‘This is my life now.’
I was still in the pile of larva, the center of a veritable mountain of changelings. At two feet tall, we were the highest point in the nursery. At least until the two changeling drones that first accompanied the queen returned to the room.
One noticed me staring, and paused midstep, returning the stare. She leaned to the side and whispered to her companion, who also halted and stared.
They were each carrying something, using the same telekinesis that the queen used to pick me up. Large black jars, the tops of them had no lid. I could see a light pink glow emanating outwards, a stark contrast to the– at this point nauseating– lime green light that the changelings loved to shine on literally everything.
Apparently, the workforce prioritized monologuing, evil-looking queen positions before interior designers. Or they were all color blind.
I caught the same taste/smell/feel of love as the drones carried the jars closer to my fortress of chitin, but the jars couldn’t be filled with the stuff, I’d have sensed the potent emotion the moment they carried them into the room.
Perhaps the love was watered down or baked into whatever baby-food the jars must be filled with. At least, I assumed it was food for us chubby changelings.
‘Heh, larva-food.’
Around me, my living defenses started to stir, shaking sleep from their tiny heads. The larva started to stretch and wiggle, awakening their two limbs while trying to blink away the sleep from their eyes. It was kinda quite cute to watch, if you squinted. Like, really squinted. And pretended not to be revolted.
And then they started hissing and headbutting, and it stopped being cute and returned to completely outlandish.
Despite the fact that I have been reincarnated as an emotion-eating bug-horse royalty that had mysterious voices whispering thoughts into my head, I felt that I was taking my new life quite well.
‘I guess food is the way to my heart. I really should really be screaming and panicking, though. Maybe the voices prevent me from panicking.’
Speaking of voices, the chittering seemed to quiet down a bit every time they planted thoughts into my head. Again, another sentence that should send me into a tin-hat wearing craze.
This was not the first time I reviewed my current situation; questioning my new world and lack of existential crises was the only way I could pass time at the moment. Luckily, the two changeling adults rescued me from my newfound boredom.
Then the quiet chittering started to rise.
Broodmother Lethocerus froze when she saw the orange eyes staring at her from the pile of young changlings.
‘Barely a day old and he’s already giving me heart attacks. I liked him better when he was hissing and moving about, like normal larvae.’ In her periphery, she noticed Psocid also stopped.
“He’s far more attentive than any larva I’ve ever raised,” Lethocerus whispered.
“And he’s just as foreboding as his mother,” Psocid replied, barely audible.
Their cargo roused the young larva, the dulled taste of love gel starting to permeate from the opened jars they carried. The nurses smiled as the larva started to stretch and play with each other. It warmed Lethocerus’s heart to see the tiny headbutts and adorable hisses.
When the nurses set the jars down, the little changelings started to crawl their way over. Lethocerus and Psocid dutifully began to take globs of love jelly out of the jars using their magic, and started to dole out each orb to the larva. The larva fought each other to get fed first, but in the end, all were fed.
All except the little prince, who did not move from his spot, even when finally free of his young companions. He just stared.
It was time for the First Weave.
Psocid levitated him over, setting Prince Phasma in front of her. Around the nurses, the larvae had finished eating, and were resuming the oh-so-fierce territorial displays that started when they woke up.
Lethocerus started to speak, capturing the attention of the Prince.
Psocid began, “once, we were nothing,” and called forth the ancient lore.
“Yes, indeed,” Lethocerus answered. “When the world was naught but strings, floating in dust, all dwelled within these strings. Separate, deaf, blind. With no air to sing, their voices could not travel between the strings. No thoughts were shared between beings.”
Psocid spoke, “But with strange eons, Nothing became Something.” Remembering the old lessons, Psocid pulled.
Lethocerus answered, “Panarthropo, The Great Weaver, came from beyond all. They plucked the strings from their places, and wove them together. For eleven days and eleven nights, Panarthropo weaved the world together. Rock joined Rock and became Mountains. Power and Change joined to form Time. Move and Life fashioned into Water. And so all was woven.”
This was easier than Psocid remembered. A glance at the being at her hooves answered her question of why. “But one was forgotten.”
“Changelings,” the other Broodnurse spoke, “hung dearly to the end of their thread. All others, the ponies, the griffons, the sheep, had been woven. The changelings had not. The thread of Together hung limp below the Great Tapestry.”
“They learned to weave,” purred Psocid. If only a royal was present for every First Lesson!
“With threads so thin they could not be seen, changelings wove themselves in, onto Magic, onto Emotion, onto Change, onto five others. From the thread of Together, the First Weave was created.”
As Psocid and Lethocerus began to speak in their Changeling tongue, the whispers and chitters of The Weave rose to match.
The words flowed in one ear and out the other, but the meanings caught. The chirping and chittering resolved itself into words.
Strings, Panarthropo, Mountains, Time, Water.
Each time when the Weave started to quiet, Psocid would stoke the fire once again.
Together, Magic, Emotion, Change, The First Weave was created.
Even though the whole story was not heard by Phasma, he understood it. It was a neat story, and it ended with a phrase very similar to one from Earth.
”As it is woven, so it shall be,” thought the Prince.
The broodnurses stared, slack-jawed, at Prince Phasma. Psocid let the First Lesson slip away, more out of shock than the fact that it was done. Even the larvae, who had only felt a pull from The Weave rather than heard it, had stopped and stared, unmoving.
His Highness had finished the First Lesson, not Psocid.
“Fetch the Queen!”
Queen Chrysalis was splayed over a stone chair, carved from the black igneous rock her drones had carried back in slabs from lands distant. The seat and back were padded with real wool and fabric. One of the perks of being the undisputed voice of authority was first, second, and third pick of the loot the infiltrators brought back with them.
She was looking down on a map of Equestria lying on the table in front of her.
It was a useless effort; she had already studied its faded yellow visage inch by inch. Chrysalis had even committed it to memory. But sitting in this comfy chair, brooding over a faded map brought her some semblance of comfort.
She would occasionally accent her alone-time with some evil cackling, if she was feeling creative.
Then, as all great and totally benevolent monarchs do, she began to monologue to herself.
“I-”
But a loud knock on her study’s door interrupted. With a pained groan, Queen Chrysalis put her head in her hooves.
“This had better be important.”
A muffled voice responded, “My Queen! There has been an inci-”
“Open the door, you incapable waste of chitin!”
“At Once, My Queen!” An armored drone shouted as he opened the door.
He saluted and stood at attention.
“..... Oh by the-” Chrysalis groaned yet again, “now you may tell me your message.”
“My Queen, there has been an incident in the nursery! The Broodmothers requested your presence!”
The queen hmm’ed. “Ah, right. The Prince. He must have gotten aggressive when he was not fed with the lower drones.”
The guard shook his head, “No, My Queen. The incident was during the First Lesson.”
Chrysalis slowly straightened up and turned to face the guard. “The First Lesson?”