• Published 11th Jun 2012
  • 26,310 Views, 1,245 Comments

Accidental Harmony - errant



A desperate cellist is in over her head when she takes a job at a nightclub.

  • ...
42
 1,245
 26,310

Chapter 11

Octavia's amethyst eyes were closed, her brow furrowed in forced concentration. Her ears swiveled to catch the notes she created with the interplay of bow and strings; they hung hauntingly in the air, lingering like the last remnants of a fading light. Their presence was poignant and somehow deeply flawed.

Fluttering open, her eyes revealed a thin slice of lavender as they quickly scanned the notes on the pages before her.

Why can't I play this properly? It's not that difficult; a foal could handle this without difficulty.

Eyes once more closed, her bow set back into motion; it glided across the strings with the grace and poise she was known for. Regardless, the notes always fell flat to her ears; they were insipid, uninspired. She repeated the same sequence of notes countless times, each iteration as lifeless as the last. She struggled to meld into her music, to lend it the passion of her soul; in desperation she summoned every powerful memory she had to try and wrest some emotion from them that she could impart to her recital.

Again her hooves moved fluidly across the cello's strings. Again the notes sounded perfect and perfectly hollow. “GAAH!” she screamed, her frustration finally breaking free of the dam of self-control. She hurled her cello bow across the room; it struck a wall with a resounding crack and fell to the ground. Seething, Octavia returned her cello to its protective case and unceremoniously kicked it out of the way.

“Hey Treble Clef, what's wrong?” Vinyl's voice called out softly, penetrating Octavia's boiling temper.

Turning, she could see Vinyl's head peeking out from the bedroom doorway, mane unkempt and eyes inquisitive. “Oh, it's nothing, really. I just can't get this stupid piece to come out right,” Octavia answered exasperatedly.

“Maybe you should come to bed. It's like, four in the morning and you've been playing since eight o'clock," Vinyl suggested.

“I can't. I have an audition tomorrow afternoon and two more in the evening. I must be perfect; no, I must be better than perfect. That's the only way I'll get a paying job in this town.”

“You're as practiced as you're gonna be, silly filly. Now come to bed.”

“But Vinyl,” Octavia near-begged.

“Bed. Now,” Vinyl ordered, stamping a hoof for emphasis.

“Alright, mommy,” Octavia giggled as she surrendered to the glorious idea of sleep and followed Vinyl into the bedroom. As they snuggled together among the enveloping comfort of the soft mattress Vinyl's horn briefly lit with a surge of her magic that brought the blanket up to drape over both of them. As Octavia's eyes drifted shut she was gently lulled to sleep by the rhythm of Vinyl's breathing; when she finally slept a contented smile adorned her face.


Holy sweet Celestia I bucking hate my life.

Hooves pounded on the Canterlot pavement as Octavia ran, weaving in and out of crowds of ponies whose sole objective seemed to be impeding her. With every step her heavy cello banged against her back; she would pay for this in bruises later. Sides heaving and throat burning, her goal finally came into view. Panting, she stopped in front of an elegant concert hall; its classical columns of white marble proclaimed its proud adherence to tradition.

Shouldering open the large oaken doors engraved with detailed frescoes, Octavia stepped inside the plush and opulent entryway. Everywhere gold-gilt reflected light back at her. Sound was absorbed by thick red carpeting and velvet tapestries. She ventured deeper, orienting on the faint sound of music coming from within. She struggled to put her two failed auditions out of mind and adopt a positive attitude.

Third time's the charm, right?

The sounds of her own movement swallowed by the vastness of the empty theater, Octavia trotted uncertainly down a dim hallway, drawn by an open door spilling light at its end.

Passing through the door she found herself facing an enormous stage that housed several musicians and a number of other ponies. Trotting quickly past rows of vacant seats she donned her most winning smile before scurrying on stage to stand with her dozen or so competitors. “Miss Philharmonica?” asked an officious unicorn holding a quill and clipboard in his telekinetic grip.

“Yes, that's me. I'm sorry I'm slightly late,” Octavia apologized.

“Uh huh. Since you got here last you can perform after everypony else,” he answered in a disinterested tone.

“Yes, of course,” Octavia replied brightly.

Of course; I won't be getting this job either.

She stood and watched through the performances of the other musicians there assembled; some were masterful, some lackluster, most merely average. Her skills objectively outshone them all. She estimated gloomily that she had maybe a one percent chance of being selected.

When it was finally her turn she walked dutifully to center stage. Rearing up on her hind legs she entered into a delicate balancing act between herself and her instrument. Finding her equilibrium, she closed her eyes and drew her bow across the strings in flawless replication of her chosen composition. During the ten-minute performance her concentration never wavered nor did she strike a single discordant note.

She milled about with the others while the clipboard-toting unicorn conferred with his peers. When he called out the names of those selected Octavia wasn't surprised to find her name absent. With a sigh she gathered her instrument and quietly left the theater, emerging into an evanescent twilight that lacked comfortable warmth and threatened true cold in the near future.
Octavia stumbled wearily along under darkening skies. Every step sent a wave of pain flowing up from her sore and bruised hooves to crash against a sullen knot of agony that had formed in her middle back. Her cello's case dug relentlessly into her side no matter how she adjusted it and, as predicted, a bruise had taken form on her back from the constant presence of her cello during her several high-speed dashes through the city.

Head hung low from exhaustion and dispiritedness, she trudged into her apartment. Its comfortable familiarity was welcome. Even more welcome was the heavenly softness of the couch as she sagged bonelessly onto it, blessedly relieved of the weight of her case. “Play the cello, they said. It'll be fun, they said. I should've taken up the violin or something,” she muttered into the fabric.

“Hey, babe, glad to see you're home,” Vinyl said, her voice the most welcome thing of all. “How'd it go today?” Rolling over on the couch so she could look up at Vinyl's face, Octavia shook her head wordlessly. “Oh. That bad, huh? Well, don't worry about it; we both know you're the best in Canterlot,” Vinyl reassured, laying a hoof comfortingly on Octavia's shoulder.

“Vinyl,” Octavia began tiredly. “Over the past two weeks I've had almost thirty auditions. I've only gotten two jobs out of it and even those didn't pay nearly what I used to make. I just don't know what we're going to do.”

“We'll be fine, Octavia. Stop worrying so much.”

“No, Vinyl! Neither of us is making any money. We can't last like this indefinitely. Eventually we won't be able to support ourselves; we have to get something working before then.”

“We have the insurance money, you know, and the money we made while the club was active. We have enough for a while,” Vinyl said.

“The insurance money is going to pay the lease and the loans you took out, not to mention the severance payment we gave our employees. And the money from the club, while substantial, isn't endless. We have a limited time frame where we can afford to live like this. Something has to change or the money will be gone in three months,” Octavia said.

“I know you're right, Tavi. But you've had a long day and you're pretty beat. I made dinner, so come eat and we'll worry about it tomorrow, 'kay?” Vinyl implored.

“Alright, you win. Food now, impending doom later,” Octavia said as she rolled herself off the couch and onto her hooves. “What's for dinner, anyway?”

“Your favorite: rose petal salad,” Vinyl answered.

“Mmm, sounds delicious,” Octavia replied, mouth watering as she imagined the sweet and juicy flavor of the promised petals. “But you shouldn't have; I know how hard it is to prepare the roses properly and the dressing takes forever.”

“Anything for you, Tavi. Besides, I know how hard you've been working. My Celestia, I can't remember the last time you weren't up at dawn to practice and didn't have at least one audition or interview to rush off to," Vinyl said. Octavia gratefully took her place at the table.

If only I had something to show for it . . .

“I've actually felt kind of lame; you've been busting your flank and I've been sitting around all day. It's not fair to you so I wanted to do something extra nice to try and make it up,” Vinyl explained as she herself sat, plates, utensils and entree held in her magical grip.

“Now, Vinyl, that's not being fair to yourself. You may be out of the hospital but you are still healing; the doctors expressly ordered you to take it easy for another few weeks. You shouldn't feel bad in the least,” Octavia said.

“Yeah, I know. But that doesn't make me feel any better when you come home late, exhausted and beat up from trying to get out there and support us and I did nothing to help,” Vinyl said guiltily.

“Vinyl, just having you here to come home to at the end of the day makes all the difference in the world to me.”

A small smile formed itself on Vinyl’s face. “Thanks,” she said.

“You're welcome. Now eat your salad; it's delicious,” Octavia said before she bit down on a forkful of succulent rose petals.


The weather pegasi of Canterlot had outdone themselves this year; snowflakes fell in perfect rhythm to blanket the city in magnificent white without posing a hazard or grave annoyance. Vinyl's breath formed slight clouds of steam as she walked, her hooves crunching through the new-fallen snow that coated the paved sidewalks. Her boots and coat fortunately insulated her from the bite of the wind and the lavender scarf she wore twined around her neck served to keep her extra comfortable. Vinyl's head slumped, though, betraying her exhaustion. Once more Octavia was out on one of her fruitless all-day audition sprees, and once more Vinyl had taken to the streets in the meantime.

She was certain that in the last month she had visited every commercial establishment within walking distance of home, trying to find someplace interested in hiring a displaced DJ. She shook her head ruefully; she couldn't blame a business owner for not wanting to take a chance on her. Her curriculum vitae didn't exactly prepare her for much outside the confines of the club and entertainment industry and she had already been turned away from every part of the nightlife she knew of.

Seriously, what's a mare gotta do to get a job around here? What are we, in a recession?

She now wandered aimlessly; she had run out of ideas but not out of desire to be looking. She examined every storefront she passed, searching for a 'help wanted' sign. Nothing presented itself to her. She turned back when the commercial district began to give way to the gilded Royal enclave that housed the palace and various government facilities.

Accepting her failure, she turned her course towards home. If she hurried she could still make herself useful by making Octavia something nice for dinner.

Her vision suddenly turned white as something latched onto her face, obscuring her tinted glasses. She flailed for a brief second before ripping the offending item off, revealing it to be a small magazine printed on glossy paper held together by staples. A flamboyant slogan on the front caught Vinyl's eye before she could heedlessly toss it away. As she held it in front of her face, flicking through several pages, a satisfied grin began to form on her muzzle. Holding it tightly in her magical grip she resumed her trip for home, a new confidence infused in her step and head held high.

Sometimes you have to go out and find opportunity and sometimes it hits you in the face . . .