Rory cringed, wrapping his tail tighter around his lank body. Undoubtedly he looked like an imbecile resting under the still leafless tree during one of their obligatory Spring downpours. Every so often, a few students would dart across the campus, eyeing him as if he lost all sense of reason. Reason huh . . . At this point he’d be grateful to keep his sanity.
Another wave of agony shot through his leg, this time strong enough to send up more bile. Groaning, he lay on his side, allowing the frigid rain to soak through the dull hairs. How long had he been lying here again? Since nine o’clock at least. But he could not move, not yet.
He glanced down at his front legs, one warped permanently forward, and the second badly swollen. The longer he stared, the more hopeless he felt.
Ever since that day, he’d been forced to put an unnatural amount of strain on his left leg. Rory knew it would give out, but not from simply walking to class. By way of a miracle, the fracture had not been compound, but that did not stop the fools insisting they take him to the hospital. He could not even begin to imagine the repercussions of that.
After somehow managing to make it to the dorms, he set the bone himself. His makeshift splint did little to support his weight, but it at least allowed him to walk. After a week of misery, he had finally swallowed his pride and begged Father to let him see a doctor.
‘As if you need one. An earth pony that can’t deal with a bit of pain? Pathetic.’
‘Pathetic.’ A word easily thrown around by a self-righteous bastard like his father. What did he know about “dealing with it?” He did not spend every waking minute in mind-numbing agony only to have yet more dumped upon him.
Rory longed to surrender to the pain, but he did not have that right. As the only pony in Equestria capable of taking down Storm Scribe once and for all, such a gesture would be incredibly selfish. It was his goal in life, his true purpose and he would see it through to the end.
He rolled upright, focusing on the grey blanket above. A different, unappreciated beauty, but one he savored. Years trapped in that apartment without even the luxury of an open window. For the first time in his life, he could lay outside as much as he wanted and he would not waste the opportunity for all the world.
Alone and at peace, the song came as naturally as breathing. Rory closed his eyes, allowing himself to become lost in the words and feel the blessed release if only for a moment.
“Here in the silence
the world draws breath
and in that moment
I know I’ve found rest”
Rory heard a light, angelic voice join his own. Just another illusion, but he welcomed it.
“Beneath the trees
drops of rain fall and scatter
and sink into the blades
Wash away the pain
wash away the night
and somehow I’ll find
the strength to carry on . . .”
Rory opened his eyes, breaking the spell. Sighing, he stood weakly and froze in place. There in front of him was no angel or apparition. A delicate creature—an antelope he supposed—stood in the rain, smiling sweetly. And I thought I was the only lunatic out today . . . At that moment, he could not help but return the smile. “You have a lovely voice, Miss.”
Her bell-like laugh blended in perfect harmony with the pounding droplets. “You’re not half-bad yourself!”
Rory chuckled softly, “I guess . . . It was kind of my only entertainment as a kid.”
“Sounds like the right entertainment to me!” She walked over to join him under the tree, holding out a cloven hoof. “Name’s Jazelle and before you ask, I’m an oryx.”
“Rory Scribe. Er,” he looked down at his shaking limbs. “Sorry, I-my leg’s broken or I’d shake.”
A small flush colored her sandy cheeks. “Ah, right, sorry.” She looked him meaningfully in the eyes, “So, what’s a pony with a broken leg doing out here in the rain?”
“What’s a musically inclined oryx doing talking to the likes of me?”
“The likes of you?”
Rory rolled his eyes, “Rory Scribe. That ring any bells?”
Her eyes grew wide. “Scribe? You’re not . . . you’re related to the CEO of Scribe Incorporated?”
“He’s my father.” Unfortunately . . .
“Oh . . . wow . . . I, er, never would have guessed.”
Rory half-expected her to retreat like everypony else. But, miraculously, she continued in a conversational tone, “So, what’s your major?”
“I, uh—Accounting . . .”
“Neat! Mine’s Music Education.” She bit her lip as if contemplating something. “Soooo, you interested in joining a band?”
The request came so suddenly it took several seconds to process. “Pa-pardon?”
“A band. You interested? I could use a guy who can actually sing.”
Is she serious? “I . . . I don’t know. I’ve been in a lot of pain lately with my legs.”
“You know, singing’s the best cure for pain, right?”
Rory rolled his eyes, “I thought that was morphine.”
“Yeah, well, aside from the drugs.” She paused for a long moment taking in the surrounding campus. “When you're singing, you put aside all that baggage and focus entirely on the music. You’re free, you know?”
“Yeah . . . yeah I do.” Rory sighed, then, nodded slowly. “I guess I can show up to a practice or two. If you don’t mind an amateur . . .”
Her encouraging smile sent an unexplainable warmth throughout his body. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. I know the others are going to love you.”
As stupid as it seemed, Rory believed her and, for that moment, the pain didn’t seem all that bad.
Accordions hardly constituted serious instruments. Pinkie had only ever heard them played in the hooves of traveling Polka bands or at festivals. So when Mr. Scribe brought out his accordion, she not only envisioned but expected a lively tune to accompany it. That thought alone left her excited to hear what he’d play.
He limped over to Jazelle. “Happy?”
Jazelle pursed her lips, eyeing Mr. Scribe’s long sleeve button up and accordion with mild skepticism. “You know, you don’t have to wear your suit.”
“What? I took the jacket and tie off.”
“Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes, “Typical. You know, one of these days I’ll get you to actually wear something casual.”
“Yeah, when I’m dead,” he snarled, taking a seat on the stool beside her. Then, his eyes widened, “Why’s Pinkie up here?”
Jazelle snorted, “You and I aren’t the only ponies who can sing, Rory. She’s damn good.”
“Uh-huh. Suuuure she is.”
The sarcasm in his voice made her giggle. At least he could be somewhat playful. She sat straighter, grinning, “So are we going to play or not?”
Mr. Scribe shrugged, “Fine.”
With that, he started to play a quiet, slow tune. Jazelle poked him pointedly in the ribs.
“What?” he snapped.
“We’re not at a funeral, Rory! Play an actual song, would you?”
Rolling his eyes, Mr. Scribe raised the accordion and began a lively, swing melody. Jazelle started off singing, and soon Pinkie joined in. As usual, performing with the talented musician made her more than a little embarrassed. But with her kind smiles and encouragement, Pinkie soon found the confidence to sing along.
They sang song after song as the crowd slowly trickled in. Despite Jazelle scolding him, Mr. Scribe did not join in singing a single one though he continued to play the livelier tunes.
After a few more numbers and a large round of applause, they took a break. Pinkie hopped over to join Jazelle at a table in the back. “Whew, that was a lot of singing!”
She chuckled, sipping the cider in her mug. “You said it, Girlie.”
Pinkie’s attention fell to Mr. Scribe seated at the piano bench. “Well we sang a lot. Why didn’t he?”
“Rory only sings sad songs, Pinkie.”
“Huh? Why?”
She shrugged, spinning the mug in her hooves. “As long as I’ve known the guy, it’s always the same schtick. Can’t really blame him though . . .”
“Why?”
“Well . . . Rory’s never been—never known what it is to be happy, Pinkie.”
Pinkie’s blood ran cold. “That-that’s silly, Jazelle. Everypony knows what it’s like to be happy. I mean, everypony was happy at some point, right?”
Jazelle merely shook her head. “If Rory ever had a happy moment in his life, he never told me about it. Hell, he probably wouldn’t recognize a happy moment if it hit him in the face. With all the shit he’s lived through, it makes sense.”
“What he’s been through?”
Jazelle opened her mouth to speak, but paused when Mr. Scribe’s accordion started up again. This time however, he began to sing in a voice that quite nearly took her breath away.
“In these last fleeting hours
when I cannot see the dawn
still it's you that helps me carry on”
An immediate, unnatural tension marred Jazelle’s delicate features. Pinkie listened as she sung along in a tiny, stiff voice.
“And yet I know
you have departed
ne’er more to stand by my side”
Jazelle’s flawless voice began to waver as tears filled her eyes.
“The years will pass like summer snow
the sun sink beyond the horizon
and my journey draw to a close
But time cannot erase
the memory of those nights long past
and a love ne'er forgotten”
Mr. Scribe paused there, drawing out of the accordion a melody Pinkie never imagined possible of such an instrument. A mournful, carrying tune that resonated with the deepest part of her. Then in a low voice that made her spine tingle, he continued,
“The songs we sang
the promises made
and the magic of working as one
will remain in this place
long after we’re gone.
Farewell . . . farewell
until dawn breaks
and we dance once more . . .”
There was a soft round of applause, though most merely stared at the stallion in wonder. He nodded curtly, walking off stage. Pinkie had been so transfixed by his performance that she almost missed Jazelle’s silent sobs.
Pinkie turned to her friend heart lurching at the tears streaming down her muzzle. “What’s wrong?”
Jazelle shook her head, murmuring something along the lines of, “That damned Rory . . .”
Pinkie brought her into a gentle hug, rocking until the shaking stopped. After she pulled away, Pinkie gave her a napkin and a weak smile. “You want to talk about it?”
“Yeah . . . sure.” she sniffed, trying to compose herself. “That song’s . . . it’s his song.”
Pinkie let the words linger in the air for a time before asking, “His?”
Jazelle sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Our old buddy, Flow Chart. He’s gone now . . .” There was an awkward pause, “cancer. He was only twenty,” she breathed.
“Oh . . . I’m-I’m sorry . . . so you were close?”
“Hell yeah! Me and him . . . we grew up together. He was a special kind of nerd I’m tellin’ ya. But . . . he had a good, kind heart. Nopony could hate that dork for long.”
Her eyes fell to the stage. “You know, he almost did it, Pinkie. Almost broke Rory out of that cycle he’s stuck in and came as close to being friends with him as anypony could. But, then . . . then he had to go.”
Jazelle’s voice raised an octave, “It’s stupid right? Me getting all worked up over a damn song. But I can’t help it. Every time I hear it I think about that dance . . . and those lighthearted promises he made.”
The table shook as she repeatedly pounded her hoof against the table. “Like he had any right to make promises and smile like that! He knew he was dying. Why couldn’t he just admit he was scared?”
“—Because he didn’t want you to worry,” Mr. Scribe stated flatly.
Pinkie jumped a little. I didn’t even hear him come over!
Jazelle snorted, “Well sometimes I want to worry, okay?”
“Really now, what would your worry have done other than make you feel less guilty?” he snapped.
“I—what do you know? You’re just the same as him!”
Mr. Scribe leaned in closer to her, pinning his ears. “So you would rather have me tell you exactly what I’m feeling, is that it?”
“I-I don’t know,’’ she mumbled, looking down.
Pinkie wanted to speak, but bit her tongue. As an outsider, she had no right to interfere.
Mr. Scribe’s voice became as sharp as broken glass. “Shall I tell you about my legs, Jazelle? Would that somehow make you less guilty if you knew the level of agony I endure every day?”
She cringed, “I’m no-not guilty . . .”
“Oh really? Never speaking of your family in front of me, neglecting to mention your perfectly happy childhood for the four years we knew each other in college!”
He continued his rant, stamping his hoof for emphasis. “Despite your self-righteous assumptions, Jazelle, I wanted to know, okay?” His voice broke, eyes glistening, “To know that somewhere in this world there are parents who actually love their children . . . that some kids did not have to suffer through years of abuse and starvation for simply acting like children or being born the wrong race . . . ”
There was an awful, pregnant silence before he turned away. “The only guilt you should feel is not telling me sooner.” With that, he scooped up his briefcase and limped away.
Pinkie felt the blood rush to her ears, limbs growing numb. “I-I didn’t know . . .”
Jazelle sighed, getting to her hooves, “And it is best if you pretend not to for the present, Pinkie.”
Mr. Scribe was abused . . . Suddenly all the pieces began to fall in place around her. Oh, Celestia, what do I do now?