A Queer Story from the Changeling War
As the Changeling War neared its end, Equestrian officers had become a fraternity of merit, their members promoted by intelligence and skill. So it was for a dull-green unicorn named Milly. Initially a young and indifferent member of Celestia’s conscripts, some deed of admirable duty brought her to the rank of sergeant. This promotion shed the mare of her sole earlier reputation – a dangerous fondness for naps – and she assumed her new role with an energy and thoroughness that impressed her superiors. When the New Magic revealed her lieutenant to be a changeling, Milly was chosen to take his place. The war’s grind later created openings for a master lieutenant and then captain, and time and again she was selected to fill the void. Her nervous energy and attention to detail made her excel in her small command, to the extent that her dog-loyal new lieutenant lobbied friends in Canterlot to have her knighted. Nothing would come of it, of course, but the fact remained Milly was a very good soldier.
At the beginning of the end, when the question happily became “when” Queen Chrysalis would be at last crushed, Milly commanded a supply fort some 50 miles south of Baltimare. The task was not idle, for changelings yet skulked among the locals, plotting raids while dodging soldiers with the New Magic. The two unicorn guards at the fort entrance knew this, and though they did not have the New Magic themselves, they were not unready as the stranger approached.
That the stranger appeared harmless did not put the soldiers at ease – they were not fools. But there was something thoroughly natural about the gray, careworn face beneath its unwashed mane. There were pocks and unwanted freckles, with webs behind the eyes and bags beneath. He approach the fort slowly, with a limp in his left hind leg so grievous it resembled a turning oar. So obvious and slow was his approach that the guards briefly discussed going out to meet him, then decided against.
No verbal call was needed. The stranger approached the guards, smiling in the shy way earth ponies do when self-conscious around other races. A shaggy gray hoof pulled the straw hat from his head, turned it around, and gave it a shake. A folded letter hopped upwards, giving prop to his words. “Letter for Cortland Apple, 3rd Baltimare Volunteer Artillery. And a meeting, if it can be spared. I’m his uncle, see.”
The first soldier gestured to the stranger’s saddlebags. “What’s in there?”
“Cortland apples.” The stranger gave a tired chuckle and fidgeted with his hat. “From his ma, Jonagold. Er… you’d understand if you knew any Apples.”
The second guard was familiar with his hometown’s branch of the eccentric family, and so gave a companionable laugh. It soon fell to sympathy as he pointed north with a hoof. “Missed them by three days, I’m afraid. The 3rd is back in Baltimare getting new guns.”
The first chimed in, eager to share his own gossip. “Heavy artillery. Preparation for the last siege.”
“Hope you didn’t walk far,” the other added, but the stranger waved him down.
“Not far at all. We’ve an orchard some short miles away, and Jonagold will be happy for the news. Thank you.” With that he bowed, as country folk oft did to soldiers, and began his oar-like stride back the way he came.
Captain Milly did not hear any of the conversation. It was only the stranger’s ponderous limp that caused him to still be in sight when she arrived some minutes later to give routine orders. That same limp was all that caught her eye, and her memory at once informed her it was a familiar motion. But memory offered nothing more, and she stared a moment as the stallion began to disappear in the evening’s haze.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“A farmer–” both guards said at once, and got no further. The old memory snapped into place.
“The hell he is!” Milly snarled, and took off at a gallop. Her horn’s grip snatched her revolver from its holster, her normally dour expression now a wide-eyed look of paradoxical grief.
Milly shouted as the stranger came within range. “Stop!”
He did not respond, or cease his trod. Magic clicked back the hammer of her pistol, and Milly called again. “Stop!”
Still no response. Now only a dozen paces away, Milly pointed the pistol at his neck. Her voice cracked halfway through the final effort. “Stop, or I swear to every star I’ll shoot you dead.”
Whether from the threat or because he hadn’t heard the earlier calls, the stranger ended his plod. He turned, and gave his shy smile. “Miss...”
“Captain,” Milly corrected sternly. The stranger’s eyes wavered between her and the pistol, his grin curling nervously as she went on. “And you are Joiner.”
It was to Joiner’s professional credit that no hint of alarm or recognition slipped from his features. The webbed eyes only scrunched as though confused, their brown orbs squinting stupidly from the weathered face.
He opened his mouth to give a homely, charming excuse, yet nothing emerged but memory. A harder grasp for him than her. He remembered the dull-green color garbed as a conscript instead of captain, and the blue eyes kind and drowsy instead of narrowed. These were eyes that had killed, and would do so now if he played games.
Joiner gave a little wave and said, “Hello Milly.”
“Captain,” she said again. “You are my prisoner. You will follow me back to the camp, or I will kill you now. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Joiner said.
Milly nodded once. She turned away, towards the fort, and began marching at a brisk pace. Behind her – unwatched and unshackled – Joiner stared in undisguised shock for just one second before following as quickly as his limp allowed.
Milly’s company had not seen action since the liberation of Baltimare, where she led three assaults through shot and flame. That was some months ago now, and her single-hoofed capture of the hated Joiner set the camp ablaze with fresh awe of their captain. So incredulous and sudden was the event that the door guards were half believed when they claimed she returned a dozen paces to the fore, not even glancing back as Joiner followed like a beaten dog. The company’s few tough Apples fetched rope there and then, but Captain Milly sternly warded them off. Even those such as Joiner had rights. He would survive til dawn, unless some attempt on his part forced the matter.
Milly brushed away efforts to relieve her of the prisoner, stating she would interrogate him alone in the officers’ tent. Her lieutenant posted alert guards all around, with mumbled passwords exchanged in case Milly be overpowered and replaced. Curious and idle soldiers were shooed away, and though the Apples glared and made threatening gestures, they too were barred from the ring of stern-cast guards. Milly bid them all stand far off, claiming secrets might be shared which no conscript should know. The soldiers obeyed, and the tromp of hooves soon fell silent as the two became alone once more. Evening had faded to night, and the new moon loomed ill-omened in the sky. Milly held up a piece of flint and struck her steel horseshoe against it, bringing sparks to a lantern that hung from the tent pole between them.
Joiner gave an easy laugh, creasing the dirt on his face. “That’s the earth pony way.”
“I’m a poor magician,” Milly replied. Her young, stern disposition tightened to a grimace. “I never got better.”
“So you became wiser, and that is better,” Joiner said with quiet certainty. He smiled, though the gesture was not returned.
Milly stared at him, an impassive mask. But Joiner knew everything about masks, and saw the faint tremble in her lower lip and the sleepless bags beneath the eyes. Thinner than she was three years ago. More careful, and much more disciplined. And a captain, to boot. But these things were masks in the end. Milly was Milly beneath them, then and now.
She was scared. Here was a ghost from her past, bringing memories and guilt.
Joiner did not like that. Softly, tenderly, he said, “What happened after was not your fault.”
“So you say.”
Milly continued to stare. Joiner smiled back as gently as he could to no avail. And so it continued until an errant twitch in the lantern’s flame brought a blink and breaking of the spell. Milly turned her sallow face away, looking to the canvas wall. “Why didn’t you run?”
“Then, or now?”
“Then.” Milly’s legs trembled, though the face remained grim. “I don’t know how, before the New Magic, but they captured you and your wide limp. The same face, too. And in a tent more plain than this I was to guard you through the night. I expect you remember.”
Joiner nodded, and even the soft motion sent pops through his neck. “Aye, and I remember what came before. You and a great mess of soldiers, and they all wanted to kill me. But here was this young conscript who convinced them to take me prisoner instead. Her head full of kindness and harmony, and she won them over. A little plump and very pretty, and proud to have been called to her nation’s need. Then after saving me, she shared her cookies and became the sweetest jailer I ever knew.”
“And fell asleep.”
Milly’s quiet words brought a pause. Campsite mutterings became audible, and her stare returned to the condemned changeling. “I was fat, naive and stupid, and fell asleep. You could have turned yourself into anypony and escaped, but instead you remained. You watched me. And when dawn neared you shook me awake so no one would ever learn.”
“They would have shot you,” Joiner said.
Milly nodded. “Abandonment of duty. Desertion. Instead, I was praised for guarding the most skilled infiltrator of all throughout the night. I was promoted in reward.”
“You did well with it.” Joiner’s smile crooked upwards, but a hefty snort from Milly froze it on his face.
“Why?” she said lowly.
“It wouldn’t have been right.”
An angrier snort emerged as Milly gave a grim laugh. “That didn’t stop you in Ponyville.”
“That was duty,” Joiner corrected, and could not resist a small twist to his smile. “You can be choosy when you’re as good as I am. There I was, and who was with me but a poor girl who by rights should have still been in school. Who slept at night and rose with the dawn every day of her life. But then in a few months’ time she is at war, and has a gun thrust at her horn and is told if she does not stay up she will be killed by her own government. ‘Desertion’ be damned, it would have been murder.”
“The government does what it must,” Milly replied with a stern tone. “And in war, it must be strong and survive. If any royal is to blame, it is your queen for bringing us to this.”
Joiner shrugged and gave a light chuckle. “Many changelings agree. I went to the Black Citadel a few months ago. Horrible place, these days. Knives and pistols at each other for jars of old, sludgy love. And gallows up to tell lings they can’t say a bad word against Chryssi. But they whisper, aye… heh. A crippled soldier told me a good joke back there. He said before the war, before even the attack on Canterlot, Queen Chrysalis wandered through the desert and found a genie in a lamp. The genie offered three wishes, and Chrysalis said, ‘Do the best you can for my kingdom!’ So the genie took his great genie sword and lopped off her head, and we all got to live in peace.”
Milly gave a thin smile at that. A broken remnant of the bubbling cheer Joiner remembered, and the smile died a second later. “How did you escape?”
“Not so hard in those days,” Joiner said. “Your folk brought infiltrators to prisons then, so I had plenty of time. A pair of pegasi watched out for me, but I was able to stick mud in my holes and slip away.”
“Mud?”
“Aye, mud.” Joiner grinned, showing flat pony teeth. “That’s the problem with you unicorns, and many changelings. New Magic and all, feh! Nothing new about it, just pretty little spells making eyes or disguises. Lazy. But did you know our flesh is the same beneath the illusion? Pegasi have a thing for air currents, and can hear wind whistling through our holes. Earth ponies can smell and pin us down in our lies. Now me, I’ve got thirty years in an apple orchard as my perfume. And I could walk without the limp, see, but an earth pony would know I’m walking odd. And yes, I’ve got mud in my holes right now. But you unicorns, and that new crop of idiots that call themselves infiltrators? Magic, magic, magic, is all they say. Now I’ve nothing left to gamble, but if I did I’d bet it all your New Magic didn’t catch half as many changelings as surrendered when they learned it was coming. And what’s left is idiots like I had the other month. Came to the orchard trying to pass himself as an Apple. They grow with love, you know, so their fruit’s good for us. Not a nick on the hooves, freckle on the face, or passing bloody knowledge of apples! All I could do was thank my Star he didn’t rat me out before he died. The war doesn’t spare idiots.”
“It does sometimes,” Milly said. Very quietly.
Joiner sighed, deflating. He shrugged again. “That was me who spared you, not the war. And you spared me. Credit where it is due.”
“Spare the idiots, but kill the wise.”
“That was duty,” Joiner said again.
Milly pressed forwards. “Ponyville… how many died?”
“Six,” Joiner confessed. “Though I tried for more. Bombs are tricky like that. I was watching, see. That one under the table could have been a master stroke if the Apple girl hadn’t jumped on it. But it was good enough for my orders. With one down, the Elements of Harmony were so much costume jewelry. No more trump card, so you ponies had to make do without. Guns and cannons, lazy New Magic, inch by inch and year by year. Six? Stars, Milly, how many was it really? If not for that bomb we would have surrendered by winter, thrown out Chrysalis, and feasted in peace. Instead it went on, on, because of me! Six million I think is closer, and more every day.”
“Is that why you followed me?” Milly asked. “Pity, sympathy, whatever your reasons for sparing that fool girl in the past, why did you follow me now? I turned my back. You could have fled.”
Joiner shook his head. “No, I could not. You trusted me, and that is all I have left. Even other changelings don’t trust me now. They say old infiltrators grow too fond of other races, and perhaps they’re right. I wouldn’t trade Jonagold for any number of those idiots in the Black Citadel. But she’s gone now, and the orchard is gone. You saw what the other Apples would do to me. I was alone, and then you came. You found me and you turned your back, and I saw you were my one friend in the whole world. I could not let you down.”
“Let me down?” Milly gestured wildly. Her words came out tight and choked. “I am not your friend. At best, we are both devils. If only I had killed you, or if your joke genie had killed me!”
“It is not your fault.” Joiner’s voice broke with the last words. He looked to Milly, his pocked face marked with paternal fear. “You were innocent.”
“Six million for my innocence,” Milly said coldly.
“It is on me and my queen!” Joiner reached for her, though she stepped away. “Those six million are all mine. I am so tired, and I do not want to see the end. I am ready, yes. I am ready for justice.”
Colder still, Milly nodded. “As am I.”
Joiner made to speak again, but she cut in. “We are done, I think. You will be shot at dawn, and perhaps that shall be justice.”
An uncomfortable pause. The rigid captain shuffled, looking down and away. “I would embrace you, if you’ll allow it. In thanks for your kindness three years ago.”
“A last meal,” Joiner quipped.
Milly gave a broken smile. “In your real form, perhaps.”
“I have worn this for thirty years,” Joiner replied. “I believe it counts as ‘real’ by now. We turn back into changelings when we die, but that will be none of my business.”
The embrace was rapid. Milly seemed anxious to leave, yet she gripped very tightly in their few seconds together. Joiner gripped just as hard, and tears from each pressed into the other’s coat.
Again, Joiner made to speak, but Milly pushed him away. “Enough,” she said. One hoof was already outside, signaling the guards. She did not look back. “Farewell, Joiner.”
In the bare few seconds before the soldiers arrived, Joiner tried to speak. To give hope, or some kindness equal to that night three years ago.
Nothing came. Lamely he repeated, “It is on me.” But the words were to an empty tent, and the approaching guards did not hear.
On the next day, Joiner met his inevitable fate and was shot at dawn by a squad of eight soldiers. The blast of their rifles disguised that of a single pistol from the captain’s tent as Milly acted as her conscience bid. Her last orders, communicated on paper to her loyal lieutenant, informed him a criminal had been executed there by her own authority. The body found in the tent was to be stripped of all signs of rank and honor and buried in an unmarked grave, as befitted a common deserter. The lieutenant dutifully enacted these orders, and at noon officially took command of the fort.
The only epilogue that need be added – and perhaps it is needless, after all – is that the lieutenant guessed wrong, but kindly of what passed between deserter and spy. He gave order for the pair to be buried in the same grave, so at least they might rest together within the hollow earth until Forever finds its end.
Author's Note
