//------------------------------// // The Best Years // Story: Octavia's Last Night // by Rune Soldier Dan //------------------------------// Octavia closed her eyes, felt the fragile weight of the bow in her hoof. Held delicately in the frog’s muscles, tight enough to keep firm, gently enough to let flow. One did not push it into the strings as an amateur might expect, but rather guide and slide it along as fast or slow as the music bid. The cello was comfortable and natural in the crook of her foreleg, its hoof held close to the strings to press and pluck them so the right note would sound from the bow. Different than the violins she favored in grade school. Certainly, a more natural posture and requiring less exertion to use, but she did not make the change for her own ease. While a violin might squeak and quickly stumble to the next frantic note, the lower sounds of the cello stretched on, compounding any mistake. It required precision, intelligence, perfect planning of one note to the next. Music itself had to be written around its limitations, for it was simply impossible to shift the bow quickly enough to match some combinations. But those limits could stretch. Speed, precision, timing. Practiced perfection could take the cello to heights, for more than other instruments its notes could, must, flow into each other. Masterfully done, it could give the illusion of three playing at once as sounds lingered in the ear. Octavia wasn’t a master, not yet, but other students called her one. They questioned her secret, then went off to malls and restaurants while she stayed late to practice. Hair touched string. She slid the bow, coaxing out the cello’s song. Sound like a humming oak tree emerged, fast and slow, always smooth. One perfect note into the next. “WUB WUB WUBWUB. WUB WUB WUBWUB. WUB WUB W...” Octavia bounced in her bed, lifted by no motion of her own. Tissues were stuffed in her ears, and a very petulant frown scrunched her muzzle as she glared into her textbook. Discord clicked a strange device in his hand. A picture like a bullhorn with a line through it appeared next to the scene, silencing it immediately. “Ah, so this was your first murder.” He gestured to the shared room’s other inhabitant: Vinyl Scratch, studying atop her own bed. With her massive speakers booming, not three pony-lengths from where the young Octavia lay. The old Octavia smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Some days I considered it. If you think this is bad, you should have seen her practicing ‘wubstep.’” Octavia’s smile grow, though she winced away from the speakers. “I was a music snob then, and I admit I never stopped being one. Even now I hear that ‘modern’ music and have little good to say. All rhythm, so much noise, made by machines instead of instruments. But that’s not all – really, that part is just my own preference. It’s that music, it’s animal. It’s noise. Those inclined feel a rush of adrenaline, but no sadness, no joy, no subtle evocation or lingering emotion. Music should be more than the very moment of its existence. We never really saw eye-to-eye on that.” She took a long sigh, staring at the young Vinyl. Wearing her silly shades even indoors, was she really studying? Discord shrugged and turned the sound back on. Across the room, the young Octavia began bobbing her head to the beat. She caught herself, glanced furtively over to Vinyl, then buried her head in the book. “It’s cool that you like my jams,” Vinyl said. Sunglasses or no, she always noticed when Octavia was flustered. “I do and I hate it,” the young Octavia snapped. Octavia mouthed the words along with her, then laughed. Discord muted the scene again. “I’m sorry, tell me more about how you hate wubstep?” Octavia gave a little hum. “Well it is catchy, I can’t deny that. This was the most important lesson I learned as a filly. Those silly classes? We played dull classics written before the time of Nightmare Moon. Forty minutes per day learning to read and repeat notes on paper. I was bored to tears at our school concerts, but all the adult ponies said we were so good because the music sounded like what it always sounded like. Back then I thought that was just the way things were.” Another sigh. A simple, happy smile found her face, her eyes never leaving her old roommate. “Music should be emotional, skillful, evocative. Vinyl taught me that it should also be fun. One perfect note to the next. A slow, predictable piece, but one nopony in the audience had heard before. Octavia had written it herself – experimenting, practicing. No one cared to teach her composing so she borrowed books and learned it with Vinyl, though their methods of course parted from there. Rows upon rows of five perfect lines. To her instructors, they were the beginning and the end. So wrong. They were just translation, a language, scribbled notes to erase and change. The bird does not care if you write what it is, and nor does music. Her eyes remained closed. She knew her song by heart, after so much time. ‘Ode to the Sun,’ she had called it. In those last years before Princess Luna’s return, Celestia-worship had been fashionable in the music world. The last note dragged. Ponies thought it was coming to an end, and a few began to clap. She did not ‘jerk,’ the bow, but slid it gently, precisely, quickly. Her hoof pushed low on the strings, making the sound almost shrill like a violin. Faster, back and forth, but always precise and correct, turning the low notes of the cello loud, joyful, almost fierce. In her mind, she pictured trumpets playing alongside her, lending volume and strength. Even a voice, singing the words she idly penned in the margins. “Mortals, join the happy chorus Which the morning sun did start: Harmony flows all around us, Humble love binds heart to heart!” But that was all silly. She was to be a musician, not a composer. Ponies bobbed their heads, tapped their hooves to the beat. Music should be fun. The end was deafening. She swung out her bow with flourish, head down, accepting the applause as her rightful due. And the next contestant at their high school talent show gave her a very dirty look as she trotted on stage with some magician’s tricks. The next pony she saw was a much happier one. Vinyl had the courtesy to wait until Octavia had her precious cello back in its case before tackling her. Octavia squawked in surprise, eyes wide as she hit the floor with Vinyl above. “That was awesome! You’ve got this in the bag for sure!” Octavia’s gaze slipped away. “You would have won if they hadn’t disqualified you.” “Not gonna lie, Octi, I saw that coming a mile away.” Vinyl stood to the side, letting her friend get up. “Wubstep is new, which means it’ll catch on everywhere else twice before it gets big in Canterlot.” She gasped when Octavia righted herself, then made a noise like a steaming kettle as Octavia returned the cello to its locker. Octavia glanced at her. Vinyl abruptly looked away and began whistling, then resumed her pitched ‘eeeee’ when Octavia turned away. “Vinyl, may I help y–” She interrupted with a squeak as a hard hoof slapped her flank. Octavia spun, ready with her own right hoof, then jerked to a stop as something caught her eye. Something new and purple. Her cutie mark had come. A treble clef. Simple, unpretentious, fitting. Octavia stared, wonder and rare excitement breaking across her dignified face. Vinyl hugged her close, nuzzling their cheeks like she had the first day they met. “I was wondering when yours would come in! Destiny must be slow on the draw these days. Any idiot could tell from day one you’ll be a musician.” Memories of the long evenings writing her Ode came to Octavia’s mind, then fell to the side. Of course she was meant to play music. Vinyl was right, any idiot could tell. “Hayburgers!” Vinyl cried out, whooping loudly. “Hayburgers, hayburgers, hayburgers! My treat, all for my bestest friend in the world!” The old Octavia gave a tight, but genuine laugh as they sped from the school. “I was her only friend. And she, mine.” She looked over to Discord, who quickly hid a popcorn bucket behind his back. “Really? You, I understand. But she’s sunny and pleasant and enthusiastic, she could have made all the friends she wants.” “Don’t think I don’t know that,” Octavia said wryly, but with good humor. “She latched onto me for years past all this. Music was almost all we ever talked about. I suppose we were both very passionate musicians, and she saw kinship in that.” She looked on, smiling faintly as Vinyl stood on a table and boasted of Octavia’s cutie mark to the whole restaurant. Then she hugged Octavia, smearing the prim mare with ketchup from her cheek. Discord softly cleared his throat. “You… think she grew close to you because you were a musician?” Octavia glanced to him, then back to the scene. She shrugged. “Well, yes. Music was the only thing we had in common.” Discord’s reply came many seconds later. Not spoken to her, but muttered under his breath, almost lost in the bustle of Vinyl’s antics. “What fools your ponies be.” Octavia won the talent show, of course. The first of many plaques and ribbons to come, but the last for a long while. Graduation arrived, and the dormitory politely showed her the door. Vinyl left Canterlot quickly, seeking friendlier crowds in Manehatten. Octavia stayed, tried to make her mark. A poor apartment, with gold roofs looming coldly in the distance. Endless applications and shows of talent. They were always impressed. They never made an offer. Octavia slowly learned she competed with an army of musicians, both grown in Canterlot’s cultured schools and lured from outside by its mystifying wonder. She was better than most. But it was Canterlot, and skill placed second to pedigree. Hiring a musician was more than an employment. It could be an alliance, a commitment, an exchange or signal of favor. Anyone halfway decent could play those familiar tunes. Prestige, reputation, who-knew-who, that came a little harder. In every letter, Vinyl begged her to come to Manehatten. Share rent, share space, let the two struggling musicians pool resources as they fight to establish themselves. Octavia admitted she couldn’t pay for anything until she found work. Vinyl didn’t care. “Just come.” So she went. Manehatten was loud, crowded, uncouth. Ponies mocked Octavia’s bow tie, while in Canterlot they would comment if she went without. She saw herself an outsider, looked vaguely down upon her new home. She belonged in Canterlot, beneath the golden roofs. Perhaps an inherited lie, but still a thing for her to hold tightly in the noisy, bright long nights. There was work. Talent spoke in Manehatten, and endless labors had honed and perfected Octavia’s. She played in jazz bands, holiday fairs, and giant orchestras. Then she would come home, and a smile would easily grace her stern expression. She would talk music and gossip with Vinyl, going out with her to parks and coffee shops. Vinyl was so funny, so caring, so creative and warm and beautiful. “Hey Octi, let’s get some of those horse divorce!” “It is ‘hors d'oeuvres,’ Vinyl! Not… oh, you know, of course you do. Laugh it up.” The first time Octavia was invited to a socialite party, Vinyl had made them look like fools. No regrets. They even collaborated once, throwing a cello concert to a wubstep beat. Ponies loved it. Octavia thought it sounded terrible, but it was lovely to work with Vinyl for a little while. At high places in the city, they could see Canterlot Mountain. Sometimes the rising sun caught on the golden roofs, glittering like a temple in a sacred land. Now and then Octavia dabbled with composing her own music again. But ponies began to notice her, and she grew very busy. All until a letter came, different from the others. Sealed by wax and scented with cologne, holding a page inked by a quill instead of typewriter. A small Canterlot band in need of a cellist. Urgency was required – contracts were at stake, including the Grand Galloping Gala itself. The cellist they’d been preparing left without notice and they were ready to gamble on an outsider. In short, the break she needed, wanted. Deserved. “I’m going,” she had said to Vinyl. Vinyl, who had been plenty busy herself, yawned and grinned. “Me too, the big East Coast tour starts tomorrow. But uh, hey? If neither of us are going to be working in Manehatten let’s move somewhere… you know, cheaper. Somewhere rural where we won’t have to rent different places for practice and sleep.” She flipped down her sunglasses, hiding her eyes. “I mean, if you want to keep living together and stuff.” “Of course, Vinyl.” Young Octavia touched the pure white hoof. They smiled to each other, then did so again through the window as Octavia’s train left for Canterlot. For Discord and the dying, damned Octavia, it took only a few steps to follow. Long enough for Discord to begin whistling guiltily. Octavia rolled her eyes. “Yes, I loved her. Happy?” “It seems mutual.” “P… perhaps back then,” Octavia said, stumbling over the first word. “It… didn’t go well.” She gave a breathless chuckle and gestured to herself. “Of course it didn’t. I’m this.” Discord gave an exaggerated shrug, throwing his arms out wide. “True, but some ponies do have terrible taste in romantic partners. I would know.” Octavia stopped to watch him walk ahead. “What do you mean?” Discord froze. His outstretched talons twitched, then he folded his arms back in front and kept walking. “Never you mind, my dear.” Octavia took a step forward. Lights and sound enveloped her, and she forgot the conversation. A wave of nostalgic sensation: perfume smells, tall white pillars, lights bright beneath golden roofs. Ponies in pressed suits and silk dresses – and there she was, in her own black suit. She belonged. A part of the pageantry, the style, the culture, the capital. Stress? Of course there was. But she flourished in it. Old faces, so young back then – Frederic, Parish, Beauty Brass. Octavia was stern and focused. The others raced to keep up, and so all improved by leaps. The Gala itself was… a disaster, for unrelated reasons. But all else flowed like a fairy tale before her, all Canterlot was supposed to be was hers at last. The formal dress, the stern frown, the prim discipline, all these proved charming to those around, for she seemed in many ways an ideal musician. She would perform at parties, and be guest at others. Wearing a pink silk dress she played at Fancy Pants’ charity balls – unpaid, but fabulous for the reflected reputation. Their quartet would grow, shrink, split, reform. That was the way of things. Octavia even tried her hoof at songwriting again, directing the music to a small band. It felt good. But it also felt a bit too late to change careers, especially with how successful hers had become. Now and then, there would be no contracts on the horizon, no work for the week or month. A breath of air after a busy season. Then she would sell her apartment, purchase an economy-class train ticket, and wait on the wooden bench with her hooves propped on her cello case. Songs and lyrics would be doodled, but only until the train brought her to the little house in Ponyville she shared with Vinyl. Sometimes Vinyl wouldn’t be home at all, busy with her own tours and schedule. But sometimes she would, and then they were inseparable. They would write, they would ‘jam,’ as Vinyl called it. Sometimes they would flee in terror from whatever monster sought Equestria’s greatest defenders in their home town. Including Discord. Octavia watched nonplussed as he transformed her younger self to a trombone and Vinyl into a snare drum, leaving the pair unable to speak save by musical notes. The scene moved on. “I’m not apologizing,” Discord said. Octavia said nothing. That all worked out, at least. Octavia and Vinyl laid on the grassy park in the cool of the day, watching clouds go by. A white fetlock curled around a grey one. The young Octavia felt a kiss on her cheek. She looked over to find Vinyl already turned back to the sky, her eyes hidden behind their sunglasses. “Joking!” Vinyl called out. Their neighbors, Bon Bon and Lyra, whispered and giggled. Hours they passed, in comfortable, happy silence. A strange thing for Octavia, always so driven. So many ideas to write down, and endless practice to hone her craft. She always felt restless and distracted when forced to remain still, but somehow… somehow that never happened with Vinyl. Even watching them as a stranger in her own memories, she felt a lightness in her breast, a quiet sense of ease and peace. The sun was setting. Time, even here, did not stop. She did not look to her companion. “I wonder, Discord.” “Hm?” “These were the best years of my life.” Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. “To play music, to be recognized and lauded. To be a part of Canterlot, Canterlot as it should be. And then to come home, to rest and live with her. Everything was so right, so good.” She still did not look. “Can you leave me here? A ghost in my own past, among my happy memories forevermore?” Discord chuckled, perhaps a bit more softly than his cynical norm. “You know the answer. Will you really make me be the bad guy and say it out loud?” They watched, just for a little longer. The stars came out. Still the pair lay there, counting them, snuggling closer together. The night grew misty, and they were lost to sight. “If creatures could simply stop everything and live forever within their happiest moments...” Discord mused, leading her away. “Who wouldn’t?” “Who, indeed,” Octavia sighed. But she did not delay. “So it is. Let’s… move on.” The Ponyville train station, a few days later. Time to go. Octavia reclined easily with her legs atop her cello case, and Vinyl by her side. The station was quiet today. Even Vinyl said nothing, leaving Octavia to think and plan in silence. Another full month ahead of her, but maybe she’d get some time to write. It had been fun, composing her own music. It felt right, fulfilling. Maybe she’d try and force herself loose for a few evenings and– “Yo, Octi! Equestria to Octi!” Vinyl’s voice. But it seemed a whisper at a very great distance, heard only because all else was quiet. She looked up curiously, then startled as she saw Vinyl speak directly in her ear. A grin spread across Vinyl’s wide muzzle. Her lips moved normally, but her voice remained a murmur. “You can sleep on the train. Come on, you don’t want to miss it.” Octavia turned and startled again on seeing the train had arrived. How did she miss the whistle, the grinding brakes? Maybe she did fall asleep. Vinyl said something she couldn’t hear. “What?” Octavia asked loudly. The response wobbled in her ears: sometimes almost normal, sometimes too far to make out. “Take care of… Octi, I’ll see… on’t forget to write, okay?” The rest could be inferred. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you later, Vinyl.” Octavia walked to her train, ears strained at attention. Where was the rustle, the hoofsteps as ponies got on and off? Why could the whistle barely be heard? She boarded, and was roughly grabbed by the guards. She had walked right past one as he asked for her ticket. She saw him grumble as he punched her in, all without a sound. Octavia rubbed her ears. Still nothing. Why was it so quiet? Why was nopony speaking? She looked around, saw their lips move, heard a faint and distant whistle as the train lurched into motion. She heard them speak, gasped in joy, then bit down as the sound faded once more. So lonely. So quiet. She rubbed her ears again. Tears reached her eyes, then she shook them away. “It took me days,” the old Octavia said, looking with sorrow as her younger self peered about like a frightened animal. “To admit it, I mean. I remember the panic, the fear. The denial. It was an infection, I told myself. A change in the air pressure, or shampoo in the ear. It would go away on its own, or if worst came to worst, a doctor would cure it. But until that could happen, I was so scared. I… I just had to distract myself. To do something to pass those maddening first hours.” The young Octavia looked furtively around, squirming on her bench. Then she hung her head low as though ashamed someone might see. With trembling limbs she opened her knapsack and hoofed out her pencil and notebook. Then she began to write, and the trembling stopped.