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// Chapter 4 
// Story: The Blueblood Papers: Bound By Blood 
// by Raleigh 
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I will not provide a day-by-day account of what happened on that hill; largely because it all tends to blur together in my memory and I struggle to recall what exactly happened on each particular day.  All that I can recall in any real detail, aside from various bits and pieces that I will do my best to recount, is how I felt throughout the whole ordeal -- alone, depressed, and utterly exhausted.  Not that I could ever show any of it in front of the soldiers, of course, as propriety demanded that I maintain an air of aloof, aristocratic self-assuredness and a damned pig-headed optimism even as we starved together atop a stupid hill whose tactical and strategic importance I had long since ceased to care about.

From what I could work out, in spite of their unusual chivalry earlier the Changelings were rather miffed that we hadn’t done the expected thing and ran away back down the hill with our tails between our hindlegs.  I suppose I ought to give General Market Garden some credit, for her stubborn insistence that we hold these bloody hills appeared to have stumped the enemy somewhat; with their total mastery of the air, any retreat would have been mercilessly exploited and turned into a chaotic rout, but now that we were resolutely not doing that, Chela had no choice but to grind her forces down into nothing by hurling them against our entrenched positions.  This post hoc justification might seem all well and good with the benefit of distance and hindsight, but at the time I was pretty damned unhappy about the prospect of my mortal body being used as a mere roadblock.  After all, it wasn’t the generals trapped on the hill, sweating during the day and shivering through the night, starving, dehydrated, sick, and being shot at, bitten, and stabbed by Changelings.  Still, forty-eight hours didn’t seem so bad, thought I, considering that I had been through such horrifying events like the gas attack on Virion Hive and a school camping trip.

We managed six days.

Six days I spent living in a filthy hole in the ground with Cannon Fodder, Frostbite, Square Basher, and four other ponies whose names and faces have been lost to the mists of a failing memory, ducking under deadly hails of cannon balls, musket fire, and shrapnel, and venturing out only to answer the call of nature or help our dwindling number of ponies fend off wave after wave of Changelings hurling themselves at our entrenched positions through land and sky.  Long, tedious hours passed where I huddled in the base of it, with nothing to do except try to catch up on lost sleep, which were interrupted by those short, sharp bursts of violence seemingly at random.  

Each attack was always preceded with artillery and dive-bombing by Changeling grenadiers.  Fortunately for us, that unicorn ensign who just so happened to be unlucky enough to be selected to relay Colonel Sunshine Smiles’ message earlier also turned out to be something of a prodigy when it came to shield magic, and was able to keep us all mostly safe during the more intense moments.  As the only other unicorn present, I was often called upon to lend him what meagre strength I could muster, as being rather young and untrained he had yet to build up the sort of stamina required for sustained use of magic.  [Blueblood is often dismissive of his own magical aptitude, having graded poorly in school.  While his own ability with spells is lacking, more out of a refusal to practice than anything else, he could still draw on large reserves of raw power, perhaps in part due to his distant alicorn lineage.]  We would huddle at the base of our pitiful little foxhole, the ensign straining with the energy and concentration required to project the shield over us, which flared and flashed bright white and angry reds as each cannonball and shell smashed into it, while I held his small, shivering body with my horn touched to his, funnelling my own power into the shield.  Later, when it was briefly over, Square Basher would always make sure that he received extra rations.

Then, with a sort of grim inevitability, the drones would come in a vast wave as they had always done, like the stormy sea to crash upon the rocks and cliffs that were our trenches.  As skilled as our ensign was with shields, they could not last forever, especially against the tidal wave that was a massed swarm assault.  The shield inevitably failed, and the enemy descended over ground and from the air.  The resulting effect was the same as always: they would charge on, we would hold our fire until the last possible moment for maximum effect and to conserve powder, but no matter how many were felled they kept on coming, and it all descended into the madness of hoof-to-hoof fighting as it always did.  We brawled over holes in the ground, losing a few, only to retake them with a renewed counter-assault.  And such it was, over and over, day in and day out -- slaughter over holes in the ground.

The battle beyond raged incessantly around us, and our little trapped company was only one small part of it.  Yet the abject hopelessness of our situation seems to have made it all the more memorable in the collective memory of the general public, compared to the other tales of heroism and glory, and pain and suffering, that took place throughout that awful week.  What was going on elsewhere atop these hills I had no idea at the time, though when I dared to peek my un-helmeted head out of the hole I called home I could sometimes make out glimpses of further violence and senseless carnage taking place elsewhere, beyond the confines of this damned hill and the Changelings that surrounded us.  More than that, however, I could hear the distant rumble of artillery and the muffled crackle of far-off musket fire, and as I could only see those remote glimpses of pegasi and Changelings clashing in the skies above and the white-grey plumes of smoke blossoming amidst specks on faraway hills, I had only my imagination to rely upon for any clue as to what was going on elsewhere.  Not that it truly mattered to me, of course, having rather more immediate problems to deal with in the shape of hundreds of drones surrounding our tiny island in the midst of the raging sea, but throughout this thoroughly miserable week I still held out for the vague hope that somepony out there was thinking of poor old me enough to mount a rescue.

That was not to be, of course, for the enemy, apparently under the delusion that I was somehow crucial to the entire Equestrian war effort and that everypony would pack up and go home were I to be killed or captured, had elected to devote a considerable amount of effort in eradicating our little pocket of resistance that might have been better spent elsewhere.  Nevertheless, as I’ve said, officers and generals are just as ruled by their emotions as much as anypony else, and the same invariably applies to the Changelings; whoever was in charge over there, beyond the gulf of the No Mare’s Land that separated us, probably wanted to be the one to drag me, Princess Celestia’s nephew, in chains before Queen Chrysalis and thus secure a promotion, knighthood, a medal, or whatever it was that their misbegotten kind received to celebrate a job well done.  Extra rations, probably, now that I think about it.

The first forty-eight hours passed with some measure of optimism amongst the ponies of Frostbite’s company.  Though cut-off and surrounded, we had already given the enemy a bloody nose and there yet remained hope that we would be rescued, so while my own natural pessimism precluded me from joining in with their shared delusion, I could at least understand where it came from.  However, as the sun set on the second day and we were still stuck on the summit of that damned hill, it became readily apparent that General Market Garden’s estimate of two days for a rescue was, at best, optimistic, and, at worse, a lie, and that optimism slowly faded into a sort of grim, fatalistic determination.

“They won’t just leave us here,” said Captain Frostbite, as he stared out down at the Equestrian side of the slope, where our most direct way back home was blocked off by an encampment of Changelings.  He then looked at me with a pleading expression on his face, and added, “Will they?”

“Equestria expects every pony to do their duty,” I said flatly.  What else could I say in that situation?  Nevertheless, as with jazz what was not said was just as important, if not more so, and in that shared look we conveyed to one another without words an agreement on our feelings of helplessness and betrayal.  And speaking of jazz, the sort that sounds like the entire band playing all of the notes they can as quickly as possible with seemingly no concept of melody would be a fair description of my mental state at the time.

The nights offered no respite.  Under the cover of darkness, the enemy would try to sneak small teams in close, usually disguising themselves as small animals or rocks to get past the sentries.  More often than not, they succeeded in slipping through our increasingly strained ponies on watch, whose attention and alertness had been withered by the constant stress of hunger, thirst, lack of sleep, and the threat of a violent end in the dark.  Usually, we would only be alerted to their presence by sudden cries in the night as somepony somewhere was set upon by these nocturnal assassins.  The fighting that would then break out in each foxhole and trench was typically short, confused, and vicious.  It was these little events, sometimes up to four times a night, that chipped away at the strength of our company the most, both materially in terms of ponies left alive and emotionally.  Sleep became almost impossible, as nodding off meant the increased likelihood of a knife between one’s ribs.

At each dusk an undeclared truce was observed, where there would be a break in the seemingly endless artillery bombardment and the waves of Changeling attacks, and we were granted an all-too-brief moment to emerge out of foxholes and entrenchments to take stock of our worsening situation.  The two days’ worth of oat rations that each soldier carried in their knapsacks stretched out for four days with careful rationing and looting of our dead, and while there was little in the way of grass suitable for grazing up here, the dry, tasteless, nutrition-deficient substitutes that clung to life here at least suppressed the feelings of hunger for a short time.  Ammunition, too, was running low, but as Square Basher had helpfully pointed out, bayonets and hooves require nothing but what Faust had already granted us.

More importantly, perhaps, it allowed Captain Frostbite to speak directly with his ponies.  In these holes on top of the hill, the barriers between officers and enlisted rapidly broke down with our shared hardships, despite my best efforts.  I suppose after one night huddling together for warmth it was impossible to maintain such an elevated position.  Nevertheless, they all seemed to appreciate his efforts in keeping our beleaguered little band together.

“Everypony’s counting on us,” he’d tell them every single night, and they would all nod and agree and say how they’re all with him to the end.

[Blueblood glosses over his own contribution to maintaining the morale and fighting spirit of the company during its time on the hill.  Interviews with other survivors of the company not only praise Captain Frostbite’s leadership, but also Prince Blueblood’s example in equal measure; the value of a prince of the realm and a recognised war hero sharing in their misfortune without complaint should not be overlooked.]

As for water, our situation was much more precarious; what each pony carried in canteens had to be eked out as much as possible, leading to dehydration amongst the ranks that was only worsened by the intense heat of the day and the frantic bursts of demanding physical activity caused by each assault on our desperately-held position.  By the third day, headaches, lethargy, and a sensation of having one’s thoughts seemingly muffled by cotton wool were simply things I had to get used to.  The already lax standards of personal hygiene had to be abandoned completely in order to make our dwindling supply last -- the stench was unimaginable, and only grew more ripe as that week from hell wore on, but by that point anypony left alive up here with me had ceased to care.  The experience, so glorified in the annals of war and that vampiric beast called popular media, had reduced us all to the state of untamed, wild animals, living in our own filth and with no thoughts beyond mere survival to the next day.

On the end of the fourth day, a pegasus squadron had broken through the Changelings’ aerial screen and dropped off a bundle of supplies for us -- food in the form of those hardtack biscuits that seemingly last forever, ammunition and replacement weapons, and, most importantly, many full canteens of water, which we used, perhaps thoughtlessly and wastefully, for brewing tea in the hopes that we would finally be rescued before it would run out again.  The pegasi, apparently shocked at the dishevelled state we were in, with Yours Truly almost unrecognisable with the beginnings of a beard and a uniform that was almost in dusty shreds, nevertheless passed on a message from General Market Garden that our valorous stand on Hill 70 was an inspiration to the entire Equestrian Army to carry on fighting.

We were being sacrificed; that was how it came across to me as I nursed my chipped enamel mug of hot tea and listened to the pegasi explain what they knew about the battle that continued to drag on beyond our tiny position on the hill.  Hive Marshal Chela’s attempt at a knockout punch right from the out had failed, and now the two sides were like boxers in the ring trading blows, each refusing to back down, until one must inevitably keel over from sheer exhaustion.  Our struggle was merely one part of a greater whole, but apparently a rather crucial one as far as the pegasi were concerned as it tied up a disproportionately large section of the Changeling swarm away from the ‘cauldron’, I think they euphemistically called it, where our main effort to grind down the enemy was being exerted.

None of this, however, did much to assuage the feelings of abandonment and betrayal that writhed around within my soul.  Of course, it was the cold mathematics of modern war that meant that our valiant sacrifice here provided an excellent diversion for Market Garden to exploit, but all the justification in the world could not stop me from feeling hungry, exhausted, desperately thirsty, and just downright awful, and nor, as I had seen it, vindicate the deaths of those ponies who defended that damned hill.  Ponies will often speak of the war and make grand speeches about the need for sacrifice in the name of Harmony, as long as it’s somepony else making that sacrifice on their behalf.

The pegasi left us, taking hastily-written letters to loved ones back with them, and the sun set on another day here.  Their visit and the news and supplies they brought buoyed the flagging morale amongst our meagre band, who now numbered perhaps two thirds of the original company, and had now been reassured that they had not been forgotten by their leaders.

That optimism lasted until the next morning, when the Changelings, apparently frustrated by our continued refusal to give up, resorted to poison gas to smoke us out.  I recall vividly the frantic cries of ‘gas!’ repeated over and over across our hill, as the shells, trailing putrescent grey-green smoke, descended down upon our already-perilous position.  As my foxhole filled with this choking miasma, I fumbled with the newfangled type of gas mask that we had all recently been issued with.  The chemical-soaked bag worn over the head had been replaced with a shaped canvas mask with length of rubber tubing connecting the mouthpiece to a filter canister held in a box worn on one’s back, which gave one the impression of a sort of brain-damaged elephant.  The straps that secured it around one’s head might have given a better seal against the poisoned air, but as the deadly fog swirled around us, already bringing stinging tears to my eyes and burning my nose and throat, such was my growing panic as it continued to seep through the gaps around my cheeks and jaw that my magic seemed incapable of manipulating the buckles to tighten it correctly.

It was Cannon Fodder who saved me, yet again.  Having secured his own mask somehow with only his hooves, he silently adjusted the straps on mine until the appropriately tight and protective seal could be formed.  I gave him my thanks, though my voice was heavily muffled by the mask and the filter.  The others in the foxhole had managed to put theirs on just fine, and I felt rather embarrassed that I had needed help.

[Though the use of poison gas was quite rare during the Changeling War, especially during the more mobile Heartlands Campaign, both sides would employ this controversial weapon against entrenched positions, such as Virion Hive as before and in this one instance in the Battle of Natalensis Hive.  The Equestrian Army, however, in preparation for the new campaign had feared mass deployment of chrysaline gas by the enemy and had issued troops with the new model of gas mask modelled on captured Changeling designs, which was a stark improvement on the older models.  Soldiers were drilled to put on their gas masks in seconds, though it appeared that Blueblood had neglected to practice.]

The gas sank and settled at the bottom of our foxhole, swirling around our legs as we waited for the inevitable.  It was damned hard work to breathe in this thing, having to suck air through a mouthpiece that rapidly filled with saliva and had that odd, metallic taste imparted by the purifying crystals packed into the filter box.  In this heat, wearing a canvas mask over one’s head in addition to a peaked wool cap, or a helmet if one was lucky, also caused the damned thing to fill with sweat too.  The goggles rapidly misted over despite the supposed benefits of the anti-fog paste, so that I could scarcely see, either.  Huddled against the earthen wall of our hole as though that might somehow protect me, I could only think that this would finally be the end of it all, and after the past few days of living in this damned hole, venturing out and braving sharpshooters just for the privilege of answering the call of nature in the communal latrines, I might have welcomed it.

The enemy came as they always did, in mass waves to overwhelm our fragile position.  Swarms of them, with their faces too covered by protective respirators to make them seem even more in-equine, were hurled against our position, the fighting devolved into an all-out brawl, and they were thrown back again, as they had always been since the start of this horror.  Except this time our ensign didn’t make it; this young chap, whose name goes unremembered but whose efforts, more than anypony else’s, allowed us to endure in this hell for so long, hadn’t secured his new gas mask correctly and had thus died asphyxiating on his own melting lungs, entirely unnoticed in the chaos.  We found him while we counted our dead, far too many this time, curled up in a ball at the bottom of our foxhole, his still body stiff, and when we pulled off his mask the congealed blood and slime that had collected inside splashed out on my hooves.

On the dawn of the sixth day, a lone Changeling drone with a white flag was spotted advancing on our position.  Captain Frostbite, looking like a bedraggled, hollowed-out shadow of his former self (and I would wager that I looked no better), peered out over the lip of our little foxhole and watched him.

“Maybe they’re giving up, eh?” said Frostbite, still somehow clinging to the last shreds of optimism despite everything we had endured thus far.

“Not bloody likely,” I said, taking a rather more realistic approach to things.  It was about damned time, too, thought I.  After six days of this I’d entirely had enough and was more than willing to take Changeling captivity over yet another awful night here; at least they’d have to feed me if they wanted me alive enough to be harvested for love, and whatever it was they fed their slaves had to be a damned sight more palatable than hardtack biscuits.

The drone carried on, waving his little white flag in the air from time to time as though to make sure that we saw it.  He walked at what seemed like an agonisingly slow pace, as, just like pulling off a plaster, I just wanted the embarrassment of our surrender over and done with as quickly as possible.

“That’s close enough!” called out Frostbite.  His voice cracked under the strain of the past week’s exertions.

The drone obliged and stopped about twenty paces from our foxhole, still waving his flag.  Looking around, I saw that in the surrounding entrenchments other ponies likewise peered out over the gulf of No Mare’s Land to observe.

“Well?” Frostbite shouted.  “What is it?”

The Changeling cleared his throat, and then spoke in a clear voice that projected surprisingly well across the gulf between us: “Brave Equestrians, you have done all that the honour of war requires and more!  But there is no point in continuing this fighting; you are outnumbered, outgunned, and completely surrounded.  You have been abandoned!  Your generals have left you all here to die, but Hive Marshal Chela offers you the chance to save your lives in an honourable and dignified surrender.  You will be treated well and looked after as prisoners of war.  If you refuse our generous offer, we will attack with overwhelming firepower and numbers.”

Well, that was jolly nice of them, I thought, and I looked to Frostbite in the expectation that he’d do the sensible thing and agree to their generous terms.  He, however, remained silent as he slipped back down under the lip of the foxhole, his face blank and unreadable.

“Bloody liars,” said Square Basher, snarling like the beast she increasingly resembled, before quickly adding a quiet ‘sir’.  “Nopony gets left behind, that’s the ‘Guards way, sir.  They wouldn’t just leave us here.”

And that blind optimism is what got just about everypony else killed.  Still, there was something comforting about that way of thinking, that if we just held out a little bit longer then our comrades would come valiantly to our rescue.  I could picture it vividly: the ponies in gleaming gold and silver armour crashing into the vast horde that surrounded us, putting the wretched enemy to flight, followed by a nice warm bath and a mug of hot cocoa, medals all ‘round, and a well-deserved trip to the nearest house of ill-repute to celebrate with a mare or two.  It was so tantalising, that in my desperate state even I bought into the delusion; besides, it was not as though anything I could say would dissuade Captain Frostbite, on whose shoulders the responsibility ultimately rested, from the course of action he was already set upon.  Nevertheless, it was worth a try.

“Captain Frostbite, I think we should at least consider the option of surrender,” I said.  “The soldiers have already given all that they can.”

“They’ll give more, sir,” snapped Square Basher.  “We just need to hold out a little longer.  The enemy is breaking, I can feel it.  They’re bluffing; they’re getting desperate.”

Captain Frostbite stared vacantly into space as we argued, and it was the sort of look that I had seen all too often in my career of a pony who had come to the realisation that everything was completely and utterly ruined and that all hope had gone.  “Prince Blueblood?” he said quietly.  “Tell him to fuck off.”

I was sorely tempted to tell him to take that idea to Tartarus too, and then waltz out of the foxhole into the welcoming hooves of our new Changeling captors, but that’s not something Commissar-Prince Blueblood was supposed to have done.  Perhaps some ponies would still be alive now if I’d taken that choice, perhaps not, but as ever any choice I had in life was merely an illusory one.  Few things would sink my reputation faster than admitting to a surrender, even if it was to ultimately save lives, especially my own.  That little fantasy of our final heroic rescue and the delusion of hope it brought was what nudged me into going along with this madness, and to this day I regret that I was too deluded, too weak, to say those difficult words ‘we surrender’.

Besides, I couldn’t use Frostbite’s exact words, not even to the Changelings.  I poked my head out of the foxhole again, and shouted back at the drone waiting patiently out there in No Mare’s Land, “I’d love to surrender, but as a prince of Equestria I can only give myself up to a royal of equivalent rank or higher!”

The Changeling drone blinked.  The warm breeze made his white flag flutter anxiously from its pole.  “What?” he finally blurted out.

“Please present a Changeling prince or a princess to accept my surrender; giving myself up to a common drone is entirely beneath my station.  Even Queen Chrysalis would do.”  An awkward silence descended, where the drone, apparently confounded by Yours Truly going off-script, stood there with his little bug-like face screwed up in confusion, so I added, “Is there anything else?”

He said nothing, but lowered his flag, turned around slowly, and skulked off back to his own lines with the white cloth trailing behind him.  There was something quite sad about the way he walked, and in hindsight that was probably an indication of what was to come.  With that done and our fate sealed, I dipped back to the relative safety of the foxhole.

It was shortly after that when the Changelings brought what looked like every artillery piece they owned and pointed it directly at our position, and it was at that moment that I considered perhaps I had made a terrible mistake.  There appeared to be thousands of them, arranged in a semi-circle down the slope at much closer range than before.  Maybe it wasn’t too late to change my mind, I hoped, before they would unleash a hail of shot and steel to rip us all into shreds with.  Yours Truly surrendering after that little stunt was hardly a good look, but that was before I was staring down the barrels of dozens of heavy guns; it was the sort of sight that truly made one reconsider one’s priorities in life, and mine had just been nudged even further into the realm of selfish self-preservation.  I watched the crews unlimber the guns, unpack barrels of gunpowder and bags of roundshot and canister, and plot out firing trajectories by doing sums in the dusty ground.  They were not far, and certainly at that range they could not fail to miss, and even if our little holes in the ground would protect us from the worst of the direct fire, they had only to fly overhead and drop grenades directly on top of us.

I was struck by a startling moment of clarity.  It was stupid; I had been monumentally stupid, moreso than usual, and all for blind optimism and a witty quip that now gets recited to me ad nauseum by ponies who think they are being clever by repeating something I said decades ago.  Well, I had changed my mind, and at that moment I ceased to care what Frostbite, Cannon Fodder, Square Basher, or any other pony on Faust’s green Equus would think of me.  If they all wanted to lose their lives in a ludicrous Colts’ Own adventure then that was their choice, so be it, but at least I would be alive to worry about my sunken reputation later.  Gripped by a manic sort of fear, I reared up on my hindlegs, planted my forelegs over the edge of the foxhole, and hoisted myself up in a most undignified manner that had me kicking my rear hooves uselessly as I climbed over the lip.  I rolled out into No Mare’s Land with rather less dignity than my more usual escapes out of bedroom windows, saw the drones gaping in surprise at me, and I then picked myself up and trotted off merrily in their direction.

Any positive feeling at having finally escaped this nightmare was then utterly crushed when I heard a great cry rise up from behind me -- voices ragged by dehydration, hunger, and raw desperation, but still with enough life in them to strike fear into my heart, bellowed out in a single, wordless scream of rage.  I dared to look over my shoulder to see what remained of our company, perhaps three dozen ponies, likewise struggling out of their trenches and foxholes.  They each brandished muskets, bayonets, and even mess tins.

“Follow the Commissar!” roared Captain Frostbite, rearing up on his hindlegs and pointing in the general direction of the enemy.  “Follow Prince Blueblood to death or glory!”

This was the precise opposite of what I had intended, and I wasn’t all that keen on death or glory either.  I’ll never know why ponies seem to think those are the only two options in life.  Our ragged little band of starved, crazed ponies in bedraggled uniform and matted fur galloped past me in a full charge, though others, driven mad by the ordeal, limped along behind.  Cannon Fodder, whose standard of cleanliness and hygiene inexplicably remained unchanged throughout our messy ordeal, appeared by my side and took it upon himself to urge me forwards to keep up with the assault I had started entirely by accident.

“Your sword, sir!” he shouted.

I should have left the damned thing behind, thought I, but now that this final moment of insanity had started I might as well be seen to take part in it.  Reluctantly, I drew my sabre with a steely rasp that briefly drowned out the maddened, hoarse cries of my comrades, and quickened my pace, though making sure that I would still linger at the back of the formation.

The Changelings seemed to be too shocked to do anything; not one cannon fired, even though a well-placed blast of canister shot would have ripped what little remained of our exposed company into bloody shreds.  Instead, apparently terrified by the bizarre sight, the crews simply turned and fled, abandoning their guns -- it was not as though any ponies were in a particularly fit state to use them.  A triumphant cry rose up from the disorganised mob that our once-disciplined ranks had become, though that was invariably short-lived when the enemy’s infantry, having swiftly recovered from the shock of watching us doing something that defied all logic, military or otherwise, turned back to finish us off.

The mad brawl that ensued resembled more of a brutal pub fight than a battle, and I dare say that our showing was pretty dire.  The drones closed in around our lacklustre charge just as its energy petered out, and with hooves and fangs took it upon themselves to dismantle what was left of our formation.  Yet though our ponies fought with the bestial fury of those who have already thought themselves doomed and dead, it was not enough against the ruthless fanaticism of the enemy.  I watched the comrades I had shared that hill with stomped, stabbed, gutted, and slaughtered, and though they continued to give a good account of themselves in taking as many drones with them as they could with bayonet and sword, it became readily apparent that this madness had to end.

I threw my sword down, unbloodied in this last charge, at the hooves of the drones advancing upon me.  “That’s enough!” I cried out desperately.  “We give up!  Please, we give up!”

The slaughter ceased, and there were perhaps fifteen of the original one hundred ponies left standing, who, having spent the last of their energy and finally seeing sense, followed my example and laid down their weapons on the dusty ground and stepped back with both relief and grief etched upon their faces.  Of course, there was no guarantee that the Changelings would respect the so-called rules of war, especially after we had been a damned thorn in their side for nearly an entire week, but I reasoned that they had nothing to gain from abusing or murdering us when it had become abundently clear that they had at long last won.  I imagine that it must have been quite the novel experience for them.

For a while it seemed that the drones had no idea of what to do with us, and stood back at a respectable distance brandishing bayonets and their own hooves transformed into blades, glowering and hissing.  Then one drone, perhaps an NCO or whatever version they have, stepped forwards to pick up my sword off the ground.

“It’s him,” said one of their number, his thin, reedy voice quivering with awe.  “It’s the Black Prince!”

“We got him!” cried another.  “They’ll have to give us rations tonight!”

“I want his hat!”  One, apparently bolder than the rest, darted forwards and snatched the offending article off the top of my head.  As far as I was concerned he was welcome to the hateful thing, and he wore it a damned sight better than I did.  

That, unfortunately, only encouraged the others, and soon I was mobbed by drones who all wanted a souvenir from Yours Truly: the medals pinned to my chest, the brass buttons on my coat, and even going through my pockets to take my wallet and my new hipflask, which was sadly empty.  Their cold, clammy hooves grabbed the desired items and tore them free, leaving holes in my uniform where the tarnished buttons and medals used to be and ripping the stitching on my pockets.  They were none too gentle about it either, and I was being pushed, shoved, and jostled about as the drones each demanded a piece of the Black Prince to take home with them.  Cannon Fodder shouted his protest and tried to push them away from me, but my valiant aide was soon overwhelmed.  I was powerless to do anything about it, except throw up my forehooves and try to ward off the more aggressive of the trophy-hunters.  One of them found Slab, and apparently disappointed at receiving a small sheet of slate where his fellows had taken something shiny and valuable, dropped him carelessly on the ground and tried again in another pocket.  Arguments soon broke out over the more prized items, like the Order of the Crescent Moon and the Flash Magnus Star that had adorned my breast, and what should have been a dignified surrender was rapidly turning into a ridiculous, foalish squabble.  Another drone, however, found the small Amythest Star medal, adorned with my cousin Cadance’s profile, and when I saw her kind, friendly expression rendered in crystal gripped in the filthy hooves of a Changeling that snapped me out of my dumb stupor.

“You give that back!” I shouted suddenly, and grabbed the frame with my magic.

The drone snarled and hissed, showing her sharp fangs and forked tongue, and pulled harder at the little medal that suddenly meant so much to me.  However, I was not about to let it go without a fight, and especially when I had an unspecified length of time in Changeling captivity to look forward to, that portrait miniature of one of the few ponies who would be genuinely upset at my capture might become my only source of comfort.  Elsewhere, too, I became aware of some other altercation between the victorious drones and the defeated ponies involving personal belongings being absconded with, but I was much too tired, drained, and fixated on my own silly thing that I paid little attention to it.  Really, in hindsight we should not have expected their sort to abide by our rules about looting even after Captain Lacewing’s unexpected display of chivalrous behaviour.

Just as it looked as though it might lead to further violence, the squabble halted.  This drone raised her hoof as if to strike me so she could take the medal for herself, but as I began to recoil from the blow that was sure to come, she looked away, lowered her appendage, let go of my treasured item, and stepped back.  A sudden change came over the Changelings that was as unsettling as it was abrupt.  They became quite subdued and restrained in their manner now; the little fights over meagre possessions now ceased, and they all retreated a few steps to give us some space.  I thought that perhaps there was something to the old hive mind theory of how Purestrains exerted control over their hordes, but when I saw said figure slip through the parting mob of drones and observed the peculiar look of reverence and devotion in the ugly, bug-like faces of the enemy I realised the truth of what Odonata had said about their blind, fanatical loyalty to their leaders.

“My soldiers, I am disappointed in you,” said the Purestrain as she emerged into my view.  She was tall, as most of their lot were, towering over her smaller, likely malnourished subordinates, with a slim frame.  Oddly for a Changeling she wore a uniform and it seemed to be modelled on that of an Equestrian field marshal - it consisted of a dark grey wool coat with a high collar and green piping, buttoned up with brass buttons, and with an assortment of peculiar medals on the right side of her chest.  This uniform was rather lived-in, though clean and obviously well cared-for by a devoted valet.

“You are supposed to be professionals,” she continued, and her drones had the good sense to look suitably admonished.  “I trained you as such, to be worthy of the noble cause of defending our hives from the invaders.  These ponies have done nothing but fight with the dedication and honour that I expect from each of you; they are to be treated with the respect that they are due as gallant opponents on the field of war.  Return their belongings.”

I was quite surprised to have my things returned to me in full, with the exception of my sword, and I very quickly stuffed them all back where they belonged in my torn pockets.  Except for Slab, however, who remained on the ground where he had been tossed and forgotten about, so he had to be retrieved.  The buttons and medals I had to hold onto, as affixing them back on my ruined uniform was impractical.

Having finished the sort of patronising lecture that would not have gone amiss from an older Royal Guard officer admonishing recruits in basic training, she turned to me and smiled with a stiff, polite bow.  “Prince Blueblood, I am pleased to meet you.  I am sorry that we cannot bring our Queen here at such short notice, but I hope that a Hive Marshal is of sufficient rank to accept your surrender.  I am Chela.”

So this was the infamous Hive Marshal Chela, allegedly the bestest general of the entire conflict according to some (while I’m in not much of a position to comment, they still ultimately lost the war, so she couldn’t have been that brilliant).  The overall impression, however, was not quite as fearsome as her reputation otherwise implied; if anything, the uniformed Purestrain standing before me seemed disarmingly ‘normal’, as far as their kind went, if a little too affected in the sort of polite, ladylike persona she was trying to present.  What was lacking was the slavering fanaticism that bordered on mental illness that most of their kind I had met possessed, or Odonata’s cold, calculating, and domineering streak.  I suppose if I had to be locked in a room and forced to make small talk with a Changeling, I would not have been as upset if said bug happened to be Chela.

I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation at the time, however, and speaking hurt my parched throat.  All that I could do for the foreseeable was stand there mutely and stare.

“Where is the officer in command?” asked Chela, looking around.  “I wish to congratulate him for his spirited and tenacious defence.”

“Dead.”  Sergeant Major Square Basher pushed her way through the disorganised mob of surviving ponies, carrying what looked to me like a heap of armour on her broad back, but when she emerged out into the open I saw that it was indeed Captain Frostbite.  I had lost sight of him when the charge devolved into a brawl; he was right behind me, I was certain, but what happened to him exactly when the enemy closed in around us I hadn’t a clue.  The look on her face said it all, however, as guilt was etched upon every weary line that creased it -- she was supposed to have looked after the young officer, as she had said in my tent in what felt like half an eternity ago, but had failed for the second time.

“Ah.”  Chela bowed her head and shook it sadly.  “A noble sacrifice for his country.  We shall bury him with all due military honours.”

It was quite the shock, I’ll tell you that much, and I was quite surprised at how much it affected me.  I had barely had the time to know the stallion, and now I never will.  Though he had been rather flakey at the start, he was shaping up to be a solid and dependable officer; I doubt few others would have motivated their ponies to hold on in these appalling conditions for as long as we had.  Once again, I had survived where perhaps a more deserving pony had not, but should have.  There was nothing that I could say or do, except try to keep the raging emotions within me contained beneath a veneer of aristocratic implacability -- anger, hate, self-loathing, despair, trepidation, and relief all fought with one another in a no-holds-barred hoof-fight in my mind for dominance, and it was all that I could do to keep myself from breaking down and sobbing.  At least, for now, it was over, and an uncertain future lay before me like the vast desert of the Badlands stretching into infinity.

“You’ll all be well taken care of,” said Hive Marshal Chela, and though I suspected the usual sort of ulterior motive behind that I could detect nothing but sincerity in her voice.  “And Prince Blueblood, you must join me for dinner tonight.  I’ll have my adjutant provide you with the necessary…”

“Chela!” a loud, gruff voice called out from behind her.

Her expression, which had been quite pleasant considering the circumstances, screwed up into a distinct scowl more befitting a Purestrain as another Changeling emerged from the horde surrounding us.  This specimen of their peculiar race was closer to what I had come to expect from Purestrains, in that he, for I assumed the creature to be one, appeared to be barely capable of sapient thought.  He wore no uniform, though his rank was made perfectly clear by his imposing size, towering over Yours Truly by at least a head, and his brutish appearance and manners.  Curiously, I could make out what appeared to be some sort of brand applied to the chitin on his upper left chest, which crudely resembled the green flame symbol I had seen elsewhere in their iconography, topped with a three-pronged crown.  There was a profoundly irritated look on his malformed face, but it could just as easily have been his usual expression at rest.  In spite of myself, I took an involuntary step backwards closer to Square Basher and Cannon Fodder.

“Scarabaeus,” said Chela, addressing the newcomer.  Then, apparently having already tired of conversing with the thuggish Purestrain, turned her attention back to me, “Prince Blueblood, this is Scarabaeus, the Queen’s Attendant assigned to watch over me.  I suppose they’re similar to your commissars, only-”

This ‘Queen’s Attendant’, as Chela described him, hissed at her in a disgusting, bestial fashion, rudely interrupting the Hive Marshal, who sniffed haughtily but otherwise kept quiet.  He jabbed an enormous, ungainly lump of a forehoof directly at me, as though I had been directly responsible for whatever grief he had been put through, and snarled, “Is this what held up your war-swarm for a week?”

Although I felt dead on my hooves, I could not help but quip, “Not bad; we were only ordered to do it for two days.”

***

[As Prince Blueblood’s very personal account leaves a great deal of other detail lacking, it is necessary to return to Paperweight’s ‘A Concise History of the Changeling Wars’ to place his testimony in proper context.  At the time he would not have had a clear understanding of how the battle was progressing, and, as ever, is content to describe things from his own narrow perspective.  The context around the decisions made by Market Garden and Hardscrabble is sorely missed in this manuscript, but I believe it is necessary for understanding the events that led to his last stand on Hill 70.]

The opening stages of the Battle of Natalensis Hive appeared to have gone badly for the Equestrians.  Having taken the bait, I Corps advanced on the high ground to the north east of the city, whereupon Equestrian airborne troops were driven from the skies by Hive Marshal Chela’s innovative swarm tactics.  The 3rd, 7th, and 12th Divisions of I Corps had been badly mauled by Chela’s war-swarm and retreated in disorder through a Changeling gauntlet.  The Guards Division withstood the assault but had become almost completely surrounded by the swarm.  The narrow route of escape back down the slope must have looked tempting to the beleaguered officers on the hills, however, it was then that Market Garden had made the controversial decision to forbid Major-General Garnet from withdrawing his division from the exposed high ground.

A famous anecdote best illustrates Market Garden’s methodical and unflinching approach to encountering setbacks in battle.  Field Marshal Hardscrabble was observing from General Market Garden’s headquarters as this took place, where he remarked, “Well, it would appear that a general retreat might be in order now.”  Market Garden was seen to stare up at the Guards Division on the hill for a few moments, surrounded on three sides and in the air by the swarm, and replied, “Retreat, sir?  But Chela has just blundered!  I have her right where I want her!”  Hardscrabble was seen to smile and nod, and the two went into the tent to plan the counter-attack.

Hive Marshal Chela had clearly planned for another lightning assault that would sweep away the Equestrian forces, as she had done many times on the Eastern Theatre of the war.  Market Garden’s decision, however, had turned what might have been a swift victory for the Changelings into a gruelling battle of attrition that the latter could not sustain.  The Guards Division had secured a defensible high ground, albeit at the cost of aerial superiority, and the remainder of I Corps had regrouped for a counter-attack.  Chela had to choose between yielding the high ground overlooking Natalensis Hive to Market Garden, or trying to push the Equestrians back by engaging in the sort of pitched battle that the Changelings had tried to avoid for the entire war.  In the end the choice was made for Chela, when Chrysalis forbade her from retreating.  The two armies were now fully committed to a brutal, week-long, back-and-forth slog over the high ground.

Casualties were high on both sides.  In what was referred to by Chela as ‘the Wasps’ Nest’, the Guards Division had been split into a series of pockets atop the high ground, where they dug in and repulsed seemingly endless attacks by the Changelings.  Attempts to reduce these pockets were stymied by repeated counter-attacks by the rest of I Corps, which allowed most of the isolated units to break out and regroup into a more cohesive defensive line on the hills.  

The 3rd Company of the Night Guards on Hill 70 could not, as the Changelings devoted a disproportionate amount of forces to trying to eliminate that pocket.  The one hundred ponies occupied a key position that would have allowed the enemy to outflank the bulk of the Guards Division, and would subject them to withering fire.  Furthermore, as the tide turned against the Changelings, the capture of Commissar Prince Blueblood seemed a promising consolation prize.  The company held out for six days against overwhelming odds, before the remainder finally surrendered.

On the seventh day, Hive Marshal Chela ordered a withdrawal, despite demands from Queen Chrysalis that Natalensis Hive must be held at all costs.  Her tactical brilliance in the opening of the battle had failed against Market Garden’s stubborn determination, and rumours circulated that the invincible Hive Marshal had lost her touch.  Even though she had captured the vital position of Hill 70, the strength of her war-swarms were all but spent in the meal-grinder and retreat was the only option.  General Market Garden had won another costly victory, which allowed her to secure Natalensis Hive in the following days with fresh troops from VII Corps.

However, the immediate public reaction to the battle was overwhelmingly negative, due to the high casualties and the capture of Prince Blueblood.  Equestrian newspapers vilified both Market Garden and Hardscrabble for their performances in the battle.  A false story, likely planted by Changeling infiltrators, circulated that Hardscrabble was drunk throughout.  Market Garden was criticised for a lack of imagination and for failing to identify an obvious trap, and later for her failure to pursue Chela’s retreat south to defensible positions.  In retrospect, it is clear that she had anticipated one of Chela’s tactical sleights of hoof and had planned accordingly.  Instead of panicking and ordering a retreat as the enemy had expected, she turned their supposed advantage against them.  Ordering the Guards Division to stand and fight despite being almost surrounded seems counter-intuitive, but her resolute will forced Chela to submit to a set piece battle and ultimately brought victory.

The Battle of Natalensis Hive marks another moment of escalation, and represents the start of a war of attrition that the Changelings could not possibly win in conventional terms.  Field Marshal Hardscrabble would continue to push the Changeling war-swarms, in spite of losses, having correctly predicted that Equestria’s increasing superiority in ponypower and firepower, combined with a newfound willingness to use those advantages effectively, would overwhelm the Hives to the point of collapse and bring the swiftest possible conclusion to the war.  With each hive city taken or cut off, the Changelings’ ability to sustain both their population and their war effort would diminish to the point where they would have to sue for peace.  Queen Chrysalis’ refusal to allow her swarms to even consider strategic withdrawals only served to accelerate the deterioration of the entire Changeling war effort by bleeding drones and equipment at an unsustainable rate, while Equestria was better able to sustain and replace those losses materially, if not politically.

Queen Chrysalis must have been aware of the worsening situation, made all the more treacherous for her when Princess Celestia, in her capacity as Warmistress of Equestria, made it publicly known that she would only accept peace with the Changelings if Chrysalis was deposed.  As a conventional victory over the Equestrians seemed less and less likely, she would turn to increasingly desperate plans to end the war in her favour, starting immediately with Operation: Sunburn.