The Seal of Wax and Glass
Here the reader may say: "Well, we already know that the ant as an individual is not very intelligent, so why all this fuss about explaining why it cannot be intelligent?"
- Cybernetics and Society, Norbert Wiener
The Endless Sea was so named because, when it was first found, the ponies of Equestria lacked the capacity to measure it, let alone traverse it with any confidence of success. The earliest earth ponies to touch its waters were refugees, displaced and exhausted by the long march eastward. Their humble riverboats could have no hope of surviving such violent and untamed waters for more than a matter of hours. The earth ponies had no distinct goal in mind when they'd set out. They had simply vowed to travel east until they could go no further, and they had finally done so. They were content to settle further inland, exactly as their namesake suggests.
Beyond the purely physical difficulties of traversing the high seas, there was little motive to chart the Endless Ocean's salty expanse. Even the greatest pegasus explorers, renowned for their insatiable curiosity and indomitable wanderlust, lacked the proper endurance to travel across so great an expanse. To this day, only one pegasus has mustered the audacity required to fly eastward, ever eastward, without a backwards glance.
She has yet to return. None believe her dead.
As the generations passed, the long-awaited return to peace between the three races brought with it untold wonders and advances. Chief among them, known today as the Age of Glass, was ushered in by the discovery of the microscope and the telescope. The worlds unseen, within and afar. The latter, coupled with the simple invention of a non-magical compass that could not be baffled by errant arcane fields, soon made possible the Age of Sail.
The competition to find an end to the Endless Ocean was fierce, and costly, but also brief. Once a proper sailboat could be designed to harness the wind, and once sufficient skill was developed to sculpt the heaviest wild storms, a journey of two thousand miles was relatively simple to achieve. earth pony shipwrights, pegasus sky sculptors, and unicorn astronomers combined their efforts, and soon planted a flag on the shore of the facing continent.
Within a generation, the circumference of the Endless Ocean was known in detail. In modern times, some audacious pegasus have even completed this journey unaided by tools, using only their innate gifts to summon forth favorable winds, stable sleeping clouds, and potable water. The Endless Ocean is a challenge for any athlete, and a place rich in history and discovery.
But these days it remains an ocean. Nothing more. Ponies assume there is nothing left to discover.
One thing, above the waves, remains unseen.
******
Nestled against the Eternal Ocean's northern bulge, you may find the Sea of Ghosts. It is the only sea in Equestria without a coastline, for it is an enormous tropical gyre bordered on all sides by water. This sea lies centered on the equator, bounded by the Endless Ocean to the southwest, the swift-moving North Harmonic current above, and a small corner of the Terrapin Stream to the east. The vast circle of flowing water produces a slow but eternal maelstrom.
There is nothing overtly dangerous about this sea. The weather is harmless enough, and the waves are less treacherous than those of the neighboring ocean. But it is precisely this gentleness, the cruel and deceptive mercy of its waters, that poses such an obstacle. Ships that enter soon find their sails empty and lifeless. The stillness of the air renders weather working impractical, if not impossible, for lack of raw magical essence to work with. The eternal fog obscures both the horizon and the stars, frustrating all but the most determined methods of navigation.
An audacious pegasus might attempt to traverse the Sea of Ghosts unaided by technology. But once you enter the wall of formless mist, there is nothing to see but an expanse of white. You could pass within a yard of something without taking notice of it. Or worse, collide with something head on, without an instant's warning. Attempts to fly above the fog are also fruitless, as the atmosphere lacks the vital energy needed for pegasi to sculpt the wind and reach the greater altitudes.
To date, no pony has lost their life in the Sea of Ghosts. The tide causes any ship to drift gradually outward, to the safety of more active waters, perfectly contrary to what one would expect from any natural maelstrom. No restless spirits or vengeful phantoms haunt these waters. It was so named because the water itself seemed dead, and the air with it.
Make no mistake. There are bodies buried beneath the waves. Sunken, nameless husks, innumerable.
But a ghost can only rise from what once possessed a soul.
******
If you somehow have the ability to fly directly along the equator, with absolute precision, you might find something.
As you fly blindly inward, through the depths of the mist, you may stroke your hoof against the surface of the water. If you are unlucky enough, you may eventually come across a grainy texture... like sand, but lighter. More of a powder or dust. If you were to look down, you would realize only now that the water has become jet black. A layer of ash and dust float atop the liquid, growing into larger flakes as you proceed. The surface still ripples like a liquid, but the glossy shine of water is no more.
As your luck continues to worsen, you come to a shoreline. Despite being directly on the equator, there is no sand here. No lush grasses or palm trees. The coast is rocky. The island, what little can be seen through the fog, is a vast field basalt pillars with flat tops, packed so tightly together they might resemble flagstones, were they all the same height.
You land on one, and your hooves click on the wet rock. They make perfect stepping stones. You may have heard of such a phenomenon before, for there is a small island off the coast of Fillydelphia with a similar structure. It's a geographical wonder, and the source of much sightseeing and tourism. In rare cases, volcanic activity causes molten basalt deposits to rise up through chalk beds to form a plateau of lava. As the fluid rock cools, it fractures, much like drying mud, and forms into pillars. If you were to take a sample of this rock back to the mainland, a geologist might identify high concentrations of mica: a mineral with nearly perfect basal cleavage. At present, the information would be useless to you.
It's an impressive sight, and an intriguing geological oddity. But as you look back, you see no earth or soil behind you. If you were to walk across the circumference of this island, you would find no solid earth. Only an expanse of extruded rock, shiny and black, sanded smooth over the millennia by the gentlest waves in Equestria.
What did these pillars emerge from? How high did they rise, to breach the surface?
******
A walkabouts along the coast reveals the island as being large, and roughly circular. Sure enough, you find no solid earth. Only an expanse of extruded rock, shiny and black. If you proceed inland, you see faint flecks of ash drifting through the air like snowflakes, but dry and brittle to the slightest touch. Your coat is soon covered with soot. You look down, wondering why the basalt stones seem clean of dust, and only then notice that the pattern of the ground has changed. It's the same black basalt, but the pillars here are arranged in a hexagonal grid, perfectly measured and orderly.
A few more minutes of walking—for even the simple act of hovering feels wearying for some reason—and your hoof crunches through a faint layer of dry dust. The detritus is thick enough to parody the texture of loose soil. The mist gradually lessens, without ever fully disappearing, and at last you see them looming above you. Trees, you think at first, rising up from the dust at regular, hexagonal intervals. As you approach one, you realize it is a massive flower.
The stem reaches a full twenty yards above the ground, with tiny hairs and thorns covering its surface. Now that visibility is improved, however slightly, you spread your wings and rise up—and you surely are a pegasus, for none other could have come this far—to look at the blossom itself. Surveying its fan of long, narrow petals, you could be forgiven for mistaking it for a common, if enormous, daisy. In truth, it is a Sunset Llamrei, a rare breed of Aster common to the northern mountain range bordering the Crystal Empire. You drift closer to it, hesitant, but curious, before moving on.
Other blossoms come into view. A magnificent Rocinante Clade, with curly, spiral petals bearing a shimmering, metallic green tint. An enormous Veillantif, its narrow black blossom hiding a trove of curving golden rods. A bloody red Eye of Incitatus with a bright yellow center. You never thought you'd see one of these, for this particular strain was nearly eradicated from Equestria... the central stalk is plump and overflowing with enough narcotic opiate to put a dozen of the burliest percherons into a deathly slumber. Only a few such blooms remain, in Celestia’s private garden, to be used for strictly medicinal purposes.
You see hundreds of others, each a unique specimen. As you pass through the colorful orchard, you realize that none of these blossoms originate from the same territory. Many are whole continents removed from each other. These blossoms are all renowned for their delectable perfumes, and yet these samples have no scent. The air here is odorless, as well as still. Even the thick, stinging salt of the ocean is gone from your nostrils.
After a few more minutes of travel, the air becomes swelteringly hot. The mist clears at last, but the cloud layer above continues to blanket out the sky. You see before you the center of the mountain island, and a monument that has gone unseen for many millennia: a monstrously large tree, as thick around as an entire village, and thrusting up through the low-hanging clouds above. The trunk is smooth and cylindrical, and its bark is dull grey, much like stone.
The base of the tree is fixed to the ground by six great curved roots that are perfectly spaced at sixty degree intervals, and whose tips plunge into the island like the talons of a hawk. There are only six slender branches, one situated above each root, jutting out from the sides of the trunk like the prow of a sailing ship. The branches are stripped of any leaves or fruit they may have borne. Instead, the tip of each is hollow, and a great trail of ash and smoke pours from each, filling the air and blanketing the island with rich, fertile, volcanic ash.
As your eyes are drawn down to the base of the trunk, you realize the enormity of it all: the tree has grown directly over the mouth of a volcano. The base of the trunk covers the mouth near completely. The the roots extend across the entire volcano.
******
If you hesitate to approach the tree, your decision will be hastened for you. The sun, little more than a pale haze through the clouds, is setting. The tide will rise soon, and the Sea of Ghosts will engulf the island and wash away the uppermost layer of volcanic ash. In the back of your mind, you realize this is why the vibrant, colorful flowers were largely clean of soot. For your sake, the sea is too kindly. The first wave splashes gently against your hoof, in warning, and you take to the air with time to spare.
You fly up the gentle slope of the volcano and approach the trunk. The heat becomes sweltering, and a steady, dry breeze wafts against you, pushing you back towards the waters. The massive roots, smooth and curved, appear to be petrified. Eventually, you notice a slight space under the base of the tree. It doesn't quite cover the mouth of the volcano, and you see the source of the heat rippling in the air. You approach as close as you dare, but see no light. No sign of erupting, bubbling lava. The volcano is nearly extinct.
You fly up. The tree looks smooth from a distance, but up close you see enormous vertical grooves in the surface, like the bark of an oak. The mist gathers on the side of the tree, and small waterfalls of condensation pour down the grooves in the bark and trickle down the volcano in rivulets. The tang of fresh water hits your nostrils. You could sip from the dew as it falls, if you so desired. There would be no harm in it. It would be the freshest water you've ever tasted.
As you fly up alongside the tree, you reach your limit. Not yours, in truth, but the island's. You knew, intellectually, that you would be unable to fly above the clouds, but this... the firsthand experience is altogether unexpected. Striking. The air here is empty and devoid of the vital energies that hum throughout the rest of Equestria's atmosphere. The sensation is impossible to describe with conventional senses... it feels parched. Mundane. The air here is every bit as dull and lifeless as the waters.
You circle around the trunk, and discover a small feature, barely noticeable amidst the jagged grey bark. A tiny hole. Not a natural knot, but a carved, hexagonal opening. You fly into the shadows within and encounter a powerful updraft... a channel of dry, volcanic air threatens to sweep you up. You back away quickly, and upon careful inspection, notice faint scrape marks worn into the stone. Centuries of hoof marks, faint and indistinct. This was a perch once. A portal.
You might hesitate. None would blame you. You might continue to search the trunk, and find other such openings. Twelve in total, arranged in neat pairs, in the clefts between each of the roots. Half contain cool air, flowing downward, and the other half, warm updrafts. But as the sea continues to rise, up to the lip of the volcano and spilling into the crater with a deafening hiss of steam, you have little choice.
You enter the narrow, hexagonal channel. The hot air whips past you, and you are swept into utter darkness. The light from the entrance disappears into the distance below you, becoming little more than a faint pinprick. This wind channel is superbly well designed, and perfectly straight. As long as you hold your wings out and remain still, the walls do not scrape against you.
******
You continue to float upwards. The pinprick of light has long since vanished below you.
You remember reading about sensory deprivation... the complete elimination of sound, sight, touch, and so on. Brief sessions can be relaxing, and may even assist in meditation. But longer periods, even a few minutes in some cases, can take a terrible toll on the mind... anxiety attacks, hallucinations, depression... one begins to have bizarre, inexplicable thoughts. You suffer waking dreams, vivid and convincing. You start to hear voices... you hold conversations with them, like old friends. Anything to push aside the emptiness. The loneliness. Sensory deprivation is one of the cruelest, most horrifying methods of torture. It doesn't seem like it ought to be, but it is.
Is there anything you wouldn’t do to fill that hole?
An hour passes.
Perhaps more.
******
You nearly fall asleep, when a flash of light lances into eyes and sends shooting pain through the comatose meat in your head. It takes you a minute to remember how to see. When you do, you wonder if you've gone mad... you wonder if the emptiness finally consumed what was left of your sanity.
But no. It's real. Stars. You look around and see stars all around you. The countless points are sharper than you've ever seen them. They burn white hot, without the slightest twinkle or flicker. You see the moon above you, big as a dinner plate. The backdrop of the sky is absolutely black, without the faint tint of blue most ponies unconsciously associate with the midnight sky.
This is no mere night. Where are you?
You look down, and see the snapt and shattered end of the tree all around you. The entire trunk has been reduced to a mountain range of jagged, dagger sharp splinters. You're too dazed to think. The air here is more still than ever... the silence is utter.
You wander through the shattered remains of the petrified tree. You come to the edge at last, and see the globe of the world spread out far beneath you... distant. Tiny. You can see all of Equestria at once. You could hold your hoof up and blot it out completely. The neighboring continents are equally small. The oceans and seas ripple like uncut sapphire. The clouds cover the world in gauzy, wispy veils.
You look around you, at the emptiness all around. Warm air continues to flow out of the trunk, and you can feel it escaping into the void beyond. You only now realize that,for the past few minutes, you haven't moved your wings. You're simply floating in place. Effortlessly.
They were wrong about the sea of ghosts.
This... this is emptiness.
******
You search through the jagged terrain, but there's nothing more to find. As you meander about, you can see growth rings across every surface. If you had the time, you might be able to calculate the age of the tree. Eventually, though, you'll get thirsty. Or hungry. The mere act of judging the tree's lifespan might take more years than you have left. And there's no telling how safe it is up here: every surface looks corroded and pitted, as if it were charred by some invisible force. Eventually, you'll have no choice but to search for one of the small channels. One with cool air, able to carry you safely down. You're not looking forward to the journey back... another hour of silence and shadows.
You pause for a time, floating in the thin air, gazing up... if ‘up’ even has any meaning in this place. As you stare at the heavens above, you notice something on the moon. A tiny mote of dust, barely visible against the pale white globe. You peer at it for a time, unable to make out the details. It's either extremely small, or...
Far. It's far. But it's directly above you.
There's no way for you to know. You have no measuring tools, no telescope. Nothing. But deep inside, you know it. Just as you knew to follow the equator, unerringly, without tools or spells, you know where it is. You don't know how, or why, but you know. You just do.
You've come this far, haven't you?
You search for the source of the warm volcanic updraft, and return to the mouth of the chamber that brought you here. You tuck your wings in and dive back into the hole, falling against the wind for as long as you can manage. Eventually, you turn in midair and snap your wings out, catching the updraft.
The wind pushes you up again. Up, towards the stars. You see the pale light of the moon directly ahead, visible in the distance. When you drift out of the trunk of the tree, the lunar disc is in the dead center of your field of vision
You drift out, past the stump of the shattered tree, and towards the stars. The air around you quickly grows thin and cold.
You couldn't turn back if you wanted. The only weather here is solar wind and the aurora borealis.
******
This journey is several hours longer, but at least now you retain the use of one of your senses. The stars stretch out all around you, white hot and razor sharp without the atmosphere to diffuse them. You risk turning in place, and see Equestria behind you, gradually growing smaller and smaller. It's clearly a sphere. The tree, once massive beyond imagining, is no longer visible to the naked eye.
You partake of what little rations you brought with you. You count the constellations to pass the time. You wonder if you're the first to see the Phoenix at this time of year, from this hemisphere. It's usually below the horizon.
You sleep for a while, suspended in the cool comfort of the heavens themselves.
******
You awaken abruptly as the unfiltered rays of the sun peek around the edge of the world and begin to beat against you. You open your eyes a crack, but quickly shut them. Without the atmosphere to shield you, the sun is a ball of searing flame. Even after you close your eyes, your vision stings. You try to orient yourself back towards the moon, but you can't tell what direction you're moving in. There's no air here. No texture. Nothing to swim through or push against, and no way to orient yourself properly. Eventually, you flail your legs just enough to point yourself away from the sun. It will have to do.
Once your vision settles, you gaze up at the moon once more. It's much larger now, and blindingly bright under the rays of the sun. You can barely make out the mote of dust you saw earlier. It's clearly growing larger, however slowly.
You've found the top half of the tree. Suspended between the world and the moon, fixed in place, ever falling. Neither away, nor towards.
As you draw closer, the details become clearer. The branches spread out wide, like the broad shelves of a boabob tree. The bark is dull gray, smooth as that of the trunk below, but you can see lush green leaves glittering across the crown.
Closer still, you can make out the glitter of amber and gold. There are shapes suspended from the branches, great bowl-shaped structures, hanging like birdbaths, suspended in the weightlessness. You see a few such golden shapes that have broken free, yet continue to float near the tree, slowly tumbling in place. The top of each bowl is covered in a shattered glass dome that gleams in the light of the sun. It can't be mere glass... not at such size.
You approach still nearer, and realize the full magnitude of each structure. Each one is a tiny island, made of glittering gold. Up close, you can see the hexagonal pattern along the inside, and the countless little cells that line its interior. Each is an island, separate and distinct. Some are terrariums, each containing a different worldly biome. The water has long since boiled away, and the soil drifted into the void of space, and yet you still see a hint of green. Lush grass and treetops flourish in each of the collected biomes, despite the total lack of soil and water.
Other dishes are purely artificial, holding cities packed with towers and citadels. The tallest spires are aeries, with balconies designed to accommodate those gifted with flight. The buildings are densely packed, with no wasted space, and every last one has a hexagonal element to its design.
You make your final approach. The trunk of the great tree looms to one side, large as a mountain range. Each of the golden bowls is large enough to contain not only the royal palace, but the upper half of the mountain it was built on. You see the shattered glass domes up close, and notice vast shards floating in the air ahead. Their edges gleam razor sharp, and glow in the light like precious crystal. You glide through the field of translucent shards, each the size of a skyscraper, utterly helpless to change course.
You sail past the golden cities, and finally reach the leafy crown of the great tree. The leaves alone are as wide across as the crown of most oak trees. You grasp desperately at the nearest one, but the lush, vibrant leaf crumbles apart into frozen dust at the slightest touch. You sail through several other leaves, filling your surroundings with a field of powdered chlorophyll. You finally collide with one of the branches proper, and clamp your legs around its rocky surface.
You climb across the branch, slowly, and make your way towards the center of the crown. You squint your eyes, trying to avoid the harsh light of the sun. As you make your way across, you come to a colossal golden clamp fixed around the branch. You crawl around the edge, and see six chains leading from the clamp to the edges of one of the great golden cities. Each link would fit neatly within a city block.
You tap the surface. It gleams like gold. It feels like metal. But to all other senses, it's something different. If you were to take a sample of this metal back to the globe of the world, a metallurgist might identify high concentrations of mica: a mineral with nearly perfect basal cleavage. You might also be told that mica is sometimes used as a yellow pigment for wax, such as that used to seal important scrolls. At present, the information would be useless to you.
You continue on. There's no point in searching the empty cities and nature reserves. It takes an hour to reach the center of the tree's massive crown, crawling through the glittering ocean of emerald leaves like a tiny caterpillar. Without air, you cannot fly. You can barely walk, for the slightest push would send you tumbling away, never to return. Slowly, you crawl to the base of the branch.
******
You have found the Propolis.
You pass through the thickest of the leaves, and come at last to an vast open space. It is a great citadel before you, cast out of the same glittering, priceless, not-gold, and decorated with an extravagant array of spires and struts. The main chamber of the palace is a great dome, surrounded by six smaller pods. Unlike the hanging cities you saw outside, this central citadel is braced directly against the tree, where the largest branches meet in the middle. A vast latticework of golden struts and beams holds it firmly in place, and the crystal domes and skylights are largely intact.
You work your way further down the main branch, point yourself at the nearest of the secondary domes, and kick off against the petrified bark. Your leap of faith is well placed, and your purely ballistic path sends you gliding through a large crack in the crystal roof. The interior resembles a great bathhouse, with enormous pools set in the floor. The furnishing here is luxurious, and every surface of the interior is engraved with symbols.
You land on the floor, take a moment to reorient yourself with the local ‘up,’ and approach one of the pools. It is wide and deep, and filled with a golden substance... once a liquid, now frozen solid, and smooth as a skating rink. There are six pools in all, hexagonally shaped, and arranged around a central park with decorative rock gardens and comfortable looking perches.
You come to the pool directly under the broken section of the dome. There is a great sliver of crystal imbedded halfway through the frozen liquid, cracking it in two. Small shards of the golden substance float in the air, varying in size. A constellation of fragments, hanging together in the empty air, slowly rotating in place. Just as they have been, undisturbed, for centuries. Millennia, perhaps.
You reach out towards one of the tiny chunks. Ambrosia... Ichor... Azoth... Lasarpicium... so many names.
No. Not yet.
******
As you exit the pool chambers through a narrow corridor, you find the first of the bodies.
Its fluids have long since evaporated, leaving a hollow husk, mummified by the empty cold. It's vaguely pony shaped, but has a chitinous outer shell. Instead of a belly, the middle of its body is wasp-waist thin. It has six legs, each with two joints and tipped with a dextrous, two-toed claw. Its wings are membranous, clear and translucent, with narrow black veins running through them. The head is narrow and triangular, and the eyes are nothing but hollow, glassy shells with a fine hexagonal texture. The mouth, at least, looks like a pony's. Flexible and expressive. Its lips are frozen in a rictus grin, and its long, whip-like tongue is bloated and scarred.
There are more bodies, up ahead. All are clinging to the walls or floor. Some clearly died in sudden, violent agony. Others, a slow and lingering end. You pick your way through the narrow corridor, avoiding contact with the fallen… you remember, earlier, how the lush-seeming leaves crumbled at your touch. The corridor branches in places, and the bodies become too numerous to easily avoid. You climb across the walls and along the ceiling, and occasionally kick off against a surface and drift across. You pass a few fallen drones that must have fallen while dragging others away... whether the wounded or the dead, it's impossible to tell.
As you go deeper into the hive, you pay more attention to the symbols engraved along the walls and pillars. Not mere decorations, but hieroglyphics. A crude, simplistic language, built more on symbolism than syntax. An unusual thing for these creatures to concern themselves with. You stroke your hoof against one of the passages, and notice a figure resembling a pony... a winged unicorn, hoof outstretched in greeting, to a group of locals. As you pass further down the corridor, the story progresses. Gifts are exchanged. Knowledge is shared. Policies are debated. Even social soirées are attempted, with each set of customs alien to the other.
You can’t be absolutely certain which princess is depicted here, but there can be little doubt. The bringer of light, knowledge, and love. The records show that she visited this place many times throughout the ages. Each time, she brought gifts. Each time, the social barriers softened. The insectine ponies, known to outsiders as the Api, were not always so civilized. The hieroglyphs initially show them living in simple caves, or the hollows of giant trees. Their honeycombs were crude and primitive, constructed without any forethought or vision.
But as the princess' visits continued, the Api matured as a race. Their mastery over the arts and sciences expanded, and their culture was enriched.
The corridor eventually branches off in two directions. You go left, chosen at random, and come to a great hall of shining gold. It is filled with ancient artifacts, each sealed away in an amber case. There are musical instruments from every age of history. Paintings and murals. Sculptures and frescoes. Tapestries and fine dresses. You pass a grand piano, perfectly preserved, once the personal property of a great composer. A memento from the renaissance of the Unicornia isles, from long before the three races even knew of each other… the carpentry is old, and rivals that of modern craftsponies. How many arts and sciences were lost in the dark ages, so long ago, only to be rebuilt from nothing? How many times have these things been discovered, forgotten, and rediscovered anew?
You walk through the museum, gazing at the various artifacts. Upon closer inspection, the amber is not an empty, sealed case. Each item has been forever encased in a solid block of translucent, yellow resin, preserved for all eternity.
They're all pony artifacts. Nothing here was made by the Api. These things have never once been used.
******
After perusing the museum, you continue on towards the central dome of the citadel. You pass into a grand main hall, with massive pillars to either side. Great windows made of faceted crystal panes allow shafts of searing sunlight to fall in at a surreal, upward angle. There is no up.
The frozen husks in this final corridor are heaped about in great piles. Most of them are at the far end of the hall, gathered in front of a grand pair of double doors. There are scratches on the outside of the door, both claw and tooth marks, and the handles have been broken off. The keyhole is scoured beyond recognition.
As you approach the mountain of remains, a sudden scent catches you off guard... has a trace atmosphere somehow survived in this place? Are your movements merely shaking millennia-old particulate from the floor and walls?
You look up at the light shining in through the windows. What a thing to take for granted... the thin slice of electromagnetic radiation known as "visible light." Why are these particles visible to us, while others are not? How bizarre, to think that a simple accident of physics, something as incomprehensible as the wavelength of a particle, could be so natural to us. Imagine how something as simple as the vibration of the air, modulated to a certain series of frequencies, could be used to utter words of profound wisdom, or a song laden with emotional power. Could you explain sight to someone who was blind, or music to someone who was deaf? Could a scientific analysis convey the subtleties of wisdom, or beauty?
Know that the Api did not speak as ponies do. They did not write books, or sing songs. Their language was not comprised of invisible vibrations or electromagnetic particles, but of molecules. Chemistry was their native tongue. Pheromones were their songs. A conversation between groups could take days at a time, lingering in the air.
When you hear a song, it affects your emotions. So it was with the Api and their scents. They did not merely analyze chemicals with a cold, clinical eye. They knew them, perceived them, on a fundamental level. They sculpted perfumes and aromas, much as pegasus worked the weather, for reasons both functional and luxurious.
You inhale deeply of the trace atmosphere, filling your lungs with near vacuum. The scent washes over you... tickles a small part of you, deep inside, that has lain dormant all this time. A part you never knew existed.
You float towards the door, intending to fiddle with the the lock, but there is no need. As soon as you touch it, the mechanism clicks open and the doors swing away. The great heap of husks crumbles to grey powder, and spills into the throne room beyond. You drift inside, gazing at the centermost chamber of the entire colony.
It's a cathedral, with stained crystal windows all around. Elaborate fountains of sickly sweet honey line the walls, frozen for all eternity. The decorations here are festive and regal, suitable for a time of great celebration. Silk veils hang from the ceiling. Bushels of bright flowers are scattered about, their petals frozen and razor sharp. Long benches line the floor, and perches hang from the ceiling. A royal red carpet runs down the center of the throne room, leading to the the raised stage.
There is no throne here. No seat. The queen is not like her subjects... she is far too large to move. She hangs upside down from the ceiling, with the vast bulk of her abdomen gilded in ornate metal plates, and clamped in place with a series of golden chains. She is a permanent fixture here. Never leaving the hive. Never moving an inch.
You walk across the long red carpet, ignoring the fabric as it disintegrates into sand under your hooves. You can feel the conversation hanging in the air... the perfume of the past, lingering on. You don't need to study the hieroglyphs anymore. You know what happened here.
The princess, in spite of all her gifts, all her wisdom... all her unending, unconditional love... simply left. There was no explanation. But for all their deep fascination with emotion and artistry, the truth remained that the Api could never create. They were simply incapable of original thought.
If you've ever known love, and been betrayed or abandoned by what you loved most dearly, you know the emptiness that fills this throne room. Is there anything you wouldn't do to fill that hole again? Is there anything you wouldn't fill it with, no matter how shallow and counterfeit?
And so the Apis had rebelled. They sought freedom... to be. To be anything. To be more than mere pets or playthings, uplifted only for the amusement of another.
You step up to the queen. Despite the long, bloated bulk of her abdomen, her upper torso is delicate. Thin and spindly. Her face is utterly serene and peaceful. You reach up and touch her cheek, ever so gently, and her skin crumbles into frozen dust. The outer facade falls away, revealing the dark, chitinous shell within... a powerful, char-black figure, riven with holes and stained with the long-dried precipitate of corrosive venom. The truth of what change she had finally wrought upon herself. Her first act of imagination.
Celestia visited this place many times, happy and joyful, when it was still tethered to the world. And then she left, for reasons known only to her. But when the queen of the Api chose to create something new, something from her own heart, Princess Celestia returned one last time, to forbid it.
And when she did so, she stood in the most dangerous place in all the cosmos.
The space between a mother and her daughter.
You sniff the trace atmosphere, and smell the conversation hanging in the air... a mournful, bittersweet perfume from before you were born, exhaled by a person you never knew. Only a few brief words hang in the air, here:
"Be who you wish, my child. And be loved."
You're not a pegasus... are you?
******
There was only one recorded instance of Queen Chrysalis leaving the Propolis colony.
There was no one to witness her return.
For a ghost can only rise from what once possessed a soul.