//------------------------------// // And So It Begins // Story: Melodious Desideratum // by Desideratium //------------------------------// “So, what just happened?” you ask Symphony once you’ve entered the dim auditorium. “You just met Clusterbuck. We call her Cluster to be polite, but she probably wouldn’t mind if we used her full name.” Symphony is still grinning at your flabbergasted reaction to Cluster’s eccentricity. “She’s been around here since . . . well, forever. All I know is that she was selling snacks all the way back when Frederic had just barely joined the ranks. It was a good five more years before I entered the picture.” The two of you make our way down the aisle, kept on course by the miniscule lights at the base of the seats. Ahead, your stomach rises to your throat when you see a smattering of ponies gathering on the stage, sporting various instruments. “But how she acted . . .” You try to distract yourself by continuing the conversation with Symphony. “Wasn’t that a little weird?” “Nah. She was probably just flirting with you. Now don’t think you’re something special . . .” Symphony adds when she sees your alarmed expression. “She goes through that phase with everypony. Some of them aren’t even stallions. I remember that Octavia almost throttled her a few times when she tried to put the moves on Frederic.” You have to laugh at that. After meeting Octavia, this doesn’t seem like to much of an exaggeration. “Places, everypony!” an unpleasant voice sounds from the front of the room. “Your beloved conductor is in the building!” Symphony grimaces. “Oh, and you might want to get used to Lyrica. We’re about as close to getting rid of her as earth ponies are to learning how to fly.” You refrain from correcting her; there are plenty of spells and potions created with the intent of inducing flight in non-pegasus ponies. But Symphony most likely isn’t as educated in advanced magical methods as you are. As you draw closer, Lyrica shoots you a dangerous look, daring you to retort. You don’t take the bait—it’s one thing picking a fight with Octavia, but provoking the conductor would probably prove to be more hazardous. “I see,” you mutter to Symphony. Ahead, the crowd of musicians onstage has thickened, ponies pouring in from backstage, bearing chairs and music stands, as well as their own instruments. Slowly, a series of semicircles forms on the stage, leaving room at the back corners for a percussion section and the grand piano which you’ll be playing. Symphony leads you by the hoof up the stairs to the stage, noticeably avoiding Lyrica’s eye. You notice that instead of taking you to the piano, she leads you behind the curtains and backstage. The area where the audience can’t see is covered in wires, sound and lighting equipment, and a fine layer of dust. She lets go of your hoof and moves over to a solitary table, where she rummages through a large pile of loose papers, apparently searching for a needle in a haystack, which is made of needles itself. “Can I help?” you offer. “No thanks,” Symphony responds, tossing aside what looks like a sheet of music after studying it for a second. “No offense, but you don’t exactly know what you’re looking for.” A bundle of sheets with a hasty note scrawled in the upper corner of the top paper catches your eye. It bears you name, so you figure it probably pertains to you in some way. You withdraw them from the mound with magic, careful not to cause the rest to topple over. “Is this important?” Symphony looks up. “Let me see.” “It has my name on it . . .” you say unnecessarily as the violinist grabs the papers from your magic field. “Ah!” Symphony says, a satisfied grin on her face. “Yes, this is what I was looking for.” “What is it?” “Your sheet music, of course! You didn’t think we were going to ask you to just guess what we were playing, did you?” “Ah, right.” That’s exactly what you thought was going to happen, but Symphony doesn’t need to know that. You take the sheets back from her and give them a once-over. The music looks deceptively complicated, but by your standards, it’s utter foals-play. “Is that it?” you mutter, accidentally speaking your mind out loud. “Not difficult enough for you?” Symphony smirks. You look up from the musical notes, surprised. “Uh, no. This is fine.” “You keep using that word. ‘Fine.’ I don’t think it means what you think it means.” “No, seriously, I’m . . .” You don’t want to use “fine” again. “Great,” you settle on. When Symphony continues to look amused, you go on. “It’s just that I don’t usually use sheet music when I play.” “Exactly how do you play, then?” “Uh, instinct?” “How so?” “Well, what I play isn’t . . . published music. I basically just invent my own.” Symphony silently examines you for a moment. “So . . . what you played during auditions . . .” “I’ve never heard it before. Consequently, I probably couldn’t play it again if I was asked, though.” “That’s interesting,” Symphony muses. “Could you alter your habits to accommodate sheet music, though?” “Yeah, no problem.” “Okay, good.” Symphony leads you back out to the glaring lights, where, in your brief absence, a few dozen more musicians have arrived. The seats are more filled out, and that only means that more curious eyes have found your face. The attention is almost like a physical impediment; you have to fight to continue putting one hoof in front of the other, “I’m going to assume that you know where to go from here,” says Symphony. “So, I’ll see you after we’re done. Okay?” “Yeah. See you.” The violinist gives you a reassuring smile, then trots over to join Royal Riff at the other side of the stage. You stare after her for a second; your mind isn’t ready to catch up with the events occurring around you, so it’s decided to go into temporary hibernation. “Excuse me?” Your absentminded train of thought is brought to a screeching halt. A violet stallion with a blue mane and lyre cutie mark is standing in front of you, looking concerned. “Yes?” You act like you weren’t just spacing out. “Do you need any assistance locating the piano, neophyte?” Strangely, the use of that particular word sounds even harsher that when it was spat at you by Octavia. The stallion’s tone is mild, but has a mocking undertone to it. Trying to keep your voice level, you respond. “No, thank you. I think I’ve found it. But I appreciate your concern.” “Anytime, my friend. My name is Harpo Parish Nadermane. You?” What a mouthful for a name. You introduce yourself, smiling pleasantly. “A pleasure meeting you, Harpo.” “Likewise. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” Harpo makes to leave. “Lyrica does not take kindly to musicians being out of place when she sees fit to begin.” “I see. Thank you.” Harpo takes his place at a massive golden harp, which should be expected, given his name. When you look over to the conductor’s podium and see Lyrica’s eyes on you, you decide to take the harpist up on his advice. You make a beeline for the leather bench of the piano, sliding it out with magic before you even reach it. You gently spread your sheet music down on the stand—the pages rustle in some imperceptible breeze. Titles to several meaningless symphonies blend together as your vision slides out of focus. Musical notes dance across the pages and tumble down into your lap, forming uncoordinated chords and melodies. You tap yourself on the side of the head. The notes arrange themselves back into their correct order, and the blurs at the top of the pages separate back into distinguishable words. You look out over the orchestra. Dozens of serious faces lock eagerly onto the lavender conductor, who is raised above the sea of heads on her platform. Her eyes survey the assembled musicians, finally resting on you. Lyrica raises her baton. You engulf the piano in magic. The baton falls.