AGC

    A noise came from outside, pulling Applejack out of her comfortable dreams of life on the farm: warm soil, shady-bearing trees, home. She sprung out of the bed and peered out of the window: nothing. She retreated once more to her bed, confident that nopony would try to break in.

    Before sleep again overtook her, the noise came again; a latch opening, perhaps. She got out of bed again and wearily advanced to the front room. Probably Harvest’s dog trying to get into the chickens again. She poked her head out the door. “Hey now!” she called. “Ya’ll get on outta here, or I’ma hafta get—”

Her threats were cut off by a low, resonant hum. In the darkness, she could make out the form of a pony, sitting straight up, gently bowing a large stringed instrument. The visitor looked up from her playing to acknowledge the resident mare. Her light purple eyes shone like gems against her black mane and coat, matched only by the purple bowtie around her neck. After making eye contact with Applejack, she looked back down and continued to weave a dissonant hymn for an unseen loss.

“What the hay… what’re you doin’ here?”

The mare did not respond. Only after several minutes of mournful serenade did Applejack notice the smell: damp, warm, metallic… blood. She took a step back. “‘the hay’s goin’ on here?” she demanded. Still no response. The music droned on, sad harmonies competing to be heard over one another.

Applejack grew impatient. She began walking towards the mysterious mare, and asked once more, desperately: “Who are you? Whadda ya’ll want?” To her relief, the playing stopped.

Still no answer came, however. The purple eyed stranger looked up and spoke. “Patience.” Her voice was soft and flat, like that of a mourner. “Her time had come, as like all others.” She turned away from Applejack. “Nunc committo te inrito. Triumvir, vestra factam sit. Per vicem constantia.”

“What do you mean? Whose time? What are you saying?” Applejack stammered.

The intruding mare directed an icy glare at the farm pony, briefly pausing between stanzas.

“Per letum vitæ. Per constantiam vicis. Ex vita leto. Omnis—”

The encomium was interrupted by a hoof’s strike on her face, sending her spinning to the ground.

“What is this? What’re ya’ll up to?”

The black mare allowed Applejack’s question to go unanswered. She was now lying on the ground, smiling, ignorant of (or indifferent about) the sizeable gash left in her face by the farmer’s working shoes.

“Huh? Whadd’ya’ll have to say for yerself?” Applejack demanded, confident she was in a winning position.

The wounded intruder wiped the blood and dirt from her face, and calmly reached towards the instrument case.

Before she could grab her goal, a considerably-shodden hoof came down on her arm, breaking the bone within and eliciting a sharp yelp from its owner.

“Answer me! What’re ya’ll doin’ here?!”

The bowtied mare produced a low chuckle. “Triumvir, vestra voluntas totam—”

Applejack twisted her hoof.

“I want… to know… what ya’ll’re doin’ here!” she said, punctuating each exclamation with a shift of weight into her front hoof.

The ebony mare was still wearing the same smile.

“What’re you smilin’ ab—”

Applejack then noticed the knife: still shining with somepony else’s blood and, more worryingly, currently locked into the intruder’s hoof-shoe. She leapt back.

“What do you think you’re—” Applejack tried to say, but was cut off by the assailant making a horizontal strike in her direction. Her smile had metamorphosed into a horrible grimace, simultaneously gritting her teeth in rage and biting through the pain of a broken leg.

“Hey! Now that’s uncalled for!”

The mare made a point of continuing to be unsociable, now getting up and charging the farmer in a comical three-legged sprint.

“What gives you the right to come onta another person’s—” Applejack started, sidestepping a downwards vertical strike by her attacker. She began running towards the house.

“—another person’s property, all a-murderin’ and whatnot, and wake—” she continued, before ducking beneath a weak thrust.

“—and wakin’ up the whole buckin’ family!” she said, before crashing through a window and into the house.

Her head struck something as she flew, and she landed abruptly in pitch blackness, rather than the floor of the dining area.

Requiem flinched as the farm-pony hit the glass. Witnesses. Always more trouble. She’d have to deal with that later.

She turned around and began to walk back towards the house. The body could stay: they’d bury it themselves. She just needed to get out of here. She removed the blade from her hoof and placed it in the saddlecase on the lawn.  She turned to the instrument next to the case, a starch-white violincello, custom-crafted to reflect her past life, and began its disassembly: bolt on the body… slide the neck out… neck and bow go inside body… whole thing goes inside the case.

Behind her, the door opened. Черт.

“Hey, what’s all this racket fer?” asked a rough bass drawl.

Requiem didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed the knife once more from the case, and stood perfectly still.

“What’re ya’ll doin’ here?” the stallion asked. He began to approach her.

The door was about fifteen feet away… about a dozen steps, then. She closed her eyes.

Восемь… Девяать… Десяать… Одиннадцать… Двенадцать.

[Eight…   Nine…           Ten…              Eleven…                  Twelve.]

The stallion started to speak: “Ma’am, this is a priv—”

In a single motion, Requiem turned around and punched the blade into the stallion’s neck, her eyes still closed. Her non-broken, blade wielding arm shuddered with the impact, as though the blade had struck solid steel…

She opened her eyes. The serrated tip was firmly embedded in the stallion’s hardwood yoke.

“Ma’am,” he continued, “is there a problem?”

Requiem continued to ignore the stallion’s questions, instead trying to free her blade from his neck.

The draft horse politely obliged, jerking his neck away from the mare, removing the blade from its lock on her hoof and sending it flying off into the grass. In the same motion, he turned around and raised his left hind leg. For a fraction of a second, Requiem made eye contact with the stallion: she saw no hatred in his face; only indignant calm, like one who’s disposed a threat.

Before she could contemplate further, however, the stallion’s leg extended, like a piston of iron-plated flesh. She instinctively tried to move, but he was too close.