Equestrian Concepts

by Achaian

Chapter Four: Dawn of Understanding (Continued)

Ditzy walked back into the tavern, dissatisfaction and a feeling of fading innocence crushing around the edges of her consciousness. She had exited, realized the futility of chasing him down dark alleys that he undoubtedly knew better, and had regretfully retreated to the tavern. So I begin chasing again.

The table in the unremarkable booth was scattered with the mixed detritus, but she sat back down with her forehead resting on her hooves and released a frustrated sigh that later returned as a mildly angry growl. This morning she had woken up to the brilliance of peace and tranquility for the first time since Discord ravaged her mind. This afternoon she had been enveloped by a nightmare she still had little comprehension of, save that Tick and Princess Luna—Luna, a figure of royalty she had only seen once in her life!—were somehow involved. It was all so crazy, so fast, so confusing. She swept Tick’s writings into a bundle and into a saddlebag, and with them her dreams of a simpler life. Never any rest, never any rest for me.

Outside the tavern, she stared at the sky-barrier-ceiling that limited her from flying straight up into the sun. She might have done it if she could, just fly away now and take Dinky with her to somewhere they could live in peace without disturbance, without others and the confusion they provided and the pain they wrought.

Why should I care? She, of all, had certainly suffered enough to be deserving of some peace of mind. Had she not endured it all for the sake of others? Had not she suffered endlessly as a foal in a cruel world? Had not she silently endured the taunts and jeering, and then the torments of Discord? She knew it was a dangerous trap to fall into, the vanity of being the sufferer, the martyr. She had struck back, after all, and save for that miracle of forgiveness afterwards all her determination to be known as herself would have unraveled into burnt threads. She was not innocent by any means.

But oh, how the screaming did haunt her. She could hear it when the world was silent now and see the horror on Luna’s face when she closed her eyes. The black and crimson stains on the white bandages would surely taint her as well if she left Tick to his problems; abandonment of somepony in mortal danger was as surely murder by omission as it was a morally bankrupt action.

But Tick isn’t in mortal danger, her exhausted consciousness whispered to her. Although he had injuries, so did everyone else—some of his were just more apparent than others. And what if he was the morally bankrupt one? It had certainly seemed that way from how Luna had reacted to him. It was not her responsibility to find out, she thought. It was not her imperative to bear his burden, fight his fight. Why should she when she had so much to live for?

Ditzy was on the threshold of the tavern and at a crossroads as well. She could pursue Tick down his perilous narrow path or retire into a hopefully restful vacation and live her life oblivious to what could have been. She knew that was an either-or fallacy, and that a myriad of in-between options lie before her, but that only muddled her thought process. She exited and watched the streets pass by for a minute, imagining long shadows of what might be following each passerby. The exchange of thought and memory had been intensely exhausting. Enough had happened today for a month and more; Ditzy wanted to lie down and sleep until the world made a little more sense. She might just do that, too…

Ditzy wandered until she found the same unremarkable door that contained the passageway between the two halves of the city. Silently, she made her way back up the irregularly lit tunnel, passing the occasional wanderer. Not all who wandered among those tunnels was lost, but Ditzy definitely was. She didn’t have the fortitude to decide on an action, so she let her tired instincts guide her back up toward the light. She knew and hated that every step made her decision come sooner, but she had to do something, so she moved forward. Could she not just expire, leave this place, cease from the tumult? She had been serene only to lose that hallowed state once again. Is it too much to ask for peace of mind?

Exhaustion provided no answer, and she grew to resent Tick as she ascended the tunnel. In the back of her mind, she knew that she had made the decision to talk to him, but she avoided that inconvenient fact in her brooding. She didn’t even want to understand what she had seen, just forget it. Exiting the top, she opened the door into the bright setting sun. It was relentlessly bright, shining down the sunburst-shaped avenues. In a vain display of defiance, she stared into it for as long as she could. It wasn’t like it could hurt her any more than life had already.

She wandered among the once-stifling streets of Upper Canterlot, but now she considered their desolateness a blessing. She wouldn’t have to deal with anypony, could see nopony if she chose, and certainly wouldn’t have to relive their trauma. Her regret solidified; whistling evening winds sighing through the gaps of buildings only reminded her of the shattered wasteland she had left behind in Tick’s mind. And why should she even consider helping Tick, anyways? He had only run after Ditzy had offered to help him if he would just explain the madness. He owed her; he had wronged her.

On the streets of the divided city, Ditzy arrived at a theater where she knew a concert would be held. She hadn’t intended to go anywhere, but any distraction would serve better than somewhat intoxicated misadventures. Anything to get that recollection out of my mind.

Straight red curtains fell down to a polished stage that was now empty, although it had the promise of soon being filled by the indication of the occasional pony shuffling into the rows of seats before the stage. The room itself was vast and airy, although this seemed the norm for upper Canterlot. Ditzy only cared at this point because it gave her more room to be away from everypony else. She took a seat near the back with the purpose of solitude. Alone, her mood darkened dangerously as she unsuccessfully forgot the events of the tavern.

Unbeknownst to her in her vain anger, a large orchestral arrangement set up on the stage. A full complement of brass, woodwinds and stringed instruments prepared alongside some percussive instruments and a pianist. The silence reigned throughout, and she was not disturbed.

In the beginning, the conductor raised his baton and begun the eternal rhythm, and at first there was but one instrument. The lone piano started with some simple chords, a few progressions. Then it progressed, became more complex as the chords varied into major, minor, and diminished as it advanced. Its tempo quickened until it had reached the height of its own complexity, which was mighty indeed, and then it stopped at the height of its crescendo—a deafening, pregnant silence.

Then the other sections sounded, and it was as alien a noise as it was familiar. Glorious, harmonious difference shook the hall after the anticipating silence. First, the violins and cellos; then the trumpets, the other brass, myriad percussive instruments entered. They all shone in their uniqueness, but clashed not—a single harmony, then a melody to accompany it. They retained unity even in difference by means of a greater purpose. None of them could go it alone; none of them dared to break the beauty of communal song.

But such a thing could not last forever. The lead trumpeter, in a moment of rest, in his moment of impatience and brashness, struck out on his own—to create his own melody. The other instrumentalists seemed stunned. He had dared! He had deemed himself worthy to seize leadership and try to create something purely of his own devices, without the community. For a moment, they played not in awe and terror of his creation. Then, tentatively, some joined him—not knowing his mind, they echoed his melody while some attempted to resonate in harmony. He was wily though, and distanced himself from those who would follow him: whether it was from creative impulse or vainglorious emotion, none could tell—but none could follow him, either.

He played erratically, cunningly, brilliantly at times, and the others that shadowed him remained mere shadows—not participants. Not brothers and sisters in music—he defied their conventions and their unity. Eventually, he reached the height of his glory, and like all things began his painful descent from his failed attempt to emulate the grace that had been the unity of all instruments. His playing became spontaneous, almost unintentional, as all others seized against him and overpowered his aberrant melodies; his internal imperfect harmony shattered. At last he fell from the last remnant of glory he had attained, he bowed over in his chair; he was vanquished.

The song’s movement continued without him, and it became a dirge for what the community had lost: him. Never again could they attain the heights of glory, harmony, unity; High beauty had become mourning. Joy become conflict, and it had all turned into sorrow after the fall. The lone trumpeter, who had once been the greatest of his comrades, had achieved a different kind of glory—a pale shadow of unity, and at horrible cost. He had traded his faith in his community for a moment of fame, a moment of notoriety and awe, respect and fear. Had it been worth it all? Had that moment been worth destroying the eternal fellowship?

Tentatively, he picked up his instrument again. Surrounding him, the dirge still played—they mourned their losses, they mourned for him—not just the harmony they had lost. In the unity of brotherhood, a loss of one was a blow to all. When together, their joy had been amplified and their sorrows diminished. Slowly, meekly, he took back up the melody, as if he was asking for forgiveness. No longer was he brash and foolhardy; he had been humbled and was all the more repentant for it.

They took him back with open arms. What had once been a dirge now became joyous, the harmony restored, the prodigal trumpeter returned to lead his section—but not to lead them astray. He had thrown himself into the fire and had broken himself, but the heat of his trials and the temperance of his fellows had forged him anew, so that he could burn ever brighter as a disciple of unity. Restored, they proceeded as one to a new crescendo, a new dawn—a glorious progression that climaxed to the awe of all in attendance. Descending, they ended a minute later—in unison. As it should be.

In the back of the hall, Ditzy was weeping. If asked, she wouldn’t be able to clearly articulate why, but the beauty of the moment and the catharsis expressed on her face would have explained it well enough. Whether it had been planned or not, all of it an anticipated act or an artistic statement or purely spontaneous, it had been deep.

On the stage, many of the musicians began to file off, taking their instruments and equipment with them until a drummer, a lone saxophone, a pianist, a guitar, a bass, and the prodigal trumpeter remained. They waited until the stage was empty save for them, a small group of comrades compared to the universal brotherhood that had preceded them.

The drummer started taking up an odd beat, something that Ditzy hadn’t heard before. It was offbeat, the two and four, the other half—unusual and different, exciting. The pianist came in, one hoof a half-beat behind the other—ragtime. The bass played a steady background rhythm, a solid foundation that the saxophone, guitar, and trumpet played off of, following no set pattern but instead making them up as they went. It was creativity. It was individuality. It was Jazz.

And all that Jazz had all its own excitement. Individuals went off on their own tangents, but it was incomparable to what had happened earlier—among friends, even when those wild individuals did something crazy or unexpected, the rest caught on quickly and went with it. They still had a common chord progression, but the rhythm was all up to them—and it changed erratically, exciting and then torpid, slow and then vivid, switching roles and redefining the rules as they played. The only constant was change, and it was beautiful in a way all its own.

Much later, an impromptu outro began as enough of them decided that the gig was up. They exited in ways all their own, unique to their styles and flourishes. No single exit for this group, as some of them packed up and some continued to play for a while. At last, the bass strung her last note and it was over. They had not ended at the same time, but there was no mistaking the unity of spirit, musical and otherwise.

By now, Ditzy was completely floored. This was a show of a different kind. Despite all their differences and determination to remain separate, they had had the same fellowship displayed in the first orchestral piece. She sat back and drank it all in, and then relived it a few times, the tears long dried on her face. She didn’t move from that spot, determined to commit those wonderful experiences to memory. She was enraptured still by the performance and its legacy.

The few others who had witnessed the spectacle of musical life gradually shuffled out of their seats and out of the cavernous theater. The last to exit were the musicians themselves: they trickled out in small groups, chatting amongst themselves as they went. One of the last groups passed by Ditzy on their way out, a duet of mares; the closest one to Ditzy said: “Yes, I am proud of my sister. We always knew she had it in her...” She was grey with a treble-mark on her flank, and Ditzy took no conscious notice of her. The rapture of the music had never ceased to hold her; she was only beginning to comprehend it and consequently was unaware that she was quite by her lonesome in the hall. For the first time in a very long time, Ditzy was alone with her thoughts.

But it didn’t stay that way—the silence in passion only lasted a short while. Quietly, one last unintended performer had taken the stage and begun to sing a soft but steady tune.

“I hear you’re looking for a way to cope,

with all the things you’ve heard and seen,

Letting your past envelop you like smoke,

and it’s too late to let yourself breathe.

You’ve done things you never ever should’ve done,

building a wall, breaking them down,

filling your cup with the love of a mother and father so recently placed in the ground

and it hurts when you let it show, so you do your best to forget

filling your heart with sadness.”

Shaken out of her reverie, Ditzy’s mind refocused until she was once again perceiving what was laid out before her. It was Quirk—Quirk! He was the one singing to a theater devoid of its audience. He’s here!? The sheet music on his desk? Why did he come up after—She was cut off, still silent, as he began again. He didn’t appear to have noticed Ditzy yet, and he had changed his tone. It became critical, but still sympathetic.

“I never got the feeling you were one so easily cowed, but look at you now, proud,

no longer keeping it together.

And I know it can be a rock slide down,

that there’s no easy way to escape pain

but if you could change the weather, maybe you could smile

giving every piece of yourself to fight back the sky-black clouds,

covering the ground, raining down soot, blood and tears

and those flim-flam fears, you gotta share

this isn’t the time, we all need you—”

The flow shattered. She was ripped forcibly out of her voyeuristic contemplation as Quirk’s sudden reversal brought her back into reality. After a moment of wrenching silence, his composure broke and he stopped, sighed, and exited stage left at the request of nopony in particular. He hadn’t seen Ditzy the entire time. She was still sitting unnoticed in the back, trying to forge some sense out of the disparate shards that were her experiences, her life. It was all so much to realize at once—three acts that were so very different from each other but had a greater meaning for her. If I could only figure out what they are.

She felt changed. Once, a very wise pony had told her that all time is is a measurement of change, but this was momentous, meaningful, beautiful, and she had not even discovered more than the slightest implications of the musical acts. If, then, time is a measurement, a very long time must have passed—but then she realized that there was no guarantee that change and time happened at a steady rate. Strange logic often accompanies strange events. It was just another epiphany to go on her rapidly expanding list of epiphanies. The concert she almost hadn’t seen wasn’t just amazingly artistic and affecting—it was profound. It had meant things beyond its surface, things she was only gradually comprehending.

And Quirk! He had come in after it all had ostensibly ended, out of nowhere. Why did he wait until he was alone; why did he stop? What was he singing? Why am I still waiting here?

On that note, she flew over silently to the stage, hoping to catch the tail end of him on his way out. Unfortunately, her thoughts had provided Quirk a few minutes to escape, and nowhere could he be found. She wandered about backstage for a minute, intrigued by some stand-alone pieces of painted scenery. Her desire to explore his motivations had been tempered by her recollection of their last meeting, and so she instead decided to explore what had been hidden by the curtains during the concert. Perhaps she would find some solace in the details.

An array of costumes, a rack of strange hats, the occasional instrument case or sheaf of sheet music all lay scattered about the abandoned backstage. The two dimmed lights turned red curtains black, and shadows richly layered were strewn along the scene. It had to be a theater of many purposes, for the variety and unusualness of the items exceeded whatever could possibly be needed for a purely musical affair. Cloaked under a drape, a particularly tall backdrop seized Ditzy’s attention. The bottom-left corner was uncovered, revealing a weathered looking rock in turbulent waters. Curious, she pulled down the drape and stood back.

It was a painting of a furious gale over a rough ocean. The choppy blue-black waters swirled around jutting jagged rocks that seemed to flow up into a roiling dark cloud, smothering the skies. An ominously cast painting, it relied on great swaths of dark colors to portray the clouds and sea while smaller things were detailed more intimately.

On the right, a weather-beaten ship pressed on into the storm. The captain of the ship had eschewed her usual place at the helm to stand at the very tip of the prow; her erect posture challenging the wind and rain. She fiercely contested the storm as she charged forward into its murky depths. Ditzy thought she looked uncannily like her: while the captain’s mane was more windblown, it was still an uncommon blonde; and though her coat was weathered by the storm and rain, it had a distinctive blue-iron hue. The resemblance, despite its oddity, passed her by at the moment as something of little significance.

On the left, an ominous wall of darkness coalesced. The blue-black waters and rumbling storm-clouds rose and sank into each other, locked in a turning, murderous mixing. The shadow they cast was long and threatening, and it fell on the ship that now seemed so small and fragile in comparison. It was strange that it should cast a shadow, though, because there was no sun to provide it with light to compare—or so she thought.

How, Ditzy silently wondered, How can that storm-cloud cast a shadow on the ship without any light for it to be blocking? The ship is clearly darker than the space around it...

The painting granted a view around the circular pillar of water, fog, and storm, but still no source of light revealed itself. How, therefore, could a shadow exist? It was cast from the wall, the center of madness, the crash and churn, and no light was produced anywhere; it absorbed light and emanated darkness! How then could that center...

The center...

And then it dawned on her. That brave captain was heading toward the center for a very good reason. She was bound for the Eye of the Storm. Ditzy didn’t know much about sailing, but she did know quite a bit about storms, and in the center of every storm is an isle of peace, a respite from the chaos, a place to lick your wounds and wonder at the world around you that spins so madly and wonderfully. There, the sun was shining, and only there could the light be found. The intrepid captain was determined to enter into that grace and peace. And she was not running from her fears to get there—she was charging them boldly! No; no fear for her, only bravery now, only hope. Could Ditzy say the same?

She stopped looking out and started looking in. She couldn’t say the same about herself, she realized—for she was running from her fear, running from pain, and giving in to apathy. What Tick had unveiled was difficult to realize, strange to comprehend, and painful to think about, but she had to face it.

Because if she ran now, she would be just like Rainbow Dash when she had mistreated her all those times—willfully ignorant of those who needed her to be brave, not only herself but Tick and who knows how many others.

And if she ran now, she would be just like the trumpeter who had struck out on his own to the dismay of the community who had depended on him and cherished him; and if he had not repented he would have never been able to join again to either his community or his friends in the acts.

And if she ran now, she would be just like herself just a short time ago, too terrified to face her own memories of Discord, only ever digging herself into a deeper hole.

So she had to be brave, like the captain. She must ride out into her own storm and seek her own Eye, and after she had mustered her resolve could she find peace. Ultimately, peace isn’t about whether the situation around you is calm or erratic, insane or normal. It’s about being in the midst of those things and being calm and secure in your own heart and mind.

I missed it all this time!

Staggered by the weight of her realizations, it took quite a while to regain her sense of physicality. When she finally left her contemplative trance, she meandered out of the theater to see the sun setting in the west. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would chase that sun into the Eye in her quest to find peace. Tomorrow, she would chase Tick, even if it led her unto the ends of the earth. I have been such a fool for so long… but I know what to do now.

Consumed, she started to head toward the hotel—it could wait a little while, and after all, the last time she had laid down her head it had been on a moss-covered rock. No matter how soft the moss had been, that didn’t change the fact that she had last slept outdoors on stone. She arrived at her hotel by the time that Luna’s moonlight fully blanketed the city, and noticed that neither Quirk nor anypony else was at the receptionist’s desk. She didn’t mind, though, she had had more than enough for one day.

On reaching her room, she observed that it was rather vacuous, the furniture a bit grand for her taste, but altogether the room was well furnished. The accommodating bed erased those thoughts, though, and she soon found herself buried in a mass of cool blankets and pillows. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to complain about a nice bed...

She let her imagination carry herself off into sleep as she unconsciously made plans for finding Tick, finding peace.

Comments

[Achaian]

I feel good about this chapter. It seems strong to me. Please let me know if there are still any grammatical errors or misspellings in this chapter, it has been difficult at times adjusting to typing with a cracked elbow.

VERY IMPORTANT NOTICE: I do not own those lyrics, nor did I create them (they are, however, slightly modified from their original form). I re-used them as allowed (to my understanding) under the Creative Commons Attribution License.They are part of a song by the wonderful AdamTh3Walker which you can find here:

Although I am loathe to use things that I did not create in such an explicit manner, it fits too well for me to just ignore it.

Also, another question for you readers: Should I continue writing new chapters or go back and revise the first couple of chapters first? I have the distinct feeling that some instances of bad writing are turning some of you away.

Oh, and Candiru: I do believe that question has been answered already, by the show itself. The Elements were certainly a difficult thing to take on, and he was, in fact, defeated by them (if perhaps temporarily- we will see).

[Van]

Oh man, I dig how heavy this chapter got. Character development intertwined wonderfully with lots of little instances of clever wording and vivid imagery! The orchestra for instance, some of the best passages I've ever seen in fanfiction; I went ahead and grabbed my iPod, so moving was your description of the music and what it meant; both in general and to Ditzy.

I also really like Tick, very mystic air about him, can't wait to see where that goes. In the millions of chapters to come...? There will be millions, yes? There better be. (I kid, you don't have to write more than a few hundred...)

[Achaian]

1471804

You have no idea how happy you just made me. Quite honestly, I teared up a little just now. I am so damned happy to know that I am making others happy.

Oh, (and this should make you very happy) I am planning on writing this for a very, very long time. Perhaps not FO:E long, but likely several hundred thousand words. I have an entire world to explore! I am building my empire today! This is my kingdom... and I live in it.

[Van]

1477112

Magnificent! Though, I suspect a story of any length from you would be excellent. I was a tad overcome when I threw the other comment up and went on a head trip to a magical land wherein this story makes you go read War and Peace for a break from the denseness.

[LaBirdie]

Le lo la bapity boo It was nice