• Published 16th Jul 2013
  • 1,640 Views, 52 Comments

Refrain - NTSTS



My name is Octavia. I play the piano. I'm not sure that's the best introduction, but it's the one I've used for most of my life, so maybe it will do for now.

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Chapter 6

“I’ve been accepted as a pianist in the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra.”

Two weeks after graduation and I’d already gotten a letter. No shortage of scholarships either, though the screening board stressed they would have been happy to accept me on the strength of my performance alone. I hadn’t even needed to apply for the position—a scout present at my scholarship application had been delighted at my display. Signed me up on the spot. Me, who’d never played a concert in my life. Now a scholarship and a position with the symphony. It was almost too good to be true.

My mother beamed, as much as she ever could, when I told her the news.

“That’s wonderful, dear,” she said, in that way she so often said it. “I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Dinner was the same as always. More sludge. For years, every day. Tick tick.

“Do you know what you’re doing for housing? Canterlot can be quite expensive. Good deal of nobility in the city, of course. I’m sure you’ll fit right in though.”

I took a drink of my water and let it settle before speaking.

“The orchestra supplies accommodations for all its performers. I’ll have a small apartment to myself, in addition to a salary.”

“That’s lovely, dear. My goodness, you really have grown up, haven’t you? Moving off to Canterlot, joining the symphony, getting a place of your own... promise you won’t forget about your mother when you’re off in Canterlot, being famous.”

Forget?

“I won’t. I promise.”

Another drink of water.

“And do be sure to send tickets if they give you any to spare. I’d simply die if I didn’t see you in concert. At your first one, at least.”

“Of course, Mother. I’m not sure yet, but I’ll see how things go.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.”


The first day in Canterlot was everything and nothing like what I’d expected.

For one, while my mother had stressed to me over and over that proper manners must be abided by, nopony else in the city seemed quite as adherent to that principle as I was. They were friendly enough, certainly, but seemed mostly just to chuckle when I curtsied and spoke in fancy diction, and called everyone ‘sir’ or ‘madame.’ I was sensible enough to give it up after the third stop in a row with strange looks. It’s not as though I’m not capable of speaking normally—it’s just that, from everything my mother had told me, Canterlot ponies were a different breed, with different expectations. I learned that wasn’t true after only a day, which left that much more to wonder about thereafter.

Being used to a two story house, the apartment the Orchestra supplied was small in comparison—though, in further comparison, when the only rooms I ever occupied where my bedroom and the music room, it was a bit jarring to have an entire living space to myself. Furnished as well, with couches, tables, chairs, appliances, a nice view out from the deck... oh, and of course, a separate room for the piano. Soundproof, I was assured. Anyone with noise complaints should direct them to The Canterlot Symphony Orchestra. I told them I’d keep that in mind.

The first thing I unpacked, I set on top of the piano, and thereafter into motion. Tick tick. Tick tick.

An hour of practice, every day. For once, she wasn’t there to hear it. But the notes came the same anyway, as they always did.


The symphony hall was unlike anything I’d ever seen. As opposed to the ponies I was introduced to, who I could tell had performed and toured since their youth, the only recitals I had ever given were for Grace Note and my mother, and the latter with usually disastrous results. Seeing an entire venue sprawled out with seats, ready to be packed to the brim with throngs of ponies waiting to judge my every motion, criticize my every error... well, that was something.

“You’ll do fine,” the director assured me. “Everyone is a little nervous their first time, but you’re here because you’re good at what you do. Plus, we have a whole month of recitals before your first show. You’ll be ready in no time, I bet.”

The whole orchestra seemed to eye me as I walked by. It wasn’t hard looking like I fit in—leaving my mane long, styling it just so. I could even adopt that snooty look mother always wore, if need be. But I didn’t feel like I fit in. And more to that, I don’t think it was fitting in that they were worried about. They were already judging me—me, the concert pianist, scooped up from a small town nearby to play in one of the most prestigious orchestras in Equestria. And going to school at the same time? What kind of flub was the orchestra director, appointing me as the pianist? Surely I must have bribed him, slept with him, coerced him in some way to letting me get the position.

On the first day, a sheet of music was laid out in front of me.

“Hoofward Grieg,” the director said, leaving me the sheets. “Piano Concerto in A Minor. You’re familiar with it?”

I nodded. “Not particularly, though I’ve played it a few times.”

“That’s fine. Better than nothing at least, you’ve got a head start on a few of the gang. Study tonight and we’ll do our first practice tomorrow. If that’s not too swift a turnaround for you?”

I thought about what was waiting for me back at the apartment. Furniture. A view out the deck. A piano.

“No, that will be fine.”

“Good. We’ll see you then.”


I had just finished my first practice when the message came. Backstage with the director and some of the other performers, including the reserve pianist.

“Now, Concerto, you have to give the girl a bit of a chance to adjust. This is her first time working in this sort of setting, you understand.”

“Then why is she being chosen in the first place? I’ve played in concert halls my whole life, and some hillbilly from backwater Ponyville is chosen to fill the most important spot in the orchestra? And not even that, but to do it so poorly?”

“I’m sorry.” I let my head sink, though not so low that I’d appear to be sulking. I hoped.

“You should be. That was the most emotionless performance of that piece I’ve ever heard. Why don’t we just hire a set of birds to peck the keys on time? As long as they hit all the right notes, yes?”

The director stood up at that point and went off with the backup pianist, Concerto. A brown coat and mane to match. No horn or wings. And of course, he deserved the position much more than I did.

“Sorry,” I said again. The rest of the orchestra was listening, surely, though none of them said what was on their minds quite as viciously as Concerto did. I had to admit at that point that my acceptance might have indeed been a mistake. While the context of playing with other musicians didn’t throw me off, Concerto was right; the notes were just notes. I played them exactly as they were written. The screening committed hadn’t had any problems with my audition or performance. Maybe I’d played differently there.

“Sorry,” I said for a third time, quietly, mostly to myself.

It was then that the pony with the envelope came. He spoke to someone at the door who nodded him past, pointing to me. I stood up from the piano to greet him, with a vague remembrance of the last time I’d received a letter coming to the front of my mind.

“Miss Octavia?” He asked my name despite the fact that he’d been very pointedly aimed in my direction. Nevertheless, I nodded.

“Letter for you,” he said. “Urgent.”

“What is it?” I said. If it was something so important, surely there was a chance he knew the contents without me having to open them.

“It’s your mother, miss. She’s, uh... in the hospital.”


I’d never been to a hospital before. For all the mystery illnesses I might have contracted in my youth, maybe my mother’s horribly prepared vegetables warded them off, because I’d never had to fight anything more than a few days’ stomach cold. With that in mind, hospitals weren’t something I was entirely familiar with.

The doctors were very nice when leading me to my mother’s room. All warm smiles and sympathy. One of them met me at her door, a yellow-coated unicorn with a brown mane. He smiled at me. I smiled back. Polite, proper. Manners always.

“Miss Octavia?” He extended his hoof, which I shook. “I’m Doctor Stable. I”d like to go over your mother’s chart, if you have a moment?”

I nodded. I wasn’t about to barge in to see her, in any case.

“Your mother has... well, it’s almost certainly verifiable that she has some form of cancer. We haven’t gotten full oncology reports back at this time, but we’re most likely looking at lung, liver, or both.”

I know I heard those words, and I knew what they meant. Cancer. Liver, lungs. Obvious, from the years of cigarettes and wine. But that was something that happened to other ponies, wasn’t it? Surely, the things I’d just heard couldn’t apply to my mother.

“Cancer,” I said. The doctor nodded.

“It seems to be at quite a severe stage already. It’s very likely it was simply undiagnosed for some time and has only now just reached what we might call a ‘critical point’.”

“I see.”

The doctor’s smile had vanished. I think he expected me to say more than that, because it took him a few seconds to pick up.

“There are a few things we can do at this point. Traditional radiation is right out, unfortunately, and operating at this point would be pointless, as we’re not even sure there are any tumors causing the symptoms.”

I nodded. Still more words he was saying, that I knew, but didn’t know here, now.

“There’s an experimental treatment being deployed in some hospitals right now,” he went on, “involving unicorn magic. There aren’t any proven side-effects. Conversely, the success rate isn’t as high as we’d like it... if anything, it might just waylay the time until her... passing.”

“Her death, you mean.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows at my use of such blunt terminology, but cleared his throat and recovered admirably.

“Er... yes. Her death.”

“So she is dying,” I said. I wanted it to sound sad, miserable, listless. I know for certain that I didn’t cry. I hope I didn't smile.

“Well... yes. With cancer in this stage, any remission would be a miracle... after which we’d theoretically proceed with further treatment and heavy monitoring thereafter.”

“I see.”

Another pause that went on for too long. He seemed to be expecting me to say something else.

“I’ll uh... would you like me to leave you for a bit? I know news like this can be quite upsetting—”

“No, it’s fine.” I turned around from the short distance we had walked, back to the door I had met him in front of. “This is her room, yes?”

“Uh, yes, it is. She was still awake, last I checked, though I’m not sure you’ll—”

“Thank you.” I pushed open the door without waiting for him to finish. I’m not sure if that qualified under ‘poor manners’, but I imagine giving the circumstance he could forgive a sudden absence of formality.

Seeing her there was... odd. My mother, whom I’d stumbled upon countless times, passed out on the floor, on the couch, on the living room table, amidst her towers of figurines, often flickering between lucidity and unconscious drunkenness—never in all that time had she looked as helpless as she did now.

She was lying on what I imagine is the prototypical hospital bed—white sheets, bars at the sides, tilted up towards the top, that sort of thing—and there was a machine hooked up to her. One or several, in any case, most of them beeping, one holding sacks filled with fluid, the other making horrible gasping noises like a frog breathing its last breath as it expired. And her, laying there, eyes half-open, the last curl of polish taken from her mane, the last stare of dignity robbed from her eyes. On that bed, the mother who had hummed me a tune I would carry with me through every instant of my life looked more helpless than an abandoned child.

She tried to sit up as I walked closer but gave up halfway through and collapsed back onto the bed.

“Dear,” she said. Her voice sounded raspy, thin, like the crystal in her glass had finally crumbled after too much misuse. “I'm so glad... you could make it. The doctors at this place are... louts. Don’t know... the first thing... about medicine.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, at her bedside, watching her breathe. Watching the rise and fall of her chest, and the struggling of her hooves at her sides to hold her upright, failing every few seconds and giving up, letting her slump back down into her hospital mattress.

“Octavia, dear. Are you... alright?”

And she was asking me.

“I’m fine, Mother,” I said. I walked closer to her, holding out my hoof. After a few false starts, she managed to raise hers as well and met mine. I could feel a shake in her foreleg as we touched, before the effort became too much and she let her hoof fall back to the bed.

“How is... your position with... the symphony going?” The pauses were where she sucked in air, rattling it in her lungs, quivering like the last drop of liquid squeezed from a half-filled sack. Like wet burlap shuffling over shifting bricks.

“It’s... well. It’s going well.”

She smiled, which, in her state, full of plugs and tubes, made her look like a corpse being pulled by puppet strings.

The mare in front of me was my mother, who a week ago had seemed as healthy as she had ever been. Which, is to say, not that much. And now, suddenly, lying here like this.

“I hope I’ll... get to see you... play soon.”

I reached out my hoof again. She tried to lift hers, but I pressed down, holding her foreleg to the bed, gently. Running my hoof over her coat.

The words wouldn’t come.

“It’s... sweet of you... to come back so suddenly... but don’t worry. I’ll be... fine in no time. Bunch of... unicorns, you know... with their magic, and such. Doctor said... it should fix me... right up.”

I pressed down on her hoof harder. The machines beeped in the background. The breathing, sucking sound. Tubes.

“Dear... do say something...”

My eyes snapped open, like the start when waking.

“I’m sorry, Mother. Yes, I spoke to the doctor as well. He said that it’s an experimental—”

“That’s what... they always say... when it’s too good for... the public. But ponies like... you and I... get special treatment.” The last word came with a cough, which sent my mother into a hacking fit. I tensed for a moment as the machines beeped louder, but the fit stopped as quickly as it had started. Her hoof had shaken against mine when she moved.

“Don’t stay too long... on my account,” she said, rolling her eyes in an effusive sort of fashion, like cored apples rolling around in a skull. “I’m sure you’ve got... lots of practice... to do.”

“I do,” I said.

“You should... convince them to... do a performance of... that song you love. The one I taught you. It’s such a... wonderful one.”

I nodded.

“It is.”

And then there was silence, but for the breathing, the hissing, the beeping of the things in the background. The steady rhythm of the in and out. Tick tick. Tick tick. Over and over.

Her eyes closed then. I held her hoof tighter and looked up to one of the many machines outputting a string of incomprehensible information.

It kept beeping. No team of doctors rushed into the room. The line in the center bounced upward in a rhythm. Steady rhythm. Beep. Beep. Tick. Tick.

Rhythm is everywhere, they say. Very important.

I pulled the blankets up over her before I left. The next train wasn’t until the following afternoon.


Another rehearsal ended in the same stead. Concerto kept quiet this time, but I could hear what he was thinking. What everypony was thinking. Let her go to school and leave symphony work for the professionals. What is she trying at, playing in the big leagues. Such a shame about her mother though. Haven’t heard back from the doctor yet.

After the second night’s rehearsal, the rest of the orchestra was quick to take off. I stayed for a while, letting the other performers leave, lock up their things, dim the lights. Of course their pianist had a key to the symphony hall, not that I needed it. The place locks itself up. But I waited until it was just me, sitting on stage, alone at the piano.

I put the piece of paper I’d brought with me up on the piano. Not a piece of sheet music. A letter. One I’d received that morning. Addressed from the hospital.

I didn’t open it.

The lights were gone. It was almost impossible to see the keys in front of my face, but I didn’t need them. I had the tick in my head. My hooves knew where to go, the same way they always knew. The same notes I could play as easy as breathing. One, and then the other. C. A. C. A.

For the first time, on that piano I didn’t know, they sounded real. The concerto was already forgotten. Nothing ever before like that C. That A. Moving in the same direction I always had. The minor refrain before ascending, up, ever up, and before the chorus. Pause.

My hooves felt heavy. If they were wet, I’m not sure. There was no sheet music to dampen. Just the envelope.

The symphony hall was empty. Down. The chorus.

I sang it. I’d never sung it before. That was always for her. No matter how she was, there was always a way to hear it. She could pick out the notes from a mile away. I could hear her every night, even if she didn’t sing. Always going along. The same sound. Then, the first thing, and now here. For a whole empty audience. No light, and no need for it. The refrain she wouldn’t let me play too loud, because I knew it would make her cry. Crying. And still singing, the way she would, no matter what was wrong.

I know she sang it in those sheets. Among the keeping time of those steady beeps. Beep. Beep. Rhythm. Hers and mine. The words I didn’t know the meaning of for so long.

They don’t have to mean anything. They just are. Just notes that we repeat, over and over again.

Tick. Tick.

C. A. C. A.

And soft, soft silence in the darkness.


“I want to give up the piano position.”

The director raised an eyebrow at me over his paper, tempered only by the fact that I think he might have thought I was joking. It was enough to make him lower his paper, which he did, and to put out his cigarette also, which he did further.

“That’d be quite a statement, coming from the youngest applicant ever to be given that position—let alone with no performance experience, based solely on the expertise of her audition.”

“I know.” In a contrast to my tone, I kept my head high. Chin raised. Nose pointed straight ahead. “I just don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

“Listen.” The director sat up properly and pushed his chair back a little bit as he adjusted—and then, finally seeming unhappy with his position, stood up, and put one hoof on my shoulder. I looked down at it, then back up at him.

“I know you’re having a hard time,” he said. “And take it from me, I know, Concerto’s an asshole—I’ve worked with the guy before. Don’t let him giving you a hard time scare you away. This is a big opportunity!”

With my left hoof, I touched his and slowly lifted it off my shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He sighed.

“You do realize this is going to be quite complicated? Even if we sub Concerto in, he still has to practice—trust me, I’ve seen his Grieg, and it is not up to snuff. You know this means losing your apartment as well, yes?”

“I know. Although...”

“Yes?”

I stepped back from the director, standing off to the side of the stage where the rest of the performers were getting their instruments ready. A host of strings, woodwinds and even some brass, and the percussion section, who sat in an array of confusing looking arrangements of things to beat in perfect tempo.

Somewhere in there.

“I’d like to request a transfer, actually.”

“To a different instrument?” The director scratched his head with a perturbed look on his face. “You know you auditioned for the piano position, right? Even if we had a chair open, which I’m not saying we do, you’d need to apply again, and get approved a second time.”

“I know.”

The silence hung between us for a few seconds before he sighed.

“Alright,” he said. “What instrument did you want to audition for? I’m not making any promises, mind, though you might convince me to cut you some slack on account of...” He left his sentence unfinished. Tick tick.

“I want to play the cello,” I said. The first time I’d ever said it. The words sounded right in my mouth.

“The cello?” The director looked downstage to the rest of the orchestra setting up, in particular at the string section, where two cellists were preparing their bows.

“Do you know how to play the cello?”

I looked down the stage then. At the bass bodies leaned against them in the pit—the strings that crooned like phantoms when depressed, the bows, like swords, cutting a swath of melancholy through the air, haunting, but still beautiful.

I held my hoof out for a moment, and felt something in the air that might not be there now, but would be there, soon.

“I’m led to believe I may have a certain aptitude for it,” I said.

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got then.”


The lights were bright. I remember that distinctly, how bright they were, shining from overhead like someone had let the sun inside. The music on the stand in front of me was so light I was surprised it didn’t catch flame, though it wouldn’t have mattered if it had. There was enough memory in my hooves to move without it. Something like what I’d practiced. Practice and you can learn anything that way. Over and over again. As long as you have the rhythm for it.

The lights dimmed. All at once, the sound in the background, like ponies bustling at lunch, on the playground, in the market or at a dance, suddenly hushed. The quiet, only of shuffling papers. One clearing throat. The sudden precipitation of hooves tensed to create sound.

And then sound. Sound, rolling, rumbling, into the flourish of a piano. Not mine.

Then me. That note. The same as every note. C. A. The rhythm. Tick tick. Tick tick. All the same. Over and over, all the same.

The lights were very bright. I remember that distinctly.

And the notes were the same, though in different order. Every time, they’re always just notes.


So why, for the first time playing them, did I feel happy?

Comments ( 34 )

Wow, didn't expect a complete story all at once. That's a good habit to fall into, I guess. No sudden drop-offs as you get writer's block...

OOOOO.

This should be a fun read.

Sad, but fun...

~Skeeter The Lurker

faget fake an gay lolololol (okay, fine, I'll read it - your horsewords are always worth it:pinkiecrazy:)

2885651 Ever read a happy Octavia story that isn't with Vinyl and clopping? Just now part of her persona, I guess...

2885680

I will say, it is refreshing to see one that isn't.

~Skeeter The Lurker

2885716 Well, thankfully not as bad as "Puppet to her fame" and I like it's different type of controlling compared with "University Days".

Psssst, don't tell NTSTS, but this one is better than Erase and Rewind.

Thanks for the opportunity to help on this. However much I ragged on parts of it, this is damn fine work.

2885762
Thanks, Vim. Your editing help was very much appreciated, even though I ended up ignoring one of your major suggestions (and everyone else's). Because I'm CRAZY.

2885782 I agree, but then again, I sit at home and eat a cake. No more. At least I don't spend the rest of the night vomiting.

That ending.

Holy hell.

~Skeeter The Lurker

2885790

True enough. I normally go out to a restaurant. Most times alone.

~Skeeter The Lurker

2885853 Wow. I agree.

To be honest, it probably didn't help first intentions of the story if I just finished reading part of "Cheerilee's Garden"

2885930

Heh. Probably not.

~Skeeter The Lurker

Nice story writing. I AWAIT MOAR:yay:

This story is near perfect in every god damn way.

All Octavia fics these days have to do with romance with Vinyl. I don't even like that pairing. This fic was refreshing and awesome.

2885750
I tried to tell 'em. Oh, I tried.

2889235
So much this... I didn't even realize it until you pointed it out just now.

What kills me the most is that I should hate this story to death... it's got nothing I actively look for. And yet, once I reached the one-third mark, it pulled me in and held my interest. Stories rarely do that to me anymore. You have my sincere thanks.

2894486
I still loved yours, of course :twilightsmile:

2894516
Erase and rewind is certainly very good at what it does, though it tends to lean heavily on a bizarre premise and a ton of dialogue... both calculated moves on my part to play to my strengths. The mood and atmosphere is potent, but rather minimalistic.

But there's no doubt that Refrain tackled a wider variety of storytelling elements, and executed them all at least as well as I did. The writing is definitely stronger, and the premise manages to be quite compelling without a heaping dose of surreality.

And there's fewer spelling and grammar mistakes. :twilightblush:

2896457
Glad someone noticed. It certainly adds a lot (to me, anyway) to know which pieces I'm referring to.

The song Octavia plays/sings, as taught by her mother, is an actual piece too, though I took some liberties with it. See if you can figure out what it is based on the clues. :twilightsmile:

This story was amazing!:twilightsmile: I "liked" it after the first chapter and by the 3rd I had placed it in my "favorites" which I normally only do after I've finished the story. I've got an idea of what the piece was that Tavi's mom taught her, but I want to make sure first. It's been a few years since I last studied music.:twilightblush: I really want to get back into it though.

2896470
Given only eight notes, no good hints as to the pacing and syncopation thereof, no lyrics, and that it's a traditional folk song, the closest I was able to come was this, which is almost certainly wrong but at least thematically seems appropriate:

The same pattern shows up in classical works from Beethoven to Mahler, but usually in obscure ways, nothing that leaps out at me.

2903991
The particular rhythm of the notes might make determination easier, but I think I only alluded to that in one or two sections. It's also worth saying that the notes should be interpreted as chords, not a melody. It's also not a traditional piece of classical music.

I did take some liberties with it, so I'm not expecting anyone to guess (given the two hundred some people who have read it, anyway). Good on you for trying though.

Just wanted to say how great this was! I *really* liked the handling of the relationship between Octavia and her mother. I didn't feel like it was heavy-handed at all - it's hard to explain, but I was able to get pretty immersed in the story, which is neat.

Also, I thought the portrayal of the mother as a complicated, flawed character was great. I felt both frustrated and sorry for her. I feel like the mother's story could be a great, tragic tale in and of itself. I always like it when you can sympathize with the "bad guy" of the story. Very cool.

Thank you for this wonderful piece of writing.

Very powerful and sentimental, but without feeling manipulative. By the time her Mother dies, you can't help to hate and pity her, in equal measures. Great writing, beyond any doubt.

i wish i could be happy, but ill take joy in octavias happiness.:trixieshiftleft:

This was full of a flock of feels, tugging on my heartstrings like a bow across a cello. I read and as I read the story drew me in to make me the story made me.

Faved. And that is not something I do often. I have faved 36 stories and I have read hundreds, possibly thousands, of good ones.

This is a favorite.

Also, added to The Dreamers.

Your story is magic. Thank you.

Very well done! :fluttercry:

Great story. Loved it.

Beautiful! This deserves more attention! I can't believe it's been 6 years since someone last left a comment!

...it really speaks to a lot of my own experience with my own mother. The details are vastly different, but the themes are all the same.

Thank you for recognizing my experience.

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