I usually throw in the link to the music when it occurs, but it often ends up the song is near the end of the chapter, so I'll put it up here too. It'll end before you're finished, but it's worth listening to more than once.
The air is pleasantly cool, a sharp contrast to the hyperborean temperature you’d been forced to walk home in last night. A mild cloud cover provides a needed bit of shelter from the vast celestial orb hanging in the sky, placed there by the Solar Princess herself.
Symphony walks quietly next to you, looking more content than she did in the concert hall. Her pleasant demeanor is a welcome distraction from the stress that has gradually built up during the past few days, and not only for you.
The main thoroughfare is once again teeming with the Canterlotean market-goers, eager to secure some produce in their saddlebags before the stalls have been picked clean by their competitors. You and Symphony don’t purchase much, but simply observe the hoof traffic. You do insist upon buying the violinist lunch though, and she eats the sandwich as you walk.
Every now and then Symphony will point out a familiar face. “Oh, there’s Master,” she says, referring to a blue stallion with a yellow mane. “He’s extremely wealthy. I don’t exactly know how he got all his money though,” she muses. A few seconds later, she finds a few more high-class faces: “And those two are High Style and Powder Rouge.” A pair of mares, one pink with an angular, multicolored mane, and the other tan with interestingly slanted eyes. “They’re some of Photo Finish’s stylists.”
“I see.” You appreciate her commentary, but the sights Canterlot provide are extremely distracting. Your eyes linger on a shop window which is displaying massive, complicated ball gowns that have to weigh more than you and Symphony combined.
“Oh . . .”
Symphony’s pace has slowed down, here gaze fixed directly ahead of you. You follow her eyes to search for what she’s looking at. “Oh,” you repeat.
Octavia.
The cellist is standing with her back to you, focusing on her purchase—a bag of avocados—bought from a bored-looking vendor. A pair of white saddlebags are draped over her back, and they bulge enough to suggest that Octavia has already been shopping for a while.
“Well,” you say, deceptively cheerful. “It’s just Octavia. We could go say hi, at least.”
Octavia’s ears perk up when you say her name. Somehow, across a busy marketplace filled with noisy shoppers, she had picked up your voice. The less observant would assume that she still was not aware of their presence, but you notice the little things. Without turning around, Octavia finishes paying for her avocados and places them in her saddlebag.
You and Symphony resume your brisk pace, advancing on the cellist, who is still feigning ignorance to your presence. She slides her bags off her back and flips one of the flaps open. She lowers her head, whether to search for something or to avoid eye contact, you’re not sure.
“Hello, Octavia,” says Symphony, once you’re within earshot. Although, the previous event suggested that Octavia possesses superpony hearing, so you probably could have held a conversation with her from the other side of the market just fine.
Octavia withdraws her nose from her saddlebag. “Oh, hello, Symphony.” Acting or not, she seems genuine.
Even though it was your idea to instigate the conversation, you make no introduction. Despite your confidence booster, the cellist still makes you slightly nervous.
“Fancy running into you here,” Symphony continues cheerfully. “I was just wondering what you’d be up to today.”
“Well, that’s very considerate of you,” Octavia sounds much less hostile, and when her eyes flit to you, they bear no traces of the virulence she bore yesterday, only curiosity. “I was planning on spending my day at the concert hall. Since we have a concert upcoming, I’m sure you realize.”
“Of course, Octavia. I think we’re adequately prepared. But I suppose a little more practice never hurt anypony, right?”
Octavia smiles politely, and you realize that it’s the first time you’ve seen her show this kind of emotion. Suddenly, the air becomes a bit thin, and your core pounds like a percussion section. She was the happy thought. As she flips her saddlebags back over her back, her mane sends out an intoxicating whiff of coffee.
“It has been good seeing you two,” Octavia says. “But I really must get moving.”
“Then we’ll see you later today,” says Symphony.
“Bye, Octavia,” you voice, barely able to force the two words out, and still sound casual. As Octavia is turning to go, she gives you a lingering look, studying your form carefully, sizing you up.
“Well, that went well,” says Symphony, once Octavia is out of sight.
“Sure.”
“And that confirms it. She fancies you.”
“Hold on! What?” you yelp. Your focus had been following after the coffee-scented mare, and Symphony’s sentence brings it crashing back to the present.
Symphony giggles at your discomfort, but you cough pointedly and she sobers up. “I’ve been seeing the signs ever since your little . . . episode, back when you first met her. Specifically, after you saved her cello’s life.”
“That was nothing,” you deny.
“I beg to differ! Far from it! That instrument is her most valuable possession! Don’t pretend you didn’t notice the look she was giving you while you were talking to Vinyl and Royal Riff. Also, during rehearsal, I’ve already mentioned her strange fascination with your corner of the stage.”
A response to that is not forthcoming from you.
“And to top it off, she just said: ‘It’s been good seeing you two.’ As in me and you.”
“Seriously, Symphony. That’s just common courtesy to acknowledge my presence. It’s not a sign of attraction.”
“Trust me, you don’t know Octavia like I do. It’s a really big deal if she signifies your existence. I mean, she didn’t speak to me for half a year when I first joined up! It’s best just to face the facts: she’s into you.”
“But . . .”
“No buts.”
“But . . .” you insist.
“No buts!”
You fall silent. Symphony is looking at you with a satisfied grin plastered on her face. Conflicting feelings swirl around in your mind, breaking the walls between your planes of thought and taking over your entire intentness. You’re not sure of what you think of Octavia, but Symphony is saying that she’s always had feelings for you. The cellist is a total stranger, but what moments you’ve had with her have been . . . exceptional. Something about her, something you can’t quite place, is just so undeniably irresistible.
“If you say so.” You admit defeat.
Symphony’s next question catches you off guard: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
You look up, dispelling your complicated thoughts. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to give her what she wants?”
“Uh . . .” Your face heats up.
“Hey! Mind out of the gutter! What I mean is, are you going to confess your undying love to her? Fill the gap in her life that Frederic has occupied until just recently.”
“Too soon.” You grimace. Part of the reason that Octavia raged at you was because you replaced the late pianist, and you’re not eager for a repeat.
“There’s no ‘too soon’ when it comes to true love.” The impressive part is that Symphony is able to say it while keeping a straight face. Only after you stare incredulously at her for a moment does she crack a smile. “Anyway, I think you should go for it.”
“Wait, you don’t know if I’m interested in her or not.” You throw out one more feeble protest.
“Well, now I do. You’ve told me yourself.”
You should have seen that coming.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at rehearsal.” Symphony gives you a quick pat on the back, a friendly gesture that holds more meaning to you than it logically should. “Think about it, though.”
Symphony leaves, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
****
You arrive early to rehearsal.
Tired of waiting for the designated time to roll around, you left your apartment to walk to the concert hall. It’s true that you could have teleported, but you’re still a bit nervous about the results. Even though you now know what . . . who . . . triggers the teleportation, the recent events have made you unsure of what to think.
You come through the stage doors to the sound of cello music.
Octavia stands alone on the stage, eyes closed, lost in her music. Her bow slides rhythmically, mechanically across the strings, producing the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. A melody of loss, but with an undertone of hope.
It being the first time you’ve heard her play, you’re floored by the sheer beauty of her fantasia. Her form in handling her instrument, it’s clear that she’s been playing for decades, and has long since perfected the art.
Whatever Royal Riff and Vinyl have said about the quality of your own music, you’re sure that it can’t hold a candle to the sound Octavia produces.
Octavia looks at home here. Standing in the spotlight, alone. Nopony to tether her down, but space for her to be free. To escape the bonds of being in a group effort, the orchestra. No Lyrica to tell her what to do.
You lean against a nearby wall to further relax, to immerse yourself in her music.
The soft sound of your body against the bricks that you can barely hear yourself breaks through the cello music, snapping Octavia out of her reverie. She cuts off, an ugly interruption to her piece.
“Oh, it’s you.”
Three simple words. Octavia doesn’t look angry, or even surprised. Just weary. “Sorry to interrupt,” you say. “That was amazing.”
“Thank you.”
A bad idea in concept, but you go for it anyway. “Do you mind if I . . . play along?”
Octavia now looks perplexed. “Play along? Do you have any idea what I’m playing?”
“Do you?” You’re not sure what made you say it, but it feels like a viable question.
The cellist’s look bears no traces of irascibility, but confusion. “What makes you say that?” she says slowly.
“Have you ever played that song before?”
“No.”
“I thought so.” You trot over to the piano, your magic performing your pre-performance check. “Keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll figure it out.” You take a seat, your horn glowing in anticipation. You look at Octavia expectantly. She still looks unsure, but begins to play once more.
It takes a moment, but you grasp the feel of her music and begin to play alongside her.
Her tone is faster, more staccato, but the rhythm abruptly changes to longer bow strokes. You add your own accompaniment, but are especially careful not to overshadow the cellist. The music swells, then comes to a slow point, where Octavia taps the strings with her bow, creating layered percussion. Then your part comes back in, and Octavia lengthens her strokes again.
You no longer have any say in the direction your music goes. Your mind is blank, but your magical gut instinct keeps the music going, from high to low and back to high again. Octavia’s melody clashes flawlessly with you, but eventually it all has to come to a halt.
And come to a halt it does, with a long, drawn-out note, then nothing.
Music courtesy of The Piano Guys. I love them, and you all should too, dang it. Check out their YouTube channel here.
Art from metadragonart. Cool picture, bro.