//------------------------------// // Chrysalis: The Queen's Dreaming // Story: Celestia XVII: The Broken Princess // by brokenimage321 //------------------------------// And then, I awoke. A strange thing it is, for a changeling to wake, for we do not sleep. We have only the torpor brought to us by the chill of night or frost of winter to grant us rest.  Nevertheless, I woke from sleep. And from sleep, came a dream. And from the dream, came an idea. I blinked up at the light that streamed down from a gap high above. I shifted on my twisted throne of chitin and glass. And the idea gathered in my brain, gathered and condensed and crystallized, until it became a name. I turned to an attendant. She watched with the passive stare of absolute obedience, waiting at all times for me to command her.  And so, I spoke the name. I spoke it in accents rich with pheromone, with dance, and with the buzzing of wings: “Canterlot,” I said.  “Canterlot?” she repeated.  And behind her, the nameless chorus whispered among itself: “Canterlot?” “Canterlot?” “Canterlot!” I heard, with a thousand ears, the chant begin to grow. It passed through the Hive, growing louder and louder until every heart beat and every vein coursed with the name: “Canterlot?” “Canterlot!”  “Canterlot!” We are not like the Horses we prey on. We seek not consensus, but conformity. If I, the most ancient and cunning among us, wishes something, the only debate is how quickly it can be done. “Canterlot!” “Canterlot!”  “Canterlot!” And, after all, is this not a cunning plan? We have survived untold aeons by doing what we do best: capturing one of the Horses and tearing it, soul from body. The soul lives on in one of us, who stays behind to quiet suspicion amongst those who remain, while the body is divided among the rest to sustain the Hive a little longer. Both soul and body are rich and sweet, and yet, so brief— “Canterlot!” “Canterlot!”  “Canterlot!” What, then, if we do what we have never done before? What if we move against the city of the Horse-queens? If we bite the vine off at the root and swallow it whole, we would miss the fruit for a season—but we would grow stronger for it. We would take the strength of the city and spread over the land,  making a hundred Hives where before there had been only one. Emerge this once from hiding, and entrench ourselves in the Horse-lands more completely than any of our ancestors had dreamed. “Canterlot!” “Canterlot!”  “Canterlot!” The walls of the Hive resonated with the chant. Already, scouts were setting out, flying by sun and stars towards the city. Already, plans of battle were being drawn. Already, the best infiltrators among us were being chosen. I, of course, would be first among them—the one to distract and disrupt, to grant passage to those who would follow after. Already, the Hive was bending to my audacious will, to make the city of the Horse-queens our own. I watched as all around me buzzed and crawled, each taking part in the wild dance of the order-in-chaos. I permitted myself a smile.  All around me, the chant grew louder and louder, and more and more fervent— And yet… And yet… in the chant, there was another voice. A voice that belonged not to me, nor to my children.  I listened for the source of the discordant note. And, as I followed the sound, I turned my gaze inward.  There. Something remained inside me. A fistula, a tear in my soul, where none had been before. I frowned. And then, the fistula spoke to me.  “So,” it said, “you’ve finally noticed, have you?” I blinked. “I know your voice,” I said to it. “You have spoken to me before.” “I have,” it replied. “In the dark of night, and out of secret places, I have whispered to you. Though this appears to be the first time you’ve actually noticed,” it added, a dark humor in its voice. “What are you?” I asked it.  “I am your conscience,” the tear replied. “I am that intelligence that guides you, when you know it not.”  “The songs of my ancestors guide me,” I spat. “I feel their pulls in my brain and my gut—to drink, to feed, to breed. What songs do you sing, False-Thoughts?” “I do not sing,” it replied. “I compose.”  “Very well then, Composer,” I sneered. “Why have you composed this song? A changeling war-march?” “Why, dear Chrysalis,” it said, sounding reproachful. “I gave you rest. I gave you inspiration. Are you displeased with these gifts?” “I need no gifts,” I hissed. “So ungrateful,” it said. “After all, you are about to do what no Queen has ever done: you are about to subdue the Horses. Turn them from feared masters from which you steal crumbs, into fearful slaves upon whom you can feed to your heart’s content.” “Perhaps,” I said, with a snarl. “But I serve none but the Hive. I will not follow the direction of one such as you—whatever you are!” “But my dear,” said the voice, “judging from appearances, you already have. And besides,” it added smugly, “it’s not as if you can do anything to stop your swarm now.” And then, the fistula closed. And I blinked, freed from its sudden spell. And I looked around me at the frantic buzz of activity.  And, for the first time in memory, I feared.  “Canterlot!” “Canterlot!” “CANTERLOT!”