“You’ll be famous,” he had said.
I stand in front of a mirror in my room backstage, staring at the scroll. He’d bound it neatly with a small pink ribbon.
“Just hang on to it until you make up your mind,” he had told me.
So that’s what I had done. I sigh and toss it onto the messy table in front of me. The backstage is fairly busy at this point; aides and setup directors scrambling to tidy everything up before I go on. I can hear them from where I sit. My room is disorganized, clutter left over from previous performers. Containers of makeup almost entirely cover the table I sit at. There are hoofmarks on the mirror, which obviously hasn’t been cleaned in weeks. I am not so glamorous to have my room properly prepared. For now, I am just another face on stage. Nopony knows me here in Canterlot, and tomorrow, they won’t know me either.
Unless I sign.
That scroll continues to stare back at me. A low growl escapes my mouth as I seek to wither it with a glare of my own. Famous, loved, celebrated, and rich, even. He wants to forge an image of me, and I have no problem with that. He wants control; a puppet to dance on his stages, play his notes. And in turn, I achieve something other ponies only dream of.
But is it my dream, too?
My reverie is interrupted by a knock on the door. I’m important enough to be bothered with a knock, now?
“Come in.”
The door swings open, revealing two grinning fillies and a rather exasperated stagehand.
“Hey, Truestring. Look after these two a minute? I’ll be right back.” The fillies stumble in and take a seat on the floor near me.
“I am not a foalsitter!” I cry at the stagehand, but the door has already slammed shut. I feel as though I’m being punished. However, it’s no excuse for rudeness.
“On the floor? Don’t be ridiculous. There are bound to be some chairs in here,” I say to the fillies. There are several stage props practically piled into the corners of the room, and, searching through them, I manage to find a couple of chairs among the clutter. One looks like an antique, though it’s merely plastic with a shoddy paint job. The other is more of a bench than a chair. The fillies take them without complaint, though.
I retake my seat, eyeing the scroll once again before sitting down. My temporary companions haven’t said a word, as if they expect me to break the ice. I’m a musician, not a comedian. Surely they know this? An idea comes to mind, and I sift through the makeup on the table for a moment before finding the item I was looking for: a small disc, labelled with letters A through G. Dusting the makeup off of it, I hand it to one of the fillies.
“Blow in the spot marked ‘G’,” I ask her as I ready my cello.
She nods and follows my instruction. As soon as the tone hits my ears, I smile. The tuner is familiar and dependable, much like my cello. Straightening my back, I begin to strum the strings and have the filly change notes accordingly. The cello feels like an old friend when its in tune. I give it a pat before return it to its resting place, leaning up against a wall. The fillies remain silent, but continue to stare at me. One of them, the one that played the tuner, is more curious, now. I notice her eyes flicker over to my cello. That curiosity of hers seems awfully familiar, like I’d seen it before—perhaps in a mirror.
“Do you know what that is?”
She shakes her head.
“It’s a cello, a string instrument that plays in the low octaves. Have you listened to one before?”
This time, they both shake their heads. Some progress, at least.
I lean over and attempt to give a genuine smile. I think I failed. “Are you listening to my performance tonight?”
They exchange glances, then shrug at me.
“Would you—” I begin, but am interrupted by the door. The stagehand has returned.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Truestring. C’mon, kids.” He’s waving them out, but I stop him.
“That was totally irresponsible! I don’t even know you, and you left two fillies with me for Celestia knows what reason!” I jab at his chest as I speak, but he simply looks at me and shrugs.
“Hey, when a stallion’s gotta go, he’s gotta go. Better than leaving them to wander off.”
Before I’m able to give him another good berating, he’s off. I grumble and return to the table. It’s about time to go on, anyways. Carefully, I balance on my back legs and grab my cello. At first, such a feat was difficult, but I’ve become quite proficient as of late. The instrument demands nothing less.
Just before I leave, I look at the scroll one last time. The promises it carries, the doom it holds, all curled up in a pretty pink bow. I scoff and depart the room, leaving the scroll where it lay. It can wait a little longer.
The hallway is buzzing with stagehands. It’s narrow enough that I’m forced to bump shoulders with them on occasion. Such a thing would not ordinarily worry me, but I’m walking on my back legs only at the moment. The practice requires precision and concentration. I deal with the circumstances, however. That is the pony my father raised. My frustration quells, and I make it to sidestage, next to the curtain.
It’s customary for the performer to steal a peek at his or her audience beforehand, but I have no such urge. The size of the crowd will not be affecting my performance. Where other entertainers fear, I scoff. I do not need to observe them to eavesdrop on their mumblings, however. While impossible to make out any meaningful conversation, I can still feel out their mood. The rustling of their speech washes over me, speaks to me. This crowd is eager, though perhaps slightly agitated. I smirk. Perhaps starting with Hitherhoof’s Symphony in A Major would suit this one better than Haunchten’s Twilight Epiphany.
I give my forehooves a good stretching and work out the kinks in my neck. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, lower my head, and await the announcement.
Somepony approaches me. “Truestring, you’re on in ten.” All I do is nod. I hear the pony’s hoofsteps fade away.
The lights dim. The mumbling I once heard dies down and almost disappears completely. I’m sure somewhere, some author has written volumes about the beauty of the backstage in these seconds before the performance begins, but things like that mean little to me. The words are hollow; one must experience this to understand it. Prose cannot communicate the things that notes can.
Perhaps that is why I became a musician in the first place.
I stride to the center of the stage. I give not a single glance to the audience before I reach my spot. In one swift motion, I turn toward the lights that blind me and the ponies that anticipate my first note. Though I do not bow, I give the audience a quick nod in acknowledgement. Immediately following that nod, I take one moment to myself. My eyes dart to the one place in the gallery that matters: one row back, second seat from the aisle on the right. It’s empty.
Not betraying my content, I keep my face level, and put bow to string. Ofttimes I am curious what the audience hears in my notes. There are ideas, concepts, sang beyond the constraints of the A-to-G. Mayhaps one day I will seek to discover if the listener hears the same message I present. For now, I play of love, hope, and other things of little consequence.
A screech rang throughout the small practice room.
“No, no! That’s not right at all. Hold your left hoof out further and draw the bow gently! You’re treating it like a ten-bit paddle! Precision, Truestring!”
My father’s berating was harsh, but true and well-intentioned. I swallowed, nodded, and returned to my instrument. He watched with the eyes of an eagle as I drew the bow over string, eliciting clear-cut notes on waves of smooth tone. In this instance, A Minor.
The notes did not amuse my father. He looked down at me with an eyebrow raised. “Why do you keep playing that chord? G Major is much more important. I want to hear that.”
I nodded and shifted my hoof. Pressing down in just the right spots...
Again, a horrid sound filled the room. My father stood up and stomped over to me. “No daughter of mine will be butchering G Major like that!” He grabbed the instrument and placed it under his chin. “Now pay attention.”
It wasn’t often that I got the chance to see my father play. His days in the orchestra were long-over; all he had were awards and pictures, now. Memories. A smile grew on my face as I watched him play. The sounds he drew from those four strings were resplendent.
But just as his playing started, it stopped. “Why are you smiling? You can’t even play a G Major properly!” he growled at me. The instrument was shoved back into my hooves. “Now try again! And this time, be serious about it.”
So I was.
I find myself in my backstage room again. The intermission is ten minutes; just enough to rest my hooves, but not so much that I’ll lose the rhythm I have built up. A glass of water was provided, and I’m in the middle of drinking it when I hear a knock. For the second time today, somepony bothers to knock.
“Come in.”
The door creaks open, revealing a silver-coated stallion. He stands a solid three hooves taller than me, a clean golden mane falling over his shoulders, marred only by a single black streak. Upon his face is a sly grin, one reserved only for thieves and thespians. I still haven’t figured out which one this stallion was. His eyes rest on the scroll.
“Still have it with you, I see. It’s a good thing, shows you still have ambition. Stars should always have ambition.”
I turn from him, using the mirror to make minor fixes to my mane. “Only a fool would think I’d discarded that. My drive has existed since long before you showed up.”
He strolls over to the table and places a hoof on the wretched document. “How many times have you read it, I wonder? I feel I’ve made it quite clear. You give up so little to gain so much. Perhaps you could share your doubts with me? It’s my job to see them disappear.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say his grin just turned into a sneer.
“My doubts are merely directed at you. Are you still sure you could make them vanish?”
He answered with an exaggerated frown. “I’m just a businessman, Truestring. One interested in a deal that would make both of our lives better. Are you sure your doubts do not lie elsewhere? Like, maybe, with the past? With one of my previous clients?”
I shifted in my seat and glared at him. “My father has nothing to do with this. His fire has burned out and I require none of his embers to blaze.”
The sneer disappears from his face. “I can see that, but what makes you think I was talking about him? I’m sure you’ve dealt with other clients of mine in the past.”
“Why are you here, anyways? To pester me? Doesn’t seem like an effective selling tactic.”
Looking away, he waves a hoof at me. “No, no, of course not. If you want your space, you can have it. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be in the lobby after the performance in case you make a decision.” He spins around and walks out the door, but before departing, he throws a glance over his shoulder. “Intermission’s about over. It’s your time, Truestring.”
I drop my face into a forehoof. He’s right; I do need to make a decision. The weight will bury me if I try to carry it for too long. In truth, it’s not my potential employer’s motives I doubted. It’s crystal clear to me all he cares for is profit. While not the most noble of aims, it’s entirely predictable. No, there’s something else, something I can’t quite put my hoof on. These thoughts are better left to after the performance, though.
I once again balance on my back legs, take my cello, and walk to the stage. The audience hushes as I come in to view. They’re waiting, begging for me to guide them along the river of sound once again. Generally, I do not find my listeners so eager. Tonight has been a good night. Just as before, I spin toward the audience on center stage, give a nod, and look for—
The seat has been filled.
I drop my bow and blink several times. The face I see is unfamiliar, probably just some patron who forgot their spot, or sought a better view. I could not, in my right mind, be perturbed at this pony, but they’re in my seat. Things don’t make sense when that seat isn’t empty. A fire wells up within my belly, threatening to rise to my head and consume my face. Celestia forbid what would happen if it took my mouth. I could feel a shout build within my lungs, but I am stopped by a gasp. Who it is, I do not know, but it gifts me with a single coherent thought. Your father did not raise a pony who makes a fool of herself! My bow is still on the floor, I realize. I quickly swipe it up and lay it across the strings. This performance will continue; an asinine thing like sentimentality will not stop me!
A Minor fills the hall, silencing the disquiet and dubiety. As I play through Haunchten’s work, the lines of communication between my instrument and my audience open up again. I merely eavesdrop on the conversation. The notes stay true along their path and I keep my breath even. The forehoof that holds the bow wavers not for a second, and the other forehoof swims along the strings as a fish would through water. My music sings in themes, not constrained to the clumsy method of words. This audience will not forget me, or my performance. I shall not let them. Tonight, they witness the refined proficiency of Truestring, Goddess of the Minor Chord!
The remainder of my performance was... tolerable, but I had no more desire to stay here than to jab a splinter in my eye. A brisk trot took me back to my room. I kept my chin up and my chest out on the way there, accepting congratulations and the such from those I passed. I wasted no time in packing up my cello and tuner, but when it came to that accursed scroll, I hesitated. There was a bin the room; I could drop it in there and be done with the thing. But why? What frustrated me so much about the offer?
With a sigh, I collapse into the chair in front of the mirror. This weight had disturbed me long enough. I turn to the mirror and it gazes back at me with a face I thought I’d come to know. Would that little filly be proud of me, the one that always had a seat at my performances, but never showed up? What would she do? I think as I look down to the scroll. Why had she come to watch those musicians perform so long ago? Was it pure fascination?
I pick up the scroll and look back between it and the mirror. If tonight had tried to tell me anything, it was that the filly was gone. Her opinion doesn’t matter. And neither does his.
I grip the scroll tightly in my mouth and stand up. My face has become stoic like a royal guard’s. I sling the cello case over my back, but it doesn’t feel heavy. All the weight is in my jaw.
On my way to the lobby, I run into a familiar stagehand and two fillies. They’re all smiles.
“Fantastic job out there,” the stallion says. The fillies nod their agreement.
I glaze back with hollow eyes and an empty smile, setting the scroll aside for a moment. “Do you know what my cutie mark is?”
The question catches him off-guard. “Uh,” he leans to the side to get a look at my flank, “it’s a treble clef?”
“Indeed. Do you know what the treble clef represents?” I ask coldly.
“That’s easy. You’re good with the cello!”
I look down to the fillies. “Would you agree?”
They nod. That’s all they’ve done tonight. Just nod.
“That’s wrong. The treble clef is the signature of notes in the higher octave. Remember what I told you earlier?” I say, looking at the fillies. They’re unsure, now; their eyes are avoiding me. Of course they forgot, but I do not let up. I lean in towards them and speak in a deeper voice. “The cello plays in the lower octaves. Now why would I have a treble clef, do you think?”
No response.
Grabbing the scroll in a hoof, I stand up straight and canter past them. “Because things don’t go as you plan.”
The trek to the lobby is a short one. It’s still somewhat crowded with members of my former audience, but their faces are insignificant to me. I soon find the one that matters and trot over, throwing the scroll onto a table nearby.
“Quill.” I practically spat the word at him.
It takes him a moment to register my meaning and the moment he does, he produces a quill. “I very glad to see you’ve made the right choice.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “In the interest of integrity, I want to make this clear: we are not friends. We are associates, and reluctant ones at that. I sign this for my own interests.” My voice takes upon a harsh tone not even I am familiar with.
He lets out a deep breath and rolls his eyes. “Whatever you wish, Truestring.”
The contract lies in front of me; the long pink bow that once held it is now lying to the side. I set the quill down on the table and examine the bow. A moment passes as I consider it, then it grasp it and tie it around my neck. I’ve always liked pink, and this thing makes a fitting collar. My associate remains silent.
Slowly, yet precisely, I grab the quill with my mouth. Doubt threatens me again, but it’s a poor opponent, now. Dreams are gone, memories faded and grey. My ambition will blaze across Canterlot till it is naught but ashes, and the world will know me.
The quill stains the paper black with her new name.
Octavia.