//------------------------------// // The Long Defeat // Story: Octavia's Last Night // by Rune Soldier Dan //------------------------------// Octavia was slow to seek a doctor for the building silence. Any word, any rumor of her deafness would spread like pox through Canterlot, and that would end it all. A deaf musician? What a joke! How they would laugh at her, beneath those golden roofs. One may well call for a mute singer, or a blind watchman. Something indistinct hummed at the edge of her hearing. A pony’s voice, recognized but not understood. She turned her head sharply. Parish Nandermane looked back to her with expectation, testing the first few strums of his harp. “Speak up, Parish,” Octavia called out sternly. Parish blinked and traded a glance with Beauty Brass before speaking again, still nothing more than a vague mutter. Not only Beauty, but Frederic also watched her with concern and confusion. Octavia flushed beneath her collar. She gave a tight nod, which seemed to satisfy Parish. They all went back to their instruments, and in the far-off murmur of their chatter Octavia swore she heard her name. “Again with this? Enough with the mumbling, Parish. I can’t stand mumblers. Use your lungs!” It was always deflected. Always another pony’s fault. “Speak up!” “Don’t mumble!” “Out with it!” Surely, some began to suspect. The muttering at parties, even her fellow musicians gossiping between practice. Did they hear rumor from Parish, or those damn useless doctors? How many were talking about her, watching for any sign of weakness? Octavia did not give them any. Always stern, she grew flinty and snappish, utterly cold to the friendly social life she once enjoyed. In some ways it proved a blessing, granting more free days to withdraw and compose. The old Octavia watched herself in that cramped little apartment. The living room where she once shared wine with colleagues became littered with papers crumpled and flat, ink smudged and spilled. One straight quill lay on her desk, next to a waste-tin of broken ones. And there was Octavia – writing, thinking, pacing, comparing two sheets before balling one up for the fire. Usually perfectly focused and productive, but now and then collapsing upon the couch. Octavia trembled, shutting her eyes tight as they could, rubbing her ears til they turned pink without the slightest avail. Mute moans emerged and she would fall to gnawing on a pillow – unaware as her ghostly elder self lay a hoof gently upon her shoulder. She would weep, the tears would dry, and she would rise and march to the desk. And then she would return to the public world: with fear burning her neck and narrowing her eyes. Her music did not suffer – at least, not its quality. Octavia practiced and played with precision, and the beat of the tuba was usually loud enough for her to match its rhythm. ...Usually. One day, the young Octavia arched her nose within the practice hall. “I was playing correctly. We shouldn’t follow the tuba if the tuba is playing wrong.” Conceal, blame, deflect. Beauty Brass – her friend and colleague of years – flushed and fled weeping into the back room. The ghostly Octavia glared to her younger self. “That wasn’t needed. I, I just mocked her in front of a hundred others. I was so scared, and...” She looked down, away. The vision moved on. “I never apologized. I should have.” It wasn’t the last time. Nor the worst time. She pressed past the shouts, the snaps, the insults, always from her own throat. “I suppose I understand now why I am condemned to Tirek. Mortals forget their own sins easily, don’t they?” She turned a wan smile to Discord, expecting some witty reply. But he remained silent, again returned to that serious expression which looked so odd upon his face. He watched not her, but the visions. Letters arrived, with lightning bolts and quarter-notes doodled on the outside. They sat on the messy table for days before Octavia would open then, and she would never reply. Vinyl wrote of wild tours, noisy crowds, fun with her crew. Octavia had always sent back news of Canterlot’s music and her friends – what could she say now? Neither could be heard. There was nothing to tell so she wrote nothing, save a hasty note begging out of a visit when Vinyl came through town. Octavia was too busy, alas. Such a shame. Her band dissolved after its contract ended. Not so strange, they often did. It took over a week for a new one to come in, and that only for a few weeks more. Contacts and agencies stopped responding to her letters. Fewer and fewer guests came to visit. Beauty Brass had been the most common, and ceased entirely after the incident. The last was Frederic Horseshoepin – the oldest of that little Gala quartet which had been her most consistent band for years. Always the patient one, always working to smooth things over between the oft-prickly musicians. He smiled softly as she cleared a place for him to sit. He faced her as he spoke, talking loud and slow. They knew. Of course they knew. Half of Canterlot knew, and the other half suspected. It was regrettable, unfortunate, and all those other sad and polite terms, but the band would be searching for a new cellist. No one would hire them with a deaf musician weighing them down. They’d be laughed out of Canterlot, and rightly so. Frederic spoke longer than he should have, awkwardly trying to soften the blow. “Naturally, you may rely on me for a letter of recommendation to help you… um, start your next career. Have you considered becoming a copyist for the Canterlot Archives? I am close with Concerto’s family and they–” Octavia threw an ink pot at him. A dignified letter arrived two days later, informing that her services were no longer required with his band. Work trickled, then evaporated. The money began running out. On the face of it, merely another dry spell. It was time to sell the apartment and move back into Vinyl’s house. Instead, she cut her expenses. Food, ink, paper, nothing else. She sold her crisp black suits and fancy dresses. Even the Rarity Special, which the darling seamstress made for her back in Ponyville. It got her through an extra month. Eat, sleep, compose. Never leaving the apartment for days at a time. The labor grew bigger, broader. Not the silly little tune she wrote in school, nor the songs she once dabbled in as a hobby. This was to be a symphony – a whole orchestra of music, with parts from the smallest flute to the largest gong. She wrote for all of them, and everything in between. She could hear them in her mind – blaring trumpets, the cello’s strings, the clink of piano, the tempering beat of the drum. More than just passion. Desperation. She needed money. She couldn’t. Couldn’t go back. Couldn’t let Vinyl see her like this. Not all of her bridges were burned. A conductor she once performed for gave her a meeting, then arranged a second one with his orchestra’s manager. It was torture, half-hearing their words and struggling to keep up, but she made do. They were impressed – Canterlot was a city in love with its stodgy old classics, but something new (and most importantly, originating from within Canterlot) could launch them all into the limelight. Of course it couldn’t be too new, but Octavia was a Canterlot mare and all was in order. The music was dignified, flowing, and classically-styled. But there was more. The conductor had a hard time putting it to words, but found them after the first full rehearsal. “It’s… fun!” ‘Interesting’ was the word Octavia used. It had sharp turns of mood, crashing cymbals, rolling waves of brass lead by fierce and rapid violins. Evocative, powerful. Interesting. Fun. But Octavia could not hear the subtle cellos, the flutes, the soft beat of the padded drums. The loud parts, yes. The rest, only in her imagination. It wasn’t enough. She had a balcony seat at the concert. On one side of her sat the owner of the gold-roofed theater. And on the other, unknown and unseen, sat Discord and her older self. At first the old Octavia leaned over the railing, keenly interested in her first performance. But it came… soft. Nothing but brass. The woodwinds, the strings, all still lost to her. “Are you joking?” she snapped. “You cure my ears to mock me, but not to hear my own music?” Discord chuckled, only brightening under her glare. “It’s your past, Octi. Haven’t you noticed?” He wrapped his furry lion’s paw around her, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Of course, I can hear them all just fine. Would you like to know who in those whispering crowds were really talking about you?” “It’s not funny, damn you,” Octavia growled. “This deafness… my life! My passion! Vinyl! All of it I lost because of this infernal...” She gasped. Her eyes lit with sudden memory, and her anger melted into a happy smile. “Of course! The deafness, the damn deafness!” She gripped the paw, holding it in place around her as she looked to Discord. “You saw what I became, and you saw what I was before. It’s all because of the deafness! Without it I dodge Tirek forever, and I still have my music. Change that part. Please, Discord!” Discord stroked his beard with the free talon, smirking into her gaze. “From ‘damn you’ to ‘pretty please with a cherry on top?’” “If you’re not here to help then what are you...” Octavia ran a hoof down her face and shook her head. “No, never mind. Do you want an apology?” “Perish the thought!” Discord boomed out, laughing. “I never apologize, so I’d be quite a silly beast to demand it from others.” The middle talon of his claw pressed to its thumb, ready to snap. His laughter fell to a familiar, sinister smirk. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” Octavia blinked. “Take a look?” The talon snapped. The train to Canterlot. Octavia had, in fact, simply dozed off at the station. She presented her ticket to the guard and covered her ears when the train’s shrill whistle announced its departure. The trip to Canterlot passed as they all did, though Octavia’s life was changing. The prim prodigy of the cello had an ever-growing reputation, a mailbox always packed with contracts, invitations, and opportunities. Conductors sent her open promises to simply outbid the competition. Prince Blueblood invited her to stay indefinitely as a guest at his estate, and even extended the offer to her secretary and manager. Octavia’s star rose ever higher – she performed solo concerts to packed audiences, dined almost a dozen times with the lesser royals and once with Princess Celestia herself. There were no more slow seasons; she was always in demand. Her only breaks came when nobles invited her on vacations, where they chatted music and art atop magnificent airships. No time to compose, certainly none to visit Ponyville. That suited her well. Octavia was as driven and intense as always, though she wrote to and fro with Vinyl. She retired at the end of it all, and her presence in society disappeared at once. There were other prodigies, other maestros to admire. But Octavia did not mind. Her Canterlot penthouse was pleasant enough, and when Vinyl moved in they became instantly close once more, and were content until the end of their days. Octavia floated above that massive penthouse, looking down as they filed out with her coffin. It was closed… good. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Her mouth opened to claim it was perfect, then closed. Why lie? But why was it a lie? That mare in the coffin, every bit as much a stranger as the spoiled noble from before. It wasn’t her life. Why did it feel so off, so wrong? The answer was clear. The music. Her music. Too busy to write, to focus. No need to, with whole orchestras fawning over her, their music clear and gorgeous in her ears. Composing a whole symphony… that would have been months of work, her star would have fallen for sure. Ponies would have thought she wasn’t confident as a musician! Not simply a question of time, but reputation. Even for one symphony – the real Octavia had written ten! A breathless laugh fled her mouth. She turned her head and twisted her flank, looking back to her cutie mark like an enamored filly. The treble clef. She thought it meant to be a musician, to play the cello. Back then, everyone said so. Who could have doubted? But that wasn’t how things really were. Fate, destiny, whatever made that mark… it knew, somehow. Pieces of that life below entered her mind. Frantic scribbles squeezed between appointments. Always too busy, and as time went on she learned to live with the vague emptiness in her heart, the growing restlessness from the cello always subdued by the comfort of her life. The doubts and regrets never spoken, discarded as idle fancy, all the way to the end. Content but never satisfied, never really happy. She took a last look down. Then away. Shallow performances of songs already written… maybe Octavia was too proud for that. Maybe there was something else. Her old heart trembled in its breast. Her voice came out broken. “Discord? Th-thank you for showing me, but… no. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Discord’s low scoff floated down from above. “Now, now. What did I say about apologizing?” He descended next to her, offering a tissue hung on the edge of one claw. “No, thank you.” Octavia swallowed, steadying herself. “It’s… hard to explain. You must think me quite mad.” “Not mad. Eccentric? Yes.” Discord twirled his hand, turning the tissue into a dove that he let free. “All the really good composers are eccentric, you know.” His eyebrow raised, and a low chuckle emerged. “And you, Octavia, are a composer.” “I suppose I am.” Octavia gave a faint smile that faded slowly. “Alright, Discord. What now?” Discord snorted. “What a stupid question. We keep going. You’ve got a soul to save.” Octavia sighed out, closing her eyes. “It’s… not easy. What comes next. Give me a moment, first.” “Oh, sweet Octi. I told you before, we can’t stop.” Octavia felt pressure on her forehoof. She opened her eyes to find it in Discord’s grip, pulling her along to the city below. “Besides: we’re running out of time.”