Pages float past. Scrolls go up in flames and turn to ash. The smoke blinds me.

I freeze and slowly turn around. The fan gallops up to me with a wide smile on her face.

There's a muffled squeak, followed by a low drone. I hear the pipes in the walls humming from the flow of their contents. Somepony nearby is using the restroom.

My admirer is shuffling her hooves in excitement. She holds up a piece of paper. Sheet music from a textbook I just barely recognize. I'm lost in another memory while my hoof moves on its own. The quill in its grasp leaves faint lines. It's almost out of ink.

"Thank you so much!" she says. "By the way, your concert was absolutely marvelous. You have no idea how inspiring it is for me."

My eyes focus on a face, but I see right through it. I feel no presence around me. A response forms in my head: vague concepts related to "proper speech" shape my thoughts into words. They ascend from my lungs and emerge from my lips.

She giggles and prances about happily, saying all sorts of "thank yous" and good wishes before trotting off. I feel an odd ache growing in my chest. Something inside me tells me that I made a mistake. It urges me to call out to her. Tell her to stop. Turn around. Come back and listen to me. Remember something important.

But I don't move or speak. The filly eventually disappears around a corner, along with the rest of the crowd. I can't even hear her giggling anymore. She is being erased, like so many other things.

I sigh and glance at the large mirror on the wall. A broken image stares back at me. The limbs are missing or in the wrong place. The mane is old and decaying. Dry and full of cracks, much like the fragments of an ancient scroll. White words take shape and dissolve all over a blackened skin. The eyes are the only thing I recognize, but I do not want to see them. They frighten me.

There's a poster next to the mirror. It shows a blue background, and stamped on it in large yellow letters is the announcement of tonight's performance.

TONIGHT:

OCTAVIA MELODY

AT THE CANTERLOT GRAND OPERA

PERFORMING:

The Sun Also Rises

A voice echoes at the edge of my mind. It keeps repeating a word. A name. One that I recognize as my own, yet cannot remember as well as the one that I use now, which is not mine.

I can feel it again. I can hear the grinding sound. Rusty metal gears biting into each other. My skin tingles as though it were trying to crawl off my flesh. The sound of paper and velvet ripping apart. Smoke and ashes burning my nostrils. Fire and acid in my veins.

The image of the filly is in my mind again. I curse her for what she did. She was just a distraction. More lost time.

I don't want them anymore. I don't want anyone. I just want my music. It's all I have left.

My bones will turn to dust, but my music will still be heard. My flesh shall dissolve to feed the earth we all came from, but my name will be eternal. If I can't go on or come back, then I'll just leave a piece of myself behind.

I don the heavy case at my feet and walk through the door that leads behind the stage. The assistants take the instrument from me and offer me a seat while they set everything up. The murmuring of the audience outside seeps in through the walls. It reminds me of waves breaking on the shore, gradually becoming louder as the storm approaches.

Minutes later, I'm standing behind the curtains, waiting for the organizers to silence the crowd. The velvet walls are pulled apart. Blinding light pours upon me from every direction, accompanied by a tremendous roar. A thousand voices and a thousand sets of hooves pound the air in my honor. Their sound is louder and more powerful than anything I will ever perform.

Head held high, I calmly walk to the front of the stage. My cello and my bow are prepared for me on a stand, along with a small book containing my latest work. I pick up the instrument and open the book to the first page. I hold the bow against the strings and wait patiently for the audience to pipe down.

The storm clears, and the sea of eyes in the darkness goes quiet. I take a deep breath and gently pull on the bow. The first notes ring out.

It's always perfect. Not a single false move. Not a single note out of place or at the wrong pitch. My bow carves the bed where the river of music can flow, feeding into the sea before me. Though the shadows veil their faces, in my mind, I can almost see the admiration written on them. The beauty and power of the piece mesmerizes them, allowing me to play with their thoughts and emotions just as easily as I play on my cello.

A smile tugs at my lips. I no longer find beauty in this work. Not since it's creation. I've played it too often, and if tonight is a success, it will have served its purpose. But this part is always a joy for me. To see the audience surrender themselves so easily to my music is almost ecstatic.

I shake my head. It takes all the discipline my training has given me to keep me focused. No matter how much I enjoy it, the performance cannot suffer in return.

The final notes ring out in quick succession, and the chamber goes silent. I close my eyes, exhale, and bow before them. The sea erupts once more. The stage beneath my hooves trembles from the intensity of the storm. For a while, I stay perfectly still. Then, just to adhere to necessary customs, I walk off and come back on again a few times. Each time, the storm renews its fury.

The organizers of the event come up to congratulate me. I satisfy them with a smile. They shake my hoof and bring me flowers. Colors burn in the strong light. I cannot smell them. I cannot feel the thorns that bite into my skin. All I hear is the roar.

Finally, the lights go out. Now that they've had their fill, the audience marches away as well. The storm is no more, but I can still hear them.

Voices. Whispers. I hear my name. Awe, praise, and even terror. Comparisons to past performances. Other works. Other artists. Murmurs that mention odd sensations. The music reaching out to grab them and stir up their hearts, penetrating their very souls.

I asked them to let me stay. I cannot pass up on this opportunity. This chamber has excellent sound. Perfect for me to work on my next composition.

My hoof weaves back and forth, dragging the bow across the strings as though I were caressing a child. An unborn being with primordial limbs, still growing in the womb that is my mind. The melodies I perform now are its very first movements.

Only now can I find beauty in my work. I feel a special kind of love. Perhaps this is how parents feel about their children. Mine grow up too fast, but while they are still in infancy, they are the most precious things I own.

Something stirs at the edge of my mind. It's the first sign before my love begins to wane. An urge grows within me. A goal that I've forgotten, yet the fragmented memories still drive me toward it. They compel me to finish the piece. They take over, forcing my hooves to reshape it. I enter a new place, forming melodies that speak of things I cannot understand, yet I know I must deliver.

Pages in an endless library. A book with a voice. A mission. No time left. Spells to release that which is forbidden. Worlds sealed off to contain beings who crave mortal souls.

Memories rise up for a moment, only to fade away again. This is the moment when I am no longer free. When my child is taken from me, and the life is sucked out of my music. It becomes no more than a tool for a purpose I do not know. I despise it, but I cannot stop. What I lose in appeal, I gain in will. My music is what fills me with life and drives me to go on.

I tense up and give a low hiss. My limbs tremble, and I feel something piercing my chest.

But it won't stay back. The music can no longer soothe it enough. With every breath, a burning spreads through my lungs.

My forelegs fumble with the instrument. The bow slips in my hoof, and the note rings out false. It sends a stab of agony into my head. It flows down my spine and spreads through the rest of my body like a swarm of tiny glass shards. I grit my teeth and clench my eyes shut. Something wet stains my face.

The noises return. My eyes grow wide as I watch the crowd take their seats again. Unblinking and unmoving, they all stare at me. I try to stop, to understand what is happening, but my limbs move on their own now. The new piece wishes to be born. It will not be contained.

The agony in my chest grows stronger. What once kept it at bay now seems to feed it. As the notes rise and fall in pitch, so does the fire course back and forth within me.

I can see her in the shadows, tucked away in a corner behind the crowd. A white shape among the shadows. A flash of vibrant blue mane. I can see that smile etched into her face. Purple shimmering circles. I can't see her eyes, but I know what they speak to me.

Her identity is a facade, just like mine. Her profession is her passion, and her passion is the same as mine: music. Only our tools and our voices differ. Our works say different things. They are in a conversation, and I dare not think of what we discuss.

She is my eternal audience. When nopony else is around to hear me, she is still there, swimming in the music that flows from my instrument. I know her name, but I dare not mention it. I want to call out to her, but my body will not respond when I try.

I turn to look at her again. She raises her hooves and slams them together. Again and again. The sharp sounds echo throughout the chamber.

I scream as the heat and pressure become unbearable. The bow clutters to the floor, and I fall to my knees, my forehooves clutching my chest. The lights are blinding. The roar is in my ears. The music is gone.

Fire erupts from my chest. It spreads all over me, consuming everything it touches. My cello burns along with me. I can hear it whine and crackle as it succumbs to the flames. My own body breaks apart as an echo of my instrument's destruction.

I give a deep sigh. "Well, I'm dead tired, and my head hurts. Do you have anything relaxing?"

She picks up one of the records and places it onto the turntable. The needle drops onto it with a loud popping sound. Moments later, the gentle hum of a cello flows out of the speaker.

An odd tingling spreads through my body. The pain and fatigue both vanish. I'm paralyzed, my mind focusing on every single note.

Her voice feels like it's coming from miles away. I ignore her. Everything around me is tuned out. All I hear is the music.

"Heh..." She grins. "Yeah, Octavia has that effect on ponies. I even get a bit of deja vu from it sometimes..."

Herostratic

by Dark Avenger

A Symphony For The Ages