It roared. It thundered. The music swelled to bursting, and the ponies heard it not as sound, but thought and talk that merged and meshed with the music. It was still there, though, the chilling tune that lingered just out of earshot.
Down in the town stead of Winding Brook the music was starting. It was dark, night having just fallen upon the land, and Equestria was cooling down as the sun’s warmth vanished. But it wasn’t just the cold air that brought shivers and chills to the ponies of Winding Brook. Mutters carried through the late Spring evening, and those mutters grew into a dull rumbling. And that rumbling gave way to the thunder and roars.
It started with a mare’s scream. That scream alerted others to it, and in short order, neighbors investigated. A small community like this one looked after its own. It couldn’t afford not to. Then, a wave of tension flooded the town, and from the direction of the scream, the click and clop of hooves rushing across cobblestone appeared. The sound spread, and soon voices began to be heard, growing in the tension, feeding on it and in turn being fed upon. The air filled with murmurs that filled the spaces of the town stead with a sensation of static, or the tingle of a storm about to explode. Something was coming. Something dark, and hungry, and hot.
Mares grabbed their foals and pulled them indoors, ushering them to their rooms or to the basement; anywhere but outside the safety of their houses. The stallions grabbed things too. Hammers. Knives. Sickles and hoes. Rocks and broken bottles. Rope and shovels. Ponies did not have weapons. But they did have tools that could be used as weapons. And that was the important part.
It was called many things; a riot, retribution, the dealing of justice. But to the stallion who stood on the hill overlooking that once-sleepy little town it had just one name. The Rough Music.
Magic was abundant in Erafore, but nowhere more so than in the kingdom of Equestria, where the free flowing, ambient energy of the Wild Magic met and mingled with the immobile wellsprings of the Leylines. In the land of ponies, this caused all sorts of unique magical phenomena. But none was more iconic than the Harmony of Music, where rising emotions and powerful feelings gave birth to beautiful sounds that made ponies break out into song and dance. Songs about love and life, dances about joy and peace. The Joyful Music.
But many ponies forget that Harmony is not just the good things in life. It also needs the bad to stay balanced. That was where the Harmony of Music changed into the Rough Music. The dark, negative emotions of pony kind would come forth, and for a while, evil would become a part of the world. It wasn’t evil when it happened, and when it was over, it was never seen as evil, but it was evil none the less.
And that was his duty, the stallion thought, looking down at Winding Brook. To become the conductor of that terrible orchestra of hate and pain. The Joyful Music was pure and good. The Joyful Music did not need to be controlled when it happened. It was nature for the high to come down, for the sun to set, for the rain to fall.
The Rough Music was dark. Evil breeds evil, and each act of vileness builds upon itself, until it spirals into self-destruction. The Rough Music, if left unchecked, would grow and grow, until it engulfed everything and burnt itself out. That was why he and his predecessors existed. To control the Rough Music, and let it fade once its work was done.
The stallion was on the short side, with a coat the color of burnt amber, and a dark grey mane and tail. A worn and aged black travelers cloak covered him, but the stiff evening breeze made it flap about, revealing his Cutie Mark; a sharp, jagged, music note the color of rust. He was not that old, probably late middle age, but an air of weariness surrounded him, weighing down the area with his sad, but necessary, duty.
Hoof steps broke him out of his thoughts, and he saw a young Earth Pony mare, barely out of fillyhood, rushing up the hill towards him. Her pale pink coat was matted with sweat, and her short black mane tangled and messy. Her flank was bare, showing no Cutie Mark, but that was of secondary interest. She held a bundle of rags and cloth in her teeth, and tears poured down her face as she ran. Upon spotting him through her blurry vision, she angled her path to come to rest at his hooves.
Carefully, she placed the bundle to the grass, before flopping down on her stomach, tired and exhausted.
“Please, help me,” she whimpered, looking up at the figure who now seemed far more imposing than he had before.
“How?” The stallion asked, his voice harsh and sharp, like his lungs and throat were pushing up smoke and grit instead of words.
“Stop them, please! They’ll kill him!” She begged, still on her stomach.
“In that case, I cannot help you. Not in that way,” The stallion replied, eyes still glued to Winding Brook.
“Why?! They’ll, they’ll…”
“They’ll bring justice. Or at least, what they think is justice. They’re in the hooves of the Rough Music, now. I cannot stop them.”
“The Rough Music…” the mare whispered, the words carrying a hint of terror in them. She looked at the pony before with a new expression on her face. Fear.
“The Pony Piper,” She said after a while, her voice trembling with fear. “My granny told me about you. Wearing black, with a Music Note Cutie Mark the color of rust. They herald the violence, leading it and controlling it.”
“Me and my predecessors have had many names,” the stallion admitted, breaking his gaze from the town to stare down at the filly before him. “The Pony Piper, the Conductor of the Black Orchestra. The Sound of Death.”
“If you can control it, than you can stop it, right?! Please, they’ll kill him!”
“I cannot stop the Music once it has started. All I can do is wait for it to do what it was started for, and then let the anger and hate bleed out. Let the pony’s lose their blood-lust, and have their senses return.”
“Please… it’s not his fault…” the filly wept, tears spattering on the grass.
“You protect the stallion the Rough Music has come for. Why?”
“Daddy… it wasn’t his fault… he’d just drunk a bit too much at the bar… he didn’t mean to hit sissy that hard… he didn’t…”
As she began to cry softly, the bundle by her forehooves began to squirm, and a soft crying came from it. Carefully, with surprising gentleness, the stallion pushed aside some of the rags to reveal a tiny foal, with an orange coat and a purple mane and tiny, frail looking wings.
“Shhh, shhh, it’s ok, it’s ok, your aunty is here,” the filly said, scooping up the Pegasus foal into her hooves, cuddling and nuzzling it.
“How old?” the stallion asked.
“Two months. Please, you have to stop the music! She’s already lost her mom, you can’t let her loose her granddad!”
“It’s because of her grandfather that the Rough Music started. It’s because he beat his daughter so hard that she nearly lost his granddaughter. It’s because of his hooves that her mother lies dead in the living room, neck broken and face smashed. It’s because of his actions that the town now gathers to do what the Rough Music demands of them.”
“How…” the filly gasped, but the stallion’s gravelly tone cut her off.
“I am the pony who guides the Rough Music. I hear what it wants, and why. I know. And I would not wish to stop it, even if I could.” The stallion leaned down, stroking the foal’s cheek with a cracked, worn hoof.
“His anger killed her. Rage at his daughter, giving him a granddaughter out of wedlock. Disgust for the foal, born a Pegasus to an Earth Pony family. It is better to let the Rough Music take him now, least he start it again later for something worse.”
“How… how can you be so cruel…” the filly uttered, shock and disgust welling up inside her at the strange pony before her. Slowly, the stallion looked to the young ponies before him, and looked into the filly’s eyes. Staring back, she was taken aback by the terrible depths of hate and indifference in his eyes, but also, almost completely hidden by the coldness, by the motes of intense and powerful regret and sorrow dancing behind the darkness.
“Do you hear that?” He asked suddenly, waving a hoof at the town. The filly blinked, and her ears flicked momentarily. At first, there was nothing besides the whisper of the wind, and the soft, low rumbling of ponies trotting through the streets. But as she strained her ears, things changed. The wind carried whispers and murmurs, angry voices that offered pain and demanded payment. The rumbling was no long a single sound, but a cacophony of noises that rose and fell with the ponies below, mixing into a single song that signaled doom for a certain drunk stallion in a plain, ordinary house.
“The Rough Music is not kind and happy like its sibling, Joyful Magic. Push them too far and the Ponies unknowingly and unwittingly call forth the Rough Music. The pounding of its drums is the beat of dozens of hooves on the hard, uncaring ground. Its piano is the turning of keys and the closing of latches on doors and windows. Its cello is the tugging of heartstrings and the plinking of tears. Its flute is the muttering of angry voices and vicious rumors. Its song is the cry of ponies who’ve decided enough is enough.”
As the filly trembled on the chilly grass, the stallion closed his eyes as the sounds from the town grew louder, and soon the sound of splintering wood echoed up to the hill. Cries could be heard from down below. Screams of anger. Of hate. Of pain.
“The Rough Music demands blood. I make sure it takes only what it is due.” And then it was gone. The anger, the fear, and the tension that had been in the air only moments before vanished, like a bad smell whipped away by a strong gust of wind, or a static charge grounded in the stone and earth. Silence settled in its place. As soon as it was gone, ponies became aware of it, or rather, its sudden absence. The Rough Music ended, and the ponies down below in the town of Winding Brook wandered off, back to their ordinary lives to try and forget the events of the night.
“Time to be off,” the stallion said, holding out a hoof to the filly before him.
“What do you mean?” She mumbled, tears drying on her muzzle. He said nothing, but pointed to her flank. Slowly, with a sense of foreboding, she turned her head to look.
A sharp, jagged music note the color of rust lay on her flank. The brand a visualization of her sad, but necessary, duty.
“I have much to teach you,” he said. Numbly, she nodded and stood, her legs shaking from a combination of exhaustion and apprehension.
“What about her?” She asked, looking down at the sleeping filly cradled in the crook of her leg.
“I know of a good place that can take care of her. She’ll be safe, and happy. Which is more than what we could give her,” he said.
“Does… does it always hurt? Listening to the Rough Music?” the filly asked, tying the bundle of rags and cloth around her neck.
“Yes. Sometimes worse than others,” he said, absent-mindedly running a hoof over his scalp and brushing aside his mane, revealing for a moment a short, broken nub of a Unicorn’s horn. “You did well for your first performance, though.”
Into the thickening darkness the pair trotted, the stars small dots of cold fire against the black velvet of night.
“Come on, Scoots! We’re gonna be late for school!” A yellow coated Earth Pony filly shouted from the inside of a small red wagon being pulled by a scooter.
“Keep your bow on, we’ll make it!” An orange coated Pegasus filly replied, riding the scooters and propelling it with flaps from her tiny wings.
“Look out for that pony!” A white coated Unicorn filly who was seated in the wagon as well cried out, pointing a hoof at a Pony who was crossing the road in front of them.
With a yelp of surprise, the Pegasus filly swerved to the side, causing the wagon to veer and tip over, sending the two passengers sprawling.
“Ah, jeez, Scootaloo! Can’t ya be more careful?”
“Sorry, Applebloom! And sorry about almost hitting you, random pony jaywalker!” Scootaloo said, only to be nudged by Sweetie Belle.
“Its fine, I’m just glad none of you are hurt,” the pony said with a small smile. Her pale pink coat was lovely and her black mane carefully groomed, though the black traveling cloak seemed a bit out of place. As Scootaloo scrunched up her face in confusion, a bell sounded from the distance, spurring the fillies into a frenzy.
“Oh shoot! We’re late!” The trio panicked, and hastily loaded back up into the wagon and scooter, zooming off.
“What’s with your face, Scoots?” Applebloom inquired once they reached the schoolhouse.
“I feel like I’ve met that pony before,” the young Pegasus said, rubbing her chin. “I just can’t place it though.”
“Well, I’m sure it’ll come to you later. Let’s move before Cheerilee gives us detention for being late!” Sweetie Belle said, urging her friends on.
Scootaloo gave one last look towards the distance, a strange feeling of sadness in her chest. Shaking her head clear, she walked away into the school, while the Earth Pony mare smiled sadly after her, wiping away some tears from her eyes.
“You’ve grown up so wonderfully, my little niece,” she whispered, before turning away down the road out of Ponyville. It was time to leave. The Rough Music was calling her. And deep down, she prayed she would never have to hear it in her niece’s new home.
“Goodbye again, Scootaloo. I’m so very sorry.”
For some reason she couldn't explain, Scootaloo felt a wave of sadness pass over her, before turning back to her friends, and smiling, blinking back tears.
Author's Note
This is my take on what happens when bad emotions grow in Equestria.
Inspiration came from a part of one of Sir Terry Pratchett's work.
