a rare sound these days. Mercury is a vital base component in many alchemical processes. They taught you that in school. When your soldiers are fighting enemies resistant to traditional magic, you need every leg up you can find.
Not you, personally. You're not fighting the Verge. You're sitting here doing nothing.
Loser.
Supposedly, there's a lot of wheat being grown around here. Probably. Plants pretty much all look the same to you. Everything is looking increasingly the same to you. But especially plants. That's why you're a plumber, not a botanist. But not a lot of pipes break when not a lot of ponies use them. This town used to have thousands bustling about it. Now it's probably in the high hundreds. No one's really sure; it's not like censuses are a top priority right now.
Nothing seems to be much of a priority, these days. Perhaps you're not the only one feeling that way. You've watched this town die, as the mercury deposits have run out and the rail shipments dwindle. You hear there's still one mine open on the outskirts of town, but it's not like you have the energy to visit it. Beyond that, all that's left are the toxic tailings seeping back into the ground. Perhaps you should expand from plumbing to... what's it called? Hydra-logy? That can't be good for the drinking water. Good thing you use the thick lead pipes.
A dusty wind rakes at the weeds growing along the road. The weather sure goes to the windigoes when there aren't enough pegasi to run it. On stormier days, the now-dormant telegraph wires might sing, but today, the worst the wind does is clog your nostrils and circulate the flies. You wonder how they don't succumb to lethargy. You wish you had their energy.
You're not the only one, probably. There are others like you. The entire town--what's left of it, anyway--is others like you. Weighed down by the collective guilt of being here and not there, or perhaps just by the omnipresent dry heat, you all sit on your porches, trudge about your errands, and mutely suffer through the endless chipper propaganda broadcast on peeling posters and staticky radio waves.
You don't doubt this war is an important one, probably even a just one. It's not easy to get a pony to fight, after all, so there must be a good reason behind it. You're such a skittish species. Perhaps that's why the war is so foreign, so distant. The very concept of fighting to death is alien. If she doesn't die (and you do still hold on to this hope), your love will come home one afternoon and you will both encounter husks. Her, scored by years of kill-or-be-killed, worn down by stress and hardship you can't imagine. You will be hollowed out by the emptiness of what is left at home. How can your shelling compare to hers? It can't, and the guilt of this inequality forever stalks your thoughts. What right have you to complain?
And when she does come home, what will she even have to come home to? She's grown stronger, but you, you've grown nowhere. Only duller and denser and more distant. Not just you, everything. You've read about the magic being drained out on the warfront. Maybe that's happening here too. Maybe bloodshed isn't the only way the war can kill a pony. You're safe and sound and absolutely dead. You and everypony else. Is ponykind worth saving if this is what's left to save? Is this the magic, the harmony, the friendship you were promised, that your nation supposedly embodies?
Or a pale imitation that these days feels genuine?
You try not to think about it too much. There are no pleasant answers.
But speaking of thinking and feeling, you think you feel another headache coming on. Reluctantly, you pry yourself from the chair and listlessly stagger inside. At least there's alcohol. It's no substitute for her, but better numb than empty, right?
Are you feeling that way?
Author's Note
