Lightning Strike had become one of the most talked about names in the musical world, having risen to a vague and shadowy status as a musician gifted with talents more magical than any known to Canterlot. The streets were never truly abuzz with the name, for there was little in the way of solid information, but there was talk, when talk of music did occur, of a rising star who could pull her music from the fibers of a pony’s being or even draw upon the history of a thing or place and weave the sounds they had heard.
Enchantments of this sort were no ones specialty. Only scholars and the immortal could tell about the last pony with such tremendous musical talent, for she had died several centuries in the past, long enough even for such a remarkable talent to pass to myth or sheer, opaque obscurity. What the culmination of these facts amounted to was a great and gaping lack of anyone versed enough in the art to aid this ‘rising star’ to anything higher than an average guitarist.
That was not to say, however, that the kingdom had not put a considerable sum of money towards trying just that. Several dozen potential tutors vied in silence against one another for the honor until the donation finally went to a young mare in her mid-twenties: Octavia Von Clef. Those few who knew of the decision considered it more than a little controversial, as there was a good deal of conspiracy surrounding the cellist herself, including her possible involvement with Vinyl Scratch, a disc jockey of some repute.
But possible filly-fooling intentions seemed little on the mind of the royalty, and even if it was she looked nothing like the stereotype. Octavia had been moved from her villa in Canterlot to a small suite in a little country town called Ponyville, a name about as original as the name for sunset colored citrus. It was, above all, a poor fit for the mare, but unknown to most she had some roots back there herself, long ago in the days when she had still considered the countess Lapis Lazuli a mother figure.
Hardship, dark rumors, an altogether tooth and hoof struggle to become one of the most popular classical musicians of modern times had culminated to something she at last might be brought into history for, the tutelage of a red coated filly with a talent of sky shattering rarity. Octavia felt almost as though she ought to feel more grateful, sitting across from the filly in an old brick burger joint, enjoying onion rings and the vegetable sandwiches. She was still very young, just having entered her tenth year and even with Octavia’s many talents; child care did not fall among them.
The filly in question was a tad bit on the extraordinary side before an observer even got to her talent. While her coat was a deep color known locally as the farmer’s red, her mane was an electric explosion of violent cyan (a trait which reminded Octavia at times of a certain ‘friend’ back home) and it clashed terribly with her coat. She also had a penchant for wearing sunglasses, which never seemed to be in her size and tended to fall off her face whenever the need for movement came about. When she was stagnant though, they concealed very well eyes of a classy emerald hue.
Three hundred and sixty four days out of the four seasons she wore an attitude befitting of her appearance, sassy, bossy, crazy; give an adjective ending with the letter Y and you’d have her pegged. Though hyper would have to be thrown on the list. She was a preteen, the terrible stage in which a foal starts the fight for their own mental independence and loses the first charge dramatically and yet still would retain the curiosity and energy of the very young and spritely. Lightning was Discord’s grab bag of the worst of both sides, believing she ruled the world and everything in it, unashamed when corrected, and exuberant when correct. But every year there was one day which would cause something of a sulk. It was not a specific date, simply a questionable time anywhere in the month of August, and when it did come about it was something her tutor was ill-prepared to cope with.
“So…” said the cellist, passing a partially drunk tea cup from hoof to hoof, “What did you think of Twilight’s castle? Any music you could draw from it?”
Lightning sighed, slumping until her hair made like water rushing over the countertop “We went over this,” she spoke in dry words “There were only two songs, Let The Rainbow Remind You and some old ditty I think a trader whistled while he was out there before the castle was built.”
Octavia was accustomed to snark, and this showed a disturbing lack of it. The words still belonged to Lightning, so of course it trailed there, but she lacked her usual energy, seeming wan rather than self-assured.
“Well, I was merely making note again,” she said. She was at a loss now, too used to the conversation being a series of corrections of childish mistakes to know how to carry it on a purely intellectual basis.
“You don’t have to keep trying to talk to me Octavia,” said Lightning. Rude, yes, but the snark was still woefully absent “Nothing really special happened today, there’s nothing important to say.”
“Will you be needing your receipt ladies?” muscular, bearded Cider Tapper, the proprietor of the restaurant, startled Octavia out of her planned reply about how one ought not to talk to a teacher that way under any circumstance. She politely accepted, then declined a dessert, perturbed again by the lack of protest, and by the time he moved away with her bits, the train of her thought had been derailed, and the oil tanker had obliterated the tracks.
“Look, Lightning,” she said, tactic in a clichéd alteration “Don’t pass this off, dear, something is clearly wr-“
Cut short, Octavia suddenly locked eyes with the filly, closer than comfort dictated, for she had clambered onto the table in a barely contained fury “Don’t call me ‘dear’ alright?” she hissed “I don’t want to hear any sort of nicknames, I’m through with it.”
Octavia’s speech evaporated as patron’s eyes came to them in expressions of confusion and curiosity. Lightning had been annoyed at the occasional nickname before, reluctant to get comfortable with anyone it seemed. This, on the other hoof, was something she had never expected of her pupil.
And in the next moment Lightning looked down. “We should go,” she said, mist veiling her words “I don’t want to cause a scene.”
Maturity in the face of a lost temper: there was a turnabout the refined mare had never expected to see in her. Lightning walked calmly out of the building, curious stares a few paces behind her all the way. Octavia was left, blank white shock on the mind, to wonder what in Equestria had brought the little filly to such an attitude. She suspected loneliness might be the root of the problem; she had been pulled from the schooling program after her talent had been discovered and even when she had participated in the program she had come to disagreements with the other foals on a regular basis. The poor dear’s luck of friends seemed a suitable reason for violent mood swings, but to be so subdued? It seemed unusual.
But it was none of her business, no matter how close to the mark she fell with the suspicion, Lightning’s thoughts weren’t far off. If she were still being schooled it would be the first day, a day plagued with memories that triggered in the emotions that younger ponies out not to be suffering through. Loneliness? That wasn’t even a surface scratcher, a shovel might be the term isolation, and a pickaxe abandonment. It was on this day the filly had met one of her nearest and dearest friends, a brother figure even, where her own brother served as a guardian. Four years ago, back when Twilight’s ascension had been hot news was the last time she had seen him, a thrilling venture leaving her comatose in a hospital bed, and then a recovery shrouded in mystery, but those events were all wrapped up in stories of what she thought as earlier ventures.
All she could think of, all she was forced to remember on this date, was that she hadn’t heard a single word from Shadow Chaser since the incident. Her brother, she felt, was withholding things from her at first and his deferment from the Royal Guard made her suspect. But as time wore on the vanishing scrolls and passive comments had dwindled, the things to hide shriveling as avoidance of the thought of Canterlot became a simpler task.
Whatever the process that brought her to this point Lightning now found herself among other things, alone, lost in a world that she was incapable of getting along with. The guitar at home and her now famous talent were the only things she really felt fulfilled with any longer, the “Let the rainbow remind you” ditty was still stuck in her head as she approached the medium sized cottage, paid for in part by her grant and in part by the elder Strike’s new career in the orchards-- a career with half the salary as his previous guard’s position. Still, she couldn’t complain, with the added endowment of the arts money things were just as good as they ever were.
Her hoof had just touched upon the top step when a warped atonal voice broke trough her thought process “Miss Strike!” the bubbly call of the gray coated, blonde haired mane broke her reverie “I’m so sorry! When I passed your house this morning I forgot to give you something!”
At least Lightning wasn’t in too much of a sulk to know how to deal with this, forcing a tired smile and accepting the envelope. “Thanks Derpy,” she said, waving the ditzy mail mare off as she examined it: a fancy paper, addressed directly to her rather than Sabre. This meant it wasn’t another declined application offer from the guard, but more likely some fan mail from a lucky stomper who had found her address. She opened it rather carelessly, leaning on the wall next to the door as her eyes flitted carelessly over the note.
“Dear, Ms. Strike.” She read in silence, scoffing at the formal attitude by which she was addressed “By request of the Lunar Princess the castle would be honored to cordially invite you to the eleventh birthday celebration of Duke Shadow Chaser as a service of musical entertainment. Payment may be negotiated through the Royal Endowment for the Arts but a raise, not exceeding an annual five thousand bits, would be guaranteed upon the completion of the service. We hope to see you this December!” the letter, short and savory, not quite sweet, was signed in the same writing she had seen a thousand times on the endowment checks, and then followed by several others whom she assumed were event planners or other staff.
Duke Shadow Chaser. It clicked after a few minute’s delay and Lightning realized with an amazed start the weight this letter carried. Not only would this event be in Canterlot, a place notorious for its fickle selection of talent, but a job specifically catering to the colt whose absence she had been mourning throughout the day. The pity was the same as ever though; Sabre would adamantly refuse any suggestion of a visit to Equestria’s capital city on terms that were never quite clear to her. As astonishing as the job seemed, it was just not going to happen.
Lightning held onto the seal-broken envelope as she walked inside, without a saddlebag she really didn’t have any other choice. She was tentative and on edge when she saw today was not one of her brother’s longer shift days, for the broad shouldered earth pony was slouched on the sofa as a Mythbucker’s episode played on the set before him.
“Hey sis!” he called, thankfully not even bothering to look back at her as his voice rose about the volume of the box “How was practice?”
“Fine!” she called, inching her way towards her room in as silent a way as she was able “We had a visit of the new palace now that it’s finally open to visitors, but we only got one song out of it!”
“Well that’s a disappointment,” said Sabre, clapping at a display of a particularly violent explosion on the screen “I’m sure they’ll break out on some random numbers here and there you know? I would take another visit in a few months.” Sabre only had a rudimentary idea of how his sister’s talent functioned, though he was still able to provide some tactical input.
“Hope so!” said Lightning, giving a dope shot of sunshine to her tone “And hey bro, Octavia was thinking about taking me to,” a pause, she prayed would be viewed as memory rather than imagination “Trottingham! This December, we’ve got a job offer out, we don’t know if I’m going to take it just, you know, letting you know.”
“Well just tell me if and when you’re going when you get that all sorted, oh, and how long you’ll be there,” said Sabre, which was his way of asking how long he’d be able to rent out her room.
“Nothing set in stone yet,” said Lightning, the liar’s stone dragging her stomach down “but it will be later this winter, so have me do some laundry when Corn Season rolls around.” She teased, inching towards her room.
“Oh come on!” said Sabre, releasing a low chuckle “I know it’s a confangled contraption but do you really think I can’t use the washing machine?”
“I’ve never seen you do it!” Lightning jeered, her front hooves in the doorway “And you sound like an old man!” and good phrase to end on, she managed to slip into the safety of her room, sighing as she stuffed the invitation beneath her pillow.
The room itself wasn’t fantastic, but it was more than a welcome change from the block like apartment she once believed qualified as a whole house. It was spacious; the most obvious change was more furniture. The second one, which she hoped wasn’t nearly as obvious, was the presence of more items she didn’t want her brother finding. The invitation beneath the pillow was a start, but wedged between two books on the shelf were some self-composed sheets of music she hoped no eye would fall on for years to come. The closet housed a few odds and ends including a pocketknife she had won in a bet from one of the school colts and the broken pieces of a glass figurine Sabre had gotten her for her ninth, and which she prayed to Luna he never discovered she broke. Last and perhaps most contraband of all was taped beneath her desk, which she still regaled in lack of its accompanying computing device. That was a high resolution image of Shining Armor, captain of the royal guard. Sure he was married and had thus far utterly failed in his role at every possible turn of events, but those shoulders, those eyes. Oh she could stare at that stallion for hours…
None of this would be considered questionable or out of place by a third party observer, whatever Sabre might have to say about the lot of it, Lightning was a growing filly on the road to maturing into a young mare. Schoolgirl crushes and hidden artwork were normal for a preteen. The contraband weaponry and shattered glass might be looked at as more of a colt’s ordeal but really that had always been her style.
The bed, center back of the room with the desk to the left, was now set upon by the vermilion filly’s back and shoulders. Of the three pillows strewn about it one near at hoof was brought to her chest, covering her galloping heart. She felt nervous and somehow amiss having lied to Sabre like that. In the back of her mind she justified the action, she was a grown mare by now, and surely, capable of making her own decisions whether Sabre thought they were dangerous or not. Celestia knew she was old enough to make her family’s living surely she had the wits about her to stay out of trouble in Canterlot for just a few days.
On the other hoof, would it really be so bad should she not? Ten months of her life, from the first day of school to the middle of the following summer had been a time when she really felt alive, really capable of making a difference in the greater Equestria, she had been to the flipping moon for Luna’s sake! Puns aside, coming close to death may have been a heavy toll to pay for such actions, but the thrill? That had been irreplaceable.
It was more the thought of a return to adventure that now set the young filly’s heart aflutter, far more than any rebuttal by Sabre. After all should she be caught holding information from him she might be grounded for a few days, but it wasn’t like she had much to do with her current freedom anyway, he wouldn’t rob her of her tutor time anyway; her music was paying the bills. But that thought, just out of reach, of the excitement resultant of seeing Shadow again, that was the wellspring from which nervous energy and adrenaline poured.
Outside, in the living room, Sabre pondered in the lieu given by his show’s commercials.
“Why is laundry suddenly necessary…?”