Throw Off the Veil

by OkemosBrony

Hear That Voice So Clearly

Coloratura lazily pushed aside the influx of newspapers and magazines from around Equestria that had been piling up on her kitchen table, opening a spot for her to sit down with breakfast: toast with jam, a few fresh berries, and a mug of black tea. Oddly enough, she looked forward to a simple meal at home in peace. The allure of extravagant, four-hour-long-breakfasts-that-turn-into-brunch-that-turn-into-lunch with outrageous dishes from faraway lands featuring ingredients she’d never heard of with ponies whose combined net worth totalled half of Equestria’s economy only lasted so long. Now she could just focus on eating and relaxing, not on always keeping Countess Coloratura’s image as lavish as it always had to be.

As she picked up her toast and took a bite well over Svengallop’s threshold of “Countess-esque”, she grabbed the first newspaper on her table and looked at where it came from: Ponyville. Understandably, she was the main headline there. They seemed excited enough to learn that one of their own was one of her best friends, so she would’ve been surprised if they weren’t going around claiming responsibility for this drastic change. If there was one thing she learned from her time in the limelight, it was that anypony even remotely close to it milked it for all it was worth.

Next up was San Franciscolt, her hometown. Also not surprisingly, the headline was about her, as it always was. The city had been trying to put itself on the map for years, and virtually everypony back home would be more than happy to remind anypony they saw that Coloratura was from San Franciscolt since that was bar far the most noteworthy thing about there. At first she found it endearing, but at some point long ago it had devolved into downright creepy.

Manehattan. A sigh of relief escaped her when she saw that she was the main headline, but upon unfolding the newspaper and looking at the bottom half of the front page, there she was. If she was considered front page news in Manehattan, the city where there is always some enormous scandal or earth-shattering news, then truly everywhere in Equestria was talking about her.

After finishing the rest of her toast and berries in silence, not even bothering to check any of the other newspapers that she knew would inevitably be gushing about her creative redirection, she picked up the mug of tea in her mouth and walked out to the patio before setting it on a side table and laying back in one of her intricately-carved wooden lounge chairs, still damp from the morning dew.

A cold and wet wind blew over Coloratura, causing her to grab her mug in her hooves and grasp it tightly so its heat would help stave off the morning chill. Truth be told, she enjoyed it. It reminded her of San Franciscolt, and a little nippiness in the air was worth putting up with for the location; nice and secluded in the forests of Vanhoover Island, while overlooking the North Luna Ocean at the same time. For sure, the one thing she missed the most when she was first starting out in Canterlot was the ocean. Even if she hated when the saltwater rushed up her nose and down her throat, just the mere sight of it was soothing, a gentle reminder of the scale of the world.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in and observing the world around her. There was a natural symphony of sorts going on all around her, from the gentle harmony of the waves and the rustling in the trees to the melody that the gulls were creating as they went. It all worked harmoniously, creating one simple profile of serenity and balance, as all good things should be.

All around her was symphony of sounds she had not heard in a long time, despite her occasional trips back here to record. But before, everything was all business: most of the songs weren’t even written by her, so it was just into her studio to spit out record after record of the same harmonies and same drivel they told her passed as lyrics. It felt good to be the world’s audience once more, to sit back and allow it to speak.

Even as a light drizzle started falling from the sky and chilling her to the bone, Coloratura didn’t mind the discomfort. It felt good, refreshing almost. She never understood why, but chilly and damp days always made her feel alive. Most importantly, they made her feel clean and refreshed, two things she had not experienced in a long time.

As she sat and watched the ever so slight movement of the trees and the water from the weak gusts while drinking her tea, her mind kept returning to that one night in Ponyville. That one night, as if it were so long ago. Yet in reality, not but a week had passed since she fished out her old dress and was struck with inspiration so great that she composed an entire song in just under a day. The part she hated about all of that was that for such little time, it was so incredible. Not just the song, but the rush of passion surging through her as hastily scribbled notes on blank manuscript paper slower than the could think of the melody. She had forgotten how much she loved it, a thrill unknown since the earliest days of her career when she was struggling to get into any piano bar in Canterlot that would have her. And just as she had discovered her voice, a stallion by the name of Svengallop came by and promised her fame and wealth beyond her wildest dreams. He delivered, that was for sure, but at what cost?

Today was not the time for stewing on the past, she decided as she finished the final mouthful of tea. For once in her life, she truly had nothing she had to prepare for. No recitals, no homework, no auditions, no concerts or recording sessions, absolutely nothing.

She smiled as she stood up and grabbed her empty mug, for a part of her hated it. Idle hooves and an open schedule were not her idea of fun.

Just because she had nothing she needed to do didn’t mean there was nothing she could do. At heart she was a creator, and years of being given songs and choreography and told to follow them to a T were restricting, causing a massive buildup of various melodies and lyrics in her mind that needed an outlet. Even if none of them progressed beyond a few measures before hitting a creative wall, the mere thought of putting pencil to paper once more was exhilarating. Some of her best early work started as a hodgepodge of various different harmonies that could be tweaked to become one coherent phrase anyways, so it wasn’t as if numerous unfinished songs was somehow useless.

After placing the now empty mug next to her other dishes on the table, she parted her damp mane out of her face and walked downstairs to the recording studio she had had installed when she first moved in. It wasn’t as large or advanced as the ones in Canterlot that could accommodate her former style and an ensemble of backup singers and guest performers, but for what she had originally wanted to do it served that purpose very well. Upon flicking the light switch, she was greeted with a harsh reminder about the disuse of this space in the form of a light coat of dust over all the equipment.

What tied her heart in a knot the most, however, was the small picture frame on the studio’s desk. Even though she knew what was in it and exactly how it would make her feel, she couldn’t keep herself from walking up and sitting in the chair to get a better look at it.

In the photo she was holding the first trophy she had won for the piano, and winning it had given her a smile so large that she always wondered how it was able to be contained on her face. On the left was her father, a smaller but no less excited smile on his own face. He had not an ounce of musical talent in him, so he was continually astounded at her capabilities and all the work she put into it. Memories of him pretending to know what she was talking about as she practiced rushed back to her, causing a few small laughs to come forth. He always was so supportive, even if he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was saying. The lengths he went to to make her feel successful were endearing.

But it was the mare on the right that made Coloratura’s heart sink. Unlike her father who looked young and full of life, her mother was by that point little more than a skeleton with skin. Chemotherapy and radiation had robbed her of virtually everything she had, leaving her face sunken and her mane little more than a few wisps of hair hanging onto her scalp for dear life. A thick sweater covered her body, even though Coloratura distinctly remembered sweat rolling down her own face as she performed in the unairconditioned recital hall during one of the hottest days of summer. As she had grown older, Coloratura learned how poor her mother’s condition had gotten and began wondering how she was able to sit up, let alone go to her daughter’s recital.

Yet her face still held one of the warmest smiles that she had ever seen.

It occurred to her that while she unfortunately had plenty of memories of her mother’s condition and its gradual decline, no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember anything about how she was doing that day. During the Summer Sun Celebration she was tired but otherwise okay and she spent nearly the entirety of their anniversary in the bathroom vomiting her guts out, but absolutely nothing registered about how her condition was that day. If she was being honest, she wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Was it selfish to not notice your own mother doing poorly? All she could remember from that day was clenching her teeth during her performance out of nervousness, for it was the first time she played in front of a crowd and got judged on it. Understandably, she had a lot on her mind that day. But did that too make her selfish, putting a meaningless performance above the health of her own sick and dying mother?

Today was not the day for those types of questions. No, today was a day to start fresh, to return to the passion of music she had forgotten about for so long as she chased fame and stardom using another’s voice over her own. Not for kicking herself over any potential selfishness years ago.

Getting out of the chair, Coloratura walked around to the door to the studio and entered, flicking the light as she did so. Harsh fluorescent lighting shone over the criminally-underused instruments inside, an acoustic guitar and two pianos. The first piano was her pride and joy: a beautiful baby grand she bought not long after her career took off, hoof-crafted from only the highest-quality materials in Equestria. As soon as she had played a scale on it, she knew she had to own it.

And then there was the other piano, some cheap, mass-produced plastic upright that could hardly hold a tune and gave off a sound quality that left something to be desired.

The very same piano she first learned on.

Countless hours were spent sitting at that piano, practicing scales and chorales until all the sheet music seemed to start melding together and she could swear that she could play any song of hers in her sleep. It was at that piano she spent the most time with her mother, now that she thought of it. Watching her play was what inspired her to attempt playing it, and then subsequently beg her parents for lessons when what she created sounded nothing like what her mother did. Even her father would sit on the bench and listen along, for despite him not having anything even resembling a musical bone in his body, he always loved hearing her improve and encouraging her when she messed up.

Perhaps that was why she was walking towards the musically inferior piano and sitting down at its bench. She couldn’t stop the smile that broke out on her face as her hoof hit middle C, for in her neglect of her instruments, it had become incredibly out of tune. Despite this she continued, muscle memory guiding her through a few scales and simple chorales she had embedded into her brain so long ago.

As she played, wincing at the atrocious sound quality, warmth began growing inside of her heart. Despite the fact that the piano was not something any musician of her caliber would ever use even in a tuned state, simply playing it made her happy. To her, the other piano, while a much better quality one, was currently inferior. No, she wanted to play on this one.

As she began mindlessly playing a few of the melodies she had swirling in her head and hoping that it was the instrument causing them to come out so poorly, her smile grew larger. Days long passed of a little filly playing Hearth’s Warming Carols for her family flew through her mind, followed by hot summer days where she would spend hours upon hours inside perfecting the songs in her songbooks as her friends played outside without her.

A few tears began pooling in her eyes. Why was she crying? The only other time in recent memory she had cried was during her concert in Ponyville.

The second the thought passed through her mind, she stopped playing and took her hooves off the piano and into her lap. That was what her music was missing for so long: passion. A connection from the artist to the work she was presenting, the love only a creator could bestow. Music was not about creating the loudest bass, or the the flashiest show, or the best choreography. It wasn’t even about the melodies and harmonies, or the intricacies of the piano she could caress into life if she practiced hard enough. It was about the pony who created it, and why they did. Even early on in her career she wasn’t creating because she wanted to, she created because she needed to: bills and rent and expenses mandated it.

Quickly, Coloratura jumped off of her bench and ran out of the studio, grabbing the framed photograph and bringing it inside of the room before setting it on top of the piano. As she studied it, her heart grew heavy. Who would she create a song for? For her mother, who first encouraged her passion and always put her daughter before herself, even when inches from death? Or her father, who set everything else in life aside so his daughter could feel happiness again? Perhaps the little smiling filly, who would likely not be able to even fathom what the future will hold for her. Maybe all three of them deserved a song, a beautiful ode to the family that held onto their love for each other even until and beyond death.

She liked that idea. It may not be what the final product looks like, but the thought was there.

And to Coloratura, that was the only thing that mattered.