Alyosha wandered the tunnels, his hooves moving on their own as he searched for something, anything.

He didn't know where he was going or what he was looking for, but he kept searching.

There had to be something. Something to hold onto, to keep him grounded, to give him a sense of purpose.

But as he continued to wander, he found nothing. Only emptiness and despair.

As the changeling traversed the labyrinth of tunnels, his mind began to fill with a myriad of thoughts and emotions.

He was angry. Angry at the world. At the ponies. At himself. He felt betrayed. Betrayed by those who had once claimed to care for him, only to cast him aside like trash.

He felt helpless. He felt confused as his head was a whirlwind of mashed up identities and hats and faces and masks. He felt empty. He felt lost. He didn't know who he was anymore, or what he was doing. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, a prisoner trapped in his own mind.

The changeling stopped in his tracks and leaned against the tunnel wall, his legs shaking. His breathing became labored, and he felt a panic attack coming on.

"It's just a mask, just a mask," he mumbled to himself as he struggled to stay calm.

The changeling took a few deep breaths, and tried to steady himself. He wanted to move. To just keep moving and walking and learning- yes, learning. That was something he enjoyed once right? That they enjoyed?

A piece of himself slid into place, and his head hurt a little.

The changeling's mind was a jumbled mess, and he could barely tell which thoughts were his own and which were borrowed. He felt so confused and lost, and he didn't know what to do. But the longer he remained still, the more his anxiety grew.

Finally, he forced himself to continue on.

As he walked, his eyes were drawn to the various carvings on the walls. He recognized them as symbols from his childhood, and his mind was flooded with memories of happier times.

The changeling paused and studied the symbols, tracing his hoof over the intricate designs.

He was surprised at how much they meant to him, and how strongly they evoked emotions within him.

"Home."

A whisper in the dark, the word seemed to echo throughout the tunnel.

They were... Are? Once was. Once upon a time. Too many voices in his head trying to say one thing. But he knew the marks were some type of script. Runes? Scrawl? Sigils?

They were familiar, and yet not. The changeling was filled with a sense of belonging, and yet at the same time, a sense of displacement.

It was a strange feeling, and the changeling found it difficult to describe.

It was as if he was both a stranger and a friend, both welcomed and rejected. He was both a part of something and yet separate from it.

"What's going on?" Angel asked himself. "What's happening to me?"

The changeling's mind was overwhelmed by a storm of conflicting emotions.

"Why can't I just go back to how things were before?"

His voice trembled, and he felt a deep ache in his chest.

"I want to go home.

"

Angel's words echoed down the dark and silent tunnels. And in the resounding silence, the end of the resonance, he remembered his true name. Not the false name he gave to Starswirl and not the new names he'd given himself, but the one he had been born with. The name of the changeling he had once been, and would always be.

"Angel"

He had whispered his own name. A name he had once treasured and loved, but had since come to despise. A name that had brought him nothing but pain and misery.

"I just want to go home."

Angel stood in silence, his head hung low and his hooves rooted firmly in place.

He wanted to go home, but he had no idea where that was.

He could not remember. That was lost.

So he would have to start again. Start again, said the journeyman in his head. Live again, said the philosopher.

Move again, said the more practical actors in his mind.

The changeling looked around, and saw that the tunnels seemed to go on forever, twisting and turning like a labyrinth.

There was no way to tell which direction would lead him to where he wanted to go.

He could be going in circles for all he knew. But now the destination didn't matter to him. He wanted to learn himself again. Understand his body. What had changed, and what was still the same.

That would have to be his first step.

The changeling slowly made his way down the tunnels, taking his time as he explored.

He examined himself, watching the way his hooves scraped and stepped, feeling the way his chitin

It had been some amount of time since Alyosha had returned to the hive, and subsequently re-existence.

Time... Time.

The very concept made his head spin. His head.

He had a head.

A body.

A vessel.

He could see and hear and feel and speak and taste.

Such ramblings and thoughts were that had consumed him for the day he spent lost in lowest echelon of the hive, having wandered through maintenance tunnels until someone had found and reported his location.

That had been an odd thing, as well.

Having been a ghost, a mere shade of his former self, he had not noticed the passage of time. But, apparently, he had been missing for quite a while, and there had been a massive search party sent to locate him. Said party found him having, by some unknown twist of fate, made his way to the largest pony repository in the hive.

The pony repository was, as far as he could tell, the only place in the entire hive that was remotely pleasant.

It was a massive chamber, with rows upon rows of neatly arranged pods filled with sleeping ponies.

He had stood before the rows, staring up at the thousands upon thousands of slumbering ponies, the air thick with the smell of sweet sap and the buzz of changeling magic.

And though he knew not how or why, he felt...

Comforted.

Safe.

At peace.

And that, more than anything else, was the greatest mystery of them all. He was staring at what at most amounted to factory farming. Caged chickens producing eggs by the hundreds, the total opposite of what he'd tried to introduce to the changelings thousands of years ago. Factory farming, intercept communities, become them-

And yet while most would undoubtedly be horrified staring at the victims of a parasitic race, he could only feel comforted.

He'd spent the remainder of the night in a state of bliss, wandering through the rows and rows of pods, his mind spinning with a thousand thoughts and notices. Everything here had been delicately arranged, with care, not haphazardly thrown together like the other parts of the hive.

There was order. Structure. Design.

He had felt as if he had been looking at a living work of art. A masterful piece, so perfectly crafted that it brought tears to his eyes. And that was before the fact that it was the first time in almost two centuries where he could truly touch something. Feel something.

So he'd explored the repository, walking up and down the rows, examining each and every pod. Some held young, fresh-faced fillies and colts, while others held fully grown mares and stallions. Each and every one had been carefully selected and maintained, their faces calm and peaceful, their breathing slow and steady.

And it wasn't just the ponies that were being cared for. There was an entire row devoted to flowers, with hundreds of carefully tended pots growing an endless variety of colorful blossoms. There were even several large vats filled with some kind of thick amber liquid, the surface covered with a thin layer of green pollen.

He'd spent the next couple of hours examining everything in the chamber, trying to make sense of the strange emotions welling within him. Of a sense of pride and joy and mirth and yet, the deepest pang of a hollow emptiness.

A longing.

For what, he didn't know.

And it wasn't until later that evening, as he stood alone in the central chamber, that he finally realized what was bothering him.

He was lonely. He had always been lonely.

And the idea of spending eternity with no company but his own had frightened him. There, alone in the tower, trapped behind glass.

But now, in the company of thousands upon thousands of sleeping ponies, he felt at ease.

Safe.

At home.

And with those thoughts and emotions had come a wave of guilt.

For he had always prided himself on being a protector, a guardian. A creator, maker of things and thoughts and yet... Yet, here, he was no better than a parasite, feeding off the energy of another.

And, worse, he was not even needed. The changelings could do it all on their own, without his help or interference.

What, then, was his purpose? What was his reason for being here, in this place, among these creatures?

Why was he so different from them?

It was then that the truth hit him, as harsh and unrelenting as the midday sun.

He was alone. He was not like the changelings. He was not like the ponies. He was not like anyone. He was alone.

He was, and would forever remain, alone.

That had been when he started crying.

For the first time in almost two hundred years.

It had started as a trickle, then a stream, then a torrent, until his whole body was shaking with grief. As a thousand pieces of his broken and tattered mind suddenly clicked into place, and started turning.

And as the realization came, and the truth revealed itself, he finally understood.

He was not meant to exist. He was a mistake, a blight, a cancer. A parasite.

He was a monster. He felt alone because he was never meant to exist. A violation of natural laws, a mistake of biology. A freak. An abomination.

A mistake. An impossibility. A nothing.

An it! And not a he or she or they or them or even an us or we, no matter how much a We felt might fit.

Nothing.

And then, and only then, did he understand.

He was not alive. He could not live. He was merely existing. He was not meant to be.

And then, and only then, had the loneliness and grief truly settled in, and he knew that he was not meant to exist.

It had taken him hours to stop crying, and even longer to regain any semblance of composure.

He stared at a pony in a pod for hours, watching her sleep. Watching her breathe. Her face was peaceful, serene. Her expression one of absolute tranquility.

And he wondered if perhaps, she had it easier. If perhaps, she was not alone.

Because she had her herd, her family, her friends. A social unit. She had a purpose. She had a destiny. She was treasured, treasured enough to be here in the repository. The repository of all the friendly ponies that they saw as equals. Not as cattle. Somewhere, most likely somewhere in this great cavern of preserved ponies.

He, on the other hand, had nothing.

He had no one.

He was alone.

Alyosha stared at the sleeping pony, his eyes stinging, his heart breaking.

Then, slowly, he raised his hoof and gently placed it against her pod, closing his eyes and concentrating.

"Sleep, little one," he whispered. "Dream of a better life, one where you are free and happy. One where you can run and play, and laugh and sing. A life where you can dance in the fields and make new friends and find love and live your life to the fullest. Where you can live your life, and not merely exist."

Alyosha let out a deep, shuddering sigh, feeling a single tear slide down his cheek.

"Goodbye, little pony," he murmured. "May you sleep in peace."

And then, and only then, he felt his hoof slip from the pod, and he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty chamber.

He wandered aimlessly for hours, through the maze of tunnels and corridors, his mind blank. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care. All he knew was that he was tired, and lonely, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

That was all he remembered that day when he was found. The feeling of loneliness and grief and despair, and the need to rest.

To sleep.

For what was the point of continuing on, when one is not meant to exist? When they were alone, and unloved, and unneeded? Yes, he was free. Free of the tower, of glass, of even the truest restraint. He could- he could run around in the sun and not burn. He would not fear his glass vessel shattering and watch and scream in terror as he would cease to exist.

But he was also freed of purpose. Freed of meaning. Freed of everything.

The world was his to explore, and yet, there was nothing. Nothing.

No home, no family, no friends, no love, no future. Nothing.

He was a ghost, a memory, a shadow. Free of glorious purpose. No light. No sound. No memory.

Only loneliness.

He had wandered the lower levels of the hive for the remainder of the day, before being found.

"Alyosha!"

"Where have you been?!"

"Are you alright?!"

"We were worried about you!"

"We're so glad you're okay!"

"We thought we lost you!"

He had looked up, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"I am here," he had replied, his voice hollow and empty.

The changelings had exchanged concerned looks, then quickly escorted him back to the tower. They had left him alone, saying that he needed rest.

He didn't.

He had spent the rest of the night and the entirety of the next day in bed, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts empty and his heart hollow.

And then, slowly, gradually, he had begun to drift off to sleep. His eyes were half-lidded and his breathing slow and steady, his chest rising and falling evenly. His body was relaxed, his limbs limp, his face calm and serene.

And as his mind began to drift, he felt a sense of calmness and contentment wash over him.

He was tired.

Tired and lonely.

But at least, for the moment, he wasn't alone.

As his mind slowly slipped away into the darkness, his last conscious thought was of the changelings, and the way their eyes seemed to glow in the dim light.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For coming for me."

And then, with a soft sigh, he drifted off into the dark.

And for the first time in almost two hundred years, Angel finally slept properly. Without interference, without stress, pain or influence.

Author's Note

Twenty likes? You guys are actually enjoying my story?

Thanks.