//------------------------------// // Chapter Five: I could make you care // Story: Amazing Grace // by Silver-Spirits-and-Ales //------------------------------// Thunderhoof's memoirs I remember the first time I met Cadance. It was on my first of many trips to Canterlot. I was but a foal back then, and I had been sent there by Mother and Father. I had a pretty sedentary mindset at the time, so leaving Trottingham was very hard. But, nonetheless, I bid my goodbyes to the smoking factory chimneys, the gigantic palaces, and the never-ending gardens, and climbed into the Pegasus-pulled carriage that awaited me just outside our manor. I remember crying my eyes out as my carriage soared through the air, over the eternal blue of the Great Celestial Sea, over the cloud-high skyscrapers of Manehattan, the grassy slopes and fields of Fillydelphia, the Foal Mountains, before touching down at Canterlot. Auntie Celestia (as I had been instructed to call her) greeted me in front of the castle and escorted me inside. There, she told me to go into the garden and meet her niece, while she attended to her official business. And there she was, lying on the grass of the gardens, the stars of Bethlehem and yellow asteraceae in full bloom at her hooves. I don't remember much about that precise moment. But what I do remember is that when I saw her pink coat and her violet-magenta-cream mane, I stopped crying. She turned towards me, and I saw her bright pink eyes, her gracefully-shaped muzzle, and that horn, oh, the horn... The moment I first laid my eyes on her, that was the Magnum Opus of my foalhood. Whenever I was with her, I didn't want to be anyplace else. On that day, we played, laughed, embraced, and bonded, like two cousins (well, fifth cousins, to be specific) at the peak of their happiness. I left the Griffish Isles in a carriage, crying as hard as I possibly could, and I left Canterlot in that same carriage, crying at the thought of leaving Cadance behind. I went back to Canterlot many times after that one. Cadance and I started a written correspondence. During one such visit, I met Shining Armor, whom I still see as a brother, even to this day. I introduced him to Cadance, and before I knew it, she was foal-sitting Twilight, Shining Armor's sister. But, like all good things, my relationship with Cadance came to an end. I was fifteen, on leave from Saddlehurst, on my monthly visit to Canterlot. And I was surprised to see that during my absence, Cadance had grown a pair of wings, and had subsequently earned the title of 'Princess Mi Amore Candenza' (the regnal name that she never uses). We embraced, talked, laughed, and at the end of the evening, Cadance... proposed to me. She told me that as a Princess, she'd have to find a consort to share her life with. Somepony who would love and cherish her, but also advise her and support her. And she told me that she couldn't think of anypony more qualified than me to be her husband. Now, it's pretty common practice for nobles to marry their cousins. My parents were no exception. My parents' parents, Luna rest their souls, were no exception. But I refused. And there's not a day that goes by without me regretting that decision. I told her that she deserved somepony better than an aspiring officer, destined for the army. My decision was made. I didn't want to die hundreds of miles from home, hundreds of miles from her. I didn't want to leave her grieving. She deserved somepony better. Ever since that day, I've rarely seen her, and I've been going to a lot of trouble not to see her. I just can't bring myself to talk to her anymore. And the more I do this, the more I think that I'm not worthy of being her cousin. And by thinking that, I make up more excuses not to see her. It's a vicious cycle, rotating forever while time marches on. I turned down the invitation to Cadance's coronation, and to her wedding to Shining Armor. I just hope he can be better to her than I was. "WHINNSTON CHESTNUT ON THE RISE OF POLITICAL RADICALISM: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW," read the tag-line of the Canterlot Gazette. "Yesterday, the right honourable Whinnston Chestnut gave an exclusive interview to the Canterlot Gazette. Old, senatorial, and wise, the PM was sitting in his chair, carrot in his mouth and a glass of brandy in his hoof, when we started asking our questions. First of all, we asked him what he thought was the root cause of this rise in politically radical views. According to him, there are two main reasons for this rise. 'The first,' he said, 'is the fact that we are in the middle of a crisis. Equestria's place in the world is being challenged by nations, monsters, and tyrannical villains alike. In such times, ponies will turn to parties and views that promise a solution to all of our problems, such as the Equal Equines Party and the Equestria First Party. But we must not be blinded to the fact that if Fieldism is the unequal sharing of blessings, then Equalism is the equal sharing of misery.' The Prime Minister also attributes this rise in political radicalism to the fact that society is slowly mutating, and that the younger generation will one day take over. 'Foals nowadays always want everything instantly,' he said. 'For instance, three young fillies once wrote to me, complaining that they hadn't yet obtained their cutie marks. I suppose they addressed that letter to me because I myself was a stallion when I obtained mine.' Indeed, Whinnston was twenty-four when he got his cutie mark, which depicts the flag of Equestria. When we asked him if he could share his answer to the three foals, he claimed to have 'answered them as best as (he) could, and (the PM) concluded (his) response by saying that 'it is futile to plan too far ahead. The chain of destiny must be hoofed one link at a time.' " "Hey," said Thunderhoof, looking up from his newspaper and seeing Hoofington, who had just opened shop, and was in the process of getting new bottles of gin from the cellar. "Thundy?" responded Hoofington, surprised. "You're up early." "Yes," said Thunderhoof. "So, what's the problem this time?" asked the chairpony. "What?" "You're wearin' your problem cap." Indeed, Thunderhoof was wearing his newsboy cap, which he only ever wore when he didn't want to be seen. "So, fire away," he said, putting the kettle on and getting some teabags. "Alright," started Thunderhoof. "Yesterday, I was on a case, and I encountered some ponies who didn't have the best intentions. They got arrested, and they didn't catch my name. But just in case they did, I've gotta skip town. Could you accommodate Belle Weather for a few days? I don't want her to get hurt." "For pony's sake, Thundy," whispered Hoofington, disbelievingly. "You got mixed up with the mob, didn't you?" "Yes," said Thunderhoof. "I know, I haven't been a very good friend recently, and I'm sorry." "Hey, don't say that," said Hoofington, comfortingly. "I wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for you. Tell ya what: I'll give her a room, feed her, everything. You make yourself scarce, I'll put some o' my bouncers on the street, have some guys near your office, and I'll tell the police to, erm... interrogate these gangsters of yours. I'll send you a letter when things calm down. 'Bout that, where're you goin'?" "Ponyville." Celestia's sun was up properly, by the time Thunderhoof arrived at Ponyville Station. He hauled his suitcase inside the station, and went to the gift shop. He bought a map of the town, some postcards, and the latest edition of The Bartender's Guide to Cocktails. "That'll be fifteen bits, Sir," said the shopkeeper. "Here you go," said Thunderhoof, giving the coins to the stallion behind the counter. "Tell me," he said, dropping his voice. "Is there somepony in town called Octavia? Octavia Melody?" "There is," responded the shopkeeper. "Do you know her?" "Yes," answered Thunderhoof, making his face as unreadable as possible. "I'm a relative," he added, which, if his hunch was right, she probably was. "Where does she live?" "On a hill, east edge of town. Small house, but... recognizable." "Thank you very much," said Thunderhoof. He left a bag of coins on the table and left the station. Walking into the bustling town, the investigator saw the fabled building known as Sugarcube Corner. A building that made your mouth water, even when you weren't hungry. Just the gingerbread roof and the frosting tower could give you diabetes just by looking at them. But Thunderhoof, phlegmatic as he often was, couldn't be bothered to go in and grab a doughnut. Goodness no, he'd only want to eat more. Besides, the queue was very long, and he had places to be. So he gathered his phlegm, and strode past the very sweet building. Walking past it, he could almost feel it looking at him in silent disappointment. "Oh, fine," thought Thunderhoof, doing a u-turn and heading towards the building. These doughnuts must at least be worth trying... He took his place at the end of the queue and waited for everypony to file in and get their order. "I knew you'd eventually come!" shouted the pink earth pony mare behind the counter as Thunderhoof reached the front of the queue. Thunderhoof recognized the pony as Pinkie Pie, bearer of the Element of Laughter. He smiled and asked "Could I have a doughnut, please?" "Okie-dokie-lokie!" answered the mare, reaching her hoof behind the glass, and getting one of the round pâtisseries. "Actually, make that two," said Thunderhoof. "Or three." "We have a free one extra if you buy three," interjected Pinkie Pie. "Four it is, then," said Thunderhoof. If you take a little walk, to the edge of the town, and go across the river, where the evergreens loom, like birds of doom, as they shift and rustle. Where secrets lie, with the fireflies, At the coming of night You always feel like you're never coming back Past the square, past the bridge, Past the school, past the tower. On a gathering storm, there comes a tall, handsome colt, in a dusty black coat, and a red right hoof. Thunderhoof's dusty black overcoat billowed in the wind, as the tell-tale thunder of a gathering downpour made itself known, daring the investigator to go further. The 'small yet recognizable' house was just about fifty metres away, now. It seemed to be divided in two parts, with one side a bland brown, while the other was moderate purple. The chimney had been styled to look like organ pipes sticking out of the roof, and a hedge on the front lawn like an eighth-note, although it could be a pelican, depending on the viewer. As he got closer, Thunderhoof could hear some music from inside the house, played on what was umistakeably a cello: too high-picthed to be a double-bass, yet not high enough to be a violin, let alone an alto one. He knocked on the door. The music stopped, and some hooves gingerly made their way towards the door. It opened, and the gray mare made her appearance. Her coat was just as clean and gray as the day he'd first seen her. Her face was stoic, and beautiful. And her bow-tie, still perfectly adjusted to her neck, again, just like the day he'd met her. "Yes?" she asked. Thunderhoof pulled his cap from his head, revealing his face, prompting a surprised reaction from Octavia. "Major?" she asked. "That's me," said Thunderhoof, smiling. "I just thought I'd pop by and say hello." "Well, I-" spluttered Octavia, for the first time breaking her own phlegmatic attitude. "I don't- why are you here?" "I don't have a business card," lied Thunderhoof. "So I thought I'd meet you in person." "Well, I suppose that you should come in," said Octavia, eyeing the gathering storm, which seemed to be forming behind Thunderhoof himself. "Tea?" she asked, heading towards her kettle. "Yes, please," said Thunderhoof. "Black." "I'm afraid I can't serve you black," retorted Octavia. "They're china cups." The tradition of putting milk in tea came from the old times, when all cups were made of china. Therefore, the hot tea would break the cup, lest there was milk in it beforehand. "Might as well," sighed Thunderhoof. "Yes, I'll have milk." Octavia put the kettle on the stove and gestured Thunderhoof to sit down on the sofa, before doing so herself. "Something tells me you aren't here just to exchange pleasantries and tea, Major," said the cellist. "You see right through me," answered Thunderhoof. "And again. Just 'Thunderhoof', if you don't mind." "Very well, Thunderhoof," said Octavia. "What brings you here?" "Well..." started the detective. "For one thing, you recognized my name. I'm not a star, I'm not a celebrity, so the fact that you knew my name and rank off the top of your head intrigued me. You see, one of the reasons I did become a private eye is because I like to discover things. And when I don't, I get this itch. An itch that doesn't go away until my curiosity has been satisfied. I have a lot of questions for you." Octavia considered Thunderhoof for a few seconds, before the kettle started whistling. She got up, went to the stove, and shut off the steam. She poured the hot water into her tea pot, put some milk in the china cups, and served the tea. She brought the cups over and placed them on the coffee table. "That curiosity of yours," said Octavia. "That itch. I'm itching to know how you found me." Thunderhoof produced the crumpled-up train ticket. "You left Ponyville on short notice," said Thunderhoof. "From there, I assumed that Ponyville was your place of residence. And I was right, wasn't I?" "That sounds a bit like a leap of faith," said Octavia. "My work has always involved leaps of faith," retorted Thunderhoof. "Fair enough," said Octavia. "Anything else you want to know?" "What are you hiding from?" asked Thunderhoof. "What?" "What are you hiding from?" repeated Thunderhoof. "I don't know what you mean," answered Octavia, huffily. "The night before you climbed onto Hoofington's stage, you slept in his penthouse," explained Thunderhoof, "when there was a perfectly good hotel just across the street, cheaper than the discount you gave to Hoofington. Now, I'm guessing it's because Hoofington doesn't keep a record of who sleeps at his place. Ergo, you didn't want to leave a trace of your presence in Canterlot. Ergo, you are scared of somepony." To Thunderhoof's surprise, Octavia laughed softly. "It's your turn to see right through me, Mister Thunderhoof." A flash of lightning made itself known, and a roll of thunder made itself known, about five seconds later. "Your cello," said Thunderhoof, eyeing the instrument. "It's a Zoccolo Galoppo, isn't it?" "Yes," answered Octavia, in a detached way. "It was a present," she added, stiffly. Thunderhoof observed the instrument intently. If he was right, the Zoccolo line of Galoppo cellos was very expensive. Which wasn't really news, if you looked at the other Galoppos, which were themselves very expensive. But the Zoccolos were only made on commission, hoof-tailored for one pony. It had been polished the day before, if not just a few hours ago, meaning that Octavia had a near-neurotic protectiveness of it. Just like any good grenadier or fusilier has a protectiveness of his or her red tunic. "You intrigue me, Octavia," said Thunderhoof. "I do?" snorted the mare. "Yes," said Thunderhoof. "I want to know more about you. Really, I do." "Very well," said Octavia. "I can answer your questions. Or actually, why don't you try guessing?" she asked, amused. "Alright." Thunderhoof took a sip of his milky tea, and started. "You were born in West Trottingham. But that much, I think we both know already. You are an Earth Pony, which means that your family probably mixed with the Bourgeoisie1, at some point, probably the result of an arranged marriage between a noble and a rich merchant or a factory owner. You play the cello. The playing of a musical instrument is the skill of choice for young noble fillies and colts, who are taught to play an instrument from an early age, to make them more appealing to other unmarried ponies (trust me, I too have been there). But your cutie mark indicates that music became a passion for you, eventually becoming your destiny." "That's impressive," said Octavia. "Tell me more." "You went to a public school2, before being sent to a finishing school by your parents. A healthy, skilled, beautiful filly, ready to be married." At that point, Octavia blushed and giggled. "But something went wrong. Something caused you to leave your family behind, who probably are the people you're hiding from. My guess is that you got pregnant. You left because some stallion had a crush on you, or you had a crush on him, and you exchanged a night of passion, before you realized that you had made a mistake. Instead of facing them, you ran away. Maybe you left the child at an orphanage.. Who knows." Octavia's smile faded and was replaced by a rather somber expression. "You're an utter bastard, do you know that?" she asked, coldly. "Celestia's honest truth..." said Thunderhoof. "I think I do." "But, no. I never got pregnant," said Octavia, stiffly. At that moment, she really wanted to slap Thunderhoof across the face, but she decided not to. Instead, she decided to defend her honour. "I never so much as slept with a stallion. You could say that my motivation for leaving home was... quite a bit different." "Tell me," suggested Thunderhoof. "Alright," answered Octavia. A young Octavia was sitting in her bedroom, gently stroking the strings of her cello, producing an expertly-crafted piece of her own design. She was barely of age, and the mark that adorned her graceful flank had appeared barely a month ago. Her two years of finishing school had given her the grace that many a young stallion sought. Many coveted her. Second cousins, merchants, and industrials alike. Some hoofsteps made themselves known, and Octavia's oak door opened. It was her mother. "Amy, dear," she said. "Your papa and I need to talk to you." Octavia sighed, rolled her eyes, and lowered her bow, turning around to look at her mother. "You gave me that ignominious name, the least you can do is use it in full." "Alright," answered the mother. In an effort to steer the conversation somewhere else, she said, "I see that you are enjoying your new present?" The young Octavia looked down at her cello, which was her 'coming of age' present from her aunt. "Oh, yes," she said. "She really is a charm, isn't she?" "I hope you've written your thank you letter," said Octavia's mother. "I have," answered Octavia. "Could you leave me, just for a few minutes?" "Of course." The mother left the room. Octavia got up from her stool, placed her prized cello on its stand, and looked out of the window. In the distance, the black smoke from the factories mixed itself with the gray clouds, giving the impression that the Windigoes were finally going to soar down onto the 'wretched' part of Trottingham, or that some sea monster was about to invade the port. Raindrops were trickling down glass the panes of the massive window, like beads of sweat down a worker's forehead. "I had better get going," thought Octavia, making for the door. Her designated butler and equerry, James, was waiting right behind it. He bowed as he saw Octavia. "If milady would please follow me," the faithful servant said, "his lordship and her ladyship await in the sitting room." "Thank you, James," said Octavia. She was probably the only pony in the family who actually respected her servants. They both trotted towards the end of the hallway and James opened a massive door to his right. The butler entered first and announced "Her ladyship, Amazing Grace Grayton." Octavia (or 'Amazing Grace', as she was known at the time) entered the room and curtsied meekly to both her parents. Tory Grayton, the earth pony father, and Dazzling Grace Grayton, the unicorn mother, were sitting in their respective armchairs in front of the fire, looking to Octavia like they were sitting before the gates to Tartarus. "Amazing Grace," croaked the father, looking at his daughter through his bespectacled purple eyes, glass of brandy in his hoof, wearing his silk interior jacket. "We called you here because you are of age." "We are getting old, my dear," said Dazzling. "And both he and I would like to see you married before one of us passes away." "But I don't want to-" objected Amazing Grace, before being interrupted by her father. "Let us finish!" he exclaimed, cross. "As I was about to say, instead of choosing your husband-to-be, we've decided to leave you a choice." Dazzling Grace squeaked in excitement, an impatient glimmer lighting up her bony face. "We've picked out three of the most suitable candidates." She levitated some sheets of paper, and lay them face up on the coffee table. She indicated the picture of a white golden-maned unicorn stallion with deceptively handsome features, including a bow-tie and a charismatic smile. "This is Prince Blueblood, heir to the dukedom of Fillydelphia. He is our personal favourite." The young mare knew all about Prince Blueblood. He wasn't even a prince, but had been given the right to use the title after he'd thrown a particularly nasty tantrum at Celestia's court. Egotistical, self-righteous, and horribly pretentious, he also had a reputation for being rude and contemptuous, only being satisfied with the very best. "I'll give this one a pass." "Are you sure?" asked Lady Dazzling Grayton. "I mean..." "Yes, I am sure," answered Amazing Grace, sternly. "Very well..." the mother indicated the central picture, one of a cream earth pony wearing a business suit. "This is Byron Gearton, a rich mining tycoon from South Trottingham. Don't worry, he is not part of that nouveau riche riff-raff like that wretched Filthy Rich down in Ponyville. Sweet Celestia, no. Gearton is a wealthy stallion, full of ambitions and dreams." "Don't tell me," sighed Amazing. "You are hoping to marry me to him so that you can get some low-priced iron and coal for your steel mills. Not to mention your failing jewelry factories." "How dare you!" growled Tory, cross yet too lazy to rise from his armchair. "I only have your best interests at heart!" "Still, I'd like to see my third option," retorted Amazing. "I mean, I wouldn't want to mix our blood with the commoners more than it already has been," she mused. Dazzling sighed and reluctantly showed the last picture. It was one of a pegasus stallion. Pearl-white, just like the Prince, with a dark mane and piercing steely blue eyes. He wasn't looking at the camera, but stood stone-faced and stoic, the classic image of a soldier. He was wearing the number two formal uniform of the Equestrian Earth Army, khaki green tunic and officer's cap. He had a few medals on the left-hoof side of his uniform, and an aiguillette went under his left foreleg, on which his rank's insignia was sewn: the one of captain. Amazing Grace was thunderstruck at the sight of that handsome stallion. A disciplined, brave, military-educated gentlecolt who would treat her well. She hadn't even met him, and yet she could read the stallion's character off his face. And just like that, she seemed to already feel herself snuggling up against these strong yet tender forelegs, smelling the mint of his breath. "What is he called?" she asked. "That is the Honourable Captain Thunderhoof Butterscotch," answered Dazzling Grace. "Third son of the Earl Butterscotch of Coltford. Erm..." she and her husband looked at each other in a concerned fashion, while their daughter remained mesmerized by the picture. "He does not have any titles, my dear. And truth be told, I do not think he has much to offer." But Amazing Grace wasn't really listening. She had her heart set on the pegasus she hadn't even met, but already liked beyond measure. "Then, it is settled," she said. "It is him that I want to marry." "And therefore, I was supposed to marry you, Thunderhoof," recounted Octavia. What Octavia had said on that night at Hoofington's rang in Thunderhoof's head. "Where were you, five years ago?" "Five years ago?" asked Thunderhoof. "Yes," replied Octavia. "Five years ago, my parents told me that the pegasus colt who'd left Saddlehurst for Saddle Arabia never came back." "Did they tell you who came back in his place?" asked Thunderhoof. "They didn't need to," answered Octavia. "I had already seen many of my friends leave Saddlehurst, in their smart khaki uniforms and their battle dress uniforms, cheerful and full of hope. Not one of them came back the same." "I know what you mean," responded Thunderhoof. "Back onto why you left the household..." "Yes." Octavia cleared her throat and continued. Amazing Grace, just as always, was playing her cello in the music room. She was practicing for the Trottingham debutantes ball, which was set to take place the following month. She'd had the idea to play her music instead of dance like all of the other fillies who would be present. She'd spent many months composing a duet that she'd play with Thunderhoof (whom, she'd heard, was good with a violin). James walked in. "Her ladyship is awaited by her parents in the drawing room." The two went through the rigmarole of going through the massive corridor, James opened the door, introduced Amazing Grace, and stepped aside to let the filly enter the drawing room, where both her parents were waiting. "Amazing Grace," said the father. "I'm afraid that I have some bad news, my dear." "Yes?" asked Amazing Grace, apprehensively. "I regret to inform you that Thunderhoof won't be able to be there for your ball, next month," said Tory Grayton. "So, erm... Prince Blueblood will be your chaperone." "What?" spluttered the daughter in disbelief. "That foul, disgrace of a stallion is going to be my chaperone?" "Yes," answered Dazzling Grace. There was an air of suppressed triumph about her, as if she was trying very hard not to look pleased with herself. "Also, don't use that language, dear, it is not lady-like." "But I do not want to see him! Let alone dance with him!" For a few months now, Prince Blueblood had made frequent visit to the Grayton estate, and had spent time with Amazing. That time they'd spent together had only served to intensify Amazing's disdain for the unicorn. She'd assumed that these visits were only vain efforts on Dazzling's part to change her daughter's mind, but now she realized that her mother had known that Thunderhoof Butterscotch wouldn't be there. "Amazing," said Tory. "You will do as you are told. We have already signed the marriage contract on your behalf, so you need not worry. You will be rich! Richer than you already are! And who knows, maybe you'll learn to love him." Amazing felt herself get very hot in the face. "I couldn't care less about your Celestia-damn marriage contract!" she shouted. Tory Grayton stayed silent for a few seconds, took a sip from his sherry, and when he spoke, it was in a voice of ice-cold venom. "Be careful, my dear... I have half a mind to hit you where you stand." Octavia, at these words, decided that she'd had enough of her parents. Without thinking any further, she bluntly responded "You have half a mind, end of sentence!" Tory Grayton was deceptively quick, for such a large earth pony, whom everypony thought had been slowed down by his endless naps and the brandy he kept drinking. But at his daughter's words, he sprung up and whacked his daughter across the face with his hoof with such force that her muzzle started bleeding. Then, Dazzling grasped her daughter with her magic grasp, and pinned her against the wall. The barbaric father slowly approached his daughter, and punched her, repeatedly. In the stomach, in the face, in the chest... Anything he could think of that he knew would produce pain when he hit it. He knew exactly where to hit. He knew how to hurt anypony. After what seemed like ages of brutal beatings, the mother let go of her daughter, who flumped to the ground. She was twitching, two or more of her ribs were broken, and she was crying her eyes out. "Now remember," growled the father, bending down and talking into Amazing's ear. "Next time you place yourself in the way of our family's interests, I will hurt you worse than you could possibly imagine. Are we clear?" Amazing nodded, curled up on the rug and crying tears of pain and sadness. "Come, now, Tory," said Dazzling Grace, in a business-like tone. "Good night, my dear," she added coldly, leaving the room. "After that night, I decided that I had to leave," explained Octavia. "I stayed with them for a few months, biding my time, planning my escape, and gathering money." "Glad you got out when you did," said Thunderhoof. He had listened to Octavia's narrative with great interest, and he had memorized a lot of it. "But I really don't recall my parents ever telling me about you." "They probably didn't. But anyway, I was happy to finally leave the old mansion. I stayed in Trottingham, for a while, before buying myself a new identity, and eventually washing up in Ponyville." "Which brings us here," said Thunderhoof. "After all of these years, you still remember me from a picture. I'm flattered." "So," said Octavia. "Why are you here?" asked Octavia. "Why aren't you in Trottingham, where your household is?" "Well," answered Thunderhoof. "Since Mother died, and Father is very sick, one of my... I suppose you can call them my 'brothers', has been sucking up to him, trying to bleed him dry of everything he has." "You have brothers?" asked Octavia. "Yes," answered Thunderhoof, wincing in a 'please,not them' kind of way. "They're twins. Stableton and Haysley Butterscotch. Haysley is the one who's trying to bleed Father dry. He's got plans for the family, he says. Stableton, he isn't a bad stallion. He's a knight of the Grand Ordre Cadentien." "The order that is supposed to spread love and peace throughout Equestria?" asked Octavia. "I'm sorry, my knowledge of entitlement is very rusty." "That's the one," said Thunderhoof. "But Stableton is naive. Quite often, he gets manipulated by Haysley into doing his bidding. He's a bit of a pushover." Thunderhoof described his two brothers in a voice of disgust. Octavia noticed that the theme of the conversation annoyed Thunderhoof, so she decided to change the subject. "Have you ever considered pouring your feelings and emotions into art? I know that it can seem idiotic, but it's helped me a lot." "Tried painting," said Thunderhoof. "It didn't work for me. Tried drawing, didn't really work either. Tried writing. That works. I'm writing my memoirs." Octavia smiled. "I write too. And I compose music. It helps with my melancholy. Here, let me show you something." She got up, and went to the cupboard in the corner of the lounge. She opened it, lifted a few dusty books, and found what she was looking for: two bundles of music sheets, bound by some pieces of string. She brought it over, with an expectant smile on her face. "What's that?" asked Thunderhoof. "It's the piece I composed for our would-be ball," said Octavia, breathlessly. She gave one of them to Thunderhoof. "Graceful Thunder," the stallion read aloud. "Sounds like an oxymoron." "It's the violin part," explained Octavia. "You still play, don't you?" Thunderhoof looked up, into Octavia's eyes. It was as if there were a billion stars twinkling in them. "I'm a little rusty," he said. "Besides, I don't have a violin." "That's alright," said Octavia. "I've got one." She trotted over to her room, and came back a few seconds later with a Trodivarius. She extended it to the stallion, who half-heartedly took it. She prepared her cello, and looked at Thunderhoof. "Should I... start?" asked Thunderhoof. "Go ahead," beamed Octavia. "Alright." Thunderhoof. Played the first notes, and missed the fifth one by a half-tone. "Sorry," he blushed. "As I said, rusty." "It's alright," answered Octavia. Thunderhoof cleared his throat, pressed his hind legs into the floor, took a deep breath, and started again. He played the first measure, the second, and before he knew it, his bow was almost following his thoughts. After a few measures, Octavia joined in with her cello. The notes seemed to form a harmony that even the Elements couldn't possibly create: a musical one. As they played on, Thunderhoof began to feel increasingly cut off from the outside world. Not in a bad way, like when he'd been discharged, but in a good way. As if he and Octavia were on a ship, stranded in the middle of an ocean, thousands of miles from anywhere, with only music giving them purpose. After many minutes of playing, the sheets came to their end. Thunderhoof and Octavia played their last note together, and the music stopped completely. In unison, the two stood up, and bowed to each other, for they only had each other as audience. "You're quite good," said Octavia. "Not as good as you are," mused Thunderhoof in return. He looked at the clock, realized how late it was, and decided that it was time that he left. "Well, I've got my answers, and, erm... thanks for the tea." The stallion got up, made for the door, and opened it to reveal the storm that his fellow pegasi had created. He reached a hoof into his pocket to get his cap, but all he could feel was his crumpled up gala ticket. Looking around, he saw that he had left his newsboy cap on the coffee table, next to his empty cup and saucer. On the other side of the table was Octavia, looking at Thunderhoof intently. Trying not to look too ridiculous, Thunderhoof trotted over to the table, and replaced his cap, lowering the brim so as to not see Octavia. "Don't you want to stay here for the night?" asked Octavia. "What?" "Well, Rainbow Dash was appointed chairpony of the weather commission, so we're late on the imposed rain quota," explained Octavia. "Which means that we've got three days of storms ahead of us. She's a good cloud buster, but... she isn't good at organizing things. Besides, our only hotel's closed until the busy season." "I see," said Thunderhoof. "Well, in that case, I might as well stay." He sat back down on the sofa, and put his cap back on the table. As it was late in the evening, Octavia decided to break out some stronger drinks from her cupboard. The sheer size of her liquor and wine collection was baffling by contemporary standards, but Octavia was a Griffish Earth Pony. She could probably drink Thunderhoof under the table. "Oh, I'd completely forgotten about this," said Thunderhoof, looking at a bottle of Old Gussie Griffonstone Green absinth. The label, which consisted of a stylized drawing of a griffon in a top hat and tailcoat, was supposed to give the impression that the drink was for the wealthy connaisseurs, when in fact it was just another brand of cheap absinth, drunk mainly by Griffonstone miners, trying to forget their misery. "That?" asked Octavia. "Yes, it is pretty forgettable. After all, ponies drink that to forget." "I remember, when I was a colt, there had been a terrible wave of flu among the servants and the kitchen staff, and Mother was out of absinth for her corpse reviver, so she gave me some money and sent me down to the shop to buy some Wenceslas absinth. I went to the shop, bought some of that one, put it in a Wenceslas bottle, and kept the change for myself." Octavia laughed. "Tell you what," she said. "Make me one of these corpse revivers. Maybe it'll make me feel alive..." Thunderhoof didn't need his brand-new cocktails guide to make that one. He put the gin, lemon juice, triple sec and vermouth in Octavia's shaker, added a dash of the cheap absinth, put some ice in it, shook the metal case, and strained the cocktail into two glasses. "May you be with the princesses at least half-an hour before Tirek knows you're dead," said Thunderhoof, lifting his glass and clinking it with Octavia's. "Amen to that," responded Octavia, in a playful tone. The pair sat together for some time, exchanging anecdotes and criticisms of Canterlot nobility. At some point, Thunderhoof noticed the phonograph at the corner of the room, with the humungous record collection above it, on a shelf. "Why don't I stick a record on?" he suggested. But as he got up, Octavia let out a loud "NO!" Then, realizing that she had just shouted for what was seemingly no reason at all, she cleared her throat, and said "Sorry. I'm just very protective of my records." She then got up, meekly trotted to the phonograph, and fumbled with her records. As she did so, Thunderhoof admired Octavia's gracefully-shaped body, its charming curves, and her silky tail. "Coal Harper?" Octavia suggested. "Do you have 'Anything Goes?'" asked Thunderhoof. "Yes," said Octavia. "Live version from eighty years ago? Studio version? Or maybe you'd prefer the most recent one?" Since it premiered at Bridleway, eighty years before, the musical, and its eponymous track, had been revived quite a few times, with the lyrics altered to give contemporary examples of anything going. "The recent one," said Thunderhoof. "One has to live in the present. The clock doesn't wait for anybody, it merely ticks on, after all..." 3 Octavia smirked at Thunderhoof's clearly-taken-from-someone-else quip, put the record on, and lowered the needle. After the few seconds of crackling that were characteristic of vinyl records, the instrumental melody started, followed by the powerful and piercing voice of Sulton Moster. Times have changed. And we've often rewound the clock, since the Mighty Helm got the shock, when our Rockhoof saved the folk. If today, Any shock they should try to stem, 'Stead of saving the ponyfolk, the folk would all save him. In olden days, a screaming yearling, was looked on as something shocking, but Celestia knows. Anything goes. Good stitchers too, who all once stitched by hoof, Now only use machinery making clothes, Anything goes. If riding fast carts you like, If cookie jars you like, If good whims you like, If feeling grim you like, If gay ships you like, and 'rotic fics you like, Why, nopony will oppose. When ev'ry night, the set that's smart is in- Cluding the Equalist party In their shows, Anything goes. When missus Rarity, Fates bless her, Can get Canter fops to 'yes' her, Then I suppose, Anything goes. When Twilight Sparkle Still can hoard enough friendship, To pardon Glimmer for enslaving pones, Anything goes. Equestria's gone mad today, And good's bad today, And moon's sun today, And truth's lie today, And that foal today, Who got a mark today His fate still does not know. When folks who still can't plan a party, Know that it's been planned by Pinkie, Before she throws, Anything goes. If Fluttershy can with great conviction, Stand up for herself to dragons, Then 'Flutters' shows, Anything goes. When you hear that lil' miss Applejack, Doesn't call that tonic 'whack', And then she does, Anything goes. Just think of those shocks you got, And those bucks you got, From that news you got, And those pains you got, If any brains you got, From that Gabby Gums foal... So miss RD, with all her trickses, Can steal all Wind Rider's fixes, Cause Windie knows... Anything goes. 4 Anything Goes was just like the Equal Equines Party of Equestria: its popularity dies down after a while, but it always seems to come back. "Do you think that when Coal wrote that song, he knew it'd still be popular eighty years after?" asked Thunderhoof. "I don't know," answered Octavia. "He wrote it about the mutation of society. Society constantly evolves, and so does that song. I suppose he did mean for his song and musical to be popular, but I don't think he imagined it being still popular, eighty years later. Let alone the hundreds of years after that, during which it will inevitably be revived and revised." Thunderhoof looked into Octavia's eyes, and took a leap of faith that, at that precise moment, seemed to make all the other leaps of faith he'd taken until then look like unimportant decisions. "Youwannagonadatewitme?" he asked, almost inaudibly. "What?" Octavia asked, shocked. "I mean... why?" "Well, I've got to go to the Grand Galloping Gala, next month, and my cousin told me to bring a date." Thunderhoof maintained a stoic expression as he explained himself. "And I can't really think of anyone else. Besides, I thought you might like to..." "I play at the gala," answered Octavia. "Every year, with my ensemble." "Oh." "But... I suppose that for once, I can skip it. They'll find another cellist, I"m sure." "Oh."