//------------------------------//
// Op. 5, Mv. 2: "Development" 
// Story: Fugue State 
// by horizon 
//------------------------------//

The train station was the noisy kind of silent.  The murmur of distant traffic and passing conversations, the cough of a busker taking a break from his playing, the hiss of steam and the squeak of wheels on rail: they were all sound, but they weren’t song.  Each ruled its own corner of the station, tapped out its own beat.  In the middle, where they all clashed: a poorly-packed, curly-haired earth pony.

“Hmm, hmmm hmm,” she began, but the loud and hungry silence devoured the tune.  She faltered.  Pinkie Pie was a long way away.

Cheeks flushing, Bon Bon approached the busker.  The bespectacled earth pony, freckled grey with a shaggy dun-red mane, looked up from tuning his fiddle.

“Can you …” she started.

Three songs.  

Ponyville was a long way away.  So was Lyra.  The silence felt like it was going to rip her apart.

She steadied herself.  “Can you … play me a musical number?"

He smiled.  "I know a few, I do.  Trotters and Canterstein?  Irving Marelin?"

Her blush deepened.  "No, I meant … you know.  Start one."

His look seemed more bemused than anything.  "I'm just a musician, miss.  That's magic, it is."

"I know.  You're not even a unicorn, but I figured … well, she's an earth pony, and if Pinkie Pie can do it …"  The thought sounded crazy as it left her mouth.  Pinkie Pie was all sorts of crazy.

His stare lingered for a moment.  "You've got interesting friends, miss," he said, turning his attention back to his fiddle.  

Bon Bon looked back at the high-rise hotel, and out at the grey and grimy buildings in the vague direction of Ponyville.  "I suppose I do."

"Big magic, it is.  Have you ever actually been in a musical, miss?"  He tapped his head.  "It gets right into your brain, and never leaves you the same.  We're pebbles on a rocky slope, we are, and a musical's an avalanche."

She wasn't listening.  Her cheeks were burning hot.  She couldn't take it.  Her music was so far away.  

Bon Bon set down her bag and opened it, dropping the coin purse on the ground with a heavy clink.  "All my bits," she whispered, glancing around the empty platform, "if you can start a musical."

His eyes went wide.  "Ah.  Well … ah.  I'll do what I can, miss, I will.  Have you got a destiny?"

No, Bon Bon thought.  That's why I want to feel one.

"Won't know unless we try, will we, ha-ha," she said with a feeble smile.

He chuckled.  "That's the spirit."  His face grew serious as he set the fiddle to his chin.  "I'll be guessing, in an empty train station with tear-stained cheeks, that destiny's been going through some troubles?"

Bon Bon nodded, looking away.

The busker touched his bow to the fiddle, scraped, increased the pressure until the two high strings sang in harmony, re-angled, and drew out a long, low note that entwined with the atonal rumble of the rails.  "I'll fiddle a song from the Old Country.  You've probably heard the tune as 'O Donny Colt', but it goes much further back, it does.  It's as powerful a song I can play while still being familiar enough to sing to."

She blinked.  "Sing?"

He raised an eyebrow.  "You wanted a musical, you did."

The shame of singing to an empty train platform warred with the shame of admitting that she had wanted someone else's musical number, something to lose herself in.  Bon Bon swallowed.  "I did."

He nodded.  The bow kissed the strings.  Their melody sang out, a clear and sweet fire that made the noise of the station melt away.  Bon Bon closed her eyes, feeling her chest tighten at the ballad's wordless loss and longing.

The tune hesitated for a moment.  She glanced down at the busker, who was staring back expectantly.  When their eyes met, the music pressed into a second verse.

Bon Bon cleared her throat.

"I'm all alone." 

It was a start.  Her voice wavered, almost cracking.  The words were self-evident — trite and cheap against the power of the music.  But it was a start.

"How did it come to this?"

The question drew to a close a syllable short of the line.  "Now," she added as the music hung accusingly unresolved.  She winced.  The correction just made it worse.  She had to go back and fix it — but there it was, and the song was already moving on; she couldn't take back a word said in haste — 

"I'm all alone," she blurted out, cramming the syllables in to catch back up with the rhythm.  

This wasn't working.  Panic tugged at the edge of her consciousness.  All she wanted was her music back — no.  Someone else's music back.  This was her, Bon Bon, in sharp relief: alone and failing.  So much simpler to be a background chorus to other ponies' lives.

"Where did my Lyra go?"

The line slid out with terrifying ease.  The question didn't.  Bon Bon was the one that had left, for a train back toward Ponyville and its danger and chaos — but she wouldn't even be here if Lyra hadn't dragged her away, and — oh, cripes, another verse —

"She couldn't sing
The tune my heart sang.  Lonely."

She'd done it again — thrown in extra syllables to finish the line.  Even worse, "lonely heart sang" would have been a beautiful fit.  Why couldn't she have gotten it right?  Lyra would have —

— and the next line was upon her, and her mind was blank —

"I-I can't do this," Bon Bon said, raising her voice to break the music.  She shook her head.  "I'm sorry.  I —"

"Keep at it," the busker said.  "You're doing as well as anypony I've ever seen, finding words in the moment."  His fiddling hadn't paused, though their conversation was trampling all over the melody.  "You're being honest, you are.  Even if it's rough —" He stopped as the fiddle keened out the end of a line, and replayed the part at which Bon Bon had balked:

"Your heart must sing to heal, this I know."

His singing voice was the asphalt of a Manehatten street, dark and smooth and rough at the edges.  Bon Bon stared at him, transfixed for a moment, until the silliness of the rhyme caught up with her.  A giggle escaped.  Maybe she was doing alright, if the professional swooping in to save her couldn't come up with anything better.

He gave her a wink and a smile, and the music soared up the scales into the next verse.  She took a breath.

"I face a choice,
Between lo-ove and happiness."

She'd hit the stressed syllable too early.  More stupid amateur mistakes.  But … he was right.  When she let her heart sing, the mistakes didn't feel so bad.  To hear the words out in the open air, lifted and buoyed by the music despite their wretched rhythm … there was something pure about it.  Something like singing along with Pinkie Pie — except that this was Bon Bon's song.

"Will I turn my back
On my joy or her fear?"

This was her song!  Extra syllables and all!  Her heart sped up to the music.  She was doing it!  Really doing it!

"Are my songs woo-ooorth,"

Bon Bon's voice cracked on the high note, and she dropped down an octave.  She didn't care.  She was swept up.

"The end of all the life we built?"

The busker stretched the note out, letting the penultimate line linger unresolved, tense but not harsh.  Bon Bon drew in a shaky breath.  He sniffled.

"Without even a goodbye —"

"Bon Bon," a strong and melodic voice spoke, "I'm here."

She turned, her breath catching.  

There was Lyra, shivering at the edge of the train platform, one hoof extended.  A gust of wind caught her mane from behind and blew it into a halo around her quivering muzzle. 

Invisible violins burst into a crescendo.  Ponies appeared out of nowhere, mouths open in song — around corners, up the stairs from the street, walking into view on the far platform — and as they approached, their choir swelled.  A pegasus mare flew down from above with a saxophone, joining the busker's lonely melody for a sweet and soulful duet.  He fiddled with renewed energy, a beatific smile on his muzzle, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Bon Bon's eyes blurred.  She felt her own tears stream down her face.  She trotted, light-headed, toward the indistinct blue-green figure.  

If being drawn into a musical was irresistible, being at its center was intoxicating.  The music surged through her, burned in her veins.  The whole world was beating to the rhythm of her heart.  Thoughts flashed like a summer thunderstorm through her brain — a jumble of words, images, melodies, harmonies, each one a tamed lightning bolt waiting to be plucked and thrown. 

The storm sizzled, pounded, receded — leaving a perfect clarity in its wake, a view to the infinite horizon.  We've never had a destiny before, she thought.  The violins molded their tune to the cadence of the line, urging the choir to peak and crest, drawing the instruments down to a low and repetitive background hum in preparation for the verse.  More lightning flashed and crackled in the back of her mind.  Always thwarted by love's storm.  However, now we see the distant shore.  A port with beaches safe and warm.  

Was that the spell?  She wasn't a poet.  She could never have come up with something so effortlessly vivid, with such crisp scansion and complex internal rhymes … wait. Scansion?  She didn't even talk like that!  

Some other part of her brain overruled her objections.  Celestia help her, she didn't care.  This was the perfect, shining moment she'd always been looking for.

The choir let out one final aaah, then leaned forward, hushed.  Bon Bon took a breath, and reached out for Lyra's hooves.

"We've never had a destiny before," she sang, effortlessly on pitch.  The clear and fluid voice felt like somepony else's.

"No," Lyra whispered.  Then the whispers grew urgent: "No no.  No."

"Always …" Bon Bon faltered.  She blinked several times to clear her eyes.  Lyra was sweating, shaking, staring open-mouthed.

"Always," she repeated.  The music seamlessly stretched out the line by an extra beat to cover her. "Thwarted by —"

Lyra screamed.

Bon Bon jerked her hooves back.  The music slammed to a halt.  Her body spasmed, and an almost visible wave of energy surged out from her.  The gathered ponies staggered away.

Lyra dropped straight to the ground, like a marionette with her strings cut, and then bent double, retching.  A few drops of thin saliva spattered onto the railway platform.  She curled into a tight ball, eyes squeezed shut, and sobbed.

"Oh no," Bon Bon whispered.  She crouched over Lyra's form, desperately reaching a hoof out, stopping short of touching her.  "Honey.  Oh, no, no no.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry."

A circle of murmuring ponies closed back in, illuminated dimly, as if the sun shone for the pair alone.  Lyra gasped and sobbed, fighting for words.  "Tried.  Sorry.  Thought I could …"

"Ssh."  Bon Bon beat back her fear and lunged forward to give Lyra a tight hug.  "Oh, honey.  I didn't want to hurt you."

"Ruined your song."  A bitter laugh, then a hiccup.  "Your first."

"I don't care," Bon Bon lied.  Losing the song hurt, but it wasn't as bad as watching the pain she'd caused.  She kissed Lyra's wet cheek.  "Our song."

"What?"

"It started when you came.  You're the musician.  You're the unicorn."

"But you made it.  You.  That's huge.  You should be proud."

Bon Bon smiled.  "Thank you," she whispered, holding Lyra and stroking her mane.

Lyra shifted, bringing a hoof to Bon Bon's withers, then slumped back to the ground.  "You should go."

Bon Bon's smile vanished as if slapped.  "What?  I … I'm not going to do that."

"You already did.  And you were right."  Lyra's mouth smiled; her eyes were dull.  "I already lost you, didn't I?  But if I can't make you happy, I'd rather see you happy."

"Lyra, please."  Bon Bon tamped down her sudden fear.  "The happiest moment of my life was when I turned around and saw you."

Awww, the crowd breathed.  Bon Bon blushed.  It was a treacly sentiment, but sincere.  

Lyra looked away.   "It shouldn't have been.  I was terrified.  I broke your musical number."

"But you came back for me.  That's what matters."

Lyra didn't respond.  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"You, um, did come back for me," Bon Bon said, "right?" 

Lyra stared up into the sky.  When she spoke, her voice was faint.  "When you left, the only thing I could think was, she's going back to Ponyville.  I had to stop you.  Not stop you from leaving — just stop you from going back.  Then I got here, and you were singing."  She shook her head.  "After that?  I don't know.  You know how it is when the music starts.  What's in your head isn't you."  Lyra closed her eyes and shivered.  "There's … there's something in my mind that says I want you back more than anything.  But it's like poking at a loose tooth.  It's in the wrong place and hurts a little and I don't even know if it's me or not.  How can it be love if it's not me?"

Bon Bon opened her mouth to respond, but an unfamiliar stallion's voice cut in: "'Course it's you.  It's destiny."

She looked around for its source.  The crowd's murmurs rose, like water behind a dam, then spilled.  A pudgy, older mare wearing Manehatten finery and oversized earrings stepped forward, leveling a hoof at Lyra.  "Shame on you.  This lovely filly feels strongly enough about you to start a musical number, and in response you sit there toying with her feelings?"  She turned to Bon Bon.  "Sweetie, she doesn't deserve you."

Lyra looked up, surprised.  Bon Bon, equally surprised, spoke first.  "But she —"

"Every musical has a happy ending," huffed another mare, a younger unicorn with a frown on her muzzle and a book on her flank.  "How could she deny you yours?"

Bon Bon took a step back toward Lyra.  "Please —"

"Yeah, that was selfish!" a rough-jawed cabbie said, closing in.  "That woulda been your first musical.  That woulda been my first musical!"

The dam broke.  A wave of ponies surged forward.  "Mine too!"  "I thought something was going to happen here!"  "Yeah, selfish."  "If she can't handle destiny, don't give it to her!"  "Sick in the head."  The voices raised and fought as the circle shrank. "Some musician."  "— ungrateful little —" "Break up!" "— take care of her —"

"STOP!" Bon Bon shouted.

The crowd hesitated.

"Stop it," she said, sheltering Lyra with her body.  "I love her.  That's all that matters.  Please … stop."

The invisible violins swelled up into a sweet and sad reprise, a wordless tune that spurred everypony into action.  They backed up, embarrassed, then shuffled away — into the train, down the station stairs, around corners.  Soon, the platform was empty except for Lyra, Bon Bon, and the busker.  The strings trailed off, and the sounds of the city crept back in around the three silent ponies.

Lyra struggled to her hooves.  "Thank you," she said faintly.

Bon Bon let out a shaky breath.  Her body sagged.  She glanced around, walked to her luggage, picked up her purse in her mouth, set it in front of the busker without meeting his eyes, and turned to Lyra.  "I'm so tired.  Let's go home."

Lyra's eyes widened — whether in guilt or fear, Bon Bon couldn't tell.  "But … the musicals."

"Home."

Lyra bit her lip and looked away.

After a few moments, Bon Bon sighed.  "I'll see you.  I hope.  Maybe.  Sometime."  She turned around, trudged to the train, passed the conductor her ticket, and disappeared into the passenger car. 

Lyra sat down on the platform and stared at the train, her emotions writhing and whirling just out of reach.  She felt like she ought to be crying, but the tears wouldn't come.

She heard a quiet clink from her side, and looked over.  The busker had nudged the bag of bits, and was staring at it as if his hoof had come back bloody.  He glanced back at her motion.  Their eyes met for a moment.  He set down his fiddle, walked over, and sat at Lyra's side.

"I'm sorry," she said.  It felt like the thing to say.

"Can I share a story?" he asked, voice subdued.

"Huh?  Oh … sure, I guess."

The busker pushed his glasses up on his nose.  "The stallion who taught me to play — his name's Tall Tale, it is, so take this with a grain of salt — told me once about a musical number he fiddled for Gnat-King Foal himself.  It was in a dark, lonely street, after one of King's concerts in Las Pegasus.  King sang about how his daughter Gnatalee wanted to start touring as a singer.  He knew the places where that road led, he did, and he couldn't let her use her college fund to follow in his hoofsteps.

"When the song ended, King got a funny look on his muzzle, he did.  He turned to Tall Tale, and he asked, 'I'm going to break her heart, aren't I?  Back home, she's dreaming about life out on the wing, and now destiny's telling me to stand in the way.'

"Tall shook his head.  'Never ya mind destiny, King,' he said. 'What ya sang … is it the right thing to do?'"

The busker smiled.  "He said when King got back to Manehatten —"

"All aboard!" the conductor called.

The busker glanced up, startled, then stared into Lyra's eyes.  She found herself pinned by their sudden intensity.  "I'll cut right to the point, miss.  If you're going to ask yourself about the love in your head, ask the right question.  You don't know if it's yours.  Do you want it to be?"

She stared back, paralyzed, feeling a tear work its way loose.  

"Miss," he begged, "hurry.  Please."

With a burst of steam and the hiss of hydraulic brakes, the train began to move.