“Come on! What’s the harm in a harmony?”
I blinked. The landscape of lower Canterlot narrowed, then widened before me, blending into a colorful array of verdant green, wooden brown, and several bright tones offered up by wildflowers.
“Just a few notes in time?”
The last word faded in my ears, and left a dull, lonely feeling.
“Not now, sis. It’s just not in my heart right now.”
We came upon the well near the center of town, and I began pedaling the bucket up. She kept on her pleading, skipping around the well throughout, “Why not? Is something wrong? Did I say something? What?”
I sighed, but not audibly enough to be heard over the creaking of the time-worn crank, “I just don’t have a harmony in me today.”
Her hopeful visage quickly turned to one of frustration; her nose scrunched up, and her eyes turned down. “Come on, you’ve said that for years! It’s your talent, why don’t you use it?”
I remained silent, hefting the bucket and carefully tipping it into the water jugs. Slowly, I filled two of them until I could see my own blank expression in each. Once the draw bucket was empty, I lowered it back down, waiting intently for the echoing splash to reach my ears, and started bringing it back up with a new load of water.
“What will it take to get a note out of you? Just a phrase?”
I still held my tongue, and closed my own eyes to avoid what I knew would come. She stopped herself across the well from me and showed me her doleful eyes, “You know I can’t sing as well without you there! Can’t you do it, just for me?”
I excused myself from answering by filling my mouth with the handle of the drawing bucket, and pouring its contents into the last of our jars. In seeing this, she turned her eyes back to the ground, resignedly. “Let’s go.”
My sister, who now looked dejected as she plodded along behind me, was named Melody. She was a white mare with a curly orange mane that bobbed around whenever she moved. She always tied her hair with two white ribbons, which complemented her bright silver eyes. She was aptly named; she could melt hearts, gather crowds, and open minds with her voice, if she wanted to, even though she was hardly of twelve years.
However, I might not say the same of myself. My parents named me Mellownote at birth, approximately 200 years after the banishment of Nightmare Moon. Around her age now, I had found my mark: a single whole note. Yet, for six years since, I have not sung. When I wished to do so, my voice failed me. Even when I thought to hum to myself, the tune escaped me. I, myself, was grey, with a sooty black mane, and green eyes.
My family lived on the outskirts of Canterlot, at the base of the mountain that the city was built upon. The town was simple: a collection of wooden buildings, all of the essentials to allow for a simple life. Our farms kept a steady supply of food going to the upper city. We did not mind the work. For most of us, farming and gardening was our talent, which was ever-apparent this time of year: the springtime. Fields of wheat and grain spread out for miles out from the mountain’s base, and flowers on trees and in deep brown earth bloomed in vivid color, almost seeming to light up my stone grey coat.
A voice found its way to me through the murmur of the surrounding crowd, “Mellownote! How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in weeks! She’s not too busy, is she?”
I turned to see a lavender-colored mare with a sunflower mane and a soft expression, “She’s alright, Miss Bloom. We’ve just had a high demand recently, and she’s trying to make the most of it.”
The lady nodded, then said in her warm voice, “Give her my regards, would you?”
I smiled. The town was always warm with its greetings, and I hoped that it might never lose that charm. Similar voices called out from the soft clamor along my way through, and I returned each in kind. Throughout, Melody kept her eyes downcast, and offered nothing but the occasional nod to the passers-by that would wish to entertain her. Soon enough, we were greeted by our home.
About my family, we are all pegasi. My mother was a baker, and my father was as well, until he died six years ago of a virulent fever. How my sister and I ended up as singers, despite our mother and father being bakers, is a common enigma. We have come to accept it, rather than question it.
I passed on the regards of the town to my mother, who replied, “Bless their hearts.” I unloaded the water jugs, while Melody, whose heart was reinvigorated by mother’s, went to her and asked, “Mom, did you make an extra roll? Can I taste?”
“I may have, but then again I may not have. Did she behave herself out there, Mellownote?”
I smiled to myself and nodded, “Well enough. She didn’t make too much of a ruckus.”
Melody giggled, and kept on, “See, Mama! Can’t I have one?”
Mother gave a soft nod, and grabbed a roll off of a shelf, which she had made sure was just out of Melody’s reach and tossed it over to her. She then turned to me with a large basket from the shelf and asked, “Mellow, could you be a dear and take these up to the city? We have a few deliveries to be made, and nopony will turn down their bread if it’s a little early!” She inched in closer with a mischievous smile, “And sometimes, they end up needing a bit more than they thought if you give it to them while it’s fresh, and the smell drifts all about.” She finished with a wink, then handed me a basket, which was filled with crisp and fresh smells, and adorned with a bright red bow.
I walked outside with the basket and took off into a fuzzy blue sky. It was unusual for me to be making the delivery runs, but what I had said to Ms. Bloom before was true. Mother was busier than what we all thought to be normal. Soon enough, though, I forgot about the delivery, and focused solely on flight.
The sky was wide open, and all was rather quiet. I began to think about my mark. It was so strange and unfair, as if there had somehow been a mistake on its decision. Before it, the house was vibrating with humming of two young voices, separated by perfect fifths and major thirds, sometimes even sixths if the romantic conflict fit the mood well. Now, though the house was silent, only occasionally resonating with a single voice.
The room was dark, the doors closed. He lay there, motionless, like a mockery of the busy life he once lived. I could not move myself to speak, only to cry. He had taught me everything: how to fly, how to bake, even how to sing. His face, once vibrant, now only showed small traces of his former vigor, such as the creases left behind by his smile, and the wrinkles beneath his soft eyes. I turned and left, unable to bear the sight of my father any longer.
Yet, as I came through the door, my innocent little sister, Melody, stammered, “M-Mellow, your mark!”
I frowned in confusion, then turned around to see a simple ellipse on my flank, that horrible bittersweet memory forever imprinted into my heart.
“Hello? Are you alright?”
I shook my head, and dropped the basket, “Sorry. You ordered three loaves?”
“Err, yes. Thank you.” He took three of the loaves from the basket, and shut his door.
A heavy breath escaped my mouth. It was not unusual for my thoughts to take me over, but I never could get accustomed to it. There were no more familiar scents below the pretty red bow: I had made all of the deliveries without any sort of recollection. Fearful, I hoped to myself that I had not made mistakes with orders, even though I never had before.
I turned my head up to see it was night, now. The Mare in the Moon frowned down upon me, and the dark sky washed my coat to a deep, dark grey. I walked my way towards the edge of the city, enjoying the scenery. The moon’s rays reflected off of the garish Canterlot buildings; they had a sort of charm to them, though I was mostly used to the simple wood structures and thatched roofs of lower Canterlot. These in the upper city were fantastical, dreamlike, as if directly from the imagination, accounting even for the odd shape of thought.
My own thoughts did not last for long. Out of the silence of night came a sound – a sound that rent through my mind, shattering memories of silver eyes and white ribbons. I felt it through my bones, especially the hollow ones in my wings. It made my knees weak with fear and tension, and sent me running, though I knew not from what. It was a roar that challenged the night to outshine it, and promised doom to whatever might object.
Out of the castle, I could see a swarm of gold metal and buffeting wings, undirected and confused, feeling as I had felt: that the roar had come from everywhere. I lifted myself off of the ground as well, and the whimsical tones of the city blurred about me as my wings defied the ground below.
Once more, the sound rent through my eardrums, breaking past reveries and tearing through my heart, which was then ignited by the faint sound of hissing flame. I flew faster now, unable to see the reddish-orange hues anywhere besides subtle reflections in the sky. I glanced back at the swarm of guards, which seemed to be flying downwards.
NO! No, no, no, no!
The remaining road sped its way under me, and the edge of the dreamy city rolled out from underneath to reveal a sea of fire, an inferno stretching out from the base of the mountain, which appeared now like an enormous tree trunk, assailed by vivid color. As I turned to face it, a wave of choking black and grey enveloped me. I closed my eyes and shielded them, unable to bear such luminance in the midst of a night, nor the harsh, billowing smoke that brought more soot to my sooty mane. I flew back to the edge of Canterlot, wondering what I might see in the fires, if only I could look at them. Would the guards fight it? Were they as powerless as I was?
I lied down, unable to watch, only left to listen to the fierce roars again and again, shattering every last bit of my innocence, my ignorance, my bliss, my home.
No, no, no, no!