Wild didn't count the days, but he knew a number of them had passed since he woke up after the Changeling Invasion. His sense of time refused to correct itself for the longest time and, with his mind being what it was, he didn't bother with it until the fog cleared. It was then when he made a conscious effort to figure out the time.

It had been two weeks since the Invasion. It had been two weeks that he had to spend in recovery despite not being physically injured. Realizing that he lost so many days to it was an annoyance in itself and, had the changeling 'princess' not been dealt with, he would have been plotting violent and bloody revenge. He was, after all, not a stranger to it, and he would have more tools at his disposal now. The very thought of planning something like this sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation of cold, sharp focus briefly arising from within him.

"She was sentenced to a lifetime imprisonment," Luna told him when he asked about the changelings, "Many more of her crimes were uncovered, and it is a relief for me to say that she will no longer be a danger to anyone. As for Queen Chrysalis, we are still searching for her, but there is much ground to cover. There is a large number of caves around Equestria, we're not likely to find them before they see us coming. But we'll do our best, I promise you that much."

From what Wild knew, Princess Mi Amore Cadenza had far more grief with Queen Chrysalis than he had, so he decided to let it go, even as a part of him was disappointed at it. He still longed for vengeance, a thirst for violence. If he came across the Queen, he wouldn't hesitate to bring her down. However, he realized that he didn't want to spend his time hunting her. Partially, it was because he feared he would fail, would be captured by her, and then... he didn't want to think about it. Secondly, he found himself trusting Luna to do the best she could to do it in his stead. He was, and he had to remind himself, just one person - he couldn't stand against five changelings, and Queen Chrysalis likely had more, not to mention that her own power rivaled Princess Celestia's, according to what he had heard.

A voice in his head told him that it was only a matter of time before he would need to protect himself again. He needed to grow stronger, and not just physically. As much as he trusted Luna to protect him, she wasn't there when he was attacked. He had to break her out.

The voice telling him to grow stronger only became more insistent the more time passed since the Invasion. He couldn't know whether that would be the end of it. He couldn't know whether it would be the last time he had to fight - or attempt to - for himself or others. The only thing he could do was prepare.

As his mind healed, he was allowed to freely do more and more, including mental exercises. His language lessons resumed as well, which allowed him to read more complex books. However, there was still a limit to how much he could do at a time. His medicine had to be put on pause so that he wouldn't grow tolerance to it, and that left him suffering from light to moderate headaches if he didn't strain his mind, and heavy headaches if he did. There was, however, a way to deal with them.

Luna guided him once more, this time through mind-clearing meditation. It consisted an hour of sitting or lying still, whichever was the most comfortable, doing absolutely nothing and thinking no thoughts. At first, he couldn't do it at all - his thoughts were everywhere, he couldn't focus, flowing as he was along the river of his mind. He jumped from one thought to the next, thinking this or that, and it seemed like he couldn't stop.

The solution to it, as well as the first step towards progress, turned out to be not being still. Instead, he did physical exercises, those he was so familiar with he could do them in his sleep. His mind wasn't focused on the exercises when muscle memory took over, but the constant movement provided a nice background sensation and noise that allowed Wild to not be disturbed by any thoughts. And, with time, he learned to sit still and do meditation that way, although he much more preferred moving meditation.

A few days before his scheduled release from the hospital wing, Wild woke up to a mental clarity so startling he wondered how he could have ever tolerated missing it. The fog cleared, the veil was lifted, and he could think again. Not just drift along as his mind weakly tugged at the stray strings of thoughts scattered around his head like discarded toys in a messy child's bedroom, but a clear focus and direction.

It felt like Wild recovered from a lifelong poor vision, gaining full hearing after being half-deaf, feeling everything that was him like it was supposed to be.

With this clarity, his mind went back to that fateful day of the Changeling Invasion, as if it waited all this time to make him plunge back into the worst day of his new life. He experienced it as if for the first time, remembering how he floated, disembodied, and how he freed his body, rushing back into it. He recalled how it felt - and how it didn't feel. When he was outside his body, there was nothing but a sense of being, one he struggled to put in words. There was only one feeling then, a feeling of his own self, of his very soul, his truest identity.

He wondered why he didn't simply fade away when he was outside his body, and the thought scared him. Would he be like a ghost, forever attached to reality and yet unable to experience it like a living person? Would he be forced back into his native world? Would he travel back in time to, what, fix everything? Would he travel forward in time? The more possibilities he considered, the more afraid of them he became.

He had once considered death as something to crave, but now he feared it again. He was lucky he was reborn, and into a world that was, from his experiences, better than the one he left. The Changeling Invasion was, in truth, no worse than anything he could have experience - and, in fact, had experienced - back in the USA.

However, with magic, more possibilities entered the mix, and apparently he could have real out of body experiences, and this scared him. Would he disappear if he somehow let go? Would he fade away if he couldn't go back to his body soon enough? At one point, death wasn't something he feared - or, at least, he convinced himself of this. Now... he didn't want to be gone. Not anymore. He had at least one person who cared about him, and his life had honestly been pretty good as far as he was concerned.

His mind continued on with the memory of that day, pushing him further. Wild remembered how he freed others, how they all organized, and how they attempted to make a break for it. In the moment, he was focused, chasing his fear away, trying to be confident. Even as their escape was discovered, he was determined, and he was ready to fight. He stayed behind as if he was a hero, as if he could be a hero. Even at it, he failed, and he was captured after a short and pitiful fight. What was he thinking then, he didn't know - he should have known he hadn't had a single chance. As good as he was in swordsmanship, it would be idiotic to think it would help him in a real fight. For a moment, he even believed his hobby could help him turn the tides of battle, but reality crushed his hope just like it always did.

Perhaps if he had a gun, if he had a real sword, he would have had a chance, but then... he would kill again, wouldn't he? He would aim the gun, look down the sights, and pull the trigger. He would feel the kick of the recoil, see the bright flash of burned gunpowder, hear the thunderous clap that was a gunshot. Some people said guns sounded like fireworks - Wild thought it wasn't true. Guns sounded like raw power, like thunder, something that couldn't be stopped or controlled once it was there. Fireworks were there for the amusement, for celebration. Guns, however, were used for killing.

As for a sword... he had once been stabbed. He remembered it clear as day even if he forgot the exact circumstances. He remembered how painlessly the knife slid into his body, how he didn't even feel it for a long moment even as the blade was pulled out. But then, quickly, he was collapsing, blood was flowing from his wound, and the pain rushed into his mind. He remembered how he whimpered and he cried, terrified of his mortality, unable to stem the flow. He felt pure horror then, seeing nothing but his wound, hearing nothing but the beat of his own heart, feeling nothing but blood flowing out of him, staining his clothes, painting his hands red, and dripping on the ground. The only mercy was that he passed out soon after and, miraculously, survived.

His mind rushed along as he remembered using a knife on the changeling princess. He remembered how she gasped as if in disbelief, then whimpered - just like he had once had. It was an awful sound, and he knew it could be made even worse had he gone through with killing her. It could've been so easy - the blade would slide across her throat, opening it up, and she would gurgle and drown in her own blood. He had once seen a video of it when he delved thoughtlessly too deep in the internet. There was some kind of dark fascination when he watched it, unable to look away, and it imprinted on him forever.

Even knowing how awful it was, knowing how painful it would be, Wild was still ready to kill. He wasn't sure he would've stopped himself had Luna not been there to talk him down. And yet, he couldn't deny he enjoyed being in control then. The changeling princess hurt him, but he was holding her life in his hands then. He... relished in her pain, knowing she was at his mercy. There was a deep sense of satisfaction in being in that position.

None of this satisfaction could prevent him from feeling disgusted at himself. He knew he enjoyed causing pain, especially on those he deemed deserving of it, but he had always thought of it - was always taught to think of it this way - as wrong. And was it not wrong to wish pain on others? To inflict the kind of pain he knew himself capable of inflicting?

At least he could stop himself from prolonging the pain of others. He could control himself, freely accepting consensual pain from those who agreed to suffer it. When Wild fought against others in a duel, he knew they were there willingly and could leave at any moment. Every flinch from a hit he struck, every bruise delivered by him, every grunt of pain resulted from his actions was a part of the deal, and he could freely enjoy it and ignore the feeling of guilt and shame.

There was another side to this. One way to stop the pain was... to kill.

Wild knew what death was, and a violent death was messy, disgusting, and, he had to admit, scary. When he shot himself in the heart, he was still conscious for just a few moments. He remembered the horror that set in, he remembered seeing his own blood flowing unstoppable out of his wound, and a sense of finality descended on him in those few short yet infinitely long moments. He was conscious just long enough to know that even a bullet to the heart wasn't an instant death.

To inflict such death, any death, on others... it was unthinkable. Yet he did it before. To those that hurt him the most, he did it. He hurt them back and then killed them, and he remembered how it felt then - despite the horror of what he did with his own hands, despite everything, there was glee. There was relief, and yet there was also joy. They were gone, and he made it possible. He hurt them, hurt them back, and they would not return from it. They would never be in his life again nor in lives of anyone else.

Wild's heart thumped in his chest as he jumped out of his hospital bed. Luna knew he killed. He told her he did. She had not yet talked about it, but she wouldn't forget, no, she wouldn't. And what then? When she eventually learned of it, of how it all happened, of what he felt - and he knew she would - what then? She was kind to him now, perhaps, but...

What was he to do? What could he do? There was nothing, there was nowhere to go...

Wild realized he could hardly breathe, and he didn't notice himself curling up, trembling uncontrollably, his thoughts spiraling. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would go away, but it only grew in intensity, and soon he could do nothing, not even breathe. His vision went fuzzy, static was around the corners, and all he could hear was the painful thumping inside his chest.

A part of him, a small part, said to him: "You are having a panic attack."

It came with such clarity, he knew it was true. What did Luna tell him? Luna, whom he had told... no, not now. He needed to get himself under control. Anything else would come afterwards.

"Focus on me," he remembered her saying, and it was easy now to imagine her face as she looked at him with genuine worry in her eyes. Worry that he, perhaps, could never deserve, "Now, through your nose, slowly breathe in. Slowly, okay? No need to rush. You are not in danger."

He was not in danger. He knew, on a level that he couldn't explain, that he didn't need to fear Luna. She knew what he did - what he admitted to doing - and he had ample opportunity to push further, to learn more, and to punish him for it like he knew he deserved. And yet... wouldn't she have done it already if she wanted to? For the past two weeks, she had been nothing but helpful. She didn't need to be, he knew, and yet she was, even after what he admitted to. When she looked at him, he didn't feel a hateful glare or a stony mask of dispassionate judgement. She, somehow genuinely, cared about him. Despite everything that he was, everything that he did - and almost did - she was there for him when he needed her.

He breathed in, doing it slowly despite the rush he felt. He held it there, feeling the burn in his mind but not his lungs, and then he slowly let it out. Luna's soothing voice talked nonsense in his ears as he inhaled and exhaled to the perfect rhythm she taught him. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Nice and steady.

His heart was coming down from the high, beating slower. His breath was no longer shaking, now more even. The trembling subsided into shivering.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out. He could do it. Breathe in, hold, breathe out.

After what felt like forever, Wild knew it was over. He uncurled on top of the bed, feeling physically and mentally drained. His body felt wet with sweat yet his throat was dry as a desert. He looked around and found the usual pitcher of water on the nightstand, which he grabbed and drank directly from. He gulped heartily, enjoying how the coolness and the freshness of water soothed him, then settling down in his stomach like a comfortable weight.

He couldn't allow himself to spiral out of control again. Once was enough, twice was pushing it. A part of him knew panic attacks couldn't be controlled, could only be perhaps avoided, but he ignored it. He needed to be stronger, that was just how it was.

Wild stood up, stretched to chase away the last shivers, and went to the bathroom. There, he allowed himself a long shower, alternating between pleasantly warm and refreshingly chill as he worked the sweat out of his fur.

"I am a person," he told himself, his voice barely audible above the rushing of water, "I am alive," it felt good to remind himself of that, "I am here."

Luna had taught him to remember his name when he was struggling mentally. These statements were an extension of it. And now, with a voice that didn't make him feel like a failure, he could speak it aloud. He had, to his great surprise, managed to make leaping progress in regards to his speech.

He didn't know what he felt about Luna. He had to admit he barely knew what he felt about anything that was, undoubtedly, good for him. He couldn't say he loved her. Certainly not in any sort of romantic way - he knew his love lay not towards the opposite gender. He couldn't say it was a friendship either - the age difference too large, the experience difference an immensely wide chasm, and she was, without a doubt, responsible for him in a way that a friend could never be asked to. Was it then familial love? Ever since he was born, he only knew familial love between blood-related family. He didn't think he would ever call Luna 'mother', it simply didn't feel right.

Mentor? Guide? Teacher? All of those were closer, yet those words meant a measure of distance to Wild. His own school teachers weren't particularly close to him, always separated by an impenetrable wall of authority. Wild only knew of when teachers were too close to students, and nothing good ever came out of it.

What was Luna to him? He couldn't give a definitive answer, and certainly not to her were she to ask. He was, in the end, simply glad for all the help she gave him, all without him quite asking for it. Her gentle words of encouragement, her honest praise of him, they warmed something inside him. Perhaps she wasn't family, but she was still close, and he was thankful for it.

Swift Strike visited him once, and he told Wild he was proud of him. He wished him a steady recovery and told him he would be welcomed back to the club once he was ready for it. That was when Wild felt the difference - Swift Strike was not a friend, a lover, nor family. He was where Wild expected a teacher to be - there when needed with their specific subject but otherwise distant. To Swift Strike, Wild was one of many students in the way of swordsmanship. Perhaps a bit more special because of his skill, but that was it.

Swift Strike also suggested Wild to apply for the annual Equestrian tournament that would be held in winter, a few weeks before Hearth's Warming. From what Wild was able to gather, Hearth's Warming was an annual celebration about the founding of Equestria. Aside from that, it was a season of gift-giving not unlike Christmas but not religious in any way that Wild could think of. There were songs, but not carols. There was no reference to any mythological person. In truth, the only similarity was the decor and, of course, the season.

Wild didn't know whether he would sign up for the tournament - he didn't feel particularly ready, not with having missed so many training sessions. He kept his body as fit as he could manage under the circumstances, of course, but it was only recently that Luna told him he would be able to be among other ponies without being hurt by the presence of their unshielded thoughts.

He was visited by Precision and Swingblade again, though it wasn't much more than them being interested in how long he had before he would be released. Both of them were looking forward to having him back in the club.

"Not much challenge there without you," Precision had told him with a playful smirk.

Precision and Swingblade, he knew, were his club mates, but not anywhere close. They stuck around, but they didn't stick to him. They were comfortable at this distance, never really trying to get any closer. Whether it was because they respected his privacy and way of life or because they thought of what the three of them had as friendship already, he didn't know.

He wondered what they would think if they knew he had killed. Would the playfulness of Precision wiped off her face, replaced by wariness? Would Swingblade's arrogance replaced by submission? He shivered at the very thought and hoped that they never found out. The relationship he had with them now was good enough and didn't need to change for the better or for the worse, as far as he was concerned.

Despite it all, he was itching to get back into swordsmanship, to rejoin the club and attend their meetings, to train with others like he did before. It would help him feel normal again - as normal as he could be, considering everything that he was. Despite it all, he desired, longed for the simplicity of the Martial Arts Club where he could lose himself in the physical sensations of a good fight among people looking for the same.

Perhaps, with time, those club meetings would replace and dull the memories of the Invasion. He knew the Invasion was an important point in his life - he knew he couldn't just get rid of it, forget that it had ever happened. However, that didn't mean he didn't wish for it to be the case. He had a good thing going on there with the Martial Arts Club, following a nice and simple schedule of life.

Artful visited him quite often, and Wild found himself enjoying his company more. He was quite a good artist, and he had made two copies of the painting of Wild playing checkers with Lina, and he gifted a copy to each of the two. Wild didn't know how to feel about it nor what to do with it, so he simply placed it on the nightstand. Perhaps he would hang it in his dorm once he was back. It was... nice.

There was another painting Artful gifted him - it was showing Wild fighting in the tournament. He was startled just by how accurately he was portrayed, it was almost as if it was a still from a video. He could place himself in the painting, almost feel what he felt during that particular duel. He saw himself and he knew it was him in every single way. Nothing was embellished, nothing was overlooked. He looked at the painted version of him and saw nothing but himself. That painting would certainly go on one of the walls.

He once asked Artful if he made paintings for other people.

"Yeah, I sometimes do," he had said, smiling and blushing at the same time, "Like, I get struck by inspiration, and it feels right to give people paintings of themselves. I know many people prefer photographs nowadays, but I think there's, um, something special about paintings."

Wild itched to ask a different question - why was Artful around Wild in the first place? What made him so much special? One didn't make paintings of people who were not special to the artist in some way or form. Who was Wild to Artful? Why was Artful trying to get to know him, as slow as it was going?

Wild had gotten used to being alone, to doing things all by himself, and now... now, it felt good to have some people around, as confusing as everything was. At least he could understand them, even talk to them, and that felt like an achievement in itself.

He knew this was a new chapter in his life, and it scared him. When he went to the lake to die, he didn't expect to wake, let alone in an entirely new world, inhabiting an entirely new body. He went along with being taken to the Royal Orphanage because that was all he could do, and he had lived an uneventful life until the Invasion because that was simple enough.

Wild knew it was time to accept that he had a new life. To stop floating along. To become stronger. To become a true person, not merely a shadow somehow still stuck to existence.

He didn't know if this was inspiring or scary, but he had to go on anyway.

Author's Note

Wild continues having a hard time with everything. I believe it's clear that he needs a lot of therapy in order to think healthily. Part of his struggle is that he is, in fact, a sadist. He enjoys causing pain, plain and simple. He know he is a sadist, but he hates that part of him, and he would need to accept it in order to move on and become healthier and happier.

Personally, I believe there are a lot of people who enjoy the pain of others, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. We cannot control how we feel, we can only control what we do about it, after all.

Wild's reliance on Luna is also not exactly healthy. Unfortunately, not many people showed him support in his life, and so he clings to anyone who does.

To add to that struggle, if anyone needs friendship lessons, it's certainly him, although I am not making him a Princess of Friendship . In all seriousness, he needs general relationship lessons, otherwise he will continue struggling with understanding them and where exactly he is in relation to the people he knows.

I know meditation isn't really supposed to be clearing your mind of thoughts, but let's suppose it is possible in Equestria because magic.