The hive bored into the ground like the husk of some huge, grotesque worm; a great vertical tunnel that writhed, cringed and lurched around as it descended further into the wet clay. All along its walls were cavities, some of which struck off into their own twisting depths while others were crude indents meant only to hold an exhausted body for a few hours of sleep. Near the top, where the shaft was at its widest and where structure had some fleeting influence, the sides were ribbed and the grit was packed down to form platforms that could be stood on. Just above that was the only hint that this place existed at all: a wound on the rain-forest floor through which water could drip into the reservoir below.
Chrysalis overlooked the mad rush of life in the hive. Every surface was covered by glistening black, insect-like creatures, each and every one with a task to perform, each crawling over the walls and over the chitin of its fellow workers to get to where it was needed. They were changelings - that part of the great Equestrian food-chain of which few knew and fewer spoke - and she was the daughter of their queen. That would make her the princess, though she vehemently refused to use such a saccharine title.
By the direction of the sunlight, it looked to be about mid-day. This meant absolutely nothing - a typical changeling knew only of the now, and whether it was working or asleep was seldom influenced by the phases of the sun and moon - but Chrysalis found herself noting it because otherwise she had very little with which to engage herself. Unlike the countless drones around her, she was not expected to take part in the day-to-day maintenance of the hive, which left her to dwell on the same subject that had occupied her thoughts for some time now.
Queen Lycaena was dying. She hadn’t realised it, but the signs had been coming for months now. First it was a pause; a brief slowness that pervaded her every action, in-and-of-itself unnoticeable. Then came the stiffness. Arthritis afflicts a changeling queen in a rather unique way: it stifles the ability to communicate via the wings, a queen’s main form of broadcast to her hive. Then it was in the way she walked, and after that the difficulty she had had in swallowing her food, until finally, entropy crept its way into her mind. It was a small mistake here or there - a group sent down the wrong tunnel, or two groups sent to do the same task - but it might as well have been the death knell. Suddenly Chrysalis was catching glimpses of weakness in her mother wherever she went; tiny whispers of old age that hung defiantly in the air like ravens waiting to scavenge the corpse.
It wasn’t the omens that most unsettled her, though. She could bear to watch her mother have to repeat herself one week, and she would be there to support her as she climbed slowly to her hooves the next, but the waiting. The moments in between when there was nothing she could say and nothing she could do but wait. Wait for the inevitable. Wait, and think. Think about the worst part of it all.
Chrysalis had known all along that she would be queen one day. She’d dreamt about it in her younger years; dreamt - innocently, naively - of the thrill of ruling. She couldn’t remember when she had realised what it would entail; there had been no moment of epiphany that would at least allow for the catharsis of emotional turmoil. It was possible she had known all along.
When I’m queen, she’ll be gone.
Unbidden, the sentence reformed itself in her mind: when she goes, I’ll be queen.
The words rang disappointingly hollow. Chrysalis urged herself to feel a giddy rush that she would soon command every one of the lives below, but none came. She just couldn’t bring herself to view her destiny as anything more than a grim fact of life. She selected one worker in particular, and followed its movements. It was, in fact, quite difficult to do so; the changeling was only distinguished by the way it had momentarily caught a ray of light on its glistening carapace. It scuttled in and out of the vertical traffic - that should be any rights have been in gridlock - knocking at least two fellow workers from their footholds before losing its own grip and tumbling into the reservoir below. The creature started flailing the moment it hit the water, thrashing desperately until it reached the walls and began the climb all over again. The changeling hive worker was truly deserving of its nickname of ‘drone’.
Three more observations passed in a similar fashion before Chrysalis conceded that any interest she may have held in the spectacle was drained. There was no shaking it - no distraction that might provide relief from the shadow that loomed overhead, not even a source of idle conversation but her own soliloquy. Were she even vaguely familiar with the concept, she would describe herself as ‘lonely’; alas, it was not part of a changeling’s lexicon.
It occurred to her that this wasn’t getting much done. Somehow she had expected some incredible development to arise while she stared - it seemed like the sort of thing that might happen - but none was forthcoming. Sighing, she decided to resort to a familiar ritual: pacing the length of each and every corridor in the hive in the vain hope that she might find something of interest just beyond the next layer of dirt to be knocked away. Before long, the buzz of the main chamber had faded away.
Had she waited just a little longer - put just a bit more faith in providence - she might have just been in range to feel the disturbance that had every one of a thousand eyes turning skywards. Just out of earshot, a chorus of excited buzzing filled the central tunnel; a din of precise wing strokes all conveying the same message: she’s back!
~
For all of its laws and doctrines, the land of Equestria was renowned amongst its peers for being an authority on the study of ‘the sort of thing that might happen.’ It was an area of research that had led to a great deal of seemingly odd practices being adopted by those in the know; foremost of whom was Princess Celestia herself.
The alicorn in question was currently standing fixedly on the balcony outside her chambers, making full use of her lunch hour[1] by gazing wistfully at the horizon. Had it actually been night, and had the phantom-faced moon hung in the sky, the moment would likely have been more poignant, but her schedule did not allow it. The ability to make do with what you had was a vital skill in bending the-sort-of-things-that-might-happen to your own ends, and the Princess had had well over a millennium to hone the craft. Indeed, it was largely due to her doing the sort of things a royal-pony-who-had-banished-her-own-sister-(who-may-or-may-not-have-been-under-the-influence-of-an-intangible-corrupting-force)-to-the-moon-for-an-inordinate-period-of-time would do that had allowed her reign to go largely unchallenged for so long.
Celestia stood patiently, taking in what few parts of Canterlot she could see from this angle, and reminding herself of the love she had once so firmly boasted for this, the heart of her kingdom. It was difficult to remain enthusiastic when the populous gave you naught but grief for century upon century, but such was the reality of so long a term of office. As much inward disdain as she now had for the day-to-day life of royalty, she would bear it for a little while longer at least; if not for her ponies, then...
Her thoughts trailed off, as they had done the last seventeen times she had rode that particular train of thought, as per the script provided to her by her writers (who assured her that it was definitely the sort of thing she would do). Before she could choose any one of the rigorously-rehearsed things-she-might-do to engage in next, she became aware of another pony, standing just behind her on the balcony.
“Excuse the interruption, your highness.” His was a low and gravelly voice - more gravelly it usually was, she suspected, as the royal guard appeared to be straining in order to appear as serious as possible.
“What is it?” replied Celestia in her ‘fateful moments’ voice (soft but not wilting, calm but not unconcerned - a particular favourite of hers).
The pony removed his helmet before responding. “I am simply to tell you that ‘it’ has returned.”
The words were like a jolt of energy to Celestia, though she didn’t dare show it. Outwardly, she met his eyes with a fierce, stoic gaze; but inwardly she was glowing. It was exactly the sort of thing that might happen when one brooded atop a castle tower! Oh, she loved it when that worked. Anyway:
“Send word to Tarned Helm at once, and make ready to-” she stopped mid-sentence, realising that she had yet to ascertain which ‘it’ she needed to respond to. She had a regiment checking for ‘it’ in northern Equestria, another waiting for ‘It’ should another horror novel suddenly come to life and a personal adviser on playground games who was something of a master on the subject. Actually, Tarned Helm was the one to implement deliberately-vague reports (purely a matter of security, he had insisted); so he was probably already aware of the situation. What a comfort it was to have somepony so constantly informed… but she was getting ahead of herself.
“Very well. I shall be with you shortly.”
The messenger bowed slightly before replacing his helmet and hurrying off. Celestia watched him go, allowing herself one last glance at the city below her (dramatic pose when exiting a location: done) before she followed.
[1] Whether or not an alicorn requires sustenance is a matter of heated debate. The most popular theory - that members of the royal family can restructure a large part of their biology as they see fit - is largely based on the fact that “it seemed like the sort of thing that would happen”.
~
She’s appearance was fittingly dramatic for one who had so quickly arrested the attention of the entire workforce, but rather less dignified. A figure emerged from the blinding sunlight, kept aloft by the irregular beat of its wings just long enough for it to careen into the wall above the nearest platform and sink limply to the ground, wings twitching as they withdrew and legs buckling sickeningly under their burden. The mass of workers steadily formed a crowd around her, none daring to step close enough to help.
The newcomer’s figure was quite unlike the changelings around her. Overworked though they were, their exoskeletons held a deep lustre that shone through the layers of grime and sweat from the jungle heat; but this immigrant’s outer form was faded, rough and dry. The hair on her head - a sure sign that she was no drone - was frayed and ripped, and her breathing was irregular and laboured.
For a few seconds, the scene was completely still - the air silent but for a desperate, hagged wheezing. The newcomer’s audience stood motionless, blinking impassively but otherwise in rapt awe of the figure before them. Only a single worker dared to lean forwards, and was immediately met by the expectant stares of its hivemates. It hesitated, then inched forwards to inspect this unknown entity… before her rasping breath was accompanied by a low mewling that had it scampering backwards. No more dared approach.
The creature gave a groan that spoke of utter exhaustion and stubborn irritation. Why was no-one helping her? Did they not see her distress, her need of relief after such ardour?
Why are they just standing there?
The stillness continued for a brief eternity. She tried to force her breathing into a sense of steadiness in the hopes that she might at least drift into unconsciousness, but to no avail. Every time her senses dimmed, some distant agony would lurch her back into waking. Nothing continued happening. Painfully.
She began to think that she might not even have found the right hive. Were those workers hers? She didn’t get a good look at them when she landed. Maybe if one of them came closer she could see them better. Were they close? Maybe they just hadn’t noticed yet. They had to soon, though; she couldn’t go on like this. She had to get home, and she couldn’t make the last leg of the journey through the forest unless she was in peak health. Aegis’ hut would be the last place she’d be able to... no, she’d left Aegis. Hadn’t she? Of course she had... needed to be strong to get through the forest. You couldn’t stop in the forest. Couldn’t stop. Why had she stopped? She had to keep going. Had to stand up... no, she was being carried. Who was carrying her? The wing-beats sounded familiar. Were those workers hers?
Either her faculties chose that moment to finally give up, or she was falling. Her last thought was how cruel it was that she should be so aware of her life trickling away like this - that she wasn’t even granted delirium - before she hit the water. The shock of the sudden coldness filled her, and once again reality made an unpleasant return. Oh, that’s what it was: she’d been dumped into the reservoir, like just another cattle-pony. They hadn’t even realised who she was.
Her head surfaced above the stagnant liquid, floating just enough for her to breathe in a thick musk. The realisation came to her with a sense of bitter smugness: those pheromones would induce a state of euphoria - leeching out mindless emotions from her to feed the hive - if she were a pony. As it was, and without even any of her own reserves to drain, she’d merely bleed her own sanity away.
Heh. Told them it would end something like this.
So she waited; waited to feel the corners of her psyche give way to that sick levity. Waited for that brief moment of rest as the poison stripped away the pain; the stress, the fatigue, the aching, all the days of struggling to keep her body fighting while her mind told her it was pointless... before the insanity came.
...The insanity seemed to be taking its sweet time. How long had she been breathing the fumes? Maybe just half a minute, but even that should have been enough. As she was, she floated limply, her breathing having finally relaxed.
Well, as long as I’m not laughing myself to death, at least I can get some rest.
She noted idly that her thoughts were becoming slightly more coherent with each passing moment, but it seemed unimportant. As long as she could just stop for a moment; just stop, and get dragged roughly to the water's edge before being slung over a hard, chitinous back.
Oh, come on!
Not that she had the strength to protest; complain though she might, her body had long since recognised the end of the immediate danger and just about shut itself down. At least the hive’s ever-present heat kept her from shivering after being in the reservoir, and at least this changeling - who seemed curiously proficient at carrying her lanky form - wasn’t going too fast. She tried to figure out where she was going - upwards, it seemed, and spiralling around the main shaft. Up usually meant one thing: it was where the royals were. So they had recognised her.
As the adrenaline in her blood thinned, her newly-cleared mind finally allowed itself a moment’s voluntary rest. Lulled somewhat by the steady pace of her mount, she lost track of time until she found herself being moved. She was placed gently in an ovoid shell; smooth and cold to the touch. Instinctively, her legs drew into her barrel, and she lowered her head.
She lay there for a while, and probably would have been content to do so for several hours more, had she not been roused by the sounds of hurried movements, hoofs squelching in the mud as they sped their owner towards her. She opened a bleary eye, her vision momentarily blurred and dark before a figure came into focus before her: teal hair, a twisted horn, and eyes of piercing emerald against faded sclerae - this was definitely a royal. A young royal, but-
Two sets of eyes widened in shock, and two mouths unhinged. For just a moment, the air was completely still. And then:
“MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!”
~
The Canterlot War Cave had not seen much use in the two years since its construction, but Celestia couldn’t argue that, even if the half-million bit investment had yet to earn its keep, it had certainly been spent judiciously. The mountain rock below Equestria’s capital had been quickly and quietly excavated into a phenomenal structure: a central tunnel allowed access to all levels, rooms extending out radially, each branch small enough that its construction wasn’t even felt by the households above. At the very bottom, underneath several layers of rock and steel, was the War Room, a bunker capable of withstanding everything from parasprites to balefire bombs. The project was a technical and logistical marvel, and a source of dread for every military that caught even a glimpse of its extent, which - thanks to the recent success in foreign relations (and much to the chagrin of a few overly-egotistical politicians) - was a sweet, sweet zero. Sometimes there really was such a thing as doing a job too well.
Tarned Helm stood at the center of the war room, seemingly obvious to the mad rush of life around him. Ponies scurried to and from their stations, relaying information in hushed voices. They were mostly earth ponies - there was no need for magic users amongst the myriad of technology that littered the place, and flight was out of the question in the cramped corridors. Paranoia had a part in the stilted demography, too: earth ponies had somewhat less ability to cause havoc should an insurgent slip through the net, and the prevalence of nationalistic pride and traditional mindsets resulted in an expedient backbone of xenophobia. He knew each of them by name, too: some from time spent working together, others so they didn't get any bright ideas.
He was pouring over a three-dimensional map of Equestria (another contribution from a select group of talented mages who would never have the pleasure of relaxed small-talk again) when Celestia walked in. Her stride was calm, her face relaxed; his was fixed, brow low and lips resolutely closed - an expression that meant he was either putting on a show or feeling the symptoms of caffeine withdrawal.
“Good morning, Tarned Helm.” He hadn’t bothered to look up, but she well aware that he had noticed her approach. “How’s our quarry?”
Tarned Horn turned his gaze to a pin floating over the badlands. “One of our scouts picked up a contact emerging north-west from the swamplands. We lost sight just outside the ridge.” The map showed a projected path, leading from the Badlands into the cover of the Hayseed Swamps and running parallel to the road through Dodge City. The only point of exposure was, indeed, a bridge leading directly into the Rambling Rock Ridge (Celestia silently lamented not having considered serious military discussions when naming her landmarks). “We wouldn’t have been looking, but there’ve been more than a couple tip-offs for the time and place.”
“The canyon has a similar climate to the Badlands," Celestia observed calmly. "Whoever our friend is, he may just be seeking to escape a predator.”
“I think he is a she,” Tarned Helm interjected. “And I think she is a changeling.”
“A changeling?” Celestia echoed. The chatter in the background continued unabated, but she was certain that several ears were now listening intently. “We scoured the badlands for them decades ago; there's no sign of an active hive there.”
“It wasn’t a hive we should have been looking for, it was a single agent. I take it you recall the Siafu?”
“The changeling invasion. How could I forget?”
“Not an invasion; or at least, not a very good one. There wasn’t a single reported casualty from that event.”
“An exodus, then… or a stampede.” Celestia turned her gaze down to the map, stewing inwardly. “But why then? Why Dodge City?” For all the attention they drew in the Siafu, the changelings had revealed very little about their motives, and the hysteria around the event had lasted far longer than their actual appearance.
The sensationalism, though. Changelings were seen as often in nursery rhymes as they were in court reports, and with similar degrees of accuracy. The details never agreed: in one account, the creatures could control minds; in another, they themselves were all thralls to their queen. Certainly, they seemed to lack a sense of self-preservation: those with the absence of mind to immediately reach for a pitchfork and start skewering didn’t so much as cause the tide to bend slightly.
“We know this much: death doesn’t scare a changeling.” Tarned Helm practically picked up from her internal monologue. “But something else did. It scared them so much they abandoned their homes and fled wherever they could. It wasn’t just Dodge City: we had reports from the entire continent.”
“Why didn’t they fight? The numbers reported from Dodge City alone would make for a sizeable force, even if they were untrained.”
“Who knows. Given how little they did to defend themselves, we might assume a changeling doesn’t think to fight, but to hide. There’s a reason they’re called ‘changelings’.”
“Their ability to disguise themselves, yes. But they weren’t exactly hiding then.”
“Presumably because they couldn’t. Maybe their predators could find them regardless.”
“Who could do that?”
Helm’s gaze on the map was all the answer she needed. “The Siafu happened when something found the changelings that they couldn’t hide from; something that had them running in terror. And whoever they were running from -” and now he locked eyes on Celestia with a fierce gaze “- she’s back.”
~
“There is something to be said for cathartic value, Chrysalis, but,” Queen Lycaena’s wings picked up exactly where her voice had left off: “‘in-distress, request-assistance'” - the ‘words’ took no more than a second of almost imperceptible twitching - “is far more expedient.”
Chrysalis glanced over her shoulder to ensure that the demonstration hadn’t elicited a panicked response, but they were alone in the makeshift infirmary. Her eyes flicked momentarily to the ground, though she resolutely held her head high, grateful that a chitinous exoskeleton covered the sight of her cheeks burning. She forced herself to meet her mother’s gaze again, but found herself without a retort; her reaction had not exactly been controlled. She inhaled sharply, trying to avoid sounding as though she was sniffling.
“Is she... going to be alright?”
She followed her mother’s gaze to the sleeping royal, who could be seen wriggling against the layers of hardened sputum that swaddled her, donated from several nearby drones[2]. She knew that there was little the hive could do but isolate her in a comparatively safe and - morbidly - sterile environment. The patient’s best chance of recovery came from her natural resilience and regeneration.
“I believe she will be. She has overcome greater trials than this.”
Chrysalis let loose a breath she wasn’t aware she had been holding - and finally, the obvious question caught up with her.
“Who is she?”
The question hung in the air for a moment; Chrysalis glanced nervously at her mother, unnerved by her hesitation. Her mother was eyeing her with something bordering suspicion and curiosity.
“Chrysalis, this is your sister. Her name is Urnaria.”
My sister? The implications of the sentence rattled around her head. Foremost amongst them: I have a sister. That one seemed worth repeating a few times: I have a sister. I have a sister. That’s my sister.
“How did I never know I had a sister?”
There was that pause again. Lycaena’s mouth hung open for just a moment before she recomposed herself.
“It was entirely likely that you would never have met her.” Another moment’s silence. “I considered it best not to raise your hopes.”
Chrysalis looked back at her sister, suddenly unable to miss every imperfection and injury over her body. There was no doubt about it: she had not been far from death. Whatever had done this-
“Her trials are behind her now; she has earned her place in the hive. I will leave it for her to decide whether she tells you what she has endured.” Lycaena’s voice was steady again, her usual assertiveness restored. Chrysalis tried to read her mother’s expression, but as ever her face was utterly impassive. Her gaze lingered a moment too long, and the queen turned away from her.
“Come. We will return once she is awake.”
Chrysalis’ eyes followed her mother as she strode towards the main tunnel, before darting back as if afraid the patient might have disappeared while she wasn’t looking. A sister! A mind, a friend; something more than just a living tourist guide on pony culture, someone she could talk to, someone in whom she could confide all her... fears...
Only then did the final piece of the puzzle slide into place, with a click that sent Chrysalis’ stomach plummeting.
“Mother... if she makes it, does that mean she...?" Her eyes shot to the queen, brow furrowed until she saw the face that turned back to meet hers. Lycaena’s expression was not surprised, nor angry, nor any of the things it should have been at the thought Chrysalis had just voiced: it was smug, eyes slightly lidded and lip curled upward at one corner.
“Yes, Chrysalis. She will be Queen Urnaria."
Lycaena didn’t linger that time; she simply kept walking until the twisting tunnels of the hive obscured her from view. Chrysalis slumped into a sitting position, trying to absorb everything that had just happened. She had gained a sister… and lost her future. And, as ever, all she could do was wait.
“She wasn’t always like that, you know.”
She spun around. Urnaria hadn’t even shifted in the cocoon, but her eyes had half-opened. For a moment Chrysalis thought she wasn’t even conscious, before her lips twisted into a fang-baring smile. She rushed to her side. “You shouldn’t be-”
“Chryssy. She’s not the type to molly-coddle.” Urnaria straightened slightly, confident that she had a captive audience even through the protective layering. The effect was immediate; the moment she moved her eye-level even slightly above Chrysalis’ own, she was in control. “You look… young, sister.”
“I-I’m not that young.” Chrysalis forced herself to put some strength into her voice. “I was going to be queen until you came along.”
Urnaria’s smile was a perfect reading of ‘of course you were, darling’. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nostrils before casting her eyes around the infirmary. “So, queen-to-be: how’s your hive?”
Chrysalis inhaled to respond, then locked up. The question turned and twisted in her mind, not quite fitting any answer. A status report? In what timeframe? She’s been gone as long as I’ve lived! The more time that passed, the more she began to panic. Gotta answer quickly. I know this.
“Infiltration is at an all-time low, with two foreign entities discovered this season. We’ve lost four community subjects to age and the cold, but we’re on track for induction of a replacement-”
“Community subjects?” Urnaria interrupted. Obviously, it wasn’t the answer she’d been looking for - her tone spoke more of humouring her sister than anything else - but she was thrown by that last statistic.
“Kidnapped ponies, kept subdued with pheromones. We use them to study social norms without risking discovery; they just think they're entertaining guests.”
“How long do they last?”
“A couple of seasons before they start to get the cultures confused; then they go in the reservoir.”
Urnaria drew back, seemingly satisfied with the response. “A little selection of society. How… safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you can’t substitute for field experience. When you’re an infiltrator, you need to control your fear; out there, Mummy isn’t just around the corner, waiting to whisk you away if you slip up. Out there, if they see the lie, they’ll kill you. Just like that.”
The room fell silent; Chrysalis’ mouth hung open slightly as she processed Urnaria’s words. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know that, but… somehow, the true implications of the sentence only just dawned on her.
“Who’s your favourite?”
She snapped out of her reverie. “What?”
“Your favourite pony. In the study group.”
“R-Rosemary.”
“Oh? How long has she got?”
“She could keep going for a while. I haven’t made as many mistakes with her, so she doesn’t realise as much, and they don’t need to wipe her as frequently. Sometimes she even remembers me.”
Urnaria snorted, and turned to lay down on her back, inspecting her hooves. “How precious.”
“I’m serious!”
She glanced up, the veil of levity suddenly ripped aside, and locked eyes with her sister. Her brow furrowed and her tone was lowered as she spoke: “Chrysalis, listen to me. Never let yourself get attached. If they get that chain around you, they’ll use it for a noose the moment they find out.”
Once again, Chrysalis’ response faltered and died. She turned away from Urnaria’s gaze, only for her sister to move right up against the panel.
“We’re changelings, Chrysalis; and that means we lie. Any good changeling can spin a fabrication so big she can sleep in it; but Licky’s no ordinary ‘ling. She’s got you caught in a story so twisted, when you see the truth you won’t even know it.”
“Mother wouldn’t-”
“Lie? Of course she’d lie to you. After all...” Urnaria strained to face her own battered form; “...She lied to me.” She said the words as though they were a source of weird pride; like her deception was a rite of passage.
“But why?”
“Because it spares you the effort of getting blood on your hooves. Catch a pony, string him up with a good yarn, turn him back out into the real world and watch as the law-abiding masses rip him apart to preserve their own comfy little truths.”
“Is that why she sent you away? To figure out the truth?”
Urnaria lidded her eyes, and drew in a contented breath. “Something like that.”
“...So, what is the truth?”
“Oh, well: that’s the good bit. Come here.” Chrysalis didn’t even think before she drew closer. “No-one knows.”
“...What?”
“Yup.”
“But all those years; all that time spent getting away from the lie.”
“Oh, sure; I got away from the lie. But it was just one lie; just the one she pointed out to me.”
“Then what were you supposed to figure out?”
“That you’ll never get away from the lies. Sure, it feels like you’re free... but when you’ve spent your whole life in a prison, how do you know what it’s like outside? We’re all caught in lies; lies that keep us safe, lies that keep us alive. The best thing we can do is make a few of our own.”
“...I don’t believe you.”
“Of course you don’t. You’ll never believe in the destination if you didn’t have the journey, Chrysalis. Trust me.” Urnaria’s face twisted into a grin. “Or, on second thoughts... don’t.”
[2] In spectacular irony, the ancient Queen Imago’s changeling health-care scheme served only to confirm a rapid increase of pharyngitis in those assigned to treat injured hive-members. The project was scrapped after it proved incapable of healing a wound inflicted on Imago by then-Princess Lycaena.
~
Celestia was back on her balcony, observing the last of a hastily-assembled army filtering through the city gates. Tarned Helm had given a speech in her stead, much to her relief; encouraging bloodlust was most assuredly not the sort of thing she would do.
Not that I would have needed to, she mused. That’s the problem with soldiers: they get antsy if they go too long without a good war.
The gentle clacking of porcelain behind her betrayed her maid’s attempts to lay out the afternoon tea without being noticed. She wilted as Celestia turned to examine her; an earth mare with an ivory coat, short-cut brown mane, and a knight’s chess piece on her flank.
“Excuse me. Ganine, was it?”
The poor pony’s coat practically turned to white at being addressed. She stammered out an affirming response, suddenly very keen to leave the room before she somehow incurred her princess’ displeasure.
“Please, come and sit with me.”
The servant only hesitated for a moment before obeying; she marched up to Celestia’s side and set herself down on the balcony, a respectful distance away. Celestia let the air stay quiet for a few moments before speaking again.
“Do you know what I valued most in my last maid, Ganine?”
She hesitantly responded “No, Princess.”
Celestia put on a disarming smile. “She spoke her mind. We had something of an understanding; she served me, obeyed me: but on this balcony, she was Leonowens and I was Celestia. We dispensed with titles and spoke as friends.” Celestia bent down to bring herself to Ganine’s eyeline. “I would appreciate it if you might do the same.”
Ganine bit her lip, internally struggling against years of political correctness, all while Celestia waited patiently. Mouth open, she carefully and deliberately said, “I can’t say I know exactly what it is we’re fighting.”
“I assume you’ve heard of changelings?”
“Only from stories I heard when I was young. They’re real?”
“They’re likely not quite what you’ve been told. The changelings are a race of pony with the ability to change their appearances; that much we know for certain. Everything else is based on speculation and the loosest of evidence…”
Celestia proceeded to fill in as many details as she could to an ostensible civilian - and maybe a few that were only slightly classified. Ganine seemed to be more comfortable already; the task at hand having suitably distracted her from her worries. By the time Celestia had finished, her face was set in concentration.
“Something is bothering you about this,” she put simply.
Celestia nodded. “Given the time of each sighting,” she thought aloud, “the creature didn’t waste any time in getting to her destination. If the Everfree plays host to as many hives as is predicted, how would she know to go to this one?” Her eyes darted from side to side as she searched for an answer. “She would have to know in advance…”
The target had come from the Badlands, as had the Siafu. The difference was that this one was being covert. If it was the hunter behind the Siafu, why would she try to avoid detection when she was powerful enough to have caused the exodus in the first place? Moreover, why was she detected now when she had previously evaded sight entirely?
“She isn’t the hunter;” Celestia concluded, “she’s another one of the Siafu. But why is she only rejoining them now? And if it’s not her, then where is-” Her eyes went wide as realisation dawned, and she desperately scoured the horizon for a military force that had long disappeared.
“Oh, no...”
~
“It does not do for a royal to sulk, Chrysalis,” Lycaena stated impassively. “I had thought you would be glad to have a sister.”
Chrysalis kept her eyes on the path she walked at her mother's side. “I-I am glad, mother. It's just…” Not what I was expecting? Chrysalis scolded herself. How could I have known what to expect? She's no drone, but… we're nothing alike. I can barely believe we're related.
Lycaena chucked, as though amused by her daughter's monologue. “I imagine you've noticed how different she is from you. She wasn't always that way.”
“She wasn't?” Chrysalis looked up.
Lycaena stared into the distance in recollection. “‘Cometh the hour, cometh the mare’, so the saying goes. I imagine her experiences will have shaped her somewhat.”
“What ‘experiences’?”
“That, my daughter, is the question of the day; and it is time we had some answers.” Lycaena rounded the corner, and there was Urnaria; lying in the now-open cocoon, eyes set expectantly. “I am surprised: your injuries are minimal. How are you feeling?”
“A bit better for my little swim.” Urnaria barely attempted to hide the barb in her tone.
Lycaena merely smiled. “I must apologise. The drones’ understanding of your endeavours is… sketchy. They must have assumed you were the hunter.”
Chrysalis’ expression faltered. Even the drones knew about this? Why didn’t I?
“Now,” Lycaena stated, “I think we would both like to hear your story in full, Urnaria.”
Chrysalis noted somewhere that it was the first time she had heard Lycaena address her sister by name. There was an almost imperceptible tone of reverence in her tone that she hadn’t heard before.
“Well, then.” Urnaria leaned back, seeming somehow gratified to have an audience. “We’re not the only hive in Equestria… but we’re a lot closer to it now than we were then. Before you were born, another colony emerged; and it started wiping out everything around it.”
“What was it called?”
“Depends who you ask. Each hive gave it a different name: Ogbanje, Síofra; words in different languages with the same basic meaning. Generally something along the lines of ‘oh, shit’. We just called them ‘hunters’.
“We didn’t know what language they used - we barely knew anything about them. The moment anything locked eyes with one of them, it was a fight to the death… usually in the hunter’s favour. We did then what we do best: hide. Our hive was in the Badlands, where even most changelings can’t survive, but we realised pretty soon that we were just playing into their hooves. While we cowered, they were picking off the weaker hives so they wouldn’t have any distractions when it came to be our turn.
“We had to start making moves. We intervened in fights that weren’t ours, made alliances we weren’t overtly benefiting from, revealed secrets and information… pretty much everything that goes against the changeling strategy. That’s how desperate we were.
“We were never going to save the other hives; we knew that. But we managed to tip the scales against the hunters; we’d cost them just a few more units here and there, force them to change their tactics.
“Eventually, we went too far; the hunters pulled out and massed to attack us directly. That’s when Licky gave me the job.”
Lycaena showed no external reaction to her nickname; both she and Urnaria were now focused on Chrysalis.
“T-the job?”
“The impossible problem. Stay behind, and hold off an invasion force that had slaughtered hive after hive before it.”
“Your sister was our best surviving combatant;" Lycaena interjected. "She had been heavily involved in the war up to that point. She was the best candidate.” She made to stop, but continued after a poignant look from Urnaria. “It was not expected that she would return, but certain rewards were offered if she should.”
The inevitable question hung in the air. “Then… you did it?” Chrysalis gawped. “You killed them all?”
Urnaria’s smug visage faltered. “We played every card we had: forced them to take the long route through the Badlands, incensed local predators - we pulled just about every resource we had. But they still got to the hive.
“When they were inside, I sealed every entrance - nearly collapsed the hive in on itself - before flooding the structure with leaching fluids. The very same kind you so kindly bathed me in -” this time the remark was more jovial “- seems I’ve built an immunity.
“I sealed myself in a cocoon, and floated in the water-line. I was going to sleep until I’d drank up every bit of what they bled - certainly didn’t taste like love, I’ll tell you that. But... I woke up too early.”
“Too early?”
“I was confused. There should have been enough emotion there to feed me for the rest of my life - I should have died in my sleep. But when I woke up, the hunters were already empty and cold… and one of the exits had been unsealed.”
“Given the time elapsed, it would seem only a single hunter has survived,” Lycaena surmised. “But a single hunter is still a very real threat. We must consider what our next move is.”
Chrysalis looked to her sister for explanation. “I was supposed to make sure they would never come after us again; but all I could do was buy us some time. That's why I had to get back so fast.”
“In any case, we must be prepared,” Lycaena continued. “If the hive is found again, we likely will not escape so lightly. Chrysalis, attend to your sister. Do not leave her side.” And with that, she turned and strode out.
Urnaria’s gaze followed Lycaena out of the room. “For better or worse,” she remarked, “she’s a queen.”
It took Chrysalis’ mind a few seconds to register and respond to the remark. “How do you mean?”
“You must have heard her talking, Chrysalis.”
“Of course I did. She was talking to me.”
“Not to you; to everyone. Her wings were sounding throughout the entire conversation; the hive was co-ordinated before she even left the room.”
Chrysalis pride sank back; she had completely missed her mother’s other communications. “That’s what being a queen is?”
“The queen is the hive, Chrysalis. No matter where the drones go, they’re constantly relaying her commands as they receive them. Every worker speaks with her voice. She isn’t organising them: she’s micromanaging their actions in every waking moment of every day. Wherever they go, there she is.”
“I’ve heard it before.”
“But you don’t listen!” Urnaria’s voice suddenly raised as she straightened herself. “You’ve grown up around the buzz, but you filter it out; it’s background noise to you. A queen needs to be able to hear the hive in her dreams. She needs to be listening… speaking... always.”
“I can do that! I can listen!”
“Then listen, Chrysalis… tell me what you hear.”
The air was completely silent. There wasn’t a wingbeat to be heard.
“I… don’t hear anything.”
All of a sudden, the silence was very, very loud. Chrysalis’ eyes shot wide open, and Urnaria’s gaze sunk; the smug gleam on her face had been replaced with a bitter ‘I told you so’. The inevitable conclusion hung around them.
“Long live the queen.”
