Amazing Grace

by Silver-Spirits-and-Ales

Chapter one: Griffish Stoicism

Hoofington Gentlecolts' Club

It was just another day at the Hoofington Gentlecolts' Club. Waiters were prowling around the stage room in their pearly white tuxedos, taking orders and serving refreshments to the club's patrons before the night's entertainment started. Every night, the Club hosted a show of different musicians and showponies. Some were local talents trying to start a career in music, hoping a record label owner would be sitting at a table somewhere. Some had already made their career, and they had decided or been invited to play on the stage. Anyone, from a ragtag company of My Fair Filly to a big band playing smooth jazz could play on Hoofington's stage. That was what made Hoofington's Gentlecolts' Club so successful. That, and the fact that theoretically anypony could come along and watch, so long as they had a drink or something. No dress codes, no hoof-picking the patrons.

And once the clamour of the bar and restaurant had died down, the show could begin. It always started in the same way. Hoofington, the club's owner and chairpony, would trot onto the stage, wearing his checkered suit jacket and bow tie, briefly entertain the audience with his jokes, and disappear behind the curtains, shouting "LIGHTS!" as he did so.

And the lights, as if they responded to the sound of his voice, would focus on the center of the stage, where the first act would appear. This was the moment of apprehension, when everypony present would hold their breath. Nopony ever knew exactly who would come out from behind these curtains. It was customary for Hoofington to never reveal who would play on that stage on each night.

There was one of the club's regulars who stood out from the rest: Thunderhoof. The Pegasus stallion was sitting at his table, just in front of the scene. He was pearly-white, with a jet-black mane and tail. His eyes were steel blue and his cutie mark depicted three identical thunderbolts. The waiters hadn't waltzed over and taken his order as they had done with the rest of the patrons. Everyone who worked in the club from Hoofington himself down to the janitor knew that Thunderhoof always had the same thing: a glass of Trottingham Dry Gin and a carrot stew. Indeed, the drink and the dish had been placed in front of him the moment he took his seat.

Thunderhoof watched as the first act made its way onto the stage: a stand-up comedian who went by the name 'Rocktail'. Pitiful, as far as Thunderhoof was concerned. But there was one unspoken rule about Hoofington's club, that all regulars abode by. You had to stay until the end, to see if there was something you might like.

The second act was just as bad as the first, if not worse. Something so boring that Thunderhoof slipped into a torpor as he downed a glass of gin. Three seconds after the act ended, he’d already forgotten what it was.

The rest of the evening's acts were just as boring, and Thunderhoof had already knocked back two glasses of liquor by the fourth one. At one point, he turned his head, and looked around for a poster or something, just to make sure he hadn't stumbled into amateur night at the Canterlot hospital head injury ward.

But at the very end of the show, Thunderhoof saw something he liked. Or rather, somepony he liked. The lights dimmed for the penultimate time, and the sound of dainty hoofsteps could be heard making their way onto the stage.

And for the last time, the projectors focused on the centre-stage, where an Earth Pony mare had appeared, left hoof over the hoofboard of a cello, right hoof firmly wrapped around a bow. Her coat was light-gray, and her mane was jet black. Her cutie mark depicted a treble clef. She was wearing a purple bow-tie around her neck that matched her eyes. And that expression on her face... It was undiscernible. It was relaxed, and at first glance, the mare seemed bored, bordering on apathetic. But her smile told a different story. It was curled slightly upwards, showing a serene and tender expression, breaking any image of boredom that Thunderhoof had in mind. Only she could possibly know what was going on inside her head.

Alone, she stood in the middle of the stage. Holding herself with such grace that everypony could not help but look up from their food and watch her start playing. Even Thunderhoof had- no. Especially Thunderhoof had been pulled out of his trance to look at the filly on stage. She started expertly rubbing her bow on the strings, not lifting her eyes from the score. She had played in front of audiences before; Thunderhoof could tell. Her unfazed expression told him that she was used to playing in front of large audiences, and to her, the club was no different to an opera house.

The white stallion wondered whether or not she wore that stoic expression and adopted that graceful stance all the time. Maybe that was just her stage attitude. Or maybe not. Climbing onto a stage, in many ways, was just like donning a mask. Sometimes you wear the mask for so long that you get used to it, forgetting its existence. But Thunderhoof liked that mask. And more than that, he wondered what she'd be like would she unveil herself of that mask. He began to take interrest in the mare on the stage. Thunderhoof found himself mesmerized by the mare's grace and her graceful music.

Eventually, once her number was over, the cellist bowed to the applause of the crowd, before disappearing behind the curtains, lights going out for the last time. And once she'd disappeared from the stage, Thunderhoof found himself sinking into an emotion he hadn't really felt before, for it seemed that the cellist was taking a part of Thunderhoof with her, and soon enough, there was a hole in his heart.

---

"Enjoying yourself?" asked Hoofington, who was tending the bar.

"Surprisingly, yes!" answered Thunderhoof. "Listen, Hoofy, erm... I don't know how to put this, but..."

"Ah, I know what you're gonna ask, baby!" said Hoofington. "I saw you lookin' at Octavia Melody!"

"Octavia Melody, huh?" asked Thunderhoof. "That's a nice name."

Hoofington dropped his voice. "I've gotta warn you, though. That cat's got her muzzle so high in the air, you can't even see it above the clouds!"

"Rich?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Octavia? Nah! Though rumor has it she comes from a good family. Or so they say."

"I see," said Thunderhoof, clearly not interrested in the privileges that Octavia may or may not have. "Where is she now?"

"I'd check her lodge if I were you, but I w-"

"Dry gin and tonic, please, Hoofington," said an alto voice.

The two stallions violently turned their heads. Octavia had just sat down on the seat next to Thunderhoof.

"Well?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. Her voice and accent could only be described as posh. West Trottingham, just like Thunderhoof's. It matched her elegant demeanor.

"She neighs the neigh," thought Thunderhoof. "Does she trot the trot?"

"Trottingham?" asked Hoofington, prompting Octavia to nod. He poured Octavia's drink, served Thunderhoof his usual, and went to the other side of the bar, so as to give them some room, leaving the bottle of gin behind for Thunderhoof.

"Longing for the homeland?" joked Thunderhoof, indicating the bottle's label.

Octavia smiled. "You could say that." But her smile wasn't the stoic one she'd been wearing on the stage. No, this one looked hollow; sad. Maybe Thunderhoof had struck a chord.

"Your accent- West Trottingham?" asked Thunderhoof.

"Yours too, unless I am mistaken."

"I'm sorry," said Thunderhoof. "Let me introduce myself. My name's Thunderhoof. Private Investigator."

"Major Thunderhoof Butterscotch, with the billion and a half post-nominals?" asked Octavia, her stoic ad serene visage giving way to enthusiasm. "Son of the Earl Blackjack Butterscotch?"

"The same," replied Thunderhoof, surprised that she'd recognize him so quickly. But to his even greater surprise, Octavia started chuckling softly.

"Where were you, five years ago?" she snorted.

"Kudanda," replied Thunderhoof.

"I was being rhetorical, Major."

"Just Thunderhoof, if you don't mind. But tell me, what happened three ye-"

At that moment, Thunderhoof was interrupted by a loud whinny from outside.

"It's been a pleasure, Major, but I've got to go. Until next time." And without further ado, Octavia rushed outside while somepony else hauled her case to the door.

"The hay was that about?" asked Hoofington, approaching his number one patron again.

"Feathered if I know, Hoofy," replied Thunderhoof, sinking back into his torpor.

Hoofington looked at Octavia's would-be drink and said "You're gonna have to pay for her, you know?"

"Alright," said Thunderhoof. "How much for this glass of frustration?" Then, he grabbed the bottle of gin. "And the remedy to such frustrations?"

Comments

[Whinifree]

Hmmm. Interesting.