A Certain Type Of Harvest

It took a good while before I could stomach the prospect of moving, even if only a little. Despite the pain that my horn caused, the chance to just lay down was still fairly nice; my body ached and grumbled at each little movement, my ass especially, and I was in no mind to do anything until I could fix up my injuries and take at least some of the pain away. And, as if being uncomfortable wasn’t unpleasant enough in itself, my stomach had since begun to gurgle at the sheer quantity of raw lust which slopped about inside, a magical liquid. To be full was heavenly, I couldn’t deny that, but the quantity that I had harvested was more than enough for just one changeling—and I had a hive to build.

From what I understood, ponies—simple creatures that they were—assumed a changeling hive would be some disgusting nest built from the famous “green goo”, as they would refer to it, which every powerful changeling queen had at her disposal. Known simply to changelings instead as “gum”, it was useful for capturing hostages, for feeding larvae and for building, but that didn’t mean it was the sole substance from which a home was made. Rather, it was more of a glue; a cement, if you will.

A changeling hive, instead, was made from the love harvested by either drones or queen. It required careful preparation to ensure its stability, and frequently the gum would be used to stabilise the walls. But no drone, nor a drone-turned-queen, knew of the spell; each had to find it out for themselves if they were to form a new hive, as a mark of their strength and intellect as a leader. And until I knew that, I could not use it—but I did not need to, anyway.

Many young females, naïve and filled with scandalous thoughts of going out on their own once they earned their adult fangs, would fail in the endeavour. The few that managed to collect enough pure love—and learn how to use it—to sustain themselves and build a hive fared slightly better, but it was far from unheard of that a new hive would be destroyed when the walls collapsed in on the young ones. But there was one more benefit of lust that made it the ideal substance to build a hive, if a queen was smart enough—and willing—to harvest and utilise it; though a sticky and hard to work with substance, lust was, when set, much more stable than pure love. It decomposed rapidly and needed frequent replacing but, for a queen who couldn’t yet make gum or work with raw love, it was the perfect starting point.

But first, I realised, I had to actually make the space for my new hive. I knew how to build with love and lust—every drone was tasked with the upkeep of his or her own dormitory if it started to crumble, so that was no issue. But the real trouble?

Getting to my hooves.

I groaned and grumbled as I shifted about, giving a moan as I forced my horn to grow back and felt the ache leaving me. Then, with considerable effort, I rose to my hooves slowly, inching forwards ever so lazily. When I reached the edge of the swamp, I then focused on morphing my organs to resemble that of a fish before I unenthusiastically dove into the water.

It was cold, icily so, but I had a task to complete. I changed my eyes into those of a cragodile to better help me see as I swam downwards, the water encasing my body and chilling me to the bone. But I couldn’t stop now despite my desperation, not when I was so close to the bottom; truth be told, the moment when my hooves touched down to the bottom was a joyful one. I wasted no time in getting to work, though; I gritted my teeth, my exhaustion beginning to catch up to me once again, as I morphed my hooves into the paws of a rabbit. It looked ridiculous for sure and did little to help my chill, but rabbits were powerful diggers and that was what I needed right now.

How did ponies manage?

I began slowly, scraping away at the muddy earth until I found a spot at the edge that, for some reason, just felt right. I then hastened in my digging, scooping out larger quantities with each second. As I did so, I opened my mouth and coughed a little, groaning until I felt the liquid lust pour from my muzzle; a fatty substance, it was thankfully immiscible with the stale water of the swamp. Hence, with gritted teeth, I slowly worked it into a layer around the edge of the hole that I had begun to form; it was a small hole, only big enough for a fish—or a changeling disguised as a fish. It was one of the tried and true methods all successful queens tried to utilise, both to keep the half grown larvae inside—they were incapable of changing—and to prevent pesky ponies getting inside.

It was to be a mammoth task, I realised with much displeasure. Grumbling, I then morphed my paws into literal shovels and changed my tactics, scooping out huge quantities of mud before I coated the wall with the lust. It would take a few days to properly solidify, but it would at least keep the walls reasonably stable for now.

It took a good twenty minutes to dig a hole deep enough for my aims, and even longer to dig back up high enough to prevent the backflow of water through the tunnel. Gasping and frozen, I was quick to collapse in the water-free section of dirt, though with my head left in the liquid just to let my new gills get some air. When I finally felt somewhat alive, I then continued my endeavour.

I had to admit, though my old hive had been far from luxurious, I had to respect Chrysalis’ building abilities. As I changed back into my normal form, feeling more than a little light-headed from lack of oxygen, I was quick to poke a very small hole into the ceiling with my horn, which I elongated so that it would reach the surface. Feeling somewhat pleased with myself, I was then more than happy to carry on with clearing out a space to make my new hive.

Most important in any new hive was, of course, the nursery, a thought which left me perplexed as to what was most beneficial; though the hive would be almost certainly hidden from ponies, it could still be attacked by scouts from another hive. It was arguably one of the fastest, if most costly, ways to get more love; simply strip it from the walls of another hive. Hence, to build the nursery hive immediately with no form of defence... It could be very costly.

It was that thought alone which prompted an idea to spark in my mind. I wasn't ready to lay any eggs yet; though it was a conscious action to do so—something a queen would very rarely carry out herself, in fact, instead leaving the job of incubation to her drones—it could not be done without fertilisation. Of course. And, with every drone in the hive being related to one another, it was highly frowned upon to copulate inside the hive—but, naturally, there had to be a source of sperm to produce said offspring. And so the task fell to the queen, the mother of the hive, to find a strong specimen to father her offspring. The species didn't matter, so long as she herself was the same as her partner at the time of copulation; her eggs would remain unchanged. But changelings were compatible genetically to every other species, at least with a little assistance from magic, and so it was quite possible to build a superior hive in every manner.

Chrysalis had been quite the fan of strong stallions, that much was a well known fact. She appreciated her drones' ability to seamlessly blend in with ponykind, as opposed to other rulers who opted for different fathers for their hives—and each different species gave a very slight advantage. One queen, for example—before the untimely destruction of her hive from disease—had even gone so far as to mate with diamond dogs, a pairing that produced drones who, though not particularly flattering, were able to spoil their targets rotten with the finest gemstones. Whatever the case, it was an important decision to make; very few queens chose more than one species to mate with, else there would be a sense of elitism in the ranks which could be dangerous.

There was time yet to make that choice, though. I knew that all too well, though the thought was discouraging; I had worked so hard today, yet I was far from done in my task. Until at least the first eggs had hatched and grown—and maybe for a long time after—I would have to harvest the majority of food for my subjects. And I was exhausted on the first day.

I grumbled a little and began to get back to work, now well aware that what I needed most was a place to call my own. Each queen had their own cavity inside the main body of the hive, with plenty of drones at their beck and call. Though I did not have the assistance, it was what I needed right now, and so I quickly got to work. I dug a long and narrow tunnel forwards, well aware that I would need to expand these at some point to accomodate and protect the hive. But I was tired, and I needed to rest properly now, so I instead got about one hundred metres in, coating the walls in gum all the way, before I paused and dug a small tunnel off the side of the main one. With little enthusiasm, I then cleared a very small square in which to make a nest—mixing gum with mud, as opposed to just plastering it on the walls, was a simple bed-making technique that all young drones were told of—before I shook myself free of grime and clambered in. When mixed together, the gum and dirt made a somewhat soft and warm bed. It was a far cry from what could be done, but I had neither the resources nor the time to do so.

I just wanted to sleep.