How the Changeling Queen came to be and what became of her.
The story of Chrysalis, starting with her upbringing by the land's rulers and onwards. Her fall, her attack, and perhaps a few stories unknown to most.
I was told I’d been found on a street corner of an earth pony village, in a bustling marketplace. There was nothing particularly fantastic about my discovery; a filly, too young to fly but old enough to stand, simply waiting. Some couple noticed me, and was intrigued. They considered taking me in as their own, but thought better of it, and called on Celestia to deal with me.
I was almost blessedly unremarkable. A smooth gray coat, a gray mane, even eyes colored like stone. Shaped almost like any other filly of my age. Beyond physical appearance, I was difficult to notice. Ponies often looked right through me, unaware of my existence.
Save the curious curse of both a pegasus’s wings and a unicorn’s horn, I was altogether forgettable. Comfortably so.
Yet when Celestia learned of me, knew me to be like her, she flew to the poor village that had apparently been my home on her own wings, not wishing to be delayed by one of her gleaming carriages. She carried me the hundreds of miles back to Canterlot, fast as her wings could carry both of us. I have lived within its wealthy halls ever since.
It was surprisingly simple to blend in. Beyond the initial curiosity of a handful of the closest royal officials, most ponies simply assumed I was some bit of removed family. It felt strange, to be so near Luna and Celestia and unseen, but luckily I was left in the wake of all the attention belonging to the rulers of our realm.
Ironic, that only the two most powerful beings ever more than glanced in my direction. Celestia’s attention was sparse, yet powerful. At first, she had tried to introduce me to anypony present, but noticing how I shied away from others and how others hardly knew how to respond, she quickly stopped explaining my presence.
That isn’t to say she didn’t acknowledge me anymore. On the contrary, she redoubled her efforts with unexpected kind words and additional time spent attempting to teach me the intricacies of magic and the wonders of flight. I was as close to her as I possibly could be, as close as any lifeless stone could reach towards the sun. I rarely spoke around her, yet longed to be at her side whenever nopony else was.
Luna was different. When I was young, I attended a celebration with Celestia. As always, rulers draw royalty and with it, crowds and commerce. I was attempting to blend with the hordes of ponies as I always had, without straying too far from Celestia. She respected my wish to be unseen, and would mostly leave me alone for the course of such gatherings. As I distanced myself, I noticed something that perhaps only the young and ignorant might. Initially, a small crowd floated around both Celestia and Luna, making them difficult to miss and impossible to see. After a while, the crowd remained around Celestia, bumbling farmers making sure the sun would be there to warm but not scorch their precious earth, prestigious nobles desperate to have the attention of someone above them instead of someone beneath them, and everypony else. Luna’s followers, in the meantime, dwindled. Few business ponies had a vested interest in the nighttime or the moon, and with every awkward comment or pause, another clump of ponies left. Soon, Luna was very alone, surrounded by lesser ponies who were too awed by her to address her themselves.
I saw opportunity in her loneliness. I walked over to where she stood, looking uncertain and unhappy, and stood by her side, resting my head on her leg. She seemed shocked, and unsure of what to do. I cared little; it was for her solitude that I came nearer. Instead, I found a friend.
Luna was majestic, but not like her sister. Celestia was beautiful to behold, and Luna intimidating. Celestia drew ponies, Luna terrified them.
This was simple to observe. Anyone brave enough to watch the younger sister in all her might saw the tremble, the hesitation of speech, the awkward phrasing. Most were more impressed to read about her, preferring the occasional mention in the textbooks to actually acknowledging her. For such high royalty, Luna knew doubt and loneliness like few other ponies ever could.
Naturally, when other ponies tried to befriend Luna, the reaction was that of hostility. Most ponies that had seen under the mirage of power and prestige dismissed any compassion they’d felt for Luna when their kindness was returned with rebukes. Others never forgot the depths they had seen, but unsure of how to help the dark princess, lived their lives with the secrets of a princess.
I had no such luxury, living between palace walls. After my accidental kindness, she began to talk with me. Her sister flew about the whole country, while Luna remained unneeded. Boredom led to desperation, and she began teaching me whenever Celestia couldn’t. I ignored her stumbles and painfully uncomfortable conversation, and learned to enjoy her insight beyond the words she used. I forgave her occasional pointed remarks meant to embarrass or enrage, knowing her bitterness had been collecting long before I presented an opportunity for her to release it.
Unlike Celestia, Luna was somepony I could comfortably talk to. It wasn’t that Celestia wouldn’t listen; on the contrary, her eagerness to hear me would squelch any desire to converse with her, let alone correct or question her ways. I owed Celestia too much to waste her time with my own petty wants. Having given me love enough to heal any hatred I may have held for my unknown parents, the world, or anything under Equestria’s bottomless skies, her time was more important than my petty wants.
I saw Luna as a relative equal. Save a few thousand years, we were quite alike. Her experience earned her little respect from me. My wings may have been smaller, my skill in magic much weaker, but I bore no scars of gratitude from Luna’s actions.
Oddly enough, Luna adjusted to my insolence with relative ease. After finding so few ponies would talk to someone so high and noble, she settled for being just another anypony.
Luna and I shared secrets, what few we had to offer. I told her the things I’d seen in fellow ponies, the quiet victories and agonies that most were so painfully blind to. In a cacophony of a thousand colors, the mural of a thousand voices, most assumed everything was as it was seen. Private stories, joyous and tragic alike, were swallowed up in the background noise. I did not gossip, as I knew no names, but simply lightened my own burden by sharing secrets painful to keep alone. So many of them seemed alone with their secrets, so many separated from friends and family to wander among endless meaningless faces. Some gathered with friends and forced smiles, pretending to belong rather than acknowledging how detached and empty they felt.
The worst to see were often the blank-flanks. The youngest ones were still accepted, ponies told themselves that they were just going through a “phase”, that there was nothing wrong with them. As the ponies grew, absence of a cutie-mark became a stigma, a deformity. Older ponies were given sidelong glances and talked about, often well within their earshot. Blank ponies would pretend not to hear derisive conversations, but they weren’t oblivious to the stares, the refusal of others to talk to them, aware that they had been exiled by their lack.
Their problems extended far beyond brushes with other ponies. A cutie-mark was a place, a purpose, an identity. Whatever public problems they endured, far worse came into the minds of the un-marked. Purposeless did not mean stupid, and even if it did, to lack what almost every individual around you had was not hard to notice. In crowds, the gifted were a perpetual reminder of failure to the ungifted. As a result, blank-flanks avoided other ponies about as much as other ponies avoided them.
It was ironic, really. These ponies only needed an image fixed to their person a fraction as much as they needed somepony to talk to. Their illness was one part unfortunate circumstance and three parts hypochondria; the belief in their separation was most the ailment. Cutie-marks are rarely earned in solitude.
A lucky few forgot their unlucky handicap and simply continued with their lives. Contrary to popular opinion, many ponies were born, lived, and died, never finding their supposed “special talent”. Some never let go of their dejection; others simply forgot and went on living among good friends and happy family.
Once I made a trip with Celestia to one of the poorer parts of the land. The earth there was dry, most of it useless. Few attempted to farm the land as most crops never broke the surface. Those that managed to farm successfully became masters of the dirt and sand, employing the other inhabitants of the land to work for scraps of food. This was not so much cruelty as it was necessity; the owner of the land worked as well, and received little more than the workers.
Most of these poor farmers were destitute earth ponies, yet for whatever reason a single pegasus came here to work. I saw this particular pegasus in a field of turnips, and noticed he was blank. He looked as though he had journeyed a long way, not only because his coat was tinged brown and his wings looked rough, as though a few feathers had been misplaced along his way, but his eyes seemed tired, sick of travel, weary for rest. As he finished his work for the day, placing the last of the crop in the farmer’s wheelbarrow, he turned to see something quite strange. Where once had been a mud-stained tan patch of fur, the image of a wheelbarrow baring an assortment of vegetables sat.
For pegasi, field work was the lowest possible occupation one could fulfill in life. It was not noble, brave, or fast. It was not interesting. It began and ended in earth, which most pegasi made their life goal to avoid. So strong was their hatred for the ground that they were born with wings with which to escape it. Though most pegasi could swallow their loathing of dirt and their pity for earth ponies long enough to trade for the much needed food, their aversion to the land was legendary.
This particular pegasus would probably go on to be ignored by most of his kind, rejected by his closest friends and family (assuming there was any left to speak of), and ultimately shunned by everypony he ever met gifted with wings. Most would choose to remain blank all their life, rather than be chained to such a menial fate. The shame alone could permanently banish him from his homeland.
Noticing the change, the pegasus looked for his employer, flew with all possible speed...
And thanked him, weeping for joy.
Luna’s secrets were of a different nature. Ruler of the night, the dramatic occurrences in the lives of the day’s inhabitants were foreign to her. She hardly knew her own kind; being awake when nopony else was left Luna isolated from her brothers and sisters.
This isn’t to say Luna was alone. Simply because it lacked the flesh and blood of day, most ponies assumed night was empty of waking life. In shadows they only saw absence and lack. Despite inability to see them, the shadows were teeming with life and activity, perhaps even alive themselves. These creatures consumed nothing tangible and changed little that watchful eyes would notice. They danced unseen, hiding behind pony’s shadows in day and everywhere at night.
Their differences with ponykind went beyond their lack of bodies. Shadows thought strange thoughts, and were difficult to understand at the best of times. Without the basic needs of food, water, or sleep, incapable of owning anything tangible, the shadows were enigmatic even to their ruler.
Perhaps the strangest part about the shadows was that they never died. Death was beyond comprehension to them. That isn’t to say they were infinitely wise. On the contrary, their memories usually lasted less than an average pony’s lifetime. They never bothered to remember or maintain any sort of identity, and when Luna found them neither knew when and where the shadows had come to be.
It was hardly surprising Luna struggled so much to deal with other ponies. Her company chattered and whispered to her almost perpetually, what would have perhaps driven a weaker being into madness. The hisses of ten thousand invisibles made the lightest small talk a burden.
Not that they meant to undermine Luna’s chances to befriend others. Ironically, it was often their encouragement that drowned their masters ability to speak kindly. The Shadows loved Luna; they were her servants, willing to perform her every whim, far more powerful than her magic when united. Their words to her were often praise. When they weren’t adoring their leader, they tended to mimic what she said and felt in reverent awe. These reverberations made Luna arrogant, her arrogance left her detached, and her detachment left her depressed.
The Shadows would silence, if Luna asked them to. Such was their adoration that if Luna even hinted at their nuisance, they might not speak with her for years to come. Luna was a caring leader; she could never injure her citizens so terribly to save herself an inconvenience.
Once, she tried to let me hear and see them as she did. We sat in her quarters, which naturally had little light beyond a singular candle in the middle of the room, casting a weak circle of clarity and only giving hints of what lay beyond its domain. She lowered her horn, and as it glowed, I saw the world with new eyes, and heard it with new ears.
The room went black. Not black as in nothingness, but swirling, vast infinite black. Black that dripped and oozed and crawled and consumed. Black as deep as a thousand wells and wide as a million oceans. Black that seethed and whispered and chattered, meaningless and endless and loud and mindless and mad, mad for attention, for love, for anything and everything. I ran as fast as I could, even tried to fly out of the darkness. I found myself eternities later, weeping at Celestia’s hooves and under her kindhearted watch, begging them to leave me be, safe at last.
I didn’t speak with Luna for weeks afterwards. I was not angry at her: my appreciation for her as a ruler, my pity for her, and my devotion to my closest friend was stronger than ever before. She told me that her spell may have made me far more sensitive than she had ever intended. I suspect she was lying, and even if she meant what she’d said, I was also told I’d spent little more than a few minutes before I stumbled into Celestia’s meeting with the lesser rulers of Equestria and fallen at her hooves sobbing. Luna knew several lifetimes worth of the shadow’s chatter. I couldn’t withstand minutes of it.
Luna knew what she had done. I only wanted to talk to my friend again, and hoped that Celestia would forgive her as well.
It was a month later that Celestia told me, in her most excited whisper, to come to the Canterlot Gardens an hour before sunset. As she left to finish whatever business held her, I could see her guilty grin and the twitch that seemed to say if she weren’t royalty, she would have bounced down her halls at that moment. I couldn’t help staring, and only noticed my jaw slightly agape after a few seconds.
The breeze flowed through my hair, plucking innocently at a few strands. Light trickled through perfectly trimmed bushes, vines crept curiously up ancient stonework.
These details were but the crudest of background noise. The real beauty was in the individuals strolling worn cobbled paths, the hushed whispers between close friends, the laughter of foals and the sighs rich with exaggeration of their tired, happy parents. Couples wandered aimlessly, the old statues little more than a petty pretense for a few hours together. I wandered, not knowing where I was, not wanting to be anywhere else. At a perfect distance, I could see ponies older than the stones on which they walked describing times past to the youngest, wide eyed fillies. Tears over scraped knees and bruised hearts mingled to give a touch more life to the greenery that hid them so well.
I stood, almost dazed. I had enjoyed watching others before, but proximity to princesses made it almost impossible to appreciate the individuals. Almost everypony wore a mask for royalty. This was as close as I had ever come to seeing real ponies besides Luna and Celestia. Before I had seen little more than the slightest imperfections up close; whatever violent quakes held the mind on the inside were smothered until they were little more than tremors.
As I took in this newfound beauty for the first time, a royal guard quietly addressed me, before leading me to the furthest portion of the gardens. Beyond the last rigidly cut hedge, there was a hill. On its peak sat my sun and my closest friend.
I ran, free of notice, free of invasive eyes, to my confidant and the pony I revered more than anything, the pony I owed any happiness I could claim as my own. I regreted the weeks I had spent avoiding her, wondering what lengths could ever repair my selfish hesitance. Had I been a more emotional pony, I might have wept.
Celestia’s presence meant Luna must have been forgiven, or had never needed to be in the first place. I looked at her, quickly glancing downwards.
I stood on a checkered blanket. A basket with a loaf of steaming bread sat nearby.
Celestia had delayed meetings, made excuses to the richest members of Equestria, postponed ruling her country for a precious several hours to host a picnic for her sister and an orphan.
I knew I wasn’t worth a minute of the land’s most kind and powerful master. I didn’t know what to say, so I chose to remain silent. Gratitude would make light of such a kind gift. I had nothing to offer in return, but my debt to her was already beyond what I could ever return. I settled with Luna on one side, and Celestia came to my other side.
We faced Celestia’s prize, her beautiful yellow orb brushing clouds and the very ceiling of the world with hues dancing from blue to purple to red to orange. Night came, with a thousand lights like pinpricks in the gorgeous cloak of blue that blocked a light unimaginable.
I watched as the sisters spoke to each other. Clearly, though they lived under the same roof, they hardly knew each other anymore. Small talk was slow at first, painful to hear.
An hour passed. Masks broke. Soon, the centers of my existence, the two most powerful beings in the world, were giggling like the littlest foals, poking fun at royalty and their pompous life. I had never seen either of them like this. The masks Celestia wore for her millions of subjects, the jealousy that had begun to swallow Luna, pretenses and shields dropped.
I may as well have been between babbling fillies. There was no where I wanted to be more.
As I listened to the two dearest voices I had ever known, I blinked... only to find myself waking up in my room. Not a dream. Sleep had merely cut short the best moments of my life.
I could imagine myself, discovered asleep at Luna’s side, carried gently to my room and tucked in with the utmost care.
I already missed both of them.
That evening had been the ultimate bliss, but preservation was not one of Time’s habits. I revisited that spot many times, alone. It was bittersweet, at best. What had once filled my being with joy greater than I could express left countless caverns and chasms in its wake. Memories were but drops where once had been oceans.
Not that these occupied my mind for very long in the years following; there was little quite like it to remind me. Life went on as normal at first. Magic and flight became easier, though it was clear that neither was a particular talent of mine. I enjoyed learning the tricks behind blending in with a herd, an art that dabbled in magic, but was mostly one self taught and natural. It allowed me to wander when Celestia and Luna were busy, to explore the lives of their kingdom, without attracting the attention doomed to follow anypony with a horn and wings. In the market, I studied the sea of individuals, learning volumes that said almost nothing about the kingdom as a whole.
Any kingdom has its years of plenty and its poor years. Famine, natural disaster, warring neighbors, all of these things come naturally in a kingdom’s cycle. Most ponies are, unfortunately, too short lived to appreciate this. They think that their’s are the only problems that have ever existed, the first of their kind, unique in every way. The price of a sack of flour goes up a few bits and the kingdom panics, looking for divine intervention.
To them, I suppose it seemed a real threat. Memory lasted only a few generations, and hard times were few. Just as Celestia and Luna had ended the chaos of old, ponies expected them to provide peace once again, and perhaps even more important, consistency. Ordinarily citizens chose what change they encountered, and variation was self-inflicted. With the nation facing so many problems at once, the ponies felt robbed of a great security and deserved freedom.
Celestia did her best to calm her terror-stricken citizens. Their worry pained her, no matter how trivial or unnecessary. The times we spent together learning magic and flight became tense, despite her best efforts to hide the stress.
As if that weren’t bad enough, ponies started to notice me again. I had become a constant, someone always seen around the princesses but never interesting enough to acknowledge. Now they were frightened, wanted more leadership and a firmer rule. They were so naive as to assume that the gift of a wing and horns was the same as a crown.
Commoners could be tolerated. It was the way Celestia began to look at me. Suddenly it was more than a handful of distressed nobles who expected me to do something, to save them. It was her. As though she expected me to save her, to save the kingdom itself, from these trivial trials. I could ignore mortals, they were merely desperate. Celestia knew me, understood who I was. She should have known this crisis was beyond me. I couldn’t do anything to help her, young and clueless as I was. How could she expect me to offer the sun anything it didn’t have already?
Meanwhile, Luna grew distant. It wasn’t hard to guess why; with everypony looking to Celestia for an answer or wondering who I was, the princess of the night was once again forgotten, seen as little more than a figurehead.
The difficulty was in helping her. Even to her best friend, Luna was often as prideful as any royalty, and more stubborn than most. She thought she could pretend that there was nothing wrong. Having seen through Celestia’s facade, Luna’s own mind was easy to see. I was one of the few who noticed.
Luna wouldn’t talk to me. The kingdom expected me to be a great leader. Celestia expected... something of me. More than I could handle. Nothing was right anymore.
It’s alright now. Everything will be alright. I pen this, as it will be my last message to the world for a while. No, I have no intention of dying. Merely sleeping.
Let me explain. Long ago, there was a unicorn. A brilliantly mad fellow who spent years alone in the woods. Convinced nature would teach him true wisdom, he recorded a library’s worth of books on plants and animals. How I stumbled on his library, whether by fortune or chance or destiny, I don’t know, but I found what I needed.
Caterpillars, he observed, went through a sleep, a stasis. He called it a cocoon, a chrysalis. They slept for a long time, only to awake as butterflies. The cocoon perfected the caterpillar, made it into something beautiful and full and ready to accomplish its purpose.
The stallion tinkered with a spell, a powerful one, to put a pony to sleep for weeks, months, years. To create a cocoon. Old and frail as he was when he discovered these insects, he chose not to attempt his spell, fearing it would kill him before he awoke. Solitude, he claimed, was the key to wisdom, that the time spent away would be spent in meditation. The emerged pony would be wise beyond any peers.
As far as I know, I am immortal like Celestia and Luna. I can attempt what this unicorn only dreamed of. I can transcend these petty problems, I can grow into what Celestia needs instead of what she has, I can learn enough to save the kingdom and Luna and make everything alright again.
I have practiced the spell for a while, but have yet to attempt it myself. I believe I’m ready. I will hide myself somewhere out of the way, remove any inconvenience.
I only need to sleep for a while, and then everything will be like it was before. I will emerge with the power to set everything as it should be. Like it was during the picnic. Just Luna and Celestia and me.
Only a hundred years, and everything will be like the picnic.
The cocoon opened, and the pony stumbled into sunlight for the first time in a century. If you could call it a pony. It was shrunken, its puny body full of holes, barely functional. Its coat had changed from a beautiful silver to an empty black.
It was surrounded by a wasteland, one which it failed to recall.
It crawled to a puddle. On the other side of the water stared a monster, with insect-like eyes and wings, a rotten corpse, an aberration. It cringed at its wide eyed stare, stumbling back a few paces.
It was hideous. Disgusting. Beyond even pity.
Unlovable.
Desperate, the creature peered within itself, swam in its innermost thoughts, explored its heart in the hopes of finding something worth saving. Instead, it found bile, hatred, holes and rot even worse than what pierced its hooves and wings.
With this realization, the last shreds of light in its soul were shut out. They did not belong in this home.
Its existence was unforgivable. Incapable of love, or being loved, but hungry. So hungry. It couldn’t summon the strength to care for itself, but still it needed love, needed to be something. The pains were worse than material hunger, but did not weaken its body like a physical ailment.
It could not be loved. Instead, it saw something loved that passed by, and chose to be it. It stretched its form as far as it could, fueled by self-detestation more than anything else. Any pain suffered to create this hollow image was worth it. Any form would be better than this one. Any lie more satisfying than this reality.
Chrysalis wandered off in search of food, her minions barely out of sight.
She’s left, in some ill-fated attempt to please me. My expectations have banished her. Luna knows this, and blames me. A glance was all I needed. She refuses to speak to me.
My citizens are all the more panicked, thinking the throne’s heir has been kidnapped or killed. A few blame me. I will quiet their fears tomorrow, though my children need not know my daughter’s secret. If only my words had the same power over me.
The chatter of the shadows will soon overwhelm my sister. Any attempt to bring her back will only speed the process. My daughter’s presence may have prevented Luna’s descent, once. Her sudden departure has now hastened it.
The citizens became aware of this ancient tension only recently. They mutter among themselves, terrified.
I must go to comfort them, though time is short. I must gather the elements, as I fear she will turn on me quite soon. No doubt my actions will speed her inevitable rebellion. Nevertheless, I will do what I must for my people.
She has turned. The kingdom has fallen under the reign of one “Nightmare Moon”.
For their sakes, I hope I am prepared for what must be done.
In my weakness, I have failed my people. I could not bring myself to end my sibling. I suppose the millennia together left me with a single flaw. I have endangered my children for the life of my sister.
She will remain trapped for many years. Generations will pass before her threat returns. Having lacked the strength to kill her the first time, I doubt I shall triumph the second. Many will suffer for the life of this one.
I have failed my people, my sister, and my daughter.
I had supposed, all those years ago, that I had banished the shadow-beings along with my sister. I assumed they had all gathered around her, forming her armor and the walls encasing her heart.
Instead, most of them remained. Clever enough at first to stay out of sight, they congregated and waited. They were discovered too late.
It began when wealthy miners came, asking to explore beneath the kingdom itself for treasure and bounty. Grudgingly, I accepted, granting them some small area away from other inhabitants of the castle. Undoubtedly, they had exceeded my limitations when they found the threat.
It began with rumors and hearsay, stories and tales that seemed harmless enough. Shadows came to life, they said, and stalked ponies as they went about their business. Some places were said to have more shadows than others, and some said one could even hear the dark whisper in the common tongue.
Repeatedly, they called on me for assistance. I brushed them off, peeved as I was to have them mining the grounds in the first place. It seemed like petty superstition until the disappearances.
A handful went to delve deeper than anyone ever had, well beyond what they had been allowed. When nopony could find them, they immediately called on me. Finally, I gave into their fears and followed them into the tunnels below.
In the caverns I found what shadows guarded as best they could. The mindless shades swirled around a particular crystal, a strangely dull crystal. It sprouted from the surrounding rock, appearing natural save its unreflecting material and grey shade. I sensed a presence besides its guards; the stone did not breath or move and lacked the warmth of the living. Yet within, I felt a being not unlike my sister.
I approached it cautiously. Shadows gathered around my feet, threatening to smother or secure me or to swallow me up entirely, yet hesitant to strike. As I neared, it seemed to stir. I prepared a spell, one so powerful it could obliterate everything in the small enclosure, strong enough to collapse this cave and seal it for centuries. Likewise, it seemed to awaken, almost, at the light radiating ever brighter.
Had it moved, I might have ended it there. Had a shadow touched me, had a pebble dropped, or anything in the room changed, I could have erased this pocket, the tunnels around it, and myself in one blast. This time, I was ready to protect my people from whatever cruel trick my sister had left. I would have destroyed all of us to do away her minions and tormenters if my kingdom could have been saved. I stepped forward, pushed by so many failures, determined to be the ruler I had meant to be.
In the storm of thoughts that held my mind, amidst all the chaos and grief and shame, I heard something. A child’s voice, not of my own thoughts but of the stone itself, calmed the raging winds, quieted the fury and tides of emotions, and brought peace.
“Celestia!”
That voice... Could it have been?
Had I found her?
At last, after so alone for so long. I wouldn’t have to rule by myself anymore. I could finally be close again, live without the crown for a few moments, even enjoy life. For a moment, the room seemed to glow, and everything seemed right.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a twitch. A shadow flickered across the room.
Immediately I came to my senses. This was little more than a cruel illusion, one set by my sister. No, not my sister. My sister would never do this. Rather, the monster her minions made of her did this to me. My reaction was not that of a ruler acting on behalf of her people, but the behavior of a scared child. Like a frightened foal, I grasped it-- the foul trick, the beguiling lie-- and pushed as many miles away as I could. Magic placed it far beyond my kingdom, incapable of harming my citizens. Its faithful guardians followed, streaks of ink flowed south over the land. I couldn't bring myself to kill it. It had her voice.
I ended the light from my horn, and sank to the ground. Darkness, at least, made sense. True lack of light felt comfortingly empty; the world I saw had no harsh truths or complex realities. I might have sat there until life made sense, until the world simplified and presented itself to me in a bundle of light. I had time enough. The problems on the surface were temporary at best.
Once I had recalled them, my pitiful, loving citizens, I could not stay. I walked the tunnels, slowly emerging to see the setting sun.
It was many years before I met the fourth one of my kind. Cadance too had both flight and magic, but when I met her she already knew most of what she’d need to know of either.
By the time I’d met her, I had already heard the rumors of another allicorn. As usual, a few questions about succession and even a whisper of overthrow could be heard throughout the land, but these were murmurings best left alone.
After a few months I had an opportunity to meet with her myself. Amidst the bustle of yet another Summer Sun Celebration, I spotted the pink pony. We spoke for only a few minutes, and while she was amiable enough she hardly seemed like anything one would expect from an Allicorn. On a whim, I invited her to come to Canterlot and become my first student in decades. Flattered, she came to live at the castle.
Cadance never learned very much from me. While one could easily assume her birth granted her fantastic ability to begin with, she was no prodigy. It didn’t take long to realize she’d already learned about as much as she ever would. Her cutie mark had already designated her place in life. While she would never raise the sun (much to the disappointment of a handful of treasonous minds) her magic was of a somewhat unique nature.
A pony could hardly talk to Cadance without liking her. Her unfailing cheer and friendliness would border on obnoxious were it not so sincere and well-communicated. Merely talking to her was a comfort. Cadance knew what to say and almost always left those she talked to feeling loved.
She was always quick to pick up on slight expressions and correct any harsh feelings. In fact, Cadance struggled with any sort of negative emotion. Fear, anger, even mild irritation was painful for her to experience or even watch.
As her awareness of the ponies around her grew, crowds became increasingly difficult to handle. While she could usually quiet distress immediately surrounding her, she found it difficult to tolerate a squabble that happened to be a stone’s toss away.
Once, when she was young, Cadance found herself adjacent to an intense quarrel. Neither pony stopped yelling except for the occasional sharp inhalation of air, which was naturally consumed with continued yelling.
At first, Cadance tried to break the two apart. She gently tried to pull one or the other away, tugging lightly or talking softly. Neither did much good, and the fight continued. She tried yelling herself, but could hardly match their impressive volume. After a few agonizing minutes, she merely caved in, kneeling on the ground and more distraught than either of the participants. It never occurred to Cadance that she could merely walk away; her duty had always been to create harmony among those around her.
Finally, Cadance stood up. She struggled for a moment, and the tip of her horn sparkled faintly. Silence followed.
The speakers hesitated, looking at one another, abashed. They thanked Cadance, stumbling a little, and walked away together. It was only when she arrived home that Cadance realized she had earned her cutie-mark.
From then on, Cadance could quiet disputes with her words and with her magic. Cadance’s place in the world was in restoring love and harmony.
An observer may confuse Cadance’s skill with a clever sort of manipulation, meant to create false feelings of love and fondness. Much the opposite of a petty deception, Cadance’s talent was in reminding, in helping people recall feelings and emotions for each other that were often held at bay as inconvenient or childish. A fight between siblings was easily ended with a reminder of their common childhood and care for each other. A squabble between friends could end in remembrance of how their friendship had started.
There were, nevertheless, some ponies which recalled more bitterness and sadness than kindness or caring. Usually, Cadance’s magic ended whatever harsh emotions the ponies had for one another, temporarily filling them with poignant shame for the bile that filled them. Each side would apologize and part ways, sometimes for moments and often for years. A few particularly furious individuals might continue fighting after the spell, but with less fervor or certainty.
And yet, for all her skill in making and helping friends, Cadance seemed to have few close friends. She rarely understood another pony’s life or could appreciate its complexities, and few seemed to appreciate the depth of her character. While her relationships were never superficial, they rarely possessed much depth either.
This suited Cadance. Save for a couple dear friends, she didn’t require an intricate or overly personal relationship with anypony. Her numerous friends asked little more of her than love, and she took pleasure in the happiness she provided and the love that was returned. It was a simple, symbiotic sort of relationship in which happiness radiated from Cadance and benefited numerous citizens.
In effect, Cadance fed on-- and provided-- love.
Today, Luna finally paced the halls of her kingdom again. Her homecoming had been warm enough among the citizens and in the streets, but her own home seemed foreign to her. The palace was nearly untouched, save the occasional dusting, yet she seemed to walk uneasily, peering down hallways with great curiosity yet advancing slowly, perhaps even fearfully. It was almost comically fitting, that she should return in the body of a filly and peer as though she were one.
Leaving the bustle of crowds and the watchful eyes of guards, we paced slowly to our chambers. The century old paintings failed to catch her attention and the decor seemed of little interest, but every dark room or closed door, every hint of movement had her staring unabashedly. Her focus was enough to make the handful of cleaners jumpy, though she continued to look just the same.
Since entering the palace, neither of us had spoken a word. For a moment I’d wondered if she still held some small bitterness towards me, a grudge that had survived even the elements, or had arrived after their use. I could hardly hold her anger against her, and was content to let her speak her mind as she chose.
As the steady sound of eight hooves on tile continued, I realized it was no harsh feelings towards me that quieted her. She was distracted, even agitated, something she had attempted to hide among the hordes of citizens. It was not petty fury, nor discomfort at the prospect of returning to her kind after a hundred years.
I glanced down at her. Stranger even than her shrunken size was her shadow. It was now almost plain, a small outline as dark as anypony’s shadow. In a few moments, I realized what had changed. She was no longer plagued by her minions. A few of her most loyal had followed her to the moon and had even returned with her, clinging to her, even her very heart and mind, as a cold sort of protection, an armor from emotion. Even those had apparently left her in the cleansing; her shadow was little more than a dimming of the light.
As we rounded the last corner to our chambers, Luna stopped. Outside my chambers stood Cadance, pleased to see us. She’d known Luna was coming, and was probably even prepared with a warm welcome. She opened her mouth, but Luna’s blank stare made her falter. She stopped, confused.
Luna merely continued to examine Cadance. Her expression broke just enough to glimpse pain mingled with burning curiosity. Eventually, with some effort, she spoke.
Mother always told us she had found us, not created us. Through some great fortune on our part, she had stumbled upon us, and even stranger, pitied us.
We cannot recall what we were then. For centuries, we have been what she made of us, housed in shadows.
With a name, she gave us an identity, one we passed down and shared among our entire host. We whisper what we are amongst ourselves, that we may never lose hold of this gift. It belongs to all, but none in particular. We all take pride in it as our own, and treat it as such.
With orders, she gave us a purpose to fulfill, a duty to give our lives meaning. We flew around her, guarded her against physical harm, merged with her magic to help her accomplish her ends. She moved the moon, but we moved the entire starry sky to please her.
With her love, she gave us the greatest gift we ever knew. Through it we knew what we were, what we were for, and where we belonged. Her care for us never faltered. Occasionally we angered her, but her irritation could not stop her love. Her continued care made it all the harder to cope with her anger. To know we had offended our greatest benefactor pained us deeply. Harsh words silenced us for as long as we could recall them, or until she ordered us to forget our guilt.
Her kind words were priceless to us. We cherished each good thing she said to us and whispered each phrase that left her mouth across miles, that all her servants might be able to hear. Each thing she said to us was precious, shameful to be wasted.
We had a place in her love, yet she lacked a place among her own.
Certainly, she was useful to them. More than they realized, mother cared for them, with stars to guide sailors and moonlight for those lost in darkness. Few thanked her, or even acknowledged her presence.
We knew what she did. We wished to thank her, to never cease admiring her, yet were unsure of how to make our gratitude known. We could not express our feelings beyond the most pitiful of fractions. We worked all the harder to serve her, but this could never be enough. We hissed her greatness, uttering her own words mixed with our esteem for her.
Yet, for our leviathan effort, she seemed all the more lonely. We roared her greatness, made her deaf to the ignorance and apathy of the others, yet she only seemed more saddened by her distance from them.
Thus, we decided to draw nearer to her, and hoped that she would benefit from our love a fraction as much as we had from hers.
There were two like her.
The first avoided our mother, and we avoided her. Her very aura made it nearly impossible to abide her presence, while our very existence seemed to unsettle her.
The second we viewed with a tinge of envy and great respect. She had the audacity to treat our mother as her equal, to pretend she was worth her notice. At first, this insolence enraged us, and we chattered our vehemence whenever she was near. One day, weary of our bitter muttering, mother silenced us.
Shocked, we ceased. Never before had mother been so harsh, so forceful. Our hisses ended. Instead, we listened and watched.
We could not believe it. For all our efforts to love her, for our thousand kind words and perpetual attention, we succeeded in little more than making our mother feel all the more alone. The adoration of a hundred of us meant little compared to what the affection of an insolent filly could accomplish. We almost loathed this foal, our bitterness would have pushed us to madness, were it not for the love mother returned to this one.
For mother’s affection for this puny individual equalled, perhaps even exceeded her love for us, her subjects, her children. We could not despise what our master so clearly cherished. To do so would be the foulest of blasphemy.
What made us different from her? The foal’s love for our master paled compared to what we thousand could offer. The foal did nothing to serve her, never helped her move or control the people, let alone move the stars for our master. All she seemed to do for our master was speak with her. Mere conversation seemed to draw the two together closer than lifetimes of servitude drew us to our mother. We began to despair in our pitiful irrelevance.
In our midst, a single voice spoke. It was drowned out by the surrounding symphony of murmurs. Of the handful who heard it, most forgot what it had said in a matter of moments.
Most individuals bold enough to voice themselves were drowned in the tumult and swept away with a new tide of sounds. Most statements meant little to anyone but the single consciousness that had voiced it.
Yet by some great oddity, this one was repeated. A single voice echoed what it had said, and the lifetime of that thought was doubled. The original speaker, thrilled, mouthed its mind anew, as though it had never before felt the words it had spoken an instant ago. A third speaker, originally an uninterested bystander, heard the thoughts third speaking and realized its significance, its uniqueness, its value. In part, the third repeated the words to preserve them for its fellows. Moreover, this third spoke to experience the emotion he had hearing it once more. A fourth and fifth spoke at once, a fortunate sort of accident that made the phrase a little more audible. Four spoke it quite clearly, yet each altered the words, even the very emotion, ever so slightly. Branching from this handful, the whole of the collective came to contemplate this new voice among them. Many who repeated the fragment failed to understand what it meant themselves, yet chose to experience and pass on what they were sure was vital information. Eventually, the sheer volume of the thought became its driving force, until all had heard it. In essence, it spoke two words.
“Ask her.”
A pondering silence abruptly followed the avalanche of noise. Ask who? A brief discussion was held. It was felt that the speaker must have meant our mother’s close confidant, though none could say why for sure. Ask them what? We almost lost track of this answer, save for the one voice that spoke in silence to remind us of our remorse. The original speaker must have wished to ask the child how to end our sadness. How could she end our misery? More murmurs followed, but it was decided; she could tell us why mother loved her more, and what we needed to do to be loved.
We flocked to her, begging her to pity us as our mother had, to teach us and help us escape despair. She barely glanced at us. We shouted for her forgiveness and understanding, yet in her arrogance she pretended not to hear us. Our rage was kindled, and we were on the verge of striking when mother noticed our excitement.
Her acknowledgement calmed us and she chastised us fiercely. Ordinarily, her rage would have silenced us for days, even weeks. Most were willing to suppress their desire, but one voice was overcome by despair.
“Please! Let us speak with her!”
Mother faltered. Rarely did we speak to her in her anger. Even stranger, an individual had spoken to her this time. Mother didn’t even seem to be aware that we were composed of individuals.
Confusion overpowered her anger, pity bested her willpower. Soon, she promised, she would arrange a meeting. She informed us that the other could barely see or hear us, let alone comprehend our pleading. Nevertheless, in her endless kindness, Mother promised to find a way for us to speak, tenderly calming our fears as we often saw beings of flesh comfort their own.
Only two beings truly knew of our existence. The first loathed us. The second took us in and loved us as though we had been her very own.
But soon, very soon, we would finally be known to one more. More than a rumor or a myth, more than a forgettable oddity spied from the corners of mortal eyes, we would become real, we would mean something to a a living creature. A child.
We paused. The tides and storms and waves of emotion ceased before a single thought, a ripple traveling amidst our ranks swiftly.
Soon.
We observed Mother’s every preparation,
We gathered round the candle Mother had set. We watched the child, watched Mother prepare herself, watched her struggle for energy.
Lastly, we saw her horn spark starry silver.
A moment passed.
A voice spoke in our midst. Not one of us. Not Mother. Something new and lovely and blindingly brilliant. It was unlike anything we had known. It seemed almost completely unremarkable save its newness, its novelty, its very presence an oddity, an aberration, a miracle. To hear a new voice, any new voice after decades and centuries and lifetimes of murmurs and echoes and Mother, was beyond everything we knew. After every combination, every rendition, every organization of meaningless noise and emotion from the beings we were perpetually surrounded with, something new was heard. The voice was foreign, timid, like Mother’s voice but as weak as an individual. It was neither confident nor demanding, just a simple tone that asked who.
It was like nothing we’d experienced in generations. Merely for hearing it our people seemed to swell. Our joy became a song, a torrent of questions and pleading, with each of us asking as loudly as we knew how. Almost as soon as it had spoken it was drowned out by noise. Sheer chaos followed perfect tranquility, and few of us even heard what the new voice spoke. Those who noticed it’s fear and confusion made attempts to draw nearer, to calm its terror and comfort it, as Mother had comforted us patiently and kindly. The attentive few attempted softness, tried to approach the child, but were unheard over their desperate companions. Others felt overlooked and forgotten, and, having lost sight of their original intent, emphatically stated their presence again and again, bellowing their existence, hoping something would take notice. A few realized the magnitude of the cacophony, but their efforts to quiet the storm only made it more severe.
The worst, though, were those who remembered exactly why they had wanted to speak with her. Those were the voices that pled, and, finding themselves ignored, pled with greater fervor. Finding themselves unanswered, they became annoyed. Their annoyance became anger, and their anger was wrathful indeed. They thundered their bitterness at the poor creature, demanded she return Mother to us and leave us be, threatened to consume her entirely. Before long, they were quite lost in their own noise, intoxicated by their melody.
Soon, all efforts were for nothing. The other, the sun itself, cut us off from the voice. We mourned the newfound silence, fell still at our loss.
As ever, Mother was near.
Mother was different after the incident. She chastised us as she had for centuries, but less forcefully. She told us what a great mistake we had made, but sounded uncertain. Instead of berating us for hours, she trailed off awkwardly after one.
We matched her silence. Whether the quiet lasted minutes or days or months, we hardly knew. Time and emptiness are not kind to us. Individuals are little more than voices, and sparing those they are very little indeed. The length seemed eons, and we found ourselves lost among moments, without our sound to remind us of who we were or hers to remind us of why we mattered. Without anchor, we drifted...
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
The voice had little more than a shred of familiarity.
“It was my mistake.”
But surely, she would never speak those words.
“Please. I’m sorry. Come back.”
An order. Whatever we were, wherever we had been, we knew that much. Slowly, voices found themselves in speaking, imitating the two strange words uttered by such a familiar mind. We gradually gathered around her, as our kind had for as long as it could remember.
Even still, she was changed. A few of us wondered if it was the same voice we had known. Never before had it been so quiet, nor had it known doubt. It had been a confident leader, a bold individual, but now it sounded little more than any of us.
Routine asserted itself once more, and we continued to move her stars and guard her night, while she continued to move the moon. Our contract forged in centuries was not to be broken in weeks.
She rarely saw the child anymore. Many of us rejoiced, glad to have our ruler to ourselves. The victory was a small pleasure so alone in the great quiet that a handful of voices were often heard recalling it, celebrating and reminding us of this small comfort.
Mother seemed to cringe at each repetition.
A few hours, she asked. It seemed a strange request. Never before had she asked to separate herself from us. She had asked for silence on many occasions, but never distance.
Most of us were quick to agree, but some of us were unsettled at the thought. Why would she ask to leave us now? What would a few hours possibly mean?
She took notice of our concern and tried to calm our anxiety. It was for a good reason, she said. It wouldn’t be so bad. She needed it.
Needed it. The words stung us, but not so much that we would let her hear of it. Quickly hushing the handful with the audacity to voice their hurt, we obeyed and departed.
During our separation we continued our tasks, guarding her kingdom and her people. When night fell, we took it upon ourselves to move her moon as well as our stars. The effort seemed monumental, but all the lighter that it was done for her.
When our exile had ended, she called to us. Once more our mother had changed, to something we no longer knew, perhaps something long forgotten. Her voice, her step, her words were more pleasant, more kind, and all the more bewildering.
“Come, I have something to show you.”
Something to show us? Many times she had had something to tell us, or something to order us to do. To show us? Intrigued, we began to gather around her.
She paused. The tip of her horn glowed. She showed us much.
The colors were too vibrant for our kind, too bright to decipher. The sounds and sights and faces were nigh incomprehensible, but were nothing against the emotions accompanying them. We knew anger and fury and wrath, we knew curiosity and madness and joy, above all else we knew loyalty and devotion, but we had never known this. The vision before us was beyond us, with more happiness than we had ever known.
And in the center of this torrent of euphoria was the child.
This was what the child had. This is what we lacked. This is where we failed our leader so utterly, what we couldn’t do for her. We weren’t sure why the child had it and we didn’t, but our question had been answered. We knew why we were second.
We were consumed in beauty and sadness.
Mother gave us a word, a flimsy word, a weak word, as explanation, a short utterance that failed to capture what we felt. As though any singular word could explain what we had witnessed, no less one so familiar.
We understood well enough without it, what had taken place. We knew our place, and finally accepted it. If this was to be the way of things, so be it. Let us offer our services to our leader as diligently as we ever had. We knew now that the child was more than us, more than any and all, to Mother, and that we would protect her as we had Mother.
