Background Pony

VI - Heroes and Bards

Dear Journal,

Do heroes exist only because history chooses to write about them? Are the greatest ponies who ever lived so legendary because they earned that status, or on account of their being in the right place when fate struck? If the ponies of our epic poems surpass the slings and arrows of time simply by the whim of popular knowledge, then could we accidentally be worshipping villains in this day and age?

I never sought to be a famous pony. Not really. Sure, I wouldn't have mind a tiny bit of popularity. Certainly, when endeavoring to make waves in the music scene, I would have been happy if my name had been passed around. However, I never expected to do anything dramatic enough that it would have had my name exalted on high.

Now, I can't help but think otherwise. I toss and turn at night-fighting shivers-fantasizing that one of these days I will walk into town and somepony-anypony-will actually be heard saying my name, if even in a passing joke or upon the flippant waves of gossip. I don't want to make the history books. I don't even want to see my name in lights. I just want to witness somepony speaking of me, and I want it to be something positive and joyful.

It's been a long year of dealing with this curse, and I know the difference between thinking rationally and fancifully. I've encountered many fears, and I've endured my fair share of distress. Is it too selfish of me to think that I could at least earn myself a tiny bit of recognition?

No. No, it's not selfish of me. However, it is foolish. After all, who will sing of this composure's tragedies or triumphs? Who will chronicle her actions and discoveries into an epic chorus?

Now, I'm starting to realize, that chronicler is me. I do not sing of a fearless vixen, one who faces the darkest shades of freezing night undaunted. No, I speak of a lonesome learner, one who traverses the blackness with only her own hoofsteps to keep her company. Whatever she salvages, she does so by herself, which is a very frightening task to say the least. If saving the knowledge of myself makes me a hero, then I treasure that with every fibre of my being. After all, I wouldn't be much of a hero if I didn't save an audience, even if it's an audience of one.

Ten little chords.

Ten little chords beginning Lunar Elegy #8 were playing through my mind; it was far from enough. I needed to discover more if I wanted to come anywhere near close to composing the entire musical number, much less running the tune's authenticity by Twilight Sparkle.

Of course, the beginning process of mapping out an elegy is always the hardest. I wake up to a melody stuck my head. I let the tune play itself out repeatedly. The music takes shape, forms chords, and grows into an ancient composition that I must then struggle to translate back into the world of the living. There are times when a phantom tune simply takes forever to come into fruition. It pays its toll on my mind, which is the least I can say about my sanity. So, to assist in the evolutionary process, I usually busy myself with menial yet functional activities in an attempt to get the juices flowing out of my mind instead of stirring for an eternity within.

Which is why I was squatting by my garden the other day, dutifully tending to the carrots and planting new vegetables for a solid two hours, around the time I first heard her.

There was a resounding thunder across the face of the woods, followed by a cracking voice behind me. "Ow!"

I looked up and wiped my sweaty brow with a forelimb. She was earlier than normal. These collisions, after all, usually take place way later in the afternoon. I got up and trotted slowly towards the side of the cabin where I saw her lying on the ground, rubbing a bruised muzzle.