//------------------------------//
// A Warmed Hearth 
// Story: Melodious Desideratum 
// by Desideratium 
//------------------------------//





Despite the magnitude of the production being put on in front of you, your mind is focused entirely elsewhere. 

The actors onstage fight to command the attention of the audience, and for the most part, they succeed. The ponies around you stare with rapt attention at the retelling of the founding of Equestria. The narrative is almost entirely accurate, if a bit dramatized—much like your life at the moment. You could swear that what your life has been going through is directly out of a bad romance novel.  

No, the actors don’t command the focus that they deserve from you. Your attention has firmly settled on the mare seated next to you. 

Octavia is surreal in the semidarkness—the only hit of light emanates from her eyes, an amaranthine glow that reflects the winking lights from onstage, forming angular stars on her white orbs. She bears the image of a goddess. More radiant, more elegant, than either the Solar or Lunar Princess. 

The narrative of the heavily-costumed ponies on the stage is lost to you—your mind is preoccupied running every possible scenario with Octavia by your subconscious, shooting each one down almost as soon as it is proposed. 

Leaning over and kissing her at the finale? No. Walking her home and declaring your undying love for her on her front step? No. Engaging in extremely intimate activity on the spot? Oh Celestia, no. You shake yourself mentally, berating yourself for even harboring those kinds of thoughts. Your . . . relationship . . . with Octavia isn’t like that. Even still, you are hesitant using the word “relationship”. Have you reached the point where you can safely assume that it is the correct lexeme to use? 

Reciting heartfelt poetry? Negative. A love song composed at the piano on the spot? I don’t think so. 

Your eyes regain focus, but not on the stage. Your gaze affixes on the couple in front of you. Royal Riff’s foreleg is wrapped around Beauty Brass, as it has been for the past twenty minutes. 

Putting a foreleg around Octavia’s shoulders? You smile, encertain. That’s doable—positively easy! The logical part of your brain says otherwise, but your more prominent romantic half is egging you on, eager for you to take the next step. 

Your eyes dart to the side while you keep your head still. Octavia is not quite as enthralled by the performance as the other patrons are—her eyelids are drooping and her posture has slackened. You try not to let Octavia’s disappointment distract you from the task at hand—it requires enough focus without an added agitation of the mind. 

You attempt to reach out and hold her, but your muscles have tensed up, making movement impossible. You mind locking them down as a last-ditch effort to convince you that this is a bad idea. You grit your teeth, exerting more focus than you’re used to towards your left foreleg, trying to get it to move at least an inch; an inch would be a good start—better than nothing. This is a new concept for you: having an argument with your own mind. Come to think of it, you’re surprised that your consciousness hasn’t rebelled on you earlier than this, given your independent sections of thought—one is bound to develop some entitlement at some point. At that point, what would prevent you from making a quick descent into madness? 

Your motor functions are still disabled, and you’re fighting a hard battle with your brain to regain control of your body. Your second and third attempts to move fail as well, followed by a fourth and fifth with little more success.

You mentally count to ten, then send a particularly powerful signal for movement down to your numbed limb. The result is a feeble twitch.

You rack the portion of your mind that isn’t rebelling against you. Feeling particularly superstitious, you go through all the numbers that appear lucky to you, carefully selecting one that is bound to give you success. Trivial and unreliable, but your desperation has thrown logic out the window. 

You settle on thirteen.

One . . . You begin to count in your mind. Two . . . As you go through the numbers, you feel your once-adamant logic center begin to release its command of your body. Six . . . Seven . . . Your hoof begins to slowly drift upward. Eleven . . . twelve . . . Your limb has reached the peak of its arc, and has started its descent. 

Thirteen! Your leg triumphantly flops down over Octavia’s shoulders, causing her to jump. You feel her warmth against your fur, generating a feeling of closeness that you haven’t experienced with the cellist. It’s a pleasing sensation, but you’re not sure how Octavia might react to your . . . forwardness. 

The cellist’s eyes widen, all hints of boredom erased from her facial features. She tenses at the sudden movement. Her head quickly turns to the side to locate the source of the disturbance and immediately latches her gaze onto your face, which you had hurriedly arranged into a deceptively casual expression. Out of the corner of your eye—you don’t trust yourself to look Octavia in the face—you make out a slight upward curl of the cellist’s lips.

Octavia presses her body close to yours, melting into your embrace. She nuzzles her nose into your neck and closes her eyes, sending a pleasantly lingering chill down your back. You lower your chin, resting it lightly on the top of her thick, ebony hair. The scent of fresh coffee that you’ve become familiar with wafts up your nose, making you drowsy. You’ve always loved the smell, and to have it in such a close proximity, from such a desirable source, is mesmerizing. 

Now that your self-assigned mission has been completed, you’re free to enjoy the performance, as you should have been doing ever since the curtain opened. Contented, you allow your gaze to drift upward to focus on the heavily makeup-caked ponies onstage. And promptly latch your eyes onto one of the cast members who looks more than a little familiar. 

You blink, your jaw hanging ajar. “Uh, Octavia?” you whisper.

“Mmm?” the cellist responds, eyes closed. 

“Is that . . . Symphony?” 

“What?”

“Look.” 

Octavia’s head pops off your shoulder, her eyes now wide open and searching the stage. 

Dressed in the elaborate, pastry-covered garb of Chancellor Puddinghead, is the unmistakable form of the beige violinist, Symphony, who is deep in dramatic dialogue with the actress for Smart Cookie. Even from afar, you can sense the violinist’s discomfort—a long-imbued dislike for the theater, surfacing at the worst of times. Octavia’s face slowly breaks into a smile, her teeth sparkling like her eyes in the calignosity. “Now, I wonder who convinced her into that costume.” Octavia voices softly. 

“Royal Riff, maybe?” You’ve forgotten that the pony in question is sitting directly in front of you, and he turns at the sound of his name. 

“Pardon?”

You gesture at the stage. “Symphony?”

“Yes. I was surprised as well. Also, have you spotted your friend yet? I believe she’s filling the role of Princess Platinum.” 

“Who?”

“Our new conductor. Lyra, I believe.” 

You open your mouth, not sure what is about to come out, but an elderly mare behind you taps your shoulder sharply before you can annunciate anything. “Shh!” she hisses, annoyed at the performance’s interruption. 

“Sorry,” you whisper back. 

You fall silent, and right as you turn your attention back in front of you, the lights on the stage dim significantly, allowing the stage crew to set up the next scene. The cover of darkness, however, is negated slightly by the glow of unicorns’ horns transporting props on and off the stage. 

When the lights relight, it reveals a pair of unicorns in the midst of a fabricated snowy landscape, complete with convincingly-cardboard trees and plastic bushes. As soon as she’s sure that the audience can see her, the mare portraying Princess Platinum begins her remonstrative speech, much to the disdain of her companion, Clover the Clever. 

The voice is remarkably similar to a certain turquoise unicorn from Ponyville. 

You laugh silently to yourself, as not to disturb the irritable pony behind you. This production’s entertainment value has just been increased tenfold with the addition of Symphony and Lyra. You recline, allowing Octavia to snuggle in close again. 

A bright, indestructible blossom of happiness surfaces in your soul, filling your being with joy. Octavia’s form is warm against you, pleasantly soft. 

Your adoration towards the cellist might finally be returned.