Ch. 1 – City of the Angels
Octavia gently separated the bow from the strings, letting the last note ring and fade on its own. She opened her eyes to the polite applause from an audience she couldn’t see. The concert had been practically perfect, of course; the Royal Canterlot Symphony was the best in Equestria.
Even so, Octavia didn’t feel like celebrating after her performance. She packed up her instrument slowly and carefully before making her way out of the concert hall.
She pushed through the crowd of pretentious ponies. Every single one was busy praising the concert to their friends or guests. She heard phrases like “magnificent,” “brilliant,” and “performance of the year,” but they didn’t mean anything. The ponies that were talking about the music had no idea how to talk about music. The concert was just another thing to make an appearance at, another mark of high society. It was something to do, not something to enjoy.
So what was she, Octavia, doing? Appeasing the masses with predictable, traditional music? Allowing herself to be caged by the elites of society? Or, even worse, becoming one of them?
She shuddered as she stepped out in to the evening air. Luna’s moon had just barely risen, and a piece of the sky still held on to the dying colors of the day, framing the various towers and spires of the Canterlot Palace with streaks of pink and orange.
Despite herself, Octavia smiled. She had always enjoyed the sun; even though it did the same thing everyday, it still found a way to incorporate variety into its routine, as demonstrated by the beautiful sunsets that were never the same from one night to the next. The sun was her beacon of hope, her refuge. It took her mind off of her day- to-day life.
‘If you’re so miserable, though,’ she thought to herself as she began the trek to her apartment. ‘Why keep doing this? Why continue to live here?’
It wasn’t that Octavia hated Canterlot; this was her hometown. She had been born and raised on these pristine streets; asking her to just get up and leave would be asking her to give up her life, and she couldn’t do that yet.
‘Are you sure? What life do you have here, anyway?’
Her thoughts immediately went to the Symphony. She was first chair cellist, and one of the best musicians in the organization! Surely that was a good enough reason to stay!
‘Is it really? You aren’t appreciated, you’re bored with the music, and you didn’t even want to celebrate tonight.’
She sighed. Whose side was she on? She loved playing her cello, and loved performing for an audience, but the voices in her head had a point. The music she played had grown stale, and the audience no longer cared whether a V-I chord progression resolved to a major or a minor.
Come to think of it, the entire city seemed to have grown stale. Nothing new happened anymore, and it sometimes it felt as if the buildings themselves were getting bored of the Canterlot routine.
Octavia frowned as she continued her nighttime walk. At this hour, most offices and homes were dark and empty, even though it was just after sunset. She gazed up at the tiers of mournful windows, hoping one would light up, or show some sign of life. None did; the city remained gloomy as ever.
It was sad, really, to think of the city as gloomy. The buildings were bleached white, and the palace rose majestically, as if to scrape the sky. It was an inspiring sight, promising hope and light not just to the citizens of Canterlot but all of Equestria. For anypony outside the walls, the city looked anything but gloomy. Most ponies praised it as an ideal city; a utopia created by the Goddesses themselves.
Octavia had spent her life in the city, and she knew the truth. The utopia everypony expected was broken and flawed, and the high walls gave a feeling of imprisonment, not protection.
She reached her destination: a tall apartment building on the mountain side of the city. It looked as empty and dead as everything else she had seen tonight, and provided no reprieve from the sense of depression she suddenly felt.
Her apartment was simple and clean; the walls were the same white as the outside of the building, and her furniture was plain. She didn’t mind, of course; she had never been extravagant, but tonight it only reminded her of the blandness overtaking her hometown.
‘Oh, well. What can one pony do?’
For now, she could go to sleep. Her body ached from carrying her instrument, and her mind ached from just being around the Canterlot Elites. She set down her cello in its usual corner with slightly less care than normal, and flopped down on her bed.
Sleep mercifully came quickly.
-XXX-
The next morning dawned bright and early. Octavia was gently awakened by warm sunlight squinting between her curtains and caressing her face. She stretched and sighed contentedly, happy to wake up to the sun she adored. Octavia was definitely a morning pony.
She rolled out of bed an adjusted her sheets so they looked straight and proper.
‘And boring.’
‘No,’ she thought back. ‘Today is a new day, and I will not start it off by thinking like that.’
She continued her morning routine without any other thoughts on the matter, and exited her apartment with a cheerful smile.
She procured breakfast from a small, family owned café down the street.
“Good morning, Latte!” She greeted the owner behind the counter.
“Hello, Octavia. The usual for you?”
Octavia was about to answer in the affirmative, but remembered her thoughts last night. She figured she could at least try something different, and this would be a great way to start breaking the recent monotony of her life. “Actually,” she said aloud. “What do you recommend today?”
Latte blinked, and took a moment to answer. “Well, we just got a fresh batch of Cloudsdale Croissants this morning. They’re supposed to be the best in Equestria; as light and fluffy as a cloud, they say.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Octavia responded. “One of those with my coffee, please.”
Latte began to fill her order, but not before a questioning gaze passed over her features. Octavia pretended not to notice.
“So what’s on your mind?” the barista asked with her back turned.
“Nothing, why do you ask?”
Latte set the bread and beverage on the counter a few moments later. “This is why,” she motioned to the croissant. “Octavia, you’ve been coming to my shop every morning for almost three years now, and not once have you ordered anything besides a blueberry muffin with your coffee. What gives?”
“I thought I’d just, you know, switch it up.”
“Things don’t normally change without a reason, Octavia.”
The cellist broke at that comment. “But that’s just the thing, Latte; I wish they would!”
“How’s that?”
Octavia sighed and sipped while she tried to think of a way to explain how she felt. “The Symphony has played the same few songs for the last three concerts we’ve done, and every time, the nobles and other ponies that show up say it was the best performance they’ve ever seen.”
“Because it probably was.” Latte answered. “I’ve heard you play, Octavia; you drove me to tears.”
“That was an original piece. The symphony turned it down.”
“What? Why?”
“My director told me it was ‘too new,’ and that ponies would never appreciate it.”
“But that’s absurd!”
“It’s not just the music, Latte. Everything Canterlot does is the same. The art, the music, the science, they even eat at the same couple of restaurants every day! Nothing ever changes! You said it yourself: I’ve been coming here for three years and haven’t once changed my order!” Octavia wasn’t shouting, she never did, but her voice was clearly distressed.
Latte listened to her friend, but she couldn’t understand the urgency in Octavia’s words. “There’s nothing wrong with sticking to what works, Octavia. The day-to-day similarities are comforting. Why mess with the balance?”
“It would be a different thing if they were similarities, Latte, but they’re not. They’re the same thing: the same ponies, the same songs, and the same critiques, every single time! I can’t remember the last time I was challenged by a piece the Symphony played, but we’re supposed to be the best! We should be pushing our limits, trying to get better, but we’ve stagnated. The critics say we’ve reached the peak of perfection, but what do they know?” Octavia’s shoulders drooped. “We could be so much better if they’d let us change something every now and then. They’ve denied every piece I’ve submitted, even the traditional classic ones. They say they don’t want to take any chances; that they want to keep playing what they know ponies like. They want to stick with what works.”
The irony of her own words being turned against her like that sent a chill down Latte’s spine, and she realized what Octavia was so upset about. “I’m… sorry, Octavia,”
Octavia gave a mirthless laugh. “It’s not your fault. The entire city’s the same way.”
“No, it’s not!” Latte protested. “Not while there are still ponies like you who think things can change for the better. You can fix it, Octavia. You can change the world.”
“I’m just one pony. What difference could I make on my own?”
-XXX-
Octavia returned to her apartment a short while later and found everything just the way she had left it: two chairs, a couch, a coffee table, and her music corner with her cello, stand, and composition paper. She made her way to the latter and reviewed the sheets she had written yesterday before the concert. The first page bore the title of the piece: “Luna’s Dreamscape,” but not much else. Octavia knew how she wanted the song to sound, but couldn’t bring herself to put notes to paper just yet. She stared at the lines sadly, knowing that this music would never make it to a stage, would never be performed, because the Canterlot Elites expected her to do the same thing she had done for years: play the instrument, not the music.
Every day for the next few weeks she stared at the paper, willing the notes to manifest themselves onto the paper, transforming the beautiful swirling melodies she heard in her head to reality. They never did. The page remained as blank as the faces she performed for every month.
-XXX-
Rehearsals for the upcoming concert were the same as ever. The director hadn’t even bothered passing out new music; it would be a waste of paper. Octavia dutifully pulled her bow across the strings as she had so many times before, and thought she might physically collapse from boredom. Nopony was struggling with the music; most of the Symphony had the songs completely memorized, and the first song they practiced was finished with no mistakes to speak of.
“Excellent, everypony.” The director commented. He was an old stallion; his coat was brown, but his black mane was graying on the sides. It gave him an air of experience and wisdom. In another time, Octavia’s childhood, perhaps, he would have been considered a sensational composer and director, but nowadays, he was just paid to wave a stick. “I’d like to work on Beethoofen’s Seventh Symphony now.”
Octavia shuffled her pages until she found the piece. She felt a sinking in her chest. She had heard great things about this particular composer, but had never heard any of his original compositions, and couldn’t believe the Symphony was playing his masterpieces the way he had intended.
She began to play, the notes slowly flowing at the same tempo they always had. Octavia had reviewed the music extensively, and thought she had some ideas to make it sound less bland. If she put a crescendo here, perhaps the rest of the Symphony would follow…
The tapping of a baton on the director’s stand stopped her. “Miss Octavia,” he said, looking directly at her. “Why did you get louder?”
Octavia hurriedly glanced around. The entire Symphony seemed to be staring at her. “I thought it would… add some feeling,” she attempted to explain.
Her director sighed heavily. “The ponies we perform for do not listen to us for feeling, Miss Octavia. Please just play the music like you always have.”
Octavia nodded and averted her eyes. “Yes, Coda.”
“From measure sixty-two, everypony.”
-XXX-
Octavia packed up her instrument, struggling to hold back tears. The second chair cellist approached her.
“Hey,”
Octavia looked up. “Hello, Fermata.”
Fermata shuffled her hooves awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed. “I thought you sounded good,” She finally said.
Octavia gave her a small smile. It was sort of a running joke between the two musicians that Fermata was secretly plotting Octavia’s downfall in order to claim the first chair seat. This was utterly ridiculous, of course; both had the utmost respect for the other, and Fermata knew Octavia was simply the better player. Octavia took the compliment at face value.
“Thank you,”
Fermata lingered, as if she had something else to say, but couldn’t. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, and stepped back when Octavia stood up with her instrument secured.
Before either one could speak, Coda appeared and put a hoof on Octavia’s shoulder. “May I have a word?”
Octavia had no choice but to follow.
Coda led the confused cellist to the small back room he used as his office, gesturing to indicate that Octavia should have a seat across from him. He sat himself behind a simple desk and pressed his hooves together in front of his face.
Octavia sat ramrod-straight in her chair. If Coda wanted to fire her, she would at least keep her dignity through the process. She did not fidget, and looked her director in the eyes.
After a few moments, Coda seemed to relax. “Why did you perform a crescendo in that piece, Octavia?”
It was incredible how hard it could be to answer such a simple question. Octavia decided to go with her previous answer, ”To add feeling,”
Coda did not nod, frown, or otherwise show what he was thinking. His face was not that of a pony who would understand the concept of “feeling.” “Why, though?” He asked.
Octavia did not waver as she answered. “The piece called for it. It was written in the music.”
Her director stared at her for a long time. “Octavia, we both know that you are quite adept at reading music. What on that page told you that there was supposed to be a crescendo at that particular point in the song?”
Octavia’s answer was robotic. “The phrase consisted of a rising eighth note run ending with a unison chord and led into the next few measures. There should be a contrast in volume to maximize the effect of the chord and differentiate it from the rest of the phrase.”
“No words, though. Nothing physically written on the page?”
“Just the notes.”
“And you believe the notes give you direction on how loud the music is supposed to be?”
“…Yes.”
Coda leaned back in his chair. “Interesting. Just one more question.”
Octavia remained silent.
“Why now?” He asked. “You haven’t done this in any other rehearsal. What prompted the change?”
Octavia’s prim posture slackened slightly. How should she put this? “I suppose I got bored,”
“Bored? Is the music no longer challenging you, Octavia?”
Octavia mentally backpedaled. “No! Well, yes, but it wouldn’t be- I mean, it was challenging the first time I looked at it, but Coda, this is the fourth concert at which we’ve played the exact same songs. The whole Symphony has their parts memorized, and this repetition isn’t making us better musicians,” she stopped herself before she seriously offended her director, if she hadn’t already.
Fortunately, Coda didn’t seem offended. He didn’t seem happy, either. He retrieved a notepad and pencil with his mouth and began scribbling something down. Octavia waited patiently, but apprehensively.
Finally, Coda spat out the utensil so he could speak. “I wish there was something else I could do for you, but for now, this is the best I can think of. “ He handed her the paper, which had a couple of addresses on it in his messy handwriting. “If I could support you further, I would, but my position will not allow me.” He explained. “I am therefore effectively firing you from the Symphony.” He waited for a response, but Octavia gave him none, so he continued. ”You are one hundred percent correct, Octavia. About everything. The crescendo you played was perfectly placed and executed, and I’m sorry I had to cut you off. You are also correct in saying that this music no longer challenges you, so I am letting you go.”
Octavia was very quiet and still, whether from shock or thought Coda couldn’t tell. They sat staring at each other for quite a while, until something clicked in Octavia’s head.
“If you know I’m right,” she started slowly, “Why not let me stay? Why not put the crescendo in?”
“A few years ago I would have, and if the owner of the Symphony would go for it, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Thing is, he wants to play it safe. Everypony wants to play it safe nowadays, and I can’t change that without major repercussions. But you can.”
“Me?”
Coda sighed. “Octavia, I know how good you are. Much better than anything I can offer.” He tapped the note he had written. “If you want something different, I suggest starting here. The first is a new club I’ve heard about, and the second points to an old friend, if he’s still there. These are the best leads in music I can get you. Where you go from there, I can only hope.”
Octavia stuck the paper in her case and rose. “I just have one question,” she said.
“Fire away.”
“Did you see this coming?”
Coda looked her squarely in the eyes. “If you called me a coward for what I didn’t do, you would be right in doing so. Yes, part of the blame rests on my shoulders. I’m passing it to you, Octavia, and I apologize for that. I’m asking you to do what I could not, but I have confidence you will succeed. The next time I see you, it will be to beg you for symphony arrangements of your new music.”
Octavia smiled softly. “Thank you, Coda.”
“If you succeed, it is I who will be thanking you. Save me, Octavia. Save all of Canterlot.”