"Honey, are you done with your chores?" Melody asked as her son played gently on the piano.
Much like herself, her son had always had a talent for music. A talent that rivaled her own, in fact. The haunting melodies he could create on a whim would have earned any other colt a cutie mark, but his flanks remained frustratingly blank.
"Yes ma'am." He answered in a tone that matched the dark undertones of the music he played, causing her to shudder. It felt strange to be both unsettled and proud at the same time, but it was how she felt every time he played. It was a feeling that she suspected she would never get used to.
She stayed and listened to him for a while, nodding her head along with the morose tune. Her gaze wandered to the wooden carving that sat next to him on the piano bench. She was no stranger to masks, with masks hanging on walls throughout their home. Some were creepy, others were silly, and many were plain.
Arawa had often said that a mask maker puts a piece of himself into every mask, and that by knowing what to look for, the maker of any mask could be known just by the mask itself. Melody had hardly believed it at the time, but seeing how distinct her son's mask was from the rest of the masks around the house made her question.
He stopped playing and turned back towards Melody.
"How was it?" He asked.
"Haunting, but peaceful…if that makes sense. Was there anything in particular that inspired it?"
He looked down at his unfinished mask, the look on her face reminding her of the look on Arawa's face when they were on the train back to Equestria. The light and dark orange stripes bent on his muzzle in exactly the same way.
"It was about dad."
Melody's breath caught in her throat, and her eyes began to water. The music had worn her emotions raw, the mask had rubbed against old memories, and her son's words scraped the sore, scarred wound none too gently.
"Do you think a song could have healed him?" He asked, eyes still on the heart shaped piece of wood.
Melody walked over to the piano bench, and he scooted over to give her room to sit. She wrapped him up in a hug, the two of them sniffling.
"Music holds a lot of power," she said "but it's not that kind of power sweetheart. It can help heal the heart, but it can only do so much for somepony who is sick."
Tears streamed down her face as the two held each other tightly, tears that dripped down onto the rough wooden surface of her son's mask. Slowly, as emotions calmed and tears and mucus dried, Melody let her son go.
"We should eat before dinner gets cold."
He nodded, but said nothing.
Slowly, she got up from the bench and made it to the door before noticing that he had not yet followed. She turned her head around and gave him a bit of a stink eye.
"Majora," she called, causing him to look up and meet her gaze, "dinner."
The striped orange foal hopped off of the bench and followed Melody into the dining room, leaving the tearstained mask behind.
"Are you going to paint it?" Melody asked as they made their way into the kitchen.
"I want to, but I can't find anything for the colors." He said, looking dejected.
"Y-" Melody stopped herself, but only for a moment, "Your father had a bunch of paints he used for masks. I'm sure he'd have been proud to know that you were using them."
Melody poured bowls of soup for the two of them, and they sat down to eat.
The lighthouse was off limits, his dad had always said. On many occasions, he had tried to sneak into it anyway, but he had never even gotten past the fence before his dad caught him. As Majora watched the turbulent, silty river water flow into the ocean, he found that his father's words rang in his mind every time he thought about going in. Those words held far more power over him than they ever had before.
Majora looked down at the plain wooden mask, trying to think of how he wanted to paint it. The large, perfectly round eyes stared back with an intensity that might have shaken another pony. Majora did not notice.
"Hey, orange peel!" An unfortunately familiar voice called out.
Majora quickly picked up the mask and put it on. His father had often said that there was power in masks. Maybe it could stop a bully like Dusty…maybe it was like music and its power was different from what he needed.
Majora turned around to face the colt, barely able to see from the tiny holes where the tear ducts in the mask would be. He managed to get a good look at the colt's reaction, he had stopped in his tracks and looked startled.
It only lasted a moment before he took two steps forward and tore the mask from Majora's face, nearly pulling Majora off of his hooves in the process. Wincing in pain, Majora stumbled and watched as Dusty reared back and threw the mask into the river.
Majora didn't even hear Dusty say "fetch" before he was in the water and trying to keep sight of the mask as it floated downstream. The water flowed swiftly through this last leg of the river, and the swirling red-brown water made it difficult to keep the mask in sight. After several minutes of paddling, Majora finally reached the mask and carried it the only way he could think of, by putting it on.
Panting from the exertion, Majora turned around to see that the river had pulled him out into the ocean. Immediately, Majora began swimming parallel to the shore, letting himself be dragged further out to sea. Gradually, the water around him slowed and calmed as he swam away from the mouth of the river. Once the water started to become more clear as the suspended iron rich soil fell out, Majora turned and began the lengthy journey back to shore.
Less than an hour later, an exhausted Majora pulled himself out of the ocean water and onto the shore, collapsing onto the gravelly beach to rest.
Majora sat out by the wooden privacy fence that surrounded the old lighthouse, staring at his work. The mask was done, for all intents and purposes, the paint just needed to dry.
Time and again, he ended up by the old lighthouse. It was where he had spent most of his time with his dad. With his mom, it was at the piano, learning how to play, listening to each other play, and making new music altogether. With his father, it was out by the lighthouse.
Majora never really liked fishing very much, but his father had loved it. He found himself wishing he had gone fishing more often now that his father was gone.
It had taken several days of thought and work, but now the mask was properly painted with his father's paint. It was stunning to look at. The bright colors and big eyes caught attention, and the more intricate detail kept it. As far as Majora was concerned, it was perfect…or it would be once the red paint dried.
Majora looked down at his flank, only to come face to face with nothing at all different from before. Before he had a chance to let out his frustration, a mocking voice called out to him.
"Back again, orange peel?" Dusty called out, causing Majora to look up with a frown.
His eyes widened as he realized what might be at stake, his father's red paint sitting next to him. In a panic, he kicked the bottle of paint away from himself, hoping it would go unnoticed. He could repaint the mask if it got wet, so long as he had the paint.
Unfortunately, Dusty noticed the movement and walked directly to where the bottle had stopped.
"Well, what's this? Did mommy get you some paint for your arts and crafts project?" Dusty mocked as he picked up the bottle.
"That's my dad's!" Majora shouted, his heart racing as Dusty inspected it.
"Your dad does arts and crafts?" Dusty asked before looking out towards the turbulent river. "Lame."
Majora hit the water before the bottle left Dusty's hoof, swimming as fast as possible to where he thought the bottle might land.
The bottle landed upstream, and Majora immediately lost sight of it once it hit the water. The ever churning mixture of water and silt made keeping track of position nearly impossible, and Majora soon couldn't even figure out which direction to swim. Instead, he dove down and opened his eyes, grime and grit irritating them and obscuring his vision so thoroughly that he could not see his own hooves. With a gasp, Majora returned to the surface even more disoriented than before.
"Hey, orange peel!" Dusty shouted from the shore. "You forgot something!"
Majora looked and saw Dusty hurl his mask into the river like he had a few days before. Majora scrambled towards it, accepting the paint as a loss so that he wouldn't lose sight of his mask.
Just under an hour later, Majora was on the beach, panting with his mask, now washed almost clean of red paint, securely on his face. He never found the paint.
Majora sat out by the old lighthouse, staring at his mostly painted mask. The red had almost completely come off in the river, and after sitting out to dry for a few days it was ready to be painted again. Although Majora had his brush, he had no red paint.
His father would not have approved of him being behind the fenceline of the lighthouse like he was. Instead of a gravel shoreline, there were large boulders that broke the waves and current of the flowing river. His father had said it was because it was very important to prevent the erosion of the foundation of the lighthouse, and not for playing on. The rocks were not very stable, they had lots of room for dangerous critters like snakes to hide, and the murkiness of the water hid them from view in even the shallowest depths.
Majora wasn't even allowed to swim close to the lighthouse, much less be inside the fenceline.
Majora needed to finish his mask. He felt like it wanted to be finished, desperately urging him to pick up the mask making tradition where his father had left off. He needed red paint.
Majora wasn't even sure how he could get red paint. There was no paint store in the tiny village, and asking his mother where his father had gotten the paint was useless since it came from Zebrica when they had moved before he was born. His father had always been sparing with his paint, and perhaps its rarity was why. Majora needed red paint.
Majora bit his lip in anger and frustration until he tasted iron. With a wince, he stopped and spit onto the rock beside him. His father had always said that if he truly was destined to be a mask maker, he would find a way to make a mask. Looking down at the red tinged spit on the rock, Majora had an idea.
Majora got up and began looking around the base of the lighthouse for a sharp looking rock. While he didn't find anything resembling a knife, he did find a particularly pointy one. Returning to his mask, the small rock in hoof, Majora jabbed his fetlock with the rock and twisted. He smiled when red paint came out.
It took a while to paint the rest of the mask, and he was afraid that the blood would turn brown after a few minutes. His fears were unfounded, as once he finished painting, the blood remained as vibrant as it was the moment it was painted on. The crimson red contrasted with the yellow eyes in a way that almost glowed. This red paint made for a superior mask, it seemed. Majora grinned down at his mask, it felt like it was almost complete. It needed something though, and Majora wasn't sure what.
As he stared into the eyes of his mask, blood having dried on his hooves, he heard an angry voice call out.
"I know you're around here orange peel!"
Majora put on his mask.
"You got me grounded for the rest of the year, you little piece of shit!"
Majora knew that Dusty knew that he always came here, but he'd never once gone past the lighthouse fence. He counted on Dusty not looking for him there. Majora quietly made his way up next to the lighthouse, hoping that Dusty would give up and look somewhere else. Majora cringed when he heard Dusty climbing the fence.
"You're going to wish I'd thrown that stupid mask into the river this time, Majora!" Dusty yelled, his hooves landing on the gravel inside of the fence, "You'll be wishing that you never made that creepy thing in the first place!"
Majora backed away from where it sounded like Dusty was coming from, unable to tell if Dusty had spotted him due to the small holes in the mask limiting his field of view to nearly a point.
Majora's vision when white as something struck the back of his head, causing him to stumble to the ground.
"You can't see with that dumb thing on, Majora." Dusty said with a sneer in his voice. "Here, let me help you out."
Before Majora recovered enough to try to stop him, Dusty yanked the mask from Majora's face.
"Looks like there's a scuff on it. Here, let me help!" Dusty dropped the mask onto the ground, it's lifeless yellow eyes staring up at the sky.
Majora scrambled towards the mask, but Dusty had already reared up with his earth pony strength and stomped with all of his might on the thin wood of the mask.
The mask didn't even crack, nor did the paint even scuff. The eyes, however, seemed to glow.
Majora finally reached the mask and grabbed ahold of it, but it didn't budge with Dusty standing partly on top of it. He looked up just in time to see Dusty's focus turn from the mask to Majora himself.
With wide eyes Majora tried to back away, but in the commotion, he had turned enough that the boulders from the shore were behind him, the angry red river churning further behind. His hoof slipped on an oddly angled rock and Majora backed up no further.
Dusty smirked, walked a few steps towards the paralyzed Majora, pivoted on his forehooves, and bucked. His rear hooves smacked Majora in the middle of his chest with a thud, lifting him off of his front hooves and hurtling him spinning backwards into the water. Majora was upside down when he hit the water, and Dusty watched as a small splash was accompanied by a loud crack as Majora's momentum came to a crashing halt on top of the water, folding him up like a blanket.
Dusty changed from satisfaction to horror as Majora flopped over to the side, fully resting on a boulder hidden by a thin layer of the silt-ridden water. Necks were not supposed to bend like that.
A small flash caused Dusty to jump, and he looked in confusion at the mark that had appeared on his victim's flank, identical to Majora's Mask. With a gasp of fear as the weight of what he'd done took over, Dusty backed away from the boulder ridden shoreline and his back hoof hit a piece of wood.
He turned and looked back at the Mask that was laying on the ground behind him. The wide eyes danced without moving or turning, and the spines on the top and sides writhed without moving. Dusty tried to look away from the terrible thing, but found himself transfixed on it.
Dusty and the Mask stayed still, unmoving and battling with all of their might. Dusty couldn't tell how long he fought, but his legs shook with fear and exhaustion when a voice called out and broke his concentration for a moment. That was all it took for him to crumble. He hadn't even noticed that the sun had set and the moon had risen.
He took a step towards the Mask, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't look away, no matter how hard he tried. His hoof shook as he reached out to the mask and desperately tried to scream for help. He managed a groan, and it was enough to be heard if the rush of hoofsteps was anything to go by.
He picked up the mask as somepony appeared in the corner of his vision climbing the fence faster than he'd ever seen before. Dusty slowly managed to turn his head away as his hoof started lifting the Mask to his face. He met the gaze of the pony who had come to his rescue, and his heart sank. It was Majora's mother.
That moment of hopelessness was enough to turn the tide once more, and Majora's Mask met Dusty's face.
Melody jumped away as the most horrific, torturous screech anypony had ever made reached her ears. Dusty started thrashing, grabbing the mask and pulling with all of his might as the Mask made with blood, pain, and tears ate away at his very soul. He ran head first into the lighthouse, and instead of falling over unconscious, he began slamming his head into it again and again, wailing and weeping all the while.
Melody looked at her son's Mask, and her fear slightly faded alongside her willingness to help the colt who's screams could likely be heard from town. Slowly, she turned away and ignored his lamenting wails and looked around the moonlit lighthouse for her son.
Not seeing him, and knowing how he often ended up in the river when Dusty came by, she walked towards the boulder covered bank and looked out into the dark waters.
"Majora!" She shouted, wishing that the colt behind her would quiet down so she could listen for a reply.
Melody finally noticed him nearly at her hooves, the darkness and her focus on the further parts of the river worked against her.
"Majora!" She shouted in a panic, twisting a hoof as she scrambled down the rocks to her son's lifeless body.
The moment she grabbed ahold of him, she knew something was wrong. He wasn't moving, wasn't breathing, and as she cradled his head in her hooves and wept, a part of her knew he was gone. She refused to accept it, whispering assurances into his ear as tears replaced the water soaking his fur.
Melody looked up when she heard the sound of hoofsteps on gravel approaching her. Dusty looked down at her and Majora from the top of the bank.
"That's Majora's Mask," she shouted with a sob, "give it back, Dusty!"
The Mask tilted Dusty's head, throwing Melody into the middle of the river with a squeak. When her head came up out of the water, he pushed her back under and held her there. He had not moved a step from the rocky bank of the river.
Majora's Mask looked up at the moon, seeing the mare on its surface. She could help end the suffering.
Majora's Mask reached out and took ahold of the moon, slowing her movement across the sky to a halt. Then, it let go.
Celestia looked down at her finished work. It was no masterpiece, but it was never intended to be. She was curious about how it would be received by her little ponies, and a part of her regretted making it for an audience so young.
After a hundred years, the story had morphed so far from the truth that even this would be closer than the ones her little ponies told. The most accurate account existed in her mind; what she had done burned it into her memory like a hot iron.
A foal's storybook sat on her desk, written and illustrated by herself. She was no artist, but she had learned enough to get by over her lifetime. The cover showed a smiling mare trotting through an older, picturesque Manehattan. She was loaded down with absurdly large saddlebags filled well beyond the limit with masks of all sorts.
"The Happy Mask Salesmare by Princess Celestia"
Perhaps the cheerful cover and name had been a step too far towards deception. Celestia opened the first page and glanced at it, but quickly turned to the last. The thick pages, more like boards than paper, made pictures across two pages nearly seamless. Taking up the whole of the last two pages was the Mask that colt had made. The cursed thing would soon bring nightmares to Equestria's foals once the book was published, just as it had given to her.
She hoped Luna would forgive her transgression upon her return.
The city of Manehattan did not always a sprawl,
It was once a small hamlet, most quaint and quite small.
The Happy Mask Salesmare had strolled into town,
Masks she had aplenty, more than even a clown.
She set up shop, "Any mask for a price!"
Most wanted costumes, but some wanted vice.
Her masks held power. More power, more cost.
Madness ensued, and order was tossed.
Then one day, in walked a foal.
"Power I want, I'll sell you my soul!"
"One so young has no need for such might!"
Go back to your parents, I'm sure they miss you quite right!"
"It's not for me, for I am no fool,
It is for one who is 'oft most cruel."
"A bully you have? No such power you need."
"Take something else!" she did desperately plead.
"That mask I require. You must honor your code."
A mask for a price, or so I am told."
"Then take your mask, but this I decree!"
"Once the mask is on, your soul belongs to me!"
The Maskmare was frightened, her mind distraught.
"Surely no one will buy it." Or so she had thought.
The foal left grimly, soul on loan.
The price did not matter, a pony must atone.
A trap was laid where the thug would look,
The foal sitting alone; with the mask by a brook.
"What are you doing, sitting here with a mask like that?"
"Give it to me, you worthless doormat!"
"Here, take it! You can have it for free."
"It's too scary for me anyway." The foal said with glee.
The thief put on the mask and the foal's soul departed.
The bully realized too late, this Mask was black hearted.
Terror and power tore through her mind,
Leaving nothing but hatred and anguish behind.
The moon she did grab, pulled it down towards the ground,
The princess took note, flying swiftly to town.
Celestia came, this madness to mend,
She was forced to make peace, putting the bully to an end.
The Mask in her care, she nearly gave in
But her mind was too strong, and the Mask's power waned thin.
Secure beneath Canterlot, the Mask does now stay,
The moon was put back, may we keep it that way.
Hold back from abuse, for it has a great toll,
That Mask has no mercy, not for even a foal.
Author's Note
I wanted to tell the story, but I knew that I wouldn't have the patience to flesh it out. Therefore, this story exists in its current, brief state. I think it is rather rough in terms of quality, but I want to at least get something out there to see how it is received.
