Kaleidoscope
When I was a filly, a long time ago, I lived on a rock farm. In those days, I was a mere speck of colour that hardly came up to my father's knee; life was hard, and my mother used to steal away in the outhouse and cry when she thought nopony was looking. She was ill, I found out later; afflicted by a disease that came and went with the passing seasons, and reduced the world into grey, dreary sludge in her eyes.
Rock farming was never easy. I knew more about the earth when I was young than I did about ponies. I could have told you anything about the igneous and the metamorphic, but when it came to dealing with my brothers and sisters (of whom there were tens, maybe even hundreds), I didn't have a clue. Neither did my father. He loved us, but he didn't know how to give that love to us.
Maybe the pony I most respected when I was young was my grandma. She was truly fearless, and irked my father to no end. She used to laugh in his face when he shouted at her, even though his voice echoed through the timbers of our house and terrified me. She used to go on journeys, and brought back treasure for us every so often-- valueless baubles from the city, tarnished ropes of gold and silver, occasionally even a bright red balloon. My father thought those gifts frivolous, and they would always disappear whilst me and my siblings were asleep, never to be returned.
My grandma noticed, of course. After a time, she started to give us our gifts in secret; we'd hide them under floorboards, in hollows of the earth, anywhere we thought Father wouldn't find them. Sometimes, we would keep our trinkets for weeks instead of hours, that way, but never longer.
One day, early in the summer, my grandma took me aside, and gave me a treasure all of my own; she said to put it in a place where no living pony could ever take it from me. It was a kaleidoscope, the old fashioned kind with real glass lenses and a body of varnished wood. It felt heavy in my hooves; I remember that weight very clearly. I promised I would take care of it.
That night, when all was still on the farm, I carefully lit a candle and took my treasure out of its hiding place (underneath the third floorboard to the right of my bed). I brought it up to my eye, and peered at the candle through it. Suddenly, my room went from a drab and unfurnished place to a spiral of glitter and colour; the candle flame split into sixteen guttering facets, coloured ruby or emerald or sapphire depending on the tint of the glass. I felt a simple, guileless amazement; for a long time I simply stared at the candle flame, admiring the beauty I had never known to be there before.
I think, looking back, that was the start of who I was. I thought that the whole world could be beautiful if you looked at it through my grandma's kaleidoscope. Later, I would realise that I didn't need the kaleidoscope-- all I had to do was look at the world in a certain way, and I'd see that it was pretty underneath. Later still, I learned that the same thing applied to ponies, even my mother and father. I felt a pang, a longing, to make all those ponies happy, to see them smile. That was the beginning of me.
The next day, I went far away from the farm, and hid my new treasure in the countryside where nopony would find it. I buried it, under the earth I knew so well, and returned to my life of greys and blacks. It didn't matter. My kaleidoscope was in my heart, ready to be looked through at any time. Nopony could ever take it from me.
That year, my grandma went off on another journey and never came back. The last we heard of her was a letter my father got. He read it at the kitchen table, silently, creases in his brow; when he was done, he sniffed once, slowly put his hat on his head, and quietly went out to the rock farm. He didn't speak to anypony, or even come back inside, for almost three days. He never told us what he had been doing, but a month later looking for rocks in the hills, I found an empty grave with Grandma's name on it. It was made of the finest rock from our farm. The next day, I dug up my kaleidoscope, and buried it again there-- my last thank you to the grandma I adored.
It would still be a while until the sky split open into a burst of colour and I realised who I was really meant to be. I had a lot of growing to do. But when it happened, I jumped at the call; I threw my first and last party at the old rock farm. I can still see the look on my father's face-- he was so flabbergasted! It was the funniest thing. Then, I went back to the big city, to seek shelter with my relatives--
...Wait. That isn't right. None of that is right. My memory is so fuzzy, nowadays; I can hardly remember anything. Let me try again.
When I was a filly, I lived on a farm. That bit was right. But we farmed apples, not rocks. I did have a lot of family, but we didn't all live together like I thought. We were all separated, off in different towns doing our own things. My grandma, who was old even when I was young, used to tell me that our family had a pioneer spirit, that our family was strong. Family would never let us down. I never doubted her, but neither she nor my brother (who seemed as tall as a mountain, back then) would tell me where my parents had gone after Sweetie Belle was born.
I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but back then, I got bored of apples. I used to do all sorts of things to entertain myself. I learned how to use a lariat, with my teeth and then my tail. I learned how to toss horseshoes, perform in rodeos, bake like a professional-- anything to avoid the monotony of reds, greens and autumn leaves that made up my life. Maybe it was escapism. I thought that my whole life had already been mapped out for me by what my family did, and I kept trying to run away from it.
One day, I succeeded. I used my family against itself, and called upon relatives in...Fillydelphia, I think. There were no apple farms in the big city. There were just sophisticated ponies, who did all sorts of interesting things I couldn't even imagine; I wanted to be one of them. I packed up a knapsack full of all the meaningless trinkets a child thinks of when they prepare for a journey: enough food to last maybe half a day, a set of clothes that would barely keep out the most feeble winds, and all sorts of useless, sentimental knick-knacks my brother had given me, like the set of jacks we used to play with and his old harmonica with the broken reeds.
Then, I was off. I tried to forget the worry on my family's faces as I made my way towards the big city; I was determined that I would be something new, something brilliant, a sophisticated Apple the likes of which Ponyville had never seen. I didn't realise it at the time, but now that I think of it, trudging off into the sunset with a knapsack in search of adventure is, perhaps, the most stereotypically Apple thing I could ever have done.
Maybe that's why my brother and grandmother let me do it in the first place. They realised that there was a need, written into my blood, to seek pastures unknown and try to make my fortune with my own four hooves. Maybe they felt it when they were foals.
I don't remember much of the journey, but it must have been long, and harsh. When I finally reached Fillydelphia, my hooves were sore, and I could hardly carry the knapsack I had slung over my shoulder. It was dark at night when I arrived; the stars loomed in and out of the clouds up above. I made the mistake of gazing up at the skyscrapers, and felt dizzy; the bright lights in their windows whirled around me, like a kaleidoscope, like a great storm of concrete giants. But I had done it. I had...
...wait. No, wait. There are forests between Fillydelphia and Ponyville. Rivers, too. How would I have made it on foot? Never mind on half a day's food. Was it really Fillydelphia that I visited? Perhaps it was Canterlot? But there are no skyscrapers in Canterlot. This doesn't make any sense at all. Let me-- let me start again. You must forgive me, but it's important. It's important that I remember. Please.
When I was a filly...No, I never lived on a farm. Why would I think that? It's ridiculous. Earth ponies work on farms, and I was no earth pony. I was slender, svelte, beautiful. I was a unicorn. That's it. A unicorn. And I know exactly what happened to my parents: nothing. They wore loud shirts, and embarrassed me, and they had another little filly after I was born. Were they from Fillydelphia? Yes, that's why I thought I went there. I just got a little confused. It's all coming back to me now. Yes.
I had silvery white flanks, and I brushed my mane every day. But I never knew what I wanted to be. My sister would have the same problem, later. Her name escapes me. Applebloom? Yes, that was it. Applebloom. I hid from a storm with her one time, and we fought. She wore a hat. Yes.
Where was I? Oh, yes. I didn't know what I wanted to do. But one day, my horn started pulling me along. It pulled so hard my horseshoes slid through the dirt when I tried to stop for rest. It pulled me through branches and trees that scratched my flanks. Eventually, it led me to a rock. Igneous, I think, just like the kind Father used to dig up at the farm. I...think I shouted. I was angry, angry at my unicorn magic for dragging me to such a stupid rock.
As I shouted, an answer came from the sky: a huge clap of sound, and light. I don't remember what colour light. I was scared, and surprised. Nervous, I think. So nervous, I couldn't control my magic. Before I knew it, the rock had changed, warped into a huge spire of emerald, a collection of glinting angles. I whirled around it in wonder, peering through it as I did. The world refracted green, even the sky, and I realised something. I'm not--
No. No no no no NO. That isn't what happened. Just...Phew. Deep breaths. I can do this. I need to slow down, really think it through. I'll get it right this time. I promise. Really. I'll go through, piece by piece, and build my story. It'll work this time. It's important. I have to do this.
When I was...When I was a filly, I was a unicorn. I know that. It couldn't have happened the way it did if I wasn't. My parents, they were unicorns too. Of course. It's only logical. They were warm, and loving, but they were normal. That's how parents are, you know? Of course you do. Of course. Everypony has parents. Everypony knows.
I remember, also, having a brother. I looked up to him. He was strong, and handsome, and he made me feel safe. He was good at magic, too. That was my brother. He...wasn't as tall as a mountain. But he was taller than my father, eventually. I had a baby...Did I have a babysitter? Yes. Yes, I must have. I remember her clearly, now. I even remember her name: Princess Cadence. I adored her. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up. Her knees always used to hurt after she pushed me on the swings, and she loved me too. Deeply. But she loved my brother more, a love with so much heat that it burned even to touch.
Neither my brother nor Princess Cadence were there when I heard the call to magic. Only my parents. There was an exam; I had to hatch a dragon's egg with my magic. Yes, that's right. It's difficult to hatch a dragon's egg, you know. They dream even before they hatch. I...couldn't do it. I tried, and tried, but my nerves got the better of me. The examiners scared me, too. I wanted so badly to make my parents proud. I wanted to be gifted, special.
As I was trying, there was a huge shockwave. A blast of powerful, horrible, scalding pink light crashed through the room. I couldn't take it; my magic went haywire. I went mad. I turned my parents into houseplants; I took the examiners and twisted their bodies in foul, cancerous forms. I lifted the dragon's egg above my head and dashed it to the ground, danced in the wreckage. I was insane, because I realised that the whole world, no matter what it is, is always changing. It never stops.
Then, my Enemy appeared. The White Princess, her mane flaring like a comet's tail, her horn ablaze with righteous fury. She thought to strike me down! I--
...no. This...no. I wasn't. I didn't. I didn't do any of this. I was a baker, a farmer, a jeweller. I was a middle-class musician, travelling salespony, a daughter of loose morals. I was wall-eyed, thick necked, with tiny wings, I was black and green and blue and purple, I was a crying child, I was a saint, a pioneer, a fictional character, the mayor of a backwater town--
Ah.
No, I remember now. Let me begin again, just one more time.
When I was a filly, I wasn't a filly. I was an egg, a black lump of chitinous scales wrapped around a faintly beating heart, swaddled in viscous green fluid. The only things I knew were a vast, yawning hunger, and the gentle coo of my mother's voice. She spoke to me, my mother did. She told me stories, and asked me questions.
"Why do you not eat, child?"
She asked me that almost every day. I could never answer her; weak and starved as I was, I was confined to my prison. Voiceless. The stories she told were without equal, though. She told me of faraway, ancient lands made of basalt and crystal. She told me about a vast palace with alabaster battlements, hidden behind a bubble of pure magic. She told me she had been there once. Sometimes, she sang to me. I dreamed of her, and the places she'd been, and of being free to hug her.
I loved my mother. But...
...I...tasted her. I was hungry. You would've done the same. At first, I only nibbled. I didn't consume, so much as...blunt. Her emotions were rich, and dark, and delicious. She'd felt everything in her long life; hate, anger, disappointment, happiness, triumph, and even love-- but only for me. I couldn't help myself.
She kept talking, as I ate. She told me that one day, when I was as old as she, I would do the same thing she was doing right now. She told me that her time underneath the sky was over. She told me of my many thousands of brothers and sisters, secreted across the lands in clumps of four or five, waiting for the unlucky fool who happened across them and became their first meal.
Eventually, she ran out of emotions. I had eaten them all. But I was still hungry, so I ate...more. Things she wouldn't miss. A few memories, here and there. Thoughts and theories as they flashed across her mind. Things like that. Eventually, she stopped talking, but only because I ate her voice. It didn't matter, because by then I was consuming her memories, savouring her experiences like fine wine. She didn't need to tell me. I already knew. I ate her hunger, and her tears, and her skills. I ate her knowledge, her pride. I ate all of it.
At the very end, when my belly was full almost to bursting, I found the last few remnants of her: two things she had kept secret, locked inside her very soul. One was a feeling. The other was a thought.
The feeling was horror. A rich, viscous ball of horror, which hovered and threatened to burst like a bubble of tar. It was the horror of being eaten alive by your own daughter.
The thought was simply this:
"I was Queen Chrysalis. And now, my dear daughter, so are you."
She was right. I am Queen Chrysalis, and I am every Queen Chrysalis that has ever been, and will be a part of every one to come. I am every pony I have ever imitated, every feeling I have ever stolen. There are memories inside of me, that are not mine; fragments of stories taken from my enemies. Sooner or later, I will complete them; I will take all there is to take, and at the end of each story will be my own image seen through dying eyes.
The world, you see, is ever changing. It whistles through the cosmos, spinning and whirling, all the little lives fluttering like glitter in a kaleidoscope. The world is a beautiful place.
And, perhaps in ten years, perhaps in a thousand, I will have it.