Octavian Superiority
If one thing can be said for Octavia, it is that she has refined taste, even when simply stopping for an early-morning snack.
You and the cellist sit at a small white table, next to a space heater which is radiating warmth to the farthest reaches of the smattering of outdoor tables, combating the chill of the winter. A few meters away, the open door to the upper-class bakery spills out light and an assortment of delicious smells, giving you something to anticipate while you await your meals to emerge from the oven.
Octavia sits across from you, her ever-analyzing gaze flitting across the various customers the bakery has attracted. But though she seems distracted by her surroundings, her eyes always make it back to your face.
The first few minutes of silence are awkward—even though you have warmed up to each other considerably, conversation still does not come easily. To avoid Octavia’s searching gaze, you stare down at your menu, even though you’ve already ordered. The pastries lined up in their organized sections blur before your eyes, their names and descriptions utterly unreadable to you.
Octavia coughs softly. “So, Symphonic . . .” She appears to be racking her mind for a topic of conversation to seize upon. “Are you . . .” Interestingly, Octavia, who has always been so educated with her words, is at a loss for what to say. You’d love to give her a prompt, but unfortunately, you’re just as lost as she is. “Er . . . enjoying your time in Canterlot?” Octavia finishes awkwardly.
You take pity on her, which is a new sensation, since you’ve always been more or less terrified by the cellist. “Yes. It’s been different from my time at Ponyville,” you reply. Your response gives Octavia room to ask further questions.
“Ah, yes. You used to live in Ponyville. What’s it like there?”
You consider. What could be said about your hometown that hasn’t been said already? “Smaller. Much smaller. None of the buildings have more than two stories, and there are far fewer of them to begin with. Much smaller population, as well.”
“I see. So your arrival in the capital of Equestria must have been a bit of a . . . shock.” Octavia cringes, almost imperceptibly, at her artless response.
“Yeah. A bit, yes.” Fortunately for the cellist, yours isn’t any more educated than hers.
“I’ve heard that Ponyville is a desirable vacation location. Is this true? If so, what makes it so attractive?”
“I honestly have no idea. Ponyville has no distinguishing features. It’s just a small town, where everypony is in a tight-knit group—you know the names of everyone you see on the street. We have no impressive landmarks, aside from the Everfree Forest, but nopony ever goes in there.”
“I have heard of that particular forest. What makes it so dangerous?”
You go through the list that had been hammered into your mind by your schoolteacher, so determined to keep the impressionable young minds away from the dangers of the forest. “Manticores, Timber Wolves, sea serpents, a cockatrice, the occasional dragon, and an Ursa Minor. And it’s just creepy as buck, so ponies tend to avoid it like the plague.”
Octavia raises her eyebrows. “I’ve actually never heard you curse. This is new.”
“Sorry. I don’t usually let my vocabulary drop to those standards.”
“It’s fine. I have . . . moments . . . myself. What did you say about a dragon?”
The dragon in question had taken residence in one of the larger caves in the Everfree Forest. Twilight Sparkle’s theory was that it had dropped out of the Annual Dragon Migration to bed down just outside of Ponyville. “One of the stragglers from the migration decided to stop in a certain cave to indulge in a session of lethargy.”
Octavia shudders. “I’m not overly fond of dragons.”
“I don’t love spiders, myself.”
And suddenly, the awkwardness has dissipated after a short spell of forced halted, forced conversation. Speech comes easily now—Octavia’s stare is no longer intimidating, but encouraging. Something about the simple admission of your phobias had broken the metaphorical ice enough to boost your comfortableness to a record high.
And you begin to talk in earnest.
Your subjects vary from minute to minute, ranging from casual to controversial. Lighthearted to hypothetical. Ludicrous to contemplative. No topic is too serious, or too ridiculous, to discuss with Octavia. Her style of speech bounces perfectly off of yours, contradicting you and asking questions at the perfect times.
As you speak, and listen, you come to fully appreciate Octavia’s voice, and the beauty it holds. Her words and sentences are elegant, well thought-out. Like she’s writing poetry on the spot, as effortlessly as a normal conversation would be for you. She sounds like she’s rehearsed every phrase to perfection before even uttering it, but her speech still sounds perfectly continuous.
You inevitably learn more about Octavia’s character as you two pour out your hearts to each other in the only way you know how: analytically. The cellist you’ve come to know—the one who’s warmed up from the cold, combative pony you had met after the auditions to the friendly mare you’re now sitting across from—is much easier to get along with now. She laughs easily, almost constantly smiling—unless the topic of conversation at hoof calls for grimness. Her cheer is contagious—you feel yourself being gradually filled to the top with elation.
The only subject you don’t dare venture into is the cellist’s family life. At one point, you reference your own parents, and Octavia blanches—dodging the allusion and moving on to another topic before you can ask about her family. Given her obvious discomfort, you comply to her wishes to avoid the topic.
At some point, the uniformed waiter returns bearing your pair of pastries, along with two steaming mugs of strong coffee. After depositing the food, he departs, a little unnerved that his customers had not even acknowledged his presence when he appeared at their table, so immersed in their conversation that all else in the background had faded into nonexistence. The lack of attention he could deal with, as long as the wealthy-looking mare leaves a sizeable tip.
Octavia picks at her croissant, tearing off small chunks and inserting them into her mouth during breaks in the conversation. Her coffee is occasionally raised to her face to take a draw, but for the most part, her mug is ignored. You do your best to remember to consume your own pastry, but Octavia vastly overshadows the importance of breakfast.
Later, after your breakfast had been reduced to crumbs and all that remains of your coffee is a swill of cold dregs at the bottom of your cup, your discussion is interrupted.
“Symphonic Keys, you son of an inbred Changeling. Where in the Celestia’s name did you escape to last night?”
“Oh.” You shrink, intimidated by the sheer vastness of Vinyl Scratch’s wrath. “Hello, Vinyl.”
“But Vinyl, your analogy does not make the least amount of sense,” Octavia says casually, apparently oblivious to the forthcoming tidal wave of fury. “An inbred Changeling? Aren’t they all though? Every member of the colony is birthed from a single mother. Their ‘queen’, so to speak.”
“Octavia, I have had enough of your disingenuous assertions. Why did you ditch me?” The eccentric DJ leans over, resting her elbows on the table and staring you in the eyes. At least you think she’s focusing on your eyes—the reflective shades make it a little tough to discern where her gaze is actually resting.
“I had fallen incredibly ill. Symphonic simply escorted me back to my home. Complications arose, ensued . . . and were overcome.” Octavia meets what you assume to be Vinyl’s eyes unblinkingly—a true testament to her unbreakable nature. Tenacious confidence oozes from her dauntless gaze, giving the DJ cause to pause. “I speak for Symphonic as well when I say that we are both extremely apologetic that we . . . ditched you.”
“Still, man. It really puts a hurt in my feel-goods, no matter how dying you were. But I’ll forgive you this time. I’ll even pretend that I didn’t notice that you two are at the same table, sharing a truly romantic breakfast.”
You laugh elatedly, relieved, not even caring about Vinyl’s implication of your relationship with the cellist. “That was too easy. What’s the catch, Vinyl?”
“Nothin’, Keys. I guess I’m just in a forgiving mood. What have you been talking about?”
“The rise and fall of the Manehattan Symphony Orchestra,” you answer matter-of-factly.
“No, that was three topics ago,” contradicts Octavia. “Before we were interrupted, we were discussing the merits and disadvantages of an idealistic society.”
“Ah, right. I stand corrected.”
“Happy Hearth’s Warming Eve, by the way,” Vinyl throws out casually.
“What?” You sit up straight in your seat. The crumbs that had unknowingly congregated on your chin tumble down your front and pool between your hooves. “Today? What?”
“Dude. You didn’t forget about the best day of the year. I know you didn’t. Don’t mess with me.”
“No jest, Vinyl,” Octavia admits. “I completely consigned to oblivion the fact that today is Hearth’s Warming Eve. We have been a little . . . distracted.”
“Well, Keys.” Vinyl smirks knowingly. “There’s a pretty important event tonight . . . at the palace. A certain traditional performance, y’know? A good date spot, if you know what I’m gettin’ at.”
“Vinyl!” you and Octavia shout in unison.
“Don’t hide from the fact that you’re crazy about this mare, lover boy. Just follow your heart, or something. You’ll know what to do.”
****
“Octavia?”
“Yes, Symphonic?”
“Would you like to . . .” You curse yourself for what you’re about to say. Curse Vinyl, for working against your hopelessly romantic nature. “Go with me to the Hearth’s Warming Eve performance?”
You walk with Octavia down one of Canterlot’s many side streets, the cobble underhoof thinly crusted by a fine layer of ice, crunching satisfyingly with every step. Octavia is now enwrapped in a violet scarf, recently purchased from one of the few boutiques in the city that is open for Hearth’s Warming Eve. You had insisted upon paying for the accessory—it would go against the chivalry your parents and professors had worked so hard to impress into your being.
Octavia laughs, fully aware that the thought had been taking a prominent position in your mind ever since Vinyl had suggested the notion. “Now what could have possibly given you that idea?”
“I just came to me,” you reply casually. “Absolutely nothing to do with a passing comment from some alabaster DJ. Just an interesting thought.”
“Is that so?” The rhetoric in the question is thick—Octavia has caught on to your feeble game and plays along. “I was actually considering the same thing, funnily enough. Perhaps out minds are more in tune than we would like to admit. It is not as though some external trigger had prompted these thoughts—it must have been pure telepathy.”
“Of course . . .” You smile back, and you continue to walk silently. Octavia moves closer to you, providing much-needed body heat against your side. But more importantly, it is an affectionate gesture. “Uh, Octavia?”
“Yes, Symphonic?” the cellist repeats exasperatedly. The smile set on her face is tender and amused.
“You didn’t . . . answer my question. Would you . . . I mean, if you don’t want to . . .” you stutter.
“Of course I want to! Who else would I accompany besides you?”
Relief and ecstasy settles in your stomach, causing it to perform a complex routine of gymnastics inside of you. “Okay . . . great! Then . . .”
“I’ll meet you at eight. That’s when it starts. You do know how to get to the palace, correct?”
“I’ll find it.”
“You don’t sound very confident.”
“Not really. I’ll ask Royal Riff for directions.”
“That’s better. I will see you there. Adieu, Symphonic.”
“Goodbye, Octavia.”
****
You nervously adjust the aquamarine bowtie Royal Riff had talked you into. It clings around your neck, not too tightly to be uncomfortable, but tight enough to cause you to constantly be tugging at your neck.
The violinist who had given you the route to your destination had been helpful—perhaps a bit more so than necessary. When he had heard that you would be taking Octavia with you, he had jumped at the opportunity to say “I told you so” several times to your face. Too weary of the matchmaking game the orchestra had been playing with you and the cellist to fight back, you simply admitted that you did indeed care for Octavia.
Royal Riff had opted not to accompany you to the performance, claiming that he had “other engagements”. Looking back, you decide that you should have questioned him a bit further about the nature of the “engagement”.
You wait in the rapidly-mounting line of ponies waiting to enter the main hall, scanning the crowd for the elusive Octavia. Knowing her, however it is more likely that she’ll sneak up on you from behind, scaring you senseless. Taking this into account, you turn around.
“Hello.”
You’re too stunned to even pick your jaw up off the floor.
Octavia has donned a dress for the occasion. And not just any dress—an enchanting gown that defies all laws of reality. A lavender affair with a long, flowing train that seems to hang in the air much higher than gravity would allow. Embellished on the side in a slightly deeper shade of purple is a treble clef, making up for her hidden cutie mark. A large pink bow rests at the base of her neck, three times as wide as her usual bowtie, bigger and more prominent. Set in the cellist’s ears are a pair of heliotrope twirls—also in the shape of treble clefs.
“Hello, Symphonic.” Octavia smiles, the expression completing her image of perfection.
“Uh . . . wow.” Octavia’s face assumes a tint of pink to match her bow.
Octavia falls into place in line next to you, much to the annoyance of the couple after you. Seeing this ethereal princess next to you, you suddenly feel rather underdressed. In fact, underdressed is an understatement—you feel utterly preponderated by this goddess.
Several pairs of eyes drift to your partner, and slack jaws often accompany them. And not always from the stallions, too.
You steadily make your way to the massive, arched gateway that leads to the Canterlot Palace’s entrance hall. As you cross the threshold, the bitter chill of the wintery night is negated—you cross a clearly-defined plane of sheer warmth, clearly magical. And judging by the professionalism, probably prepared by the Solar Princess herself. The stiffness in your back that you hadn’t realized was there slackens, letting you relax.
Rows and rows of upper-class Canterlot ponies populate the massive chamber, lined up in even progression of comfortable-looking violet cushions. They chat comfortably, awaiting the performance behind the giant red curtain at the front of the room. You scan the available seating, searching for a good spot to settle down.
Your probe discovers a familiar face. A grey stallion sitting very close to a mare who you are not entirely surprised to see him with. Royal Riff. And Beauty Brass, the petite tuba player that Royal Riff had tried so hard to ignore.
“Busted,” you mutter under your breath.
“Pardon?” inquires Octavia, picking up your inaudible intonation effortlessly, as always.
Instead of answering vocally, you point out the violinist and his partner with your hoof. Octavia follows the line your foreleg paints and alights on Royal Riff. A satisfied smile breaks across her face. “It is about time. We’ve been begging them to get together for an eternity.”
“And here he is trying to deny that he’s interested in her.” You lead Octavia in the couple’s direction. You’ve spotted a free spot within a foreleg’s length of Royal Riff, and you intend to occupy it. “I intend to make his life Tartarus after the grief he gave me about seeing you.”
“As it turns out, he was right, though.”
“I suppose,” you agree grudgingly.
You and Octavia take your places behind Royal Riff and Beauty Brass, taking care not to alert them that they are being joined by another couple. As you settle down, Royal Riff throws a foreleg around Beauty Brass’s shoulders. It is a sudden, mechanical movement, as though the violinist had to talk himself into it. You can’t resist throwing in a jibe for that.
“A little early for that. Eh, Riffs?”
Royal Riff’s neck whips around so fast that he appears to pop something. Rubbing the offending joint, he meets your eyes sheepishly. “Fancy seeing you here, Symphonic Keys. And you, Octavia.”
“Likewise,” Octavia giggles like a filly. You fight hard to keep your composure and not melt into a grey puddle at the sheer adorableness of the sound.
“I suppose that you’ve found me out.” Royal Riff tries to gather whatever dignity his still possesses.
“Yes, you could say that,” you reply.
Royal Riff opens his mouth to respond, but suddenly, the lights go out, turning his face into a clouded silhouette. At the same time, a single spotlight alights on the center of the stage, where a young earth pony has appeared, decked in the traditional garb of a court scribe.
“And so it begins,” Octavia whispers next to you.
And so it does.
Picture from AlexPony at DeviantArt.
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It is always thus: boy meets girl, but boy gets nowhere meaningful with girl unless and until they can talk. Object lesson in this very chapter.
(Oh, and That Dress. Next one to complain that earth ponies can't dress up well will be sent to her room without dessert.)
Look who got featured again
Nice chapter
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
1288925 true dat, and i thought the dress was perfect. hell even my jaw dropped.
Suck it, Riff!
Awesome!
Now, I can't be the only one who was diagnosed with a minor case of diabeetus when viewing that picture. dl.dropbox.com/u/31471793/FiMFiction/emoticons/misc_Octavia.png
Hhhhnnnggg!
Kinda wanted to see Riffs with Vinyl. Ah well, great chapter.
Another great chapter. Also....
“And here he is trying to deny that he’s interested in her.” You lead Octavia in the couple’s direction. You’ve spotted a free spot within a foreleg’s length of Royal Riff, and you intend to occupy it. “I intend to make his life Tartarus after the grief he gave me about seeing you.”
“As it turns out, he was right, though.”
“I suppose,” you agree grudgingly.
Did they both just casually agree that they understand Symphonic's feelings for Octavia are romantic?
1289212 Yup. That picture was adorable, and has now become my head canon for Octavia's high class social gatherings.
Am i wrong in believing that there is a Pirate of the Caribbean reference in there? "Complications arose, ensued . . . and were overcome.” I think Jack says that at the beginning of "Dead Man's Chest"
My heart went off and exploded because of that picture....
good thing I have a couple extra in the freezer.
What's this that I see? A story about a piano playing pony? How interesting!
Oh! It's a ship-fic with Octavia! Well this should be even more interesting!
...
And his last name is Keys.
This is just unacceptable. I call
plagiarisma really weird coincidence. If I may, I shamelessly provide this link to my own story.Anyway, aside from that odd coincidence, I find this story enjoyable. Its slow pace is a nice change from the unbelievable speed normally adopted by the more token ship-fics. My one complaint is that the 'probably-not-permanently-gone' Lyrica was so two dimensional that we wouldn't have been able to see her if she'd been placed side on. (Oh, and the main character is oddly impeccable, but that's standard for second-person stories.)
Anyway, I shall continue to read, because I always enjoy a musical story.
This just gets better and better
And the picture was perfect
1290029
Ding ding ding!
Yep, I was hoping that at least someone would see it. Kudos to you, mate!
1290377
I think it's safe to say that they are among my favorite games currently in existence. Yep.
1291064
YEEEEEEES! WIN
I spot an ME reference there.
"I've had enough of your disingenous assertions!" *Punch*
1291475 Damn it, you got to it first! Anyways, yet another great chapter. I cannot wait for the next one, but I know I'll be forced to nonetheless. Onwards with the next!
Commander Vinyl Shepard failed to punch Octavia in the face for her assertations....
Certainly one of the better stories I've read. In fact, it's the only one to have drawn me in quite so well since I read Ace Combat: Shattered Rainbows.
Keep up the fantastic work, I'll be waiting eagerly for more.
-L/Cpl Parker, USMC.
1290474
Uh . . . oops.
This is somewhat awkward.
1292006
United States Military represent!
Sir, I respect you. Know that.
th05.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/i/2011/167/6/0/rainbow_dash_salute_by_atomicgreymon-d3bo0dx.png
1292722
Just one of many, but thank you all the same.
I'm currently in the throes of writing a pair of my own at the moment, though one has decidedly taken a back seat at the current time. I'll probably pick it back up after the one I'm writing for my OC is completed, but honestly? I really can't see a end for it, so eventually I'll just have to tell myself to stop, and start the other again.
1289212 i agree i think my heart stopped jaw dropped and fell into a sugar-induced coma at the same time cause of that pic.
1293577
Sugar-induced?
Let me clear this up . . . what was it that caused your coma? The sugar or the picture?
1293654 the picture
1290029[youtube=-P6USgZ5r_Y]
Pray tell, when can I expect a new chapter to be added?
-L/Cpl Parker, USMC
1298966
Soon, my friend. Soon.
dl.dropbox.com/u/31471793/FiMFiction/emoticons/misc_Octavia.png
1289212
Yeah, i have several shots of insuline next to my pc.
Just in case i get surprised by advanced cuteness poisoning, also known as diabeeetus.
I'm a bit late to the comment party, but I think the time is really fitting for when I'm reading this. (Christmas Eve)
Anyway, I love the story, despite my lateness to reading it. Glad you wrote this wonderful piece of art.