Three Words On Your Birthday - Anthology

by Duplex Fields

Music, time, Octavia

The Grand Galloping Gala was the most prestigious social event in all of Equestria. Nopony (nodonkey, nogriffon) was ever invited twice, so for that night alone, all the up-and-coming powerhouses of industry, the titans of celebrity, and the everyday working folk mingled together, sharing stories and making connections.

There were three exceptions to this rule. The Princess always attended, as did the palace staff, as did the Wonderbolts.

The musicians were not among the privileged few whose ruined evening at the paws of an animal stampede could be shrugged away for the following year. Cake icing sat slowly drying in Octavia's mane as she breathed in and out quite calmly. The twitching of her left eyelid meant nothing, she told herself, nothing at all.

The maidstaff swept up the shards and the crumbs and the discarded bits of clothing, chatting amiably. The echoes of their work in the Grand Ballroom were lost amidst the sheer vastness of the space.

Octavia looked over to her cello. Miraculously, it had come through the chaos without a scratch; on either side of it (and her) lay thick stone pillars, an architectural affectation not necessary for the maintenance of the roof's stability. Time slipped silently into the night, second by quiet second, as if counted off by a metronome.

It didn't matter anymore. All the stress of performance was gone with the audience and the glamour of the evening. Now it was just her and the cleaning crew and the few ponies still dazed by the events that had brought the Gala to a swift and premature end.

Taking a deep breath, she rose to her hooves. Quietly she rosined her bow. Quietly she pulled the cello upright. Quietly she stood on her hinds and counterbalanced against the cello. She closed her eyes, and imagined the view from the stage. High class ponies walked the floor in her vision, and it was enough.

Music, soft and sweet, low on the G string, sang out in the vast hall. With unerring strokes and perfect vibrato, Octavia played her heart out. The piece grew in intensity and power. For the full five minutes of the piece, everypony stopped sweeping, stopped chatting, stopped doing anything.

And as she brought the final crescendo of the movement to its rich and solid concluding double stop, she kept her eyes closed. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the sound of hooves on the floor, applause more thunderous and yet more sincere than any she'd heard in all the playhouses of Manehatten, Seaddle, or Maneapolis.

She bowed before them, before the sweepers of dirt. Her bow was, too, more sincere than any bow she'd given before.

Author's Note:

For SubjectNumber2394's birthday prompt: Music, Time, Octavia