//------------------------------//
// Of Kings and Queens 
// Story: Melodious Desideratum 
// by Desideratium 
//------------------------------//

If you wanted, you could have a bit of background music in the form of this. Shining Glory gave me the link to this, and I think it's fitting later in the chapter. 



The last five hours of waiting were the worst. 

Unable to sleep, you simply sit up in bed, trying to distract yourself with magical education from your spellbook—illuminated by magic light from your forehead—but rapidly grow bored and resort to staring avidly at the wall clock. This is hardly a better solution to pass the time, because focusing on the passing thereof causes the seconds to crawl by at about a third of their usual rate. 

Your curtains are closed, but you’re immobilized in bed and therefore unable to get up and open them to let in the—hopefully—bright morning light. You’re left to guess when Princess Celestia sees fit to thrust the sun into sky, throwing a bare sliver of resplendence onto the floor. 

Finally, at long last, your door opens to admit a pair of nurses who announce that you are free to leave. 

Your first steps are understandably unsteady, but you rapidly regain control of your motor functions, taking the door to the outside world at almost a run. You emerge into the chill air, taking deep, grateful breaths of crisp, fresh oxygen; a welcome change from the stale, antiseptic-flavored air you’ve become accustomed to.

As you had planned, Royal Riff and Vinyl are waiting for you, huddled close together to ward off the cold. When she spots you, Vinyl nudges the violinist to jerk him out of his stupor. Royal Riff looks around, confused by the sudden dislodging from his thoughts. Eventually, with a little assistance from the DJ, his bleary eyes affix on yours, and a genuine smile breaks across his face. 

“So, how’ve you been?” you ask casually, trotting up to the duo. Vinyl grabs you in a violent, one-legged hug around the neck, making you wince. “Hey, careful! I’ve recently broken just about every bone in my body, and that was probably at least a few you’ve just re-broken.” 

“Sorry, mate, but it’s so good to see you back up and running again, I can’t be held accountable for my actions!” In her enthusiasm, Vinyl had accidentally knocked her shades askew, revealing a pair of bright, mesmerizingly magenta eyes. When she notices you looking, she coughs and immediately adjusts the glasses to hide her gaze. She gives you an extra squeeze, signifying that you should not mention what just happened. 

“Hey, Riffs,” you refer to the violinist, who is standing just outside of Vinyl’s reach in case of another outbreak of spontaneous affection. 

“Hello again,” Royal Riff says pleasantly. “How was your stay?”

“Phenomenal. Five stars. The experience of a lifetime. Can I go home now?” 

“Absolutely, for a while. Because, er . . .” Royal Riff eyes you, uncomfortable for some reason. 

“Yeah?” you reply, prompting the violinist. 

“Well, I know it isn’t the most convenient time, but tonight . . . we sort of have an engagement that’s mandatory to attend.” 

“It’s a concert, isn’t it?” You’re not sure where Royal Riff’s reservations are coming from; getting back to the piano would be an ideal way to get you back into the swing of things. You’ve experienced a severe lack of music in your life for the past few days, and a concert is a welcome idea.

“Well, yes . . .”

“I’m game. When is it? And . . . wait, do we have a conductor? Because last I checked, ours is locked in some inaccessible dungeon somewhere.”

“Well, about that . . .” Vinyl says, finally releasing you from her headlock. “Yesterday, Symphony had a conversation with one of your friends from Ponyville. I can’t remember her name off the top of my head, though. Turquoise, lyre cutie mark . . .”

“Lyra?” you offer.

“Yeah, her. Anyway, apparently she showed some promise as a conductor, so Symph offered her the position.” How is it that Vinyl can call Symphony “Symph” and it sounds completely natural? “Let me tell you, she wasn’t too thrilled about the idea. She’s a lot like you when you first got here—she kind of wants to dodge the spotlight.”

“Seems like Lyra.” Despite yourself, you’re not in the slightest bit surprised that the lyrist had accepted the position. Her pragmatic nature wouldn’t allow her to turn away from such a conspicuous issue. “But my other question: when is the concert?” 

“Well . . .” Royal Riff checks his ever-present watch, and you decide that you eventually need to purchase one for yourself. It’s becoming a bit debilitating to constantly have to inquire the time from Royal Riff. “It’s in about an hour. We wanted to give you a bit of time to recuperate before you were back onstage, but unfortunately, the concert hall’s scheduling doesn’t work like that. We take the time that they give us, and no questions are asked.” 

“Okay. No problem.” You hadn’t anticipated it to be so soon, but the urgency sends an exhilarating thrill through your being. Sharply contrasting from your intense nervousness that had consumed you during auditions, or ever your first concert, you now feel overwhelmingly excited. The prospect of performing once more is favorable in your mind, and you’re now realizing why these musicians have stuck with the orchestra for so long. They fight with each other, the rehearsals are difficult and emotionally draining, and they have to bear the constant criticism from a fanatic conductor, but the sheer bliss provided by performing your music makes it worth all the discomfort. 

“But will you be ready?” inquires Royal Riff. His nervousness that you would be unprepared is uncalled for, but anxiety still shows on his expression. 

“Are you kidding, Riffs? I was born ready.” Your confidence, you notice, has altered your normal speech patterns. There was truth in Noteworthy’s earlier statement: you had been a very quiet individual. But now, you find yourself talking more in the style of Vinyl Scratch. More informality in speaking, less unconventional vocabulary words permeating your sentences. 

“Excellent. If you wouldn’t mind, would you go fetch Octavia? I haven’t seen her for a few days, and she may have forgotten that we have a concert today. I’d do it myself, but I wanted to get to the concert hall early, to familiarize your friend Lyra with our orchestra.” 

“It would be my indescribable pleasure,” you say exaggeratedly. “I shall make the errand my number-one priority, rest assured.” 

“Dude, you’re kind of hard to follow,” says Vinyl. “One second, you’re talking like a DJ, and the next you’re sounding more like the pianist that you’ve led us all to believe that you are.” 

You shrug. “I’m a complicated guy.” 

“Yeah, we’d all like to know what’s going on inside your head, eh?”

Your mind unconsciously splits into its different planes of consciousness, as if to prove a point. Anypony other than yourself who would try to venture into the complicated mass of data that is your brain would most likely leave the venture not entirely sane. “That might not be a good idea.”

“Um, not to distract from your conversation,” Royal Riff holds up a hoof to drown Vinyl’s response. “But we’re running a little short on time. Could we all get a move on, please?”

“Yeah. One problem, though. I don’t know where Octavia lives.”

“It’s simple enough to find her apartment from here. All you have to do is . . .” Royal Riff launches into an incredibly detailed and complicated explanation of how to get from Point A to Point Octavia, describing every turn with loving detail. You can only gaze at the musician, hoping that your glazed look isn’t too noticeable. His directions are being tucked neatly inside your brain, but you can’t hope to make any sense out of them at the moment. The drawback to having a near-flawless memory is that it takes quite a while to process a heavy input of information. “Do you think you can manage that?” he finishes, and you quickly arrange your composure to that of undivided attention. 

“Sure thing,” you say, feigning confidence. 

“Good on you. I’ve got to go. Good luck convincing her to come out of hiding.” 

Royal Riff turns tail and trots off in the vague direction of the concert hall. Vinyl claps you on the shoulder and follows him, but taking a left on a side street instead of continuing on the main boulevard. 

Leaving you alone standing in front of the hospital. 

You open up a recent mental file and withdraw Royal Riff’s directions, perusing them at your leisure until you’ve gotten a general idea of where Octavia’s apartment is located. After giving them a twice over, you look up, frowning. The route that Riffs had instructed you to follow involves several unnecessary detours, which you can see methods of dodging. Instead of taking the main street and turning right, you could just go right in the first place, take two more quick rights, and then a left—you’d end up in the exact same place.

You sigh at Royal Riff, amused. A pony who has lived in Canterlot for most of his life, and still doesn’t know how to get around.

****

You’ve successfully gotten yourself hopelessly lost.

While your mental map had indicated that your route was ideal, the actual layout of the streets say otherwise. You’re now in the midst of several wide apartment buildings, none of which contain Octavia.

After cursing yourself under your breath for a while, you backtrack, trying to find your way back to the hospital so you can start from scratch, but inadvertently getting more and more wayward with every step. Once you’ve realized that you’re getting no nearer to your destination, you come to a halt, sending your eyes around you, searching desperately for a familiar landmark; be it a building, street sign, or even the Canterlot Palace viewed at a certain angle. 

You sigh heavily, looking up at the sun. You know some ponies who can determine the time of day simply by the position of the solar body, but you had never thought it an essential skill to learn. Now, however, you wish you had shown a little more interest in survival techniques, since you’re running low on time in which to locate the cellist. 

A little desperately, you close your eyes, forcing Octavia into your mind. Immediately, your horn shines with the power of a supernova, teleporting you back to your original location: the hospital. You reappear in front of the double doors, surprising a passing palace guard, whose shock only shows in a slight widening of his eyes—the guards are specially trained to emit professionalism at all times, which means that they rarely show emotions. “Fine day to you, sir,” you say respectfully, but at the same time holding back a chuckle at the guard’s expense. He nods in reply, then continues on his rounds.

You pull up Royal Riff’s directions again, this time refraining from adding your own variations. Sheepishly, you begin on the route the violinist had signified, mentally chiding yourself, and at the same time telling yourself not to mention this detour to anypony. 

Surprisingly, the directions actually carry you to your destination even faster than you anticipated your improvised ones to, and you silently take back what you had thought about Royal Riff being directionally challenged. 

An unusually large apartment complex rises above you, towering over all the other lower buildings around it. You pull up Royal Riff’s description of the building you would find Octavia’s apartment in, cross-referencing it with the structure in front of you. A perfect match. Now all that’s left to do is locate Octavia, which should be a breeze considering the wild chase you had to embark on in order to find the complex. 

Fortunately for you, the floors are organized in a manner that makes sense. This might be odd to consider, but it had taken you about an hour to locate your own apartment—the numbers on the doors seemed to be arranged with no rhyme or reason, jumping rapidly from the 100’s to 500’s between one flat to the next. The manager’s excuse, however, was that they had recently added several new wings, which you were forced to believe. 

Octavia’s flat is on the top floor, which gives you some extra stair-climbing, but no matter. You clamber up the concrete steps, paying attention to the floor numbers as they pass by. Finally, breathing heavier than you would like, you reach the top.

In a few seconds, you’re standing outside the apartment which you presume to be Octavia’s. Before knocking, however, you double- and triple-check that you’re in the right place. Once you’re certain that you won’t be intruding on some stranger, you raise your hoof and rap the door with a quadruplet of sharp taps. 

You don’t hear hoofsteps of the owner coming to the door, but nonetheless, it swings open, seemingly on its own. 

When you don’t see Octavia, you look down, and find a lean black cat staring you in the face. You blink slowly, unintentionally losing the staring contest the feline had instigated, and you could swear, the cat looks satisfied with the small victory. 

“Crescendo? Where did you go?”

Octavia’s voice sounds from inside the depths of the apartment, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized that you were holding. So you are in the right place; the cat had thrown you for a loop. You weren’t sure what to think. 

“Oh . . .” The grey cellist appears in the doorway.

“Surprise!” you say feebly. The sudden sight of Octavia makes you short of breath, and when added to the fatigue you already acquired while climbing the stairs, you can barely articulate words. 

“Well . . .” Octavia also seems at a loss for words. She gestures at you vaguely. “You seem to be . . . on your hooves again.” 

“Uh . . . yeah. I suppose I am.” You look down at Octavia’s pet, who is still gazing at you smugly. “If you don’t mind me asking, did your cat just answer the door?”

Octavia bends to nuzzle the back of the kitten’s head with her nose. “Crescendo? He is an extraordinarily smart feline. It was only a matter of time before he discovered the doorknob principle, and since then, he’s been racing me to the door when a visitor comes calling. I didn’t hear you knock, though.”

“I see.” 

Crescendo purrs in a holier-than-thou attitude, as though he somehow detects that he’s the main topic of conversation. He presses his body against Octavia’s face, his tail flicking her ear. 

“Well, would you like to come in?”

“I’d love to.” The prospect of entering Octavia’s living quarters sends a sharp thrill through your stomach. Octavia steps aside to allow you to pass, and you comply, careful not to tread on Crescendo’s tail and elicit the use of his claws. 

Octavia’s apartment is modest—there is no extravagant luxury visible in her home. Her furniture is simple and sparse; the living room consists of only a couch and coffee table, on which a chessboard is placed. Strangely, the chess pieces are positioned in a manner that would suggest that a game is in progress. 

“Uh, stupid question?” you say, cursing yourself already for what you’re about to say. 

“Yes?” 

“That chessboard. Were you playing against . . .” You don’t finish, embarrassed.

Octavia laughs genuinely. “No, of course not. Crescendo may be gifted, but he hasn’t quite grasped chess yet.” Instead of criticizing, Octavia’s mirth is encouraging. Her laughter is a pure, wonderful sound that you could listen to for hours on end. 

“Ah . . . right.” You smile sheepishly. “But then . . . who were you playing with, if it wasn’t your kitten?”

“Oh . . .” Octavia looks embarrassed. She shuffles her hooves distractedly. “Well . . . myself, actually. I consider it to be a stimulating mental exercise when I have free time. I mean, not to be boastful, but I’ve played against Royal Riff, Symphony, Harpo, and Vinyl, and none of them lasted very long.”

“Would you mind if I tried to knock you off your podium?” 

You’re not sure where the sudden challenge came from. It would be a bad idea to engage in a chess game with Octavia, when you’re so short on time as it is. 

“Oh?” Octavia smirks. “Do you consider yourself skilled enough to accept my challenge?” 

“By my reckoning, I have a sporting chance.” 

Octavia smiles, moving over to the chessboard. “Just let me reset, then we may begin.” 

You follow her, taking a seat on the floor opposite her. When she reaches out to start moving the pieces manually, you hurriedly place your hoof over hers to stop her. “No, let me.” 

Surprised, Octavia looks up from the white rook she had been about to place back in its designated starting spot to see the grey stallion’s horn lit up with ash-colored light. She watches as a pulsation of magic engulfs the board, claiming the chessmen one by one. Once the entire playing field is consumed, the pieces begin to move on their own accord. The pawns move in with singularity, forming a pair of lines facing each other, and the rest of the royalty are left to arrange themselves behind them, protected by the barrier of small wooden pieces. 

The stallion looks up, smiling. “White goes first. Your move, Octavia.” 

Octavia gazes over the board, taking in the perfectly-arranged chessmen. As a chess player who knows what she’s doing, Octavia appreciates the importance of the first move of the game; equally as important as any other move, but often ignored by novices. After glancing up to see a flawless poker face looking back at her, the cellist places her hoof on a pawn and slides it forward two spaces. 

The stallion in front of her considers, then mirrors her move with his own pawn. 

And so it begins.

Octavia is obviously an extremely experienced tactician, and plays a primarily defensive game, countering every wave you launch in her direction, while at the same time searching for chinks in your armor, which you’ve worked hard to fortify. Distracting you with a very destructive queen, while sending out scouts in the form of knights or bishops, then withdrawing quickly when you recognize her ploy. 

The rows of defeated pieces lining up on the side of the board gradually grow, and the variability for an assault deplete when you no longer have a complete pair of rooks to corner stragglers. Octavia realizes your disability, and presses in for the attack, breaking against your defenses like waves on a beach. She places a sizable dent in your wall, despite her loss of a knight and both bishops, and you immediately have to move to the defensive stance. Whatever unnecessary forces you can spare converge on your vulnerable king, giving a last ditch effort to secure a victory, or at least survival. 

Octavia slowly begins to surround her opponent, confidence growing in her eyes. The stallion across from her bites his lip, analyzing every single piece on the board, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for something he can work with. When he lands on one of his bishops, a smile breaks across his face. He moves the soldier diagonally, through a gap Octavia had neglected to close. “Check,” he says triumphantly. Octavia frowns, moving her king a space vertically to remove it from the bishop’s line of sight. She’s not quite sure why the small victory warrants such excitement, and that makes her nervous. He may be bluffing, but Octavia does not like to take chances. 

Eager to stomp out your supposed rebellion, Octavia moves more onto the offensive. Her remaining pawns move to advance, hoping in vain that they can make it past your rook and knight combination, which is picking off anyone who comes close. Once again, Octavia’s queen emerges from her derelict corner near the king, and stalks in on a bishop you had forgotten about. To counter it, you bring out your own queen to break against whatever pieces the cellist had left back on her side of the board. Concerned, Octavia brings back a bishop, but more as a distraction than anything. She’s planning a final attack, and you can see the signs.

Octavia positions her rook to catch an escaping king, when the time inevitably comes. Anticipating an attack, she places a strategic knight to protect it. The pianist begins to look scared—his pieces are scattered across the board, except for an easily killable bunch next to his king. Desperately, he sends out his remaining knight to try and knock a few of Octavia’s pieces off the board.

“Checkmate.”

“Excuse me?”

You look up from your strategizing to see Octavia leaning back, a satisfied look present on her face, then glance back down at the board. While you weren’t paying attention, Octavia had punched a hole in your wall of pieces, and promptly inserted her queen into the hole, giving your king no option but to surrender. You blink, still stunned at what had just occurred. 

“That was a well-fought game,” Octavia says fairly. “You put up much more of a fight than Royal Riff did, if that’s any consolation.” 

You rub your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself. “You are truly a master. I’m honored to accept defeat from you.” 

There is a spurt of frantic knocking at the door, and you and Octavia look at each other. “Who could that be?” she wonders aloud.

Your heart sinks. “Oh . . . about that . . .”

Crescendo balances on his back legs and places his tiny paws on the door handle. With a sharp click, the door pops open to reveal a frantic-looking Royal Riff. “What have you two been doing?” he demands. “Both of you were supposed to be at the concert hall ten minutes ago!”

Octavia looks exasperatedly at you. “Something you forgot to tell me?” 

“Maybe,” you reply quietly. You stand, avoiding Royal Riff’s eyes. “We should get going, though.”

“I’m going to go stall the audience.” Royal Riff turns to leave. “But you two should hurry, anyway,” he adds, sticking his head back into the door frame.

“Right.” You begin to follow him, but a hoof on your shoulder stops you. Octavia stands next to you, a small smile on her face.

And before you can react at all, she leans in, invading your personal space, and places her lips on yours in a long, lingering kiss. 

All you can think about is her soft lips, and the scent of coffee from her hair. 

Octavia breaks off, leaving you standing, shell-shocked. “Come on, Symphonic Keys. Let’s go show them what you can do.”