//------------------------------//
// 1. Splinters 
// Story: Getting Complicated 
// by Ivory Piano 
//------------------------------//


Splinters


The Manehattan Concert Hall burst at the seams with ponies, and not one of them made a sound. The heavy silence thrilled Octavia Melody, for, in a few seconds, it would be shattered by the heavenly strings of her cello.
Octavia took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She opened the with a glare aimed at the dim-lit crowd and drew her bow like a sword ready to slice her cello’s stomach. She wrapped a hoof around its neck like a noose. She played, and the music, sweet nectar, flowed out from the stage to wash over the audience.
She felt good today. Her hoof moved easily up and down her cello’s neck. Her bow slid across the strings as if strung with a soft breeze. The acoustics of the domed stage made her and the music omnipresent. No doubt of herself or her abilities existed in any corner of her mind. She played perfectly and offered these gaping snobs a glimpse of nirvana. The music ebbed away as Octavia reached the end of her movement. She took a bow and waited for the applause.
It never came.
Octavia grit her teeth and raised her head to glare at the audience, but they gazed right back at her, emotionless and silent. She growled.
“Well? What’s wrong with all of you?” She yelled. “Don’t you know good music?” No one answered, and Octavia felt her face burn with shame and embarrassment. “Say something!” But they kept staring with blank, dead eyes.
Octavia’s eyes snapped open. She was back in hotel room in Manehattan. She was okay, drenched in sweat with her heart beating hard enough to break her ribs, but otherwise fine. The audience was gone, and her cello lay propped on its stand over at the corner, waiting. Just a dream. It was just another bad dream. Just like the ones she always had before a grand performance.
She shivered. Where the hell was her heat? She rolled around and found Macintosh snoozing away, his back to her. She scowled, grabbed one of his forelegs, and rolled him over. Not an easy feat considering how much of his bulk returned to him after a month of working on his farm. As a reflex, Macintosh wrapped Octavia in a a hug and brought her close. She sighed into the crook of his neck.
The immense heat emanating from his body was more than enough to keep her warm through even the most frigid Canterlot nights. She had hoped that his body and the heat that came from it would ease her into a deep, dreamless sleep, but no such luck. No matter, she had ways to manage, and, this time, she didn’t have to do it alone.
Octavia kissed and nipped at Macintosh’s neck until he groaned himself awake. She gazed into his emerald eyes and gave him a half lidded look he knew all to well. He smiled and brought her nose to touch hers.
“What’s wrong, Octi? Ya don’t usually go for a second time around.”
Octavia contemplated her answer. She could say anything really, and he would believe her without question. She could simply say that she had a little itch. It’s not as if she needed a reason to have a little bedtime fun. But Macintosh had told her to be honest about everything, little things and big things, important things and stupid things. She looked at him, at those big green eyes and gazed at her with such soft affection. Her lips pursed in thought. No, there was no reason to tell him. He wouldn’t understand.
“Have you even considered that you might be losing your touch?” she asked with a teasing smirk.
Macintosh chuckled, his question easily forgotten. He rubbed her nose against hers and gave her a soft kiss. Octavia sighed into his lips and wrapped her forelegs around his neck. He pulled away before she was ready, leaving her tongue out in the cold.
“Hope you don’t mind if I give it another shot,” he said with a smile.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Octavia said, growing impatient. “Now suck on my tongue already.”
“Always the romantic,” Macintosh said with a chuckle.


-*-


Octavia tapped the strings of her cello to practice her hoof positions in the last few minutes before she was called next on stage. Once confident, she went through ever single note she was to play, every single change of key, every single vibrato and tremolo. She was the premiere player at the event, the headliner, the one that sold out the concert hall, and this was her first time playing in a venue outside Canterlot. She would accept nothing but perfection.
“Octavia!”
Octavia slumped her shoulders as Fiddly Faddle’s call rang out backstage, loud enough to carry over the sounds of the brass band currently performing. A mare with a lemon-yellow coat and a deep blue mane trotted up to Octavia with a huge smile. Octavia sighed and took a sudden interest in her cello strings. Fate had shot Fiddly Faddle straight at Octavia’s life like a cannonball. Not only was she Macintosh’s cousin, Octavia had been the first to give Fiddly a cello. Now if Octavia could shoot Fiddly Faddle back, that would be a vast improvement of her life.
“Hello, Fiddly,” Octavia said without looking up from her cello. “I was wondering when you would show up.”
“I’m so excited!” Fiddly said, her body practically trembling. “Can you believe it? Manehattan Hall! Ah never woulda thought that a little ol’ country filly like me would ever make it here. Oh no, look at me ramble on an’ on. Bet you’ve been here plenty of times, huh?”
Octavia clenched her jaw. “It’s my first time.”
“It is? That’s great! Now we got a common bond. Why I bet...”
Octavia allowed Fiddly’s voice to fade away into the ether, just as she always did when dealing with boring chatterboxes. Just allow them to prattle on and on and on without giving them any attention. She examined the hairs of her bow for a moment and applied a bit of resin.
A white, curly mane of fluff caught the corner of Octavia’s eye, and her hoof instinctively jabbed Fiddly’s mouth shut. Octavia stared at a point behind Fiddly. Fiddly, confused, turned her head to stare too. An aged mare with a powder blue coat talked to a group of flautists. Octavia didn’t blink and watched the mare.
“Who that?” Fiddly asked.
“Who’s that? Are you serious?” Octavia asked, never averting her gaze. “That is Dulcet Tone, the owner of Manehattan Hall and the most distinguished cellist of the post-neo-romantic era. She is the wealthiest, shrewdest, most well-connected musician and real estate mogul of our time.”
“So she’s a big deal?”
Octavia laughed and finally turned away from Dulcet Tone to look Fiddly in the eyes. “If I impress her, then I will have acquired a lifetime meal ticket.”
The audience’s applause shook the concert hall as the brass band finished their set. The stagehand called out Octavia’s name, and she went to stand at the very edge of the stage. The band exited by the other side, and at that moment the stagehand gave her the signal to go. The loudspeakers announced her name, her instrument, and her playlist. Octavia took a deep breath and went to the center of the stage. She stabbed the ground with her cello’s endpin like a flag claiming the middle of the stage as her own.
She played. As the bow slid across her cello, Octavia entered a state of peace, almost a meditation. She hit her notes with exact timing, and, after the first ten seconds, she knew she had her cello under her complete control. The music lilted through the hall and sweetened the air. Though her set lasted two and a half hours, it felt as though but a minute passed to Octavia. She bowed and waited for applause.
None came for several seconds.
A whistle pierced the air like an arrow, and loud stomps boomed through the hall, almost shaking the walls. Octavia looked up at the high balconies. Macintosh, right in the middle, cheered so loud it filled the room despite unfavorable acoustics.  His cheers crumbled the crowd’s hesitation and more applause quickly followed. It went on and on, several ponies getting off their seats for a standing ovation.
Octavia grinned and took another bow. Was that it? Had she mistakenly interpreted the audience’s silence in her dream? Had that silence not been a rejection, but a stunned awe at the presence of her true talent? Yes, of course. How ridiculous she had been. She bowed one final time before exiting the stage. Her set finished, a rush of endorphins made her feel as light as a feather. She couldn’t stop grinning, even as she put her cello in its case and took the long way around to stealthily join Macintosh in their private balcony.
“You did great, sugar,” Macintosh said. He gave her a light kiss, and Octavia had the sudden urge to test just how private these balconies were. Maybe next time. Even she didn’t want to take such big a risk during her debut.
“Was there ever any doubt?” She asked as she took a seat beside him. She sunk low into the plush chair and breathed a sigh of relief. She looked up at the glittering chandeliers for a moment, allowing the euphoria to wash over her for several minutes. “All that’s left is the after party. Just have to schmooze with the bourgeois idiots and win a few engagements. This could be my chance at the national stage, Macintosh.”
“I always figured you were a pretty big deal to start, playing for the princesses and such,” Macintosh said.
“Oh, playing Canterlot is surely profitable and no small feat, but Canterlot is a pond, a very large one but still a pond. If I’m to reach true wealth and status, I need to play all the big cities. Canterlot, Manehattan, Fillydelphia, Braytain, all of them. Then I’ll finally make a name for myself.”
“Eeyup,” Macintosh said. His smile faded away for only a moment. He stared off into the distance at the empty stage. “A name for yourself,” he muttered under his breath. 
Octavia tilted her head, wondering whether to pry. She decided against it. The next performer took the stage, and Macintosh’s face brightened immensely. He brought a hoof to his mouth and blew an ear-splitting whistle. Octavia covered her ears and looked to the stage. There, standing proud, gripping a violin, stood Fiddly Faddle. Octavia raised an eyebrow.
“I thought she was a cellist,” Octavia said. Now that she thought about it, however, Fiddly didn’t have a cello case with her when they spoke backstage.
“Aw heck, Fiddly can play anything with strings,” Macintosh said with a smile. “From a guitar to a harp and anything in between.”
Octavia grunted to let him know she heard him. She had nothing more to say, and the subject didn’t really interest her. She watched Fiddly as she began to play. Her performance seemed shaky. Far too many slurs and random vibratos. Well, Octavia wasn’t surprised. Learning to play several instruments meant sacrificing time for developing real skill. At least her playing was smooth. Despite the lackluster performance, the audience gave a raucous applause. One much louder than hers, Octavia noted.
Fiddly Faddle was the last performance of the night. Octavia and Macintosh looked on as the audience shuffled out of the concert hall. Most of them left through the front entrance, a few others, however, took the stairs leading up to the top floor to attend the party reserved for the performers and generous patrons. She glared at the crowd as they climbed. She wanted nothing more than to contemplate her performance back at the hotel in front of the fireplace, preferably with a stiff glass of several alcoholic liquids sloshed together. She pushed the thought from her mind and took a step forward. A hoof on her shoulder stopped her from taking another.
“You know, you ain’t gotta force yourself to do this if you don’t feel up to it,” Macintosh said. “I’m sure ya made a pretty big impression already.”
“I must, Macintosh.” Octavia walked to join the rest of the ponies, and Macintosh followed behind her. “The most important thing in networking is the follow up.”
The upper floor was a babble of ponies coalescing beneath a thick atmosphere of self-adulation. Musicians rubbed their noses in rich ponies’ backsides, complimenting and schmoozing their little hearts out in order to secure their next mortgage payment. Octavia grit her teeth. Soon she would join them. Oh well, a small price to pay for the comfortable living her profession provided.
Several waiters snaked through the mass of ponies, holding silver platters of hors d’oeuvres. All of the little appetizers were savory, with not a sweet cake or pudding in sight. She bit back her disappointment. She had to focus. If she wanted something sweet she could simply ask Macintosh to make something for her later.
Octavia had only one target in mind: Dulcet Tone. She scanned the room for her. The needle amongst hay, the diamond amidst the rough, whatever the hell ‘rough’ was. She found Dulcet by the far wall admiring the row of painting mounted there. She was across the room, and the only obstacle between her and Octavia were the dozens of ponies in attendance. She would have to navigate through the undulating mass of chatterboxes and obnoxious tail-biters.
Octavia took a deep breath and made her way to the opposite wall. A timpani player she once knew at university stopped to chat. She spent ten minutes pretending to remember him and another ten pretending she cared about his newborn. Thankfully, Macintosh stepped in for her and took over the conversation with an analogy that compared foals to trees. She slipped away from them and continued on her way.
Octavia only made it a few paces when a business broker negotiated her way to Octavia and asked for a performance at her nephew’s wedding. At any other time, Octavia would have loved to get the gig and go, but the damn pony wanted to haggle, and Octavia didn’t want to waste so much time on small fry. Luckily, Macintosh quickly came and posed as Octavia’s manager, allowing her to escape once again.
She was almost there, just a couple dozen steps separated her from her future.
“Octavia!” Fiddly Faddle’s blue mane popped into Octavia’s field of view like a storm cloud. “You were sooo good. Course, Ah knew you would be. My favorite part had to be when you were playin’ the second movement and...”
Octavia scowled at Macintosh’s cousin as she rambled on. Octavia would usually have enjoyed the constant rush of praise, but she had more pertinent matters to take care of. She kept looking over Fiddly’s shoulder. It was a clear shot from here to Dulcet Tone, just a few more feet.
Once again, Macintosh arrived, and, once again, Octavia felt a tide of relief wash over her. “Macintosh, thank goodness,” Octavia said. She pushed him toward Fiddly, and he gave her a confused look. “Please talk to your cousin while I go speak to Dulcet Tone.” She hurried away before either of them could ask any mundane questions.
“Hey cuz!” Fiddly said. “You hear of Dulcet Tone? She’s a pretty big deal, but she’s awfully nice. She came and talked to me and gave me her card.”
Octavia froze after taking only three steps. She turned back and barged her way into the conversation she just left. “She what?” Octavia asked, disbelief and a hint of jealousy clear in her voice.
Fiddly smiled. “Look, see?” She held out a thick, black, glossy business card with Dulcet Tone’s name etched in mother of pearl. “She said to stop by so we could ‘discuss my future’ or somethin’ like that. Ain’t it neat?”
Octavia scoffed. “Well, if your sub-par performance was enough to impress her, then I’ve been worrying far too much.” She turned away and continued on her path to Dulcet Tone. “Just give me two minutes and I’ll have her attention as well.”
“Good luck!” Fiddly called after her.
Another pony, an orange-cream coated mare, stepped beside Octavia, obviously going to speak with Dulcet Tone as well. Octavia clenched her teeth and pushed her side against the stranger, knocking the mare to the ground. The mare opened her mouth to say something, but bared teeth and a vicious glare shut her mouth. Octavia was not in the mood to deal with any more ponies that couldn’t guarantee her a comfortable living.
Dulcet Tone stared at a large oil painting depicting ponies in togas as Octavia approached her back. Octavia took a deep breath and politely coughed to catch Dulcet’s attention. The older mare looked over her shoulder at Octavia and fixed her steel-gray eyes on her.
“Dulcet Tone, I presume?” Octavia said. “My name is Octavia Melody. I’m sure you remember my performance.”
Dulcet went back to her painting. “Octavia Melody? Octavia Melody...” she mumbled to herself. “Ah yes, I remember now. The cellist. Barber’s Cello Concerto in A minor Opus 22. Fitting I suppose, given your name and the amount of octatonic runs in the piece. Though it’s not often I hear it performed as a solo.”
Octavia smiled, pride filling up her chest like a balloon. “It’s always been my belief that if the cellist is good enough then the other instruments are unnecessary and redundant.”
Dulcet hummed in acknowledgment. Octavia waited for her to say something and continue the conversation, but Dulcet remained silent. Octavia pressed her lips into a thin line, her patience wearing thinner and thinner by the minute. She took another deep breath to calm herself and eased into her sweetest voice.
“So what did you think of my performance?”
“I am no music critic, and you do not seem the type to enjoy critique.”
Well, Dulcet was right about that, but Octavia needed to segue the conversation into her performance and how excellent it was. She was sure Dulcet was often asked to give her opinion, and she was simply tired of it, but Octavia couldn’t let a silly think like Dulcet’s feelings stop her.
“No, please, I would love to hear it.” It was a bold faced lie, but Octavia was good at those.
Dulcet didn’t bother to turn around again. “It was awful.”
“What?” Octavia’s sweet voice rotted away. “I played perfectly.”
Dulcet gave a labored sigh. “Perfection is sterile. If I wanted to hear a piece of music played soullessly, I would have put a bit into a player piano. You hit the correct notes for the correct duration of time. That was all. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Dulcet didn’t move, and Octavia knew she was supposed to leave Dulcet’s presence, but Octavia was never good at following social cues.
“Now just wait a minute you decrepit old wart, I–”
“You what?” Dulcet turned to her with a heavy glare that made even Octavia shut her mouth. Dulcet’s tone remained perfectly even. “Practiced for hours upon days upon weeks upon months upon years on your hoof positions, on your rhythms, on your timings? That practice was wasted time. You are but a machine. An automaton whose only talent is to execute simple tasks. Do you even like playing the cello? Do you enjoy the music you play? Do you even know what emotions are?”
Octavia socked Dulcet across the face. The elderly mare fell to the ground, unconscious. Octavia blinked and stared at her hoof. She turned her head to the crowd. Everyone gaped at her, wide-eyed in a deathly silence. Macintosh was among them. They met eyes. He frowned and looked away. Octavia’s heart sank.
What had she done?


-*-


The gigs stopped. Days passed with no new engagements, and the cancellations just kept coming right after another. Octavia lay on a naked mattress in one of her guestrooms, the heat off despite the chilling air. She went through just how much free time she had. She groaned and buried her face in the mattress. A whole year without work. She grit her teeth as her eyes started to water. How the hell was she supposed to support herself? She took a deep breath. No, it wasn’t completely and utterly hopeless. She would think of something, she always thought of something. Right?
Outside her room, a door opened and closed and a set of hoofsteps entered.
“You wanted to speak with me, Macintosh?” There was no mistaking Fancy Pants’ posh voice, and Octavia’s heart skipped a beat.
“Eeyup,” Macintosh said. “It’s about Octavia.”
Octavia rolled off the bed as quietly as she could and held her breath as she stood by the door.
“I suppose Blueblood told you?”
“’Told’ is a nice way to put it. Listen, I know what Octavia did was wrong, and...well, truth be told I understand why you’re droppin’ her from all the events you got comin’ up, but–”
“Macintosh, please,” Fancy Pants interrupted. “Do you have any water?”
“Eeyup.”
The hoofsteps went into the kitchen, and the clear clink of ice hitting glass rang through the apartment. Water was poured and gulped, and Fancy Pants gave a satisfied sigh interrupted by an awkward cough.
“I know what you are about to say, Macintosh. Honestly, I would expect no less from you, going to your marefriend’s defense despite knowing she is in the wrong, and make no mistake, she is very much in the wrong, but I am not of two minds on this. I am not conflicted in the least. I will no longer be hiring her to play at my events.”
“Just give her a–”
“A chance? No. Macintosh, I have given her several chances. Do you think this is the first time her professionalism has fallen to her...thorned personality? It has been an embarrassment each time, but this! To actually assault another pony. This is something that no amount of talent or apologies will make me overlook. She’s lucky Dulcet hasn’t pressed charges.” Fancy Pants sighed again, a bitter, saddened heave. “Macintosh, I’m sorry, I truly am, but her reputation is set. She is through. As much as it pains me to say, it would behoove Octavia to focus on other pursuits. Now, if that is all, I will take my leave.”
Octavia stood silent and thoughtless for several minutes. She hardened her jaw and looked away from the door. Her sight landed on her cello, shining in the dusty rays of light peeking through the blinds. Her eyes narrowed into a glare. So many years of her life all thrown away with a single swing of her hoof. So many blisters and callouses on her hooves, all a complete waste. Was this what her life had all amounted to? All of that work just to get in her own way yet again?
Octavia growled and grabbed the cello’s neck. She dragged it across the room, through the bedroom door, and out to the balcony. She swung the cello over her head and threw it to the ground below. It shattered at Fancy Pants’ feet. He looked up and caught Octavia’s gaze. He shook his head and moved on. Octavia hung her head in shame.
Macintosh walked up beside her and pressed his side against hers. She inhaled sharply. He felt so warm in the freezing wind.
Her cello was nothing but splinters now, garbage. “Playing the cello is all I can do.”
Macintosh nuzzled her cheek, and Octavia pushed him away. “Just leave me already.” She leaned forward and rested her head on the balcony’s railing. The wrought iron chilled her chin. “Go back to your farm and your future and leave me here to rot and fester in this apartment as I deserve.” But Macintosh did not leave. He rubbed her back, and Octavia didn’t have the will to pull away.
“I’m gonna make you something to eat, okay?” Macintosh said. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and headed for the kitchen. “You gotta be hungry, you haven’t eaten for a couple of days now. I was worried.”
“I’m fine,” Octavia said as she held her stomach. It felt tight and squeezed, as if it was eating itself. “I don’t want any food.”
“C’mon now, I’ll make you yer favorite.” Macintosh emptied out the fridge, set its contents on the table, and rummaged through the cabinets for pots and pans.
Octavia flinched. He wasn’t going to stop unless she ate something. She followed him into the kitchen. “Bread and water.” She took a seat at the table.
“What?” Macintosh froze and looked over his shoulder at her. Octavia glared at him, but he only smiled in return. “Quit messin’ with me,” he said with a chuckle. “I got plenty of apples for an apple pie if that’s what yer worried about. And I’ll give ya a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce to hold ya over until it’s ready.”
Octavia clenched her teeth, but said nothing.
“Been meaning to tell ya,” Macintosh continued as he filled a bowl with ice cream and caramel. He set the bowl down in front of her. Octavia only stared at it. “I set up a meeting with Dulcet Tone. It wasn’t easy, but I assured her I only wanted to talk. You’re welcome to come along if ya’d like. Now, I ain’t sayin’ you gotta apologize or anythin’, but I think talkin’ things out will be really good for ya. Who knows, maybe it’ll help get things back to normal.”
“Will you stop?” Octavia snapped. She got out of her seat, kicking her chair to the floor. "I don't want ice cream with a caramel drizzle, I don't want a mouth-watering apple pie, I don't want you to speak to Dulcet Tone on my behalf, and I certainly don't want to see, speak, or apologize to that grizzled, old nag. Do you know what I want, Macintosh? I want you to leave!" Octavia pointed to the door, and Macintosh stared at her.
"You...you don't really mean that, do ya sugar?" he asked.
"I do. Just go, and don't come back until I come and get you."
Macintosh pressed his lips into a tight line and stared at the door. "Is that what you really want?"
"It is," Octavia said, turning away from him. "Now leave."
Macintosh sighed. "Alright, I'm leaving." He made his way to the door. "That meeting with Dulcet is in a week. You really outta go and talk to her. It'll help, I promise." He left without another word between them. The door clicked shut. For the very first time, Octavia felt alone in her apartment. She tossed her untouched ice cream into the sink, and put away what Macintosh had taken out.
She stayed in the guestroom, eating nothing but bread and water, for an entire week. She didn't leave her apartment, she didn't talk to anyone, she didn't even shower. She felt lost in her own home, pacing about in a daze just to pass the time. Without her cello or Macintosh to occupy her time, there was nothing for her to do but wallow in her room. Well, there was one thing she could do. She could go to that meeting with Dulcet Tone. Octavia cringed at the thought.
There was no way she could face Dulcet again, but Macintosh's parting words still played over and over in her head. It would help. A week all alone had softened her to the idea. Macintosh promised, after all. And it wouldn't be as if she had to go apologize. No, of course not. If anything, this was her chance to really give that old mare a beating. 
With her words this time.


-*-


Dulcet Tone lived in the poshest district of Manehattan, in the penthouse suite of Le Chateu Blanc, one of the largest and most gratuitously French skyscrapers in the city. It's bricks were white and speckled, and many a stupid pony claimed them to be made of pure marble. The stories garnered so much notoriety, in fact, that quite a few bricks were missing from the ground floor, making the the building look like a skull with missing teeth. Octavia searched for an intercom but found none. Instead, a doorpony in a spiffy red suit, holding a clipboard, stood in front of a revolving door. Octavia approached the mare, intending to pass by her, but was stopped with a hoof on her chest.
"Name and business, please," the doormare said.
Octavia growled. "Octavia Melody. I'm here to see Dulcet Tone."
The mare flipped through the pages on the clipboard. "I have you here along with a..." The mare peered at the list, and her cheeks suddenly turned a bright shade of red. "Big Macintosh Apple. Where, uh, where is he?" 
“Just let me through,” Octavia said.
The mare nodded and stepped aside. “Top floor.”
The resplendent grandeur of the lobby—it's crystal chandeliers, it's gushing fountains, it's luscious plants—made Octavia absolutely livid for the sole reason that they were not hers. Not even cheap facsimiles resided in her building. Octavia boarded the elevator, a glass box in a clear tube that overlooked the city, and pushed the button to the top floor, the fiftieth floor. With every story past the tenth she rose, Octavia clenched her teeth harder and harder. She stared out at the Manehattan skyline. The glimmering cityscape shimmered down below in a picturesque vista that utterly humiliated Octavia's own balcony view.
The elevator eased to a stop and opened to a short hallway with a large, oak double door. Dark, almost black planks of hardwood comprised the flooring, and several paintings lined the walls. Octavia kept her glare aimed foward and knocked on the door. It opened slowly.
"Yes?" Dulcet Tone called out. Her face fell when she saw Octavia. "Oh, it's you. Have you come for the other cheek?" A faint bruise blemished Dulcet's cheek, the worst of it had already faded way.
"No, my...a pony by the name of Big Macintosh set this up. I suppose he sent you a letter?"
"Ah yes, Big Macintosh Apple," Dulcet said. "The red good-ol'-colt with the muscles and the accent." She opened the door wide. "Well, I suppose you should come in then."
Octavia followed Dulcet inside. Dulcet's apartment was very different from hers. More room and space, of course. There was also more furniture and more sentimental knick-knacks strewn about. A few trophies and ribbons, some pictures of Dulcet with famous fashion designers, pop idols, and royalty along with a well used kitchen gave the apartment a more lived-in look. Anything that Octavia did have in her home, Dulcet had a better, more expensive version of. Better hardwood floors, nicer wallpaper, shinier appliances, cushier sofas.
"Where is that stallion, by the way? Seems a shame for him not to be here after all the trouble he went through," Dulcet said.
Octavia had her hoof on a crystal vase, wondering if she should tip it over or not when Dulcet's voice threw her off her train of thought. "Trouble?"
"I won't go into details, suffice it to say that he managed to knock on my door without being on the list, a great achievment indeed. Now, enough about stallions. Have you come to apologize?"
Octavia scoffed. "I won't apologize until you take back what you said about me and my playing."
Dulcet smiled. "My goodness, still so hot-blooded. You should be grateful that I haven't pressed charges."
"Like I care about that," Octavia snapped. "I'm not afraid to go back to prison. It would be worlds better than you holding it over me until the statute of limitations kicked in."
Dulcet chuckled. "I'm not a very sentimental pony, but it's very hard not to be around you. You remind me of myself when I was your age. Let me guess, you're a rags to riches story. You happened upon a cello, found out you had a modicum of talent, and worked your hooves raw and your personality to sharp stone to get where you are now."
"Stop pretending you know me," Octavia said through curled lips.
"Oh, but I do know you. You're just like me. Which is why I'm going to tell you that everything I said at the concert is absolutely true. I suppose I could have worded it a tad nicer, but we all have bad days." Dulcet shrugged and went to the kitchen to fill a kettle with water and set it on the stove. Octavia just tried not to punch her again. "I know it may not seem like it, but you're very lucky. I wish I'd had someone to tell me I had no talent at your age."
"Shut up!" Octavia stomped her hoof. "Is this your way of getting back at me? Are you getting off on torturing me like this? And what the hell do you know anyway? Just because you're one of the best cellists in Equestria doesn't mean–"
"Was."
The single word deflated Octavia. "What?"
"I was one of the best cellists in Equestria. Not anymore, haven't been for over twenty years." Dulcet went to stand in front of her fireplace. She plucked a small, framed photo from the mantle. "I used to think no one could surpass me until I met her."
She handed Octavia the picture. It was of Dulcet, decades younger, standing intimately close with another mare, one with a mint green coat and soft, lavender eyes. Confused, Octavia handed back the photo, and Dulcet stared at it with a kind smile. "When we first met she was just picking up the cello. She was quite the natural. I was stricken at first sight. To get closer to her, I offered to give her a few pointers, a lesson here, a practice session there." She chuckled and replaced the picture on the mantle. "It wasn't long before she didn't need my lessons anymore."
Dulcet sighed. "Our relationship didn't survive my resentment and jealousy. In the end she revealed what I had always known but feared to realize. I was a fad. A trendy little thing with a bit of talent in her and a lot of talk behind her." She went to the kitchen and turned off the stove.
"Once the authentic article appeared, once a pony with real talent, with a real gift, came along, well, there was no use for me. And there'll be no more use for you soon enough. That's the sad fact of ponies like us, ponies that are only successful through brute force repetition. We always get surpassed."
"That's not going to happen to me," Octavia said.
Dulcet chuckled and poured herself a cup of tea. "Your successor has already shown her face. It will."
"It won't!" Octavia slapped the mug from Dulcet's hooves, and it shattered on the ceramic tile. Octavia stared as the amber liquid crept through the grooves of grout. She hung her head. "It won't," she whispered.
"Surely you must have already known," Dulcet said.
"I...I had thoughts, stupid thoughts. I wasn't–I won't give up just because of some ridiculous notions in my head."
"Why fight the inevitable?" Dulcet asked. "The sooner you accept it and move on the more advantageous your position will be. Here's some free career advice: Get into real estate. I never had any of this," Dulcet gestured to her luxurious home, "until I became a property mogul. I'm sure you would be suited for it. You certainly have a strong enough punch." Dulcet picked up the shards of her mug and set down a dish towel to soak up the spilled tea.
Octavia said nothing and only glared at the ground. "Everything I've worked for. You're saying I should just give it all up?"
"Now now, don't make it sound so bleak. You made it quite far in a profession you simply aren't suited for, and for that you should be commended. But now it's time to accept your limits and move on. I know it will be hard at first, but believe me it gets much easier and much more profitable. Besides, did you ever really enjoy playing the cell? I'm sure it brought you things that you enjoyed: wealth, confidence, respect. But did you enjoy playing it for the sake of playing it? Would you still play even if it couldn't give you a comfortable living."
Octavia sucked in hlips. "I...When I found out my career was over, I threw my cello off my balcony."
Dulcet Tone smiled. "And we have our answer."
"Shit."


-*-


The hike to Macintosh's farm was easy yet long. There were no sheer walls of stone to climb nor were there steep, knee-cracking slopes, but it was a tedious hike. It was a hike that looped and doubled back around the mountains of dry grass and dead trees. The path had definitely been made for ease of travel rather than speed. The trail did not cut through the land as roads in cities did. Rather, the trail did its best best to avoid harsh terrain altogether.
Bright side: it gave Octavia plenty of time to think about how to break up with Big Macintosh. It wouldn't be easy. Macintosh was good at keeping his emotions tightly held behind that stoic face. He wouldn't falter, not even shed a tear, Octavia was sure. But her? Just thinking about ending their relationship made her chest and ribcage want to break into two. She grit her teeth. What the hell was wrong with her? She had to do it. As much as she didn't want to, as much as it would hurt, as much as she would miss how massive and overwhelming his body and kindness were, she had to do it.
She just wished it could have lasted a little longer. He had been a fun one, no doubt about that.
Octavia continued on against the powerful and freezing gales funneled between the mountains until Macintosh's farm came into view. A wooden picket sign welcomed her to 'Royal Farm #26'. Octavia shook her head. Macintosh didn't get naming rights until he won the bet with Princess Luna to outright own the land. A path of wet mud wound through the neatly plowed acres of the farm. Leaves and grass clippings were mixed in with the neatly cut rows of dirt. Octavia scanned the flat terrain but found no big, red stallions. A small shack stood at the far end of the valley, a recent addition to the landscape. If Macintosh wasn't outside then he would be in there.
She approached, her hooves sticking to the mud, and the doors swung open when she was still a couple of feet away. Macintosh shambled out with a yawn, his hulking form sagging with fatigue. Their eyes met, and his face brightened with a smile. He perked up, trotted to her, and locked their lips together before Octavia could say anything.
A bolt of lightning traveled down Octavia's spine. She wrapped her forelegs around Macintosh's neck and deepened the kiss. She gripped his mane and pulled him closer to her. He felt so warm, no, hot, almost blazing. She broke the kiss and buried her nose in his neck. He smelled of sawdust. She shivered as Macintosh brought his hooves around her and hugged her tight, and one of them trailed deliciously down, down, down her back to caress her cutie mark. It had been a long week, and she wanted nothing more than to take him into the shack and slam the door behind them.
Octavia regained control of herself and pushed him away. She felt the cold again. "Macintosh, I..." She stared at the ground as she scavenged for the right words. She blinked. His hooves were wrapped in white bandages stained with splatterings of blood but nothing else, not even dirt. They were fresh. Octavia narrowed her eyes. "What were you doing?"
Macintosh's eyes darted to his hooves and back to her. "Oh this, I was just, uh..." He gave her a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his neck. "Aw heck, I was hoping to make a couple more to really perfect it, but since you're here already." Macintosh nodded his head toward the shed, and Octavia raised an eyebrow. He opened the door for her, and she walked in.
Dust swirled in the air inside, and a thin layer of wood shavings covered the floor. Scrap wood, carved in very familiar shapes, was stacked all the way to the ceiling. They looked like the discarded scrolls and necks of several cellos. At one corner, behind a workbench burdened with chisels and other woodcarving tools, was something tall hidden beneath a sheet.
Octavia widened her eyes. "Macintosh, tell me you didn't–"
"Eeyup," Macintosh said with a smile. He went to the cloth and pulled it off a finished cello.
Octavia stared and timidly approached. The cello shined. She ran a hoof along its body, smooth and darkly stained. It was strung and ready to play. She grabbed it and plucked at the strings, their deep resonance made the air tremble. It was perfect. She hated it.
"Why?" Octavia shook her head. "Damn it, why?"
"I figured you might need another one after, well, ya know," Macintosh said with a smile. "So I checked out a few books from the library in Ponyville, got some lumber from Sweet Apple Acres, and had Fiddly Faddle try out the prototypes and give me some feedback. Took some time, lots of wood, and a whole lotta splinters, but I think it turned out all right, all things considered."
Octavia shook her head and pushed the cello against his chest. "I've given up the cello. Throw it away. Burn it. Get rid of it. I never want to see a cello again for the rest of my miserable life." She headed for the door. "And the next time you want to do something for me, don't. Because every time you do it just reminds me how much I don't deserve it, how much I don't deserve anything I have."
"Octavia." Macintosh's voice was so quiet and calm that it forced her to turn and face him. He looked neither angry nor sad. He had a kind smile and a soft gaze that she had seen him give Rainbow Dash before she went off to her extended stay in Cloudsdale. She remembered being a tiny bit jealous then.
Macintosh took a couple of steps toward her and held out the cello to her. "Take it, sugar. You'll regret it if you don't."
Octavia sneered. "And how do you know?"
Macintosh stepped closer and touched the tip of his nose to hers, and when he spoke his breath smelled of sweet cider. "Because I know you, Octi. I know ya like I know my own heart. I know that you always get bad dreams before a big performance. I know that you hate spendin' time in a crowd of ponies, especially if you gotta talk to 'em. I know that you're too hard on yourself, and you can't enjoy something unless you feel like you earned it. And I know that if you don't take this cello you're going to regret it."
Octavia laughed through clenched teeth. "Don't be stupid, Macintosh. You don't know me. If you knew me you would be galloping the other way. So don't pretend to know what's best for me. In fact, just stop being around me. We're thr–"
"Am I interrupting something?" A well enunciated voice lilted inside the shack. Octavia and Macintosh turned to Luna standing in the doorway. They bowed, and Macintosh gave Octavia back the cello before he addressed the princess.
"Of course not, Princess Luna, but, uh, what're you doin' here, if you don't mind me asking? Your monthly inspection was two weeks ago."
Luna narrowed her bright blue eyes. "I came to discuss our agreement. If you would join me outside?" She gave a pointed look at Octavia, and Octavia blew her a kiss in return. Luna grimaced as if licked by a timberwolf. Good ol' Luna, she was always fun to play around with and always lightened up Octavia's mood.
"Of course," Macintosh said. He followed Luna outside the shack. They walked a few feet away before stopping, and Octavia peeked her head out the door to eavesdrop.
"I had the soil samples examined by the royal edaphologists," Luna began.
"How'd it go?"Macintosh asked.
"The results were appalling," Luna said, her voice taking a harsh edge sharper than a knife. "Salinity, drainage, nitrogen, nitrites, none of it has changed. All absolutely abymal. Two months you've tended to this land, all for nothing. So I, out of the graciousness of my heart, have decided to offer you a deal. We simply walk away from this agreement. You keep the money we have payed you, and you stop wasting all of our time. Simple as that."
Octavia growled, teeth bared and hackles raised. She stomped toward them, ready to commit another offense of assault and battery.
Macintosh's chuckle stopped her, and she retreated back into the shack. He dragged his hoof in the dirt and picked up a soggy clump. "Walk away? From this? Not on your life. It's true, I've done all I can, and to hear that nothing's changed, well, it's a bit discouraging. A lot discouraging, actually. But I can't give up. This land might not look like much, just a dead plot of dirt, but I know that all my hard work is going to pay off. I believe that, I have to, because farming is all I can do." He allowed the dirt to fall from his hoof.
Luna clucked. "Is that all you can say? It's certainly not making me believe in your abilities."
"That's okay," Macintosh said with a grin. "If there's one thing I've learned from Octavia, it's to ignore the ponies that doubt you. Better yet, prove them wrong. So I hope to prove you wrong by the end of the year, Princess Luna."
"We shall see, Macintosh Apple." Luna left angrier than she had arrived, and Octavia felt a little bit of forgotten pride well up in her chest.
Macintosh returned to the shack, and Octavia's grip around the cello neck tightened. " Macintosh, I..." Octavia trailed off and remained silent for a moment. She stared at the ground, her weight leaning on the cello like a cane. "I came here to break up with you because I was going to give up the cello, and I didn't know what I would no next to support myself...and you. I couldn't guarantee you a comfortable living, and so I decided to end our relationship. But now, I'm going back to the cello, I'm not going to give up, but I'm still breaking up with you. It might take me years to repair my reputation and my lifestyle. If—no—when I regain what I've lost, and you haven't moved on to another mare that doesn't care much for threesomes, then I'll come back for you. If you'll have me."
Macintosh tilted his head at her. He brought a hoof to her chin and lifted her head to look into her eyes. He smiled. "Sorry, sugar, but you're stuck with me. For better or worse. Or until you actually mean it when you say you're breaking up with me."
Octavia smiled, actually relieved, as if a dire pain in her chest had lifted. "I don't deserve you," she whispered.
Macintosh chuckled. "Sugar, Pincess Celestia doesn't deserve me. Now, are you just gonna stand there feelin' inadequate, or are we gonna run back home and make up for this week apart?"
"Home?" Octavia said with a raised eyebrow. She set the cello back on its stand and moved in front of the workbench. With one sweep of her hoof she cleared it away, Mac's tools falling to the side.
Macintosh smiled. "Sugar, it's me that doesn't deserve you."


-*-


The soft thud of rain hit the shed's roof and nudged Octavia out of sleep. She lay on top of Macintosh's stomach, a lovelier mattress than the sawdust on the floor. She yawned and hopped off of him. Her legs wobbled, and she had to brace herself against the workbench to keep herself standing. She stumbled to the door and peered outside to watch the rain and think.
She didn't know whether she could be successful with the cello, the kind of success a pony with natural talent would usually garner. All she knew was that she wanted to surpass Dulcet in all aspects. She wanted to surpass everyone that dared to pick up a cello. Yet, she really had no idea how to accomplish it. All she could do was practice, and hope that that would be enough.
Outside, Macintosh's neatly plowed rows turned into a disorderly mush. The rain washing away all of his hard work. She sighed and ran a hoof through her mane. That was enough rain-watching for now. She wobbled back to Macintosh and settled down beside him. He rolled over, still asleep, and hugged her tight. The thought of him by her side through the uncertainty of the future, well, it made her a little less scared.
Octavia rolled her eyes at her own sentimentality. She really was getting soft.