A Mortal Melody
I cannot stop my heart from pounding in my chest as I approach the grand entryway to the concert hall. I know that I look horrendously out of place among the elite of Canterlot; even discounting my eyes, which never cease to draw disparaging gazes from the crowd, my dress is a shapeless, untailored thing, a cheap and gaudy piece that I purchased out of a department store. I had considered asking Rarity for the loan of one of her creations, but I do not like to impose. Besides, she would have asked after the occasion, and I would prefer to keep this to myself.
Even Dinky does not know where I am tonight. She is not worried; I left her with Time Turner for the evening, and he is wonderful with her. He does know where I am, but he knows enough to keep it to himself.
There is a slight twinge of guilt at the back of my mind for not asking them to accompany me, but I push it aside. Dinky would not want to come in the first place, and I will have other opportunities to see Time Turner. Besides, he understands. Tonight, out of all the nights of the year, is for me.
I could not have afforded a second ticket anyway. It took six months to scrape together enough bits for the one, and the train took another month. Being Ponyville's mail mare, while steady and an opportunity that I am incredibly grateful for, does not pay much. Most of what little there is, once the monthly bills are paid, goes towards Dinky's college fund.
Another pang of guilt. Tonight could have gone towards that as well. But, as much as I hate to do it, I need this night. Not to get away from my daughter, or to escape from Ponyville, or anything of the sort, but I need it all the same.
That thought gives me pause for a moment, and I stand amid the crowd, turning it over and over in my mind. It is odd to think about it that way, in terms of need. But it is true, as strange as it sounds to me at first. I need this. Even though I know that tonight will hurt me horribly, I need this. I need to see her.
Eventually, the movement of the crush of bodies arranges it so that I am next in line. I present my ticket to the guard, who gives it a critical once-over before nodding and motioning for me to enter. He does not even notice my dress, or my eyes. I am just another face in the crowd to him.
I like that. Ditzy Doo has not come to this concert hall to be seen. Most of the others here did; after all, tonight's performance will be taking place before the Princesses themselves. Anypony who is anypony wants to be here just to say that they were.
And then there is me. I admit, some part of me is excited to be surrounded by such opulence and elegance. The foyer I have entered is full of red velvet and gold trimming and crystal chandeliers bathing everything in a warm, amber light. And the thought of the princesses arriving in person later does send a thrill down my spine, even though I know that they will not be paying any attention to me whatsoever. It is a visceral thing, and I know that it is the same feeling that drew in the rest of the attendees.
Tonight, it says, tonight, you will be in the presence of royalty. Tonight, you will sit in the same concert hall and be moved by the same music. Tonight, and tonight only, you will be part of the same crowd. Tonight, you can think of yourself as their equal.
It is a nice thought, but it is not really why I am here. For a few moments, I find my thoughts drifting towards why I did so want to come, but I push them aside. The time for that will come later.
For now, I simply smile to myself and watch as the other ponies go by. I recognize a few of them from various newspaper articles: Fancy Pants, Fleur de Lis, Sapphire Shores. The faces of Equestria's highest social circles, all here and all dressed in their absolute finest. Dressed, as they say, to impress. Again, I remember that my own dress is hardly more than a tablecloth held together with safety pins, while the tie for Fancy Pants' ensemble alone likely cost more than I will make in my entire life.
Nopony notices. I have found a quiet corner in the foyer all to myself, and everypony is too busy trying to catch the eye of somepony more important to look at me now. Outside, they all stared and muttered. In here, they do not care. I am inside, so I am part of their world. Admittedly, I am part of the background of their world, but it is good enough for me, and I simply watch them interestedly while I wait for the inner doors to open.
I am not entirely sure how long it is before they do, but it feels like an eternity. For all the beauty of this room, for all that it is nice to stand among the Canterlot upper crust, it is not why I am here. By the time that the ushers begin showing everypony to their seats, I am filled with a nervous energy that I cannot quite control. I shiver excitedly as I step back into line, and cannot stop myself from giving the young colt who is my usher an embarrassed grin when he glances at my eyes. He offers no comment, but instead takes my ticket, checks the seat number, and sends me on my way. That helps. Tonight will hurt badly enough without the staff insulting my appearance.
My seat is in the uppermost balcony, that part of the theater referred to as the "nosebleed seats". I could not have afforded anything closer without another several months' time, but I do not mind. I have never been bothered by heights, and I do not need to be close to the stage to appreciate the performance.
I sit down between a stallion who, if I am not mistaken, must be from Saddle Arabia and some mare whose thick Manehattan accent cuts sharply through the air as she speaks with her companions. It strikes me that I am quite possibly the only mare here without a date. It should be a sad thought, but it fails to be so, somehow. I would prefer to be alone tonight. I do not want anypony else to see this. Slowly, I allow myself to sink back into my seat, absorbed by my thoughts.
The dull buzz of conversation dips sharply for a moment. By the time I spot Princesses Celestia and Luna taking up their reserved seats in the royal box, everypony has already started talking again. I am not quite as excited by their appearance as the rest of the crowd. They are not who I am here to see.
Once again, I settle in to wait, and the nervous energy from before wells up. I find myself fidgeting uncontrollably, provoking several disapproving glances from the stallion beside me. I smile up at him, trying to apologize without actually saying anything. He merely snorts, rolls his eyes, and turns back to his companion.
Despite myself, despite knowing that I would be out of place here and that ponies would judge me for it, I find myself feeling hurt. He had seen my eyes, and dismissed me for it. Or perhaps he had seen my dress. It does not really matter. Either way, his opinion is the same.
I shake my head and attempt to block out everything around me. My focus goes back to the stage. That is what I am there for. It is what I need. Everything else is secondary.
Soon, the lights begin to dim. I pull myself out of my reverie, sit up straight. My breath catches in my throat.
There is no announcement, no lead-in or introduction. It is not as though there needs to be one. Every pony in the concert hall knows who they are here to see. An introduction would only cheapen the moment. The lights simply dim, leaving all of us suspended in warm darkness as the curtain lifts.
Then a spotlight turns on, and she is there. I feel a shock travel through my chest, as though I have been stabbed.
Her name is Octavia Melody. Even from this distance, even with my lazy eye, there is no mistaking her, or the instrument she holds.
No one applauds. No one moves. I am not sure I am even breathing. In this moment, I feel the connection between those of us in the crowd and the mare on the stage take form. She is the musician, but she does not play a cello. We are her instrument. The music is merely the medium.
Then she begins to play, and I am swept away by the song. Every note sears itself across my soul.
I know every piece she plays by heart. I know every note and every rest, every measure and every melody like they were pieces of myself. They blaze through my mind as she plays, taking me out of the concert hall and into a world consisting of perfect, pristine beauty.
I know that I am crying. I cannot control it, and I do not try to. Others may be weeping openly as well, but I am not paying attention to them. I am focused entirely on her music. It fills the concert hall. It fills me, and for a moment, even my own inner pains are washed away.
She pours everything that she is into it. It is not merely a physical activity, not as simple as pulling a bow across the strings and playing the proper notes. She does not play the music for us. She is the music, and she gives herself to us, completely and utterly. She shows us everything that she feels, everything that makes her the mare that she is. She bares herself to the world. To us.
And she is beautiful.
Time passes. I do not know how long. It seems like an eternity, and it is not nearly enough. But eventually she reaches the end of the final song. She holds the last note, and I know that it is as much because she does not want it to end as it is that the piece has finished. I find myself sobbing when it finally dies away.
The lights come up, and suddenly the audience exists again. We all applaud thunderously. She bows. We stand, applaud harder. I am not the only one whose face is streaked with tears. I am not even the only one still crying, though I know that the rest are not crying for the same reasons.
Even the princesses are standing. Those in the front rows are throwing roses onto the stage, but she does not look at them. She is turned towards the sisters, looking, for the first time in the evening, apprehensive.
This time, they bow to her. She does not know what to do in response to that. Eventually, unable to think of anything else, she bows again. As she does, I feel another stabbing pain in my chest.
The standing ovation goes on for almost five minutes. It is not nearly long enough for me to express my admiration for her, but it still ends. I lose count of how many times she bows, or how many roses are thrown to her. Nopony calls for an encore. There can be no follow-up to that. I already know that the newspapers I deliver in Ponyville this weekend will call this the performance of a lifetime. They will be right.
Eventually, the curtain falls, and she vanishes behind the velvet. All of us begin to make our way towards the exits, headed back towards the lobby.
I know that she will be making an appearance in person shortly. The princesses are waiting in the foyer. They have not called for her, but they do not need to; they know their presence is enough to ensure that she will arrive. In the meantime, they are both smiling kindly and attempting to politely decline the dozens of invitations to other high-society events from the other attendees.
I leave alone. Everypony else has remained, hoping to spend just a little more time in the company of royals, or perhaps to speak with the performer, but I have a home to return to. Time Turner and Dinky will be waiting. I left him with instructions to put her to bed no later than nine, but I know that he will not. When I get back, I will find her asleep in his arms while he reclines on the couch. She always insists on trying to stay up for me whenever I go out.
Besides, I have seen what I needed to see. I saw her, if only from a distance. And what I saw, what I heard, was every bit as beautiful as I had imagined.
It is nearly three in the morning when I arrive back in Ponyville. My hideous dress has been discarded, stuffed unceremoniously into my duffel bag. I will never wear it again. Ponyville's mailmare does not need it.
Time Turner is waiting for me, I know, but he will wait a little longer. I know that I will be exhausted for work later in the morning, but I do not care. The concert is over, but my night is not.
Now, I allow all the thoughts that I had placed to one side to come forth at once. I am aware that I am crying again as I wind my way through the streets of my hometown, but nopony is awake to see.
My home is at the edge of town. It is nothing special - hardly more than a living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms - but I am proud of the way I have kept it in good order over the years. The inside is spotlessly clean, the product of yesterday's furious scrubbing. I throw my duffel bag into the corner carelessly and make my way to my bedroom, trying to scrub the tears out of my eyes as I go.
The closet is largely empty of clothing. There is almost nothing in it but my own mail bag and a few boxes containing miscellaneous keepsakes. It is not hard to find what I am looking for. I do not even have to turn on the lights.
Slowly, with as much care and coordination as I can muster, I draw out the black case, carry it to the bed, and undo the clasps. I have not opened it in over a year. I do so now.
Inside, nestled in the velvet lining, is my cello.
It is not like Octavia's. It is not elegant and beautiful, with its wooden body colored a brilliant, shining red by the finish. It is not free of all marks and scars, its surface unblemished by any signs of its owner's clumsiness. The bow is not a slender curve of ebony with each end joined by shining white. It is secondhand and showing its age, but it is still whole, and can still produce beautiful music when played by a skilled hand. I lift it from its casing and move to sit on the windowsill.
I do not have a skilled hand. The cello is out of tune, and it takes me nearly ten minutes to bring it to an approximation of what it should be. Eventually I manage it and lift my head, looking up to the night sky outside.
Princess Luna has seen fit to place a duplicate of Octavia's cutie mark in the stars tonight, in honor of her brilliant performance. It glitters above the distant Everfree, a declaration to all the world that Octavia Melody is a true virtuoso.
On my flank, the familiar dull-grey bubbles simply sit and glower.
I begin to play. It is not beautiful. It is clumsy and off-key, my hooves stumbling helplessly over every note. My bow moves jaggedly, striking the wrong strings and turning what should have been sharp pinpricks of sound into atonal slurs. It is not awful, and I know that it is not. I am out of practice and my cello has not been played for over a year, and still I manage to tease the basic melody from its strings. But it is not beautiful. It will never be beautiful.
I allow myself twenty minutes before I remove the bow from the strings and bow my head. There is no applause.
With great care, I return my instrument to its case and its case to the closet. Then I move to the bathroom and dry my eyes. They are still swollen and puffy. Time Turner will know that I was crying. I do not care. I will tell him that the concert was so beautiful that it left me weeping all through my ride home.
Then I turn and make my way out of the house, headed back towards Ponyville once again. I tell myself that, next time, I will not buy a ticket. It costs more than I can really afford. That is all money that could go towards Dinky's education, or into the emergency savings. I should not spend that much money on myself. Especially not for this.
I already know that I will do it anyway. Despite how often I tell myself that this is unnecessary, the truth remains. I need this night. It is part of who I am, even if it is not who I am destined to be. I will never be Octavia. I will never perform before royalty. I will never perform before any audience, no matter how humble. I will never even play my cello for Dinky, though some day I will share with her my love of music.
But I will not forget, and I will not deny myself this. I cannot. I am destined for humbler things, but Ditzy Doo was a mare with dreams, once. I remember her, and I will continue to attend Octavia Melody's performances. I will keep my cello, and when I cannot bear to deny myself any longer, I will play. Not for long, and never when somepony else can hear, but I will. Because I need to.
As a memorial.
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BRILLIANT!!!
I like it!
Think should be thick
3952518
I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about, citizen. That sentence has always contained the word "thick". Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Carry on.
Boom. Feelshot.
That really struck a chord. The concept of that one bit of enjoyment, living your dreams through another for one night... I worry, sometimes, about whether that will be something to aspire to.
3957018 I'm glad you enjoyed it. Even if it did getcha right in the feels.
This story has been officially reviewed by the Blunt Reviews Group.
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Dang. This needs to be put on Tvtropes.....
Hmm. I think I've missed something here; I don't get it.
3996718 Ha. Well, feel free to do so if you want to. I purposefully refrain from creating TVtropes pages for my own work, as it feels too much like ficwhoring.
3996740 Hm? Don't get what, exactly?
3996747 All if it, I guess. Obviously she wants to perform, but I can't figure out why she's hiding it, which seems to be the lynch-pin of understanding the motivations at work. It's seems like she's ashamed of it—hiding it from those closest to her—but without knowing why it just doesn't give me any traction.
Aww, I like this story. It's so sad though.
3996867 There is an element of shame to it, yes, but that isn't the extent of it. Summing up the motivation for something like that is a bit difficult, as there are a lot of different emotions that go into it - as someone who has personally felt what Ditzy feels in this story, and as someone who practices writing quite a bit, I still have a hard time putting it into words.
Shame is part of it. Learning that a dream simply isn't meant to be - say, for example, if your cutie mark, a visible indicator of what your life is going to be centered around, doesn't support what you want - is a difficult thing to deal with. Blaming yourself, assuming that you are naturally inadequate, for it is a sort of reflexive action, one that you can't really control, and a natural reaction to shame for a lot of people is to attempt to hide it.
Things only get worse when it's something like this. There are some things that people truly, truly love doing, but no matter how hard they try, they will never be any better than mediocre. I love painting and modeling, for example, but I suck at it, and no amount of practice will make me much better. I simply don't have the knack. The realization of something like that, that you will never, ever be as good as someone else is no matter how hard you try, because they are simply better than you, can be absolutely crushing.
There's more to it, of course; you can come to think of yourself as an idiot who can't let go of a trivial thing, but part of you refuses to accept that it is trivial, so you're constantly struggling with yourself, and so on. There are dozens of little emotions and thoughts that get twisted up in it. In the end, the result is that you can come to hate and ridicule yourself for not being able to give up on such a silly thing.
I suffer from clinical depression, and as someone who deals with this sort of feeling on a day-to-day basis, I can tell you this: telling someone, or even hinting that something like this is eating you up inside, is almost impossible. It hurts to keep it to yourself, but the thought of having your shame and failure exposed to the world hurts more.
I suppose it can be hard to understand such a viewpoint if you've never experienced it yourself, because, even for someone who has experienced it, it's confusing and largely irrational. But that's the core of it, anyway, and I hope I've helped you to understand it a bit more.
3996932 Ahh. That explains a lot. I suffered under chronic depression for my entire life. I'm 37. I started counselling seven years ago. I only started truly recovering about three years ago. Now I know enough that I can't help but analyse other people by reflex—and stories, too.
For about three years, when it was worst, I used to hate going to sleep because when morning came, I had to face the thought of being forced through another whole day I didn't want to exist in. It's as different as every sufferer, I know, but I have a pretty damned good idea what you're talking about.
At the same time, however, I think this is what separates me from the undertones of the story:
Yes, it can, but when I read something like this I automatically look for the reason behind it. Why is it crushing for the character? Her immediate responses are the symptom, while I was looking for the cause. I'm sure you can appreciate that that position puts me somewhat at odds with the story. It's a shame, but such is the way of things.
Given what you have said, however, I am incredibly intrigued by whether you might 'get' the story I have due to go up on EqD in the next few days (I assume. Who can say what their goblins are up to?), Every Mare Needs Her Stallion. If you have the time, I'd absolutely love to hear what you think of it.
Beyond that. I feel for ya, man. If there is ever anything I can do to help you, feel free to ask. I mean that.
-Scott
3997197
Well, like I said, it's crushing because it was important to her. Imagine if Rainbow Dash suddenly had one of her wings crippled, or, worse, simply failed her tryouts for the Wonderbolts. There really isn't much more I can say than that; if you have a dream, and that dream is taken away, it's going to be painful.
I'd be happy to look over it. I gave it a quick glance a few days ago, in fact, and was intrigued by what I saw, but didn't have the time to finish the whole thing. I'm all for a good Rarity story, though.
Ha. Thanks. But I'm okay. I'm twenty-two, and was formally diagnosed with dysthymia, which regularly becomes full-blown depression, as well as Asperger syndrome about four years ago. I'm mostly stable now, though, as I'm on a strict regimen of medication which has helped immensely. I do appreciate the offer, though, and I'm happy to extend the same one to you.
As a side note, my own personal experiences with the subject of this story had nothing to do with music. I just love music as a whole, and its emotional power can't be denied, so it was kind of perfect for this.
Man, I can't even tell you how much I can relate to this. I love doing a lot of things, drawing and writing mostly, but I don't seem to have the skill to ever be better than "okay". Great work, you really captured the feeling of the piece.
Simple, yet effective. Picking Ditzy as the character to convey the story was kinda odd, I felt, but I suppose there is no reason why it couldn't be her. Just a knee-jerk reaction, I suppose. Funnily enough, I didn't really find this story sad per se. Ditzy seems to understand herself and how she acts, and at that point, she's done everything she can. She can move on with her life while knowing why she feels the things she feels, and that, to a person as optimistic as I imagine Ditzy to be, is enough to be happy about the good things in life.
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This story worked for me on so many levels. I may not have cried, but I came very close.
You brilliant fool...
4109904 Very glad to hear you enjoyed it.
3952536
1984 reference ftw.
4147544 One of my favorite novels, that. You get brownie points for catching it.
4147594
I fell in love with it when I did a pre-read for it for my AP English IV class. It was one of only two books that I read for that class, that I actually still own my copies of (the other one being The Poisonwood Bible, which is still my favorite novel of all time).
4147626 I never read The Poisonwood Bible, and 1984 wasn't actually on our curriculum. Our teacher did have a copy of it on the bookshelf, though, so I read it on my own time. Great book.
The books I loved from those classes were To Kill A Mockingbird, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Next, and The Tempest (though that one is technically a play).
I just about cried. This is not really what I was expecting going into this, it was much better. And you can count me as another one who understands exactly why Ditzy does what she does here.
4150671 Thank you very much. I'm quite glad you enjoyed it.
I thought it was just OK. I can understand why people feel like reminiscing from time to time, but I don't ever understand people who know the problem and do nothing about it. But judging from the comments, there seems to be a musician reason thing that I miss out on. Just wanted to give my two cents, being a non music person.
The whole 'this experience is beautiful beyond what writing can possibly convey' thing was completely lost on me'
This is really good, and comes from a very real place. Because of that, it also hurts a lot... heh.
I've recently been put in a position to read and judge poetry & prose submissions for a very small not-related-to-pony thing, and I could really see this idea coming through. There are people who are incredibly passionate and dedicated... and yet who have a lot of difficulties in conquering even basic mechanical issues. I really want to believe that anyone, given enough effort and willingness to accept criticism, can learn to make something wonderful... But even in my own experience I've often been put in the position of watching someone else excel in a field that I love but have no talent in and that can be a really difficult experience to deal with.
Perhaps even worse, I've seen on more than one occasion a fantastic artist who wishes to be a writer (and vice versa). And they're not able to duplicate their success in the other field, and struggle and become disheartened and eventually pull back from creative works in general, for at least a time. And that's really a loss for everyone, I think. There's something to be said for pursuing your passion... but there's also something to be said for recognizing your skills and trying to utilize those to the best of your ability, as much as that can sometimes feel like 'settling'.
4161021 It's not music, specifically. That was simply the example I chose.
The meat of the story is about someone who wants to be an artist realizing that they simply aren't good enough, and how much it sucks to have to face up to that.
Question....WHY not just call this story "Derpy/Ditzy goes to the Opera to listen to Octavia play?"
I mean why say this story is about
enjoyment of finer music instead of misleading the reader in saying that this story ISN'T about Octavia despite the description ? 
I mean it was an interesting story showing a unique rare side to the mailmare, but why mislead potential readers with something like that in the description instead of just simply saying that Derpy/Ditzy enjoys classical music ?
It would make things a bit easier for the readers, right ?
Still, nice work and emotional one as well. Keep up the good work.
Fantastic! I wish I'd read this sooner
That was an interesting and exceptionally well-written story, I really enjoyed it
As for the problem that it centers on, I think that an aspiring artist shouldn't be discouraged about not being the best of the best. Probably it's easier said than done, and (as a person with no big artistic talents) I symphatize with them, but could you imagine a world where, for example, all the pianists would not play for any public because they felt inferior to Beethoven's talent? That would be a sad world, I think. Just because one could never "play for royalty" does not mean that he should hide away:) There is a high possibility that someone would like his work, even if he doesn't believe it himself (there were poets who threw their poems into the trash can, then someone retrieved them, and they became loved and appreciated when published). It is like with our actions when we want to change the world - it is the small deeds that really count, when we put love and passion into them:) I have a feeling that Derpy from your story could do just that, if only by playing to her family and friends. She says herself that she isn't that bad, so why not give it a try?:)
Well, that's enough of my mumbling, your story just made me reflect on it, and I love when a story does that to me
Hey, I wrote a review for this fic. In case you are interested, it can be found here.
Overall, I found it interesting, but I think that much of it feels like just going through the paces. Still, the great themes and some beautiful passages help bring the story up a notch.
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... I can't even begin to describe how amazing this is. I love Derpy, she's my favorite character, because I feel like I connect to her on a few levels. This is one of them. Wanting to be something better than I am. I love it, it speaks to me.. This is a fantastic story. Beautiful. Eleven muffins out of ten.
~SoDF
I found this to be both emotional and enjoyable. Being someone who loves music, but has trouble playing/creating it myself, this really hit home for me. Thank you.