You dread the spotlight, but when opportunity arrises, you'll make an exception . . . for her.
You are a quiet and introverted musician. You dislike showing off your talent (for music or magic) but the opportunity of a lifetime arises, and going against your character, you accept. But when a certain grey mare enters the picture, you realize that you've gotten into more than you bargained for.
Your alarm clock lets out an electronic whine, and you reach out blindly to silence it. Your entire body is under a thick blanket and comforter to attempt to ward of the winter chill, and you have to grope around for a while before locating the source of the unwelcome noise.
Finally, you stop the unpleasant sound and roll out of bed, only getting partially tangled in bedsheets. After you’re clear of the crash site, your horn lights up grey, and a forcefield envelops the wad of bedding. With a flourish of movement, the sheets and blankets straighten themselves out and fold neatly at the foot of the bed. Your hoof nudges something on the floor and you look down to find a stray pillow. You sigh and toss it onto the bed with another flick of magic.
Your apartment is usually quite clean, and your compulsiveness is triggered in a most unpleasant manner when you see the pile of dishes you had neglected to do the night before. Your horn ignites again and sink begins spouting hot water. The dishes slide across the pristine countertop and fall neatly into the rapidly-filling sink, where a sponge and dishcloth are hard at work scrubbing off whatever your last meal was.
While this happens, you keep half your mind focused on controlling the cleaning, while your other half is longing for breakfast. You kick open your freezer and withdraw a frozen bagel. You blow a few ice shards off of it. The dishes stop moving for a second while you focus your magic to send a blast of warm air over the bagel, effectively unthawing it. You smile at your little trick, and the dishes resume progress. You use a knife from your neatly-organized wooden knife block to slice the bagel in half, and then insert it into your toaster.
You turn your full attention back to the dishes. A pile of clean plates and glasses is forming, and you immediately send them to their appropriate locations in the cupboard. Several drawers slid open and silverware shoots into them, into clearly marked slots.
You are one organized pony.
Your mind splits off again to open the fridge and extract a tub of Fillydelphia cream cheese. You slide it across the counter to come to a halt right in front of you. At the same time, you hover one of the clean knives from the pile over to stick into the tub of cheese.
With perfect timing, the bagel pops out of the toaster. You catch it in an ash-grey forcefield in midair and float it over to the waiting condiments. The knife scoops out a blob of cheese and spreads it evenly across the crispy surface of your bagel. You then hover the knife over to the dwindling pile of dishes and toss it into the frothy water.
You take your breakfast over to your dining room table, which is only set for one—you don’t often entertain visitors. As you settle down into a chair, you notice a yellow note you had left for yourself yesterday, a reminder for what needed to be done during the day. You begin to eat as you look over your to-do list.
-Take Magical Theory back to Library
-Meet Noteworthy & Lyra for lunch—Sugarcube Corner—12:30
-Shopping
• Milk
• Apples
• Stationary -Work starts—6:30
All in all, not a very busy day by your standards.
You fold the note neatly and magic it into the stainless steel trash bin next to the refrigerator. Your mind splits off again as you focus simultaneously on putting away the last of the dishes, wiping down the countertop with a damp rag, and finishing your breakfast.
You had taught yourself this trick, to focus on multiple planes of thought at once, during your time at Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Not feeling especially challenged by the curriculum, you often would sit in the back of the classroom and experiment with magic, while still keeping half your mind listening to the lecture that was being presented. It was a rather simple trick, and had been infinitely useful for your constant multitasking.
You cast your eyes around your spotless apartment. The living room was connected to the kitchen, and from there, a doorway led to your bedroom. The only furniture that adorned the living space was an ugly green couch, end table, bookshelf, and an old upright piano in the corner. It was a little worn from use, but the piano was one of your most prized possessions, and it was what you had earned your cutie mark—a segment of curved keyboard—from.
You finish cleaning up, and trot over to your instrument. You slide the ebony bench out with your hoof and take a seat. You take a moment to put your thoughts together—you always like to have your entire mind focused on your practicing. Your horn sparks, and a grey glow appears around the keyboard. This was another nifty skill you had learned at school, but this one had been introduced to you by your music teacher, Treble Clef, and not yourself.
To warm up, you play a G Minor scale at a speed that would practically make the keyboard smoke, then key out the melody to Clopmaninhoof's Piano Concerto No. 4, while adding your own variations, intros, and outros.
Now that you’re warmed up, you are ready to play in earnest. You roll your neck to work out the kinks and close your eyes.
The music bursts out of you like a dammed river bursting through its bonds. What you are playing exactly, you don’t entirely know, and you probably couldn’t recreate it if asked; at this point, you’re running entirely off instinct. Almost every day you unintentionally write what could be a short symphony. Today, the music is haunting and epic, something at home in a high-ceilinged cathedral. The minor key raises the hairs on your back as the melody swells, and you finish with a long flourish from low to high, then back low again.
As the music fades into nonexistence, the echo slowly fading, you hear a crisp knock at your door. Your eyes snap open and you look up. Through the warped glass on your door, you can see a grey and tan outline. You hurriedly slide the cover over the keys on the piano and quickly trot over to the door, but before you can open it, it falls off its hinges and lands with a crash on the floor. On top of it is a sheepish-looking grey pegasus named Derpy Hooves.
“Oh, hello Derpy,” you say, wincing at the sight of powdered glass on the floor.
Derpy grins, her yellow eyes gazing in opposite directions. One seems to be looking at you, but one can never be sure with Derpy. “Oops! My bad!” She struggles to stand, and you reach down to help her to her hooves. Once she’s regained her balance, she turns her head around and noses open the flap to her saddlebag. She clamps her teeth around something, and withdraws to for you to see. “Ih’ve goth a lether for you!” Derpy’s voice is considerably muffled by the envelope in her mouth, and when added to her already slurred speech, it’s basically unintelligible to anypony who isn’t used to speaking with her.
“Thanks, Derpy.” You take the letter from her. The envelope isn’t marked; it only bears your name and address.
“And a muffin!”
“Huh?”
Suddenly, Derpy is balancing a blueberry muffin on her head. You have no idea where it came from, but with Derpy, muffins are usually close at hand. She flicks her head, so the snack is flung at you. You yelp and reach out with magic to catch it before it explodes all over your face. Derpy grins proudly, and hops over the wreckage of your door and hovers outside. “That was some good music you were playing!”
“Um . . . thanks?”
But Derpy didn’t stick around long enough to acknowledge your response. She zoomed off to continue her deliveries, barely missing the spire on the top of Carousel Boutique.
You sigh as you watch the klutzy pegasus fly off, wreaking havoc in her wake.
Thanks to her, you have a heavy door and a spattering of shattered glass lying all over the floor. You toss your letter (and the muffin) in the general direction of the table, then light up your horn to clean up the mess. Using a complicated repairing spell, you magic the door back into the frame and re-bolt the hinges into the wall. At the same time, you levitate the bigger pieces of glass back to their original spot, fitting them into place like a jigsaw puzzle. The leftover fragments shoot into the leftover spaces, sealing up the larger cracks. A magic wipe follows, mending the minute details with a sound like metal against a chalkboard. Your ears flatten and you turn away, wincing. In a matter of seconds, the damage has been undone.
The grey blur around your horn fades— its work is done. Your vision fogs slightly, and bright stars dance in front of your eyes. You lower your head and knead your watering eyes with a hoof. Harder spells like that always leave you a little disoriented and light-headed.
You wait for your eyesight to return to full power, then turn to go back to the table where you had dropped the letter, and Derpy’s tasty gift. You had just had breakfast, but, at the moment, a muffin sounds really good to you. The wrapper soars across the room and alights on top of the mounting pile of clutter in the trash. Normally, this would annoy you beyond comprehension, but for some reason you’re suddenly exhausted and have no power to do anything about any inconveniences.
Blinking hard, you stumble over to your couch and collapse. This sudden fatigue is interesting; powerful spells don’t usually beat on your skull like this, even though this was the biggest one you’ve pulled off in a while. Up too late, you rationalize. Your work schedule keeps you up and running until around 1 o’clock in the morning. You’ve adjusted your sleeping patterns to accommodate that, but you still often wake up feeling no more rested than you had when you went to bed.
You cast your bleary eyes around the room, searching for your bookshelf. You locate it— because it’s in the same spot as it has been for as long as you can remember— and send a wave of magic over to locate your personal Bible: “1001 Useful Spells That Every Unicorn Should Know.”
The thousand-plus-page tome is far older than you, and you had been extremely impressed to find such a treasure at the Ponyville library. It had actually been a subject of much interest to the librarian, Twilight Sparkle, for a bit of “light reading”, and you practically had to beg her to let you check it out.
You open to your bookmark at the fifty-page mark, munching on your muffin. You scan past the spell you had learned yesterday (speeding up plant growth) and move onto the next: “a spell to stop something from eating everything”. You do a double-take. A few muffin crumbs and half a blueberry tumble down your chin and land on a yellowing page. “What?” you mutter to yourself, questioning the reality of this unusual entry in your holy book. But then again, when there are over a thousand spells, some of them are bound to be a little . . . aimless. “Never mind.” You turn the page—hopefully there won’t be anything overly useless there. You glance at the title on the top of the page: “Changing Colours of Objects”. You smile. Much better.
*****
After the half hour it took you to learn the spell had passed, your apartment was a complete and utter seizure-inducing mess.
You’d been having so much fun with the colour-change spell that you thought it a good idea to turn the colour of everything in the room to something eye-wateringly bright.
Your fridge is electric blue; the tiling is alternating pink and lime green; your couch is magenta; the walls and ceiling have rainbow-coloured camouflage splotches; even your mane has gone from blue to blindingly bright turquoise. The whole room makes you feel like you’re on several different hallucinogenic drugs at the same time.
You’re grinning from ear to ear. Well, that was fun.
Your horn had just lit up again to start cleaning up, when there was another knock at the door. Great! You are immediately jolted into overdrive.
“Who is it?” you call out, frantically firing magic all over the room, attempting to reverse some of the chaos you had wreaked on your apartment.
“Eiffel!” replies a male voice. “What’s going on in there?”
Eiffel is a good friend of yours and he’s used to coming over while some crazy experiment is in progress. You breathe out a sigh of relief and use your horn to open the door, while still restoring order with the rest of your mind power.
Eiffel trots into the room, eyes wide from the sensory overload you had engineered. He’s a dark blue earth pony with sea-blue eyes and a spiky turquoise mane, that so happened to match yours at the moment. His cutie mark was a pair of taiko drums, for his talent in percussion. “Oh,” he says. “I see you’ve been busy.”
You grin sheepishly. “Yeah. Got a little carried away.” You shoot a few more rays of light to the corners of the room, and your wallpaper turns back to its normal shade of grey.
Eiffel looks at you seriously. “Are you doing something different with your mane? You must tell me, what’s your secret?” A grin breaks across his face.
You look up to see a lock of orange and green hair falling in front of your face. You summon a mirror from the bathroom. While you had been trying to reverse your spellwork, you had inadvertently made your mane worse. It was now an ugly mix of pumpkin orange and lime green, and a few splotches of pink. “What are you talking about?” you reply. “My mane always looks like this!”
“Funny. By the way, Lyra sent me to come find you. Something about a lunch date or something?”
You jolt to your hooves. “What? What time is it?”
“About one o’clock.”
“Horseapples!” Your horn lights up to turn your mane back to its regular navy blue. “Thanks for finding me,” you say to Eiffel. “Lyra would have murdered me and fed me to the parasprites if I’d forgotten about it.” You rush out the door. Eiffel jumps outside just in time to avoid a smack on the flank from the front door.
“No problem. Hate for you to miss your date.”
“Noteworthy is coming too,” you protest. “It’s not a date.”
“Makes no difference how many of you there are. This just makes it a double date.” Eiffel laughs.
“Wouldn’t the other pony have to have a partner in order for it to be a double date?” You wrap a scarf around your neck to block the winter chill.
You skid to a halt outside Sugarcube Corner, spraying snow and sleet.
Framed impressively in the doorway of the shop is the imposing figure of Lyra Heartstrings, and she’s glowering at you. You cringe, lowering your head. This wasn’t the first time you’ve been tardy to an engagement that she’s expected you to attend, and you’re hoping that the incoming lecture will be brief and somewhat painless.
“Uh, hey Lyra,” you say.
“Is it too much to ask for you to wake up before noon just once?” Lyra stalks down the pink front stairs, glaring at you. You can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, and you can’t really think of a way to play it safe, so you just remain silent. “Come on!” Lyra continues. “I mean, really! You know how Noteworthy is about sleeping, and he made it just fine!”
“Give him a break, Lyra,” says Noteworthy, appearing at the door. He’s a tall, blue stallion with light brown eyes and a pair of eighth notes as a cutie mark. And at times he’s much friendlier than your mutual friend Lyra.
“Thanks, Notes,” you mutter. You turn to look back at Lyra—snow is quickly aggregating on her turquoise coat. You light up your horn and send a pulse of warm air over her, melting off most of the white fluff. “Sorry, Lyra. I got caught up reading and I lost track of the time.”
“Did Eiffel find you? Thanks, by the way.” Lyra shakes the remaining sleet of her back.
“Yeah, he did.” You smile shamefacedly. You look longingly at the benign light coming from the bakery. “Is it too late for breakfast?”
“At one-thirty?” says Lyra, smirking.
“You know full well that I’m practically nocturnal.” You give a tentative smile. Fortunately, Lyra’s annoyance with you has passed just as fast as it came on, and she’s back to her normal, joking self. You breathe a silent sigh of relief— no degrading speech at all! “Nah, I already ate, but I could use a snack.”
Noteworthy stood aside to let you and Lyra past. A heavenly gust of hot, cupcake-scented air slams into you. The small bakery is crowded with ponies, either eating solo or in groups. Mr. Carrot Cake is roving around with a wide metal platter bearing various desirable confections. You moan happily. “I’ll take one of everything.”
“Easy, bro! I thought you just said that you’ve eaten!” says Noteworthy. “Go find a table, I’ll handle the food.”
“C’mon. Let’s go.” Lyra grabs you by the elbow and steers you away from the vast menu board hanging above the cash register, manned by Mrs. Cup Cake. She takes you to a secluded corner table with four chairs and pulls one of them out for you to sit down. Before you do, though, you magic a seat out for her in turn. You pull an exaggerated bow, waiting for her to sit. She curtsies and complies.
“Always the gentlepony, you.”
“I live to please.” You lower yourself down. Several joints pop, earning you a disgusted glance from Lyra. “Sorry.” It is all very comfortable, but the fantasy is completed by Noteworthy, returning a few minutes later bearing a large plate of doughnuts and three coffee mugs. He places the tray in the center of the table and slides steaming beverages to you and Lyra. “Enjoy!”
Lyra uses magic to levitate a cream-filled pastry to her face. “Sweet Celestia, I love you, Noteworthy,” she says, mouth full.
Noteworthy laughs awkwardly. A red tint spreads noticeably across his muzzle, but you decide not to point it out. “Seriously, Notes, you’re a lifesaver,” you add, then take a long gulp of hot coffee. Almost as soon as you’ve put the mug back down, Mrs. Cakes is at your shoulder, topping it off with brown liquid from a massive teapot. “Thanks, Mrs. Cakes.”
“My pleasure, dearie,” Cakes says before disappearing again to go attend to the overwhelming needs of her customers.
You had just looked down to select a doughnut, when you feel a cold breeze on your face. The bakery’s door had been opened, and a hooded pony entered. It appeared to be a mare, by the shape of her build under the heavy jacket. You watch as she slowly walks up to the register, and exchanges a few quiet words with Mr. Cake. You nudge Noteworthy. “Who’s that over there?”
Noteworthy looks where you’re gesturing. His eyes narrow as he focuses on the newcomer. “I dunno, but then again...” he smiles skeptically at you. “She is wearing a hood. I may be amazing and everything, but I don’t have x-ray vision.” He takes a big bite of a glazed doughnut. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing. Déjà vu, I guess. I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
You outwardly dismiss the mysterious pony, but you can’t seem to take your eyes off her. She finishes her business with Mrs. Cake and goes over to a table with a view of the entire room. You can see her hood shift slightly as she moves her head side to side, presumably scanning the room. Through the shadows shrouding her face, you can barely make out white fur and part of a pair of sunglasses. Sunglasses? During winter?
You’re snapped back to reality by Lyra’s voice.
“So what were you doing that was so much more important than meeting your best friends?”
“Huh?”
“Why were you late?”
“Oh. . .” You focus most of your attention on Lyra now, but leave a bit of your consciousness riveted on the mystery mare in the corner. “I was reading. A little spellwork, you know?” You lower your voice as you say this; you don’t like to spread around the fact that you’re studying magic. It would attract a little more attention than you would like.
“Anything in particular?” asks Noteworthy, a little louder than necessary. You frown at him, but don’t say anything.
“Yeah,” you mutter back. “A colour-changing spell.”
“What’s it do?”
“You’re an idiot!” Lyra laughed. “Noteworthy! A colour-changing spell! What would you think that does?”
“Heh, right.” Noteworthy didn’t seem remotely abashed by her pointing out his stupidity. On the contrary, he appeared quite pleased to have Lyra laughing at him. You raise your eyebrows at him, silently questioning his motives. He shoots you a covert look, signaling for you to drop it. You understand immediately; over the years, you and Noteworthy have gotten to know each other so well that you can practically read each other’s minds. But Noteworthy was being more secretive than usual, and you can respect that.
Movement from across the room catches your eye.
Miss Mystery Mare had stood up, her face locked on yours. You say nothing to Lyra or Noteworthy, as you are transfixed by the motion of your admirer. She has a certain bounce to her walk, her head constantly bobbing. But at the same time, she appears perfectly graceful, like a dancer. Something about it was strangely hypnotizing. She stops at your table. Lyra and Noteworthy have noticed her as well now. It was kind of hard not to, since she was more or less leaning across them to speak to you: “Can I sit down?’
You blink. “Uh . . . sure?”
A light blue glow fades out from under her hood and the remaining chair slid out for her to sit. So she’s a unicorn then. “Thanks, bro. You have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you. Word on the street is that you’re the pony I’m looking for.”
“Hold up!” says Noteworthy. “Who the hey are you?”
“Give me a minute, Notes,” she replies evenly. She turns back to you. “So, somepony told me you’re pretty musically savvy, no?”
“Who wants to know?”
The mare raises her hood a bit, enough to expose her face to the three ponies across from her. A wild mane of electric blue hair framed an intelligent smirk and a pair of massive violet-lensed sunglasses.
DJ-Pon3 sits back in her chair, looking pleased with the result of her dramatic reveal. “Keep it on the down-low, okay? I’m not here to party.”
“But—“ Noteworthy starts.
“But why are you here?” says Lyra, who seems to have recovered from the shock of the sudden appearance of the Equestria-famous DJ better than you and Noteworthy.
Vinyl doesn’t look upset by the lack of awe from Lyra. She spares the turquoise unicorn a smirking glance before looking back to you. “Now, this is pretty classified, hush-hush information, so don’t go spreading it around. Can’t have a million volunteers, see? But there’s a friend of mine who’s looking for somepony to fill a certain position of importance.”
You aren’t excited about the direction this conversation was rapidly pointing towards, given her previous comment about you. “Yes?” you prompt.
“Some old pony named Frederic Horseshoepin just died from cancer, so the Royal Canterlot Orchestra is needin’ a new pianist, and my aforementioned friend who’s actually in the orchestra asked me to take a trip to Ponyville to do a little talent-huntin’.” Vinyl looks pointedly at you. “Somepony told me you can work the keyboard like no other. Hint hint.” She might have winked—her head cocked a little to the side—but her trademark shades hide her eyes completely, so you’re not sure.
“You want me to play for the Royal Canterlot Orchestra.” Your eyes close and you set down your coffee mug. Yeah, the conversation just went there.
“You think? I don’t usually go through this much trouble just to have some tea and cakes, and then be on my way. Hey, they’re short one pony, and you fit the bill.”
“Who was it that told you about me?”
“Uh . . . some pony named Eiffel. Blue, drums for a cutie mark.” The DJ gestures vaguely.
You knead your eyes with a hoof. “I’m going to kill him.”
“So is that a yes?”
“Miss Scratch,” interjects Lyra. “He’s not interested. He’s really not interested in the spotlight, and this is just so sudden and crazy.” Interestingly, Vinyl looks positively stupefied at being referred to as “Miss Scratch”.
“Thanks, Lyra,” you mutter.
“What?”
You ignore her. “Vinyl, can you give me a while to think about it?”
“Yes, I am.” Where are these words coming from? This is the last thing you want, so why are you leaping at the opportunity?
Vinyl slides a hoof under her hood and scratches the back of her head. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever floats your boat. Just get back to me by tomorrow, m’kay?” The DJ stands, taking a doughnut with her. She tosses a pile of bits on the table, and then disappears.
Lyra leans over the table. “What the hey just happened?”
You don’t answer immediately. Both she and Noteworthy are staring at you. “First off, I’m going to go find Eiffel and strangle him, then I’m going to the library.”
“Um, what?” says Noteworthy.
“I’ve got a book that’s almost overdue. Twilight’ll kill me if I wait another day.”
Lyra pokes your shoulder. “How can you think about that now? Vinyl Scratch just offered you a position in the Royal Canterlot Orchestra and you as good as accepted it! And you’re worried about overdue library books!”
“Book. Singular,” you correct.
A yellow pony at the table next to yours splits off from her conversation to look at Lyra. “Did you say Vinyl Scratch?”
“It was nothing, Carrot Top.”
You stand up. “I’ve got to go.” You gesture at the small pile of bits Vinyl had dropped. “I guess Vinyl paid for breakfast, so I’ll see you later.”
*****
What’s wrong with you?
You’re actually excited to give Vinyl the good news.
You hate the fact that you can do something worthy of any attention, but now you’re eager to show it off. This is completely against the character for yourself that you’ve built up for your entire life—the spotlight is the bane of your existence.
Your mind is normally split off in a thousand directions at once, but you’re a lot more distracted than normal. So distracted that you run headlong into Twilight Sparkle.
“Sorry, Twilight.” You shake your head to get your thoughts in order.
The lavender unicorn doesn’t seem to have suffered any serious damage and is sporting a friendly smile. “That’s quite all right, but are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Twilight at times seems like a concerned parent, no matter who she’s talking to. “Are you sure? You look a little . . . well, confused. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, not really.” You attempt to laugh it off, but Twilight is still looking at you funny. Then you remember an item on your to-do list. “Actually, I was going to come find you anyway. I wanted to return Magical Theory.” You reach into your saddlebag and magic out the heavy tome.
“Oh! Excellent! Did you find it interesting?” The magic forcefield around the book switches from your grey to Twilight’s pink.
You smile falsely. The book had been a long and tiresome read, but interesting nonetheless. Nothing you don’t already know, but a good bit of instruction in theory. “Yes, it was . . . illuminating.” Your voice cracks a little on the last syllable.
“Well, I’m glad. Feel free to stop by the library anytime! I’ll see you later!”
“Yeah . . . bye, Twilight.” As she cheerfully trots off, your mind settles back into its pit of confusion and self-abuse.
Rationally, you shouldn’t be this upset with yourself. But the giddiness you had utilized to make those bold statements is wearing off, and you’re now realizing what agreeing to Vinyl’s request would mean.
Standing up onstage in some ostentatious, Canterlot-style getup with a few dozen other musicians, your every move being closely watched and judged by a thousand silent spectators. More eyes on you at once than you’ve experienced in your entire life, combined. Their cold judgment beating down on you like a hammer.
Sitting down to a highly-polished ivory grand piano.
Playing your music for others to experience.
*****
Sorry about this chapter being a little late! I wrote and rewrote it about 2,357 time, and I'm still not too pleased with it. Hope it's not as bad as I think, maybe it's because I've been staring at it for hours on end.
(Also, bonus points to who can name an episode with Eiffel in it!)
Heavily laden with groceries, you magically unlock the door to your apartment and push it inward. As you trudge inside, you send out another magic probe to locate the light switch and flip it on. The cheap electric lights spring to life, aside from one dead bulb near the bathroom. You hastily scrawl down a note in the back of your mind to replace it, and dump your bags onto the counter
Even though you list had only required apples, milk, and paper, you had splurged and bought a few “luxuries”. Namely, a bar of milk chocolate, a wall clock, two books of sheet music, and a lime green lava lamp. The lamp had caught your eye while window shopping, and some unknown force inside your head made you buy it.
Your consciousness splits off once again as you unpack your bags and begin sorting them into their correct places. You leave the groceries to do their thing, and manually carry the new lava lamp over to your end table. You plug the cord into a wall socket and green light illuminates from a bulb at the base. Globules of green, jellylike substance begin to slowly bob up and down.
You smile. Definitely worth the bits.
You affix your new clock to the wall above the piano, inadvertently noticing that it’s about four o’clock. Two and a half more hours until work. You work at the Maison de Lune, an upper-class restaurant. Mostly serving tourists and the occasional perfectionist fashionista. As a member of the wait staff, you don’t have to be on location until later in the evening.
Your eyes affix on your piano, and Vinyl’s proposition comes back to you in a rush.
Playing for the Royal Canterlot Orchestra.
You once again sit on your old piano bench, the cracking leather comfortable on you backside. Your faithful horn glows with warm luminosity, hinting at the massive power you possess inside. A delicate layer of grey magic settles onto the age-worn keyboard, feeling the familiar shapes and contours of the black and white keys.
And you begin to play.
Your music is empowering. A triumphant lead part vastly overpowers an uncertain undertone in minor key. It seems like the two sides are battling, exchanging blows as they each vie for verses. One will take the spotlight, while the other fades into the background, then comes back in a fury. Major overwhelms minor, and the piece comes to a finale of epic proportions. The final chord rings out, bringing the whole piece to a satisfying and chilling end, and slowly fades into an echo.
Intense, tangible silence settles over the apartment.
You’re breathing hard and your eyes are tightly squeezed shut. “I’ll do it,” you say to your unexpected visitor.
“Well, good. ‘Cause it would leave me pretty screwed if you didn’t.”
Vinyl Scratch is framed in the doorway, electric blue mane blowing impressively in the winter wind. She’s taken her hood off completely, so you can now fully appreciate her features.
The DJ is beautiful in her own way. Her mane is unkempt and wild, coloured two shades of blue: one eye-wateringly bright, and the other considerably darker. Her coat is pure, flawless white, adorned only by her cutie mark: a pair of bridged eighth notes. Her face is almost completely obscured by her signature violet shades, except for her mouth, which is smirking knowingly at you.
“You aren’t exactly invited to barge into my house,” you say wearily. You’re annoyed at the DJ’s complete disregard for your privacy, but you’re also thankful that she’s here now, because you might not have been able to talk yourself into tracking her down to give her the news— you would’ve psyched yourself out before even making it out the front door.
Vinyl trots across the room, closing the door behind her with turquoise magic. “Broski, what I just heard you do . . . doors can’t hold back talent like that. I was sent here to make sure you agree to at least give it a shot . . .” She plops down on your couch. “And it looks like my work here is done!”
“Yeah. I’ll come with you.”
“Wow, that was easy.” Vinyl looked surprised. “She said . . . er, he said—“ Vinyl corrected herself. “—that you’d take some serious convincing.”
Right. Eiffel. Still on your list of ponies to kill.
“But, it turns out, I walk into the building and you’re throwing yourself all over me!”
You cough awkwardly, making the DJ laugh. Eager to change the subject, you seize something mundane to work with. “So . . . when are we leaving?”
Vinyl is still giggling. “Tomorrow. Early. Train station at seven.”
“Okay, good. Now, would you mind getting out of my house?”
Vinyl put on an exaggerated offended face. “That’s not cool, bro. Shutting me down like that. I just set you up with the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you, and you’re just kicking me out? You might just hurt my feel-goods.”
Vinyl’s the type of pony you would try to avoid at all costs. The loud, obnoxious, party-all-night, high-on-life kind of ponies. But even though she’s completely insane, you find yourself smiling at her little jokes.
“Sorry, Vinyl,” you reply, grudgingly grinning.
“We’re cool. Do you have anything for an Equestria-famous DJ to drink?”
“Nothing alcoholic.”
“No problem. I don’t usually drink, anyway. Messes with the creative juices. Do I look like an alcoholic to you? I don’t really like what you’re suggesting, tough guy.”
The frizzy mane. Jumpy movements. The sheer amount of parties the mare attends. “Um . . .”
“Nothing. I’m just forcing my presence on you. Does that bother you?”
“A little.”
“All right! All right! I can take a hint! You’re completely smitten by my stunning good looks, and you feel like a tongue-tied fool in my presence! Well, I will depart, leaving you to fantasize wildly about me!” Vinyl springs up from the couch.
“Wait! Um . . . what?”
“Just messing with you, friend. And now . . .” Vinyl trots over to the door, swinging it open violently with her magic. She jumps through the doorway. “I go!”
You shift uncomfortably, standing a few yards away from a colorful train. It billows cloudy white smoke, which gathers around your hooves. A uniformed conductor patrols the length of the platform, with no visible purpose.
At your hooves is an overnight bag packed with a few necessities, and your saddlebag is slung across your back. You don’t know exactly how long you’re staying in Canterlot, and the thought of being underprepared is slowly creeping into you mind, adding to the mass of nervous energy that you are made up of.
Several other passengers amble aimlessly around you, fiddling with luggage or making quiet conversation. You can’t spot the pony you’re looking for, though.
No sign of Vinyl Scratch yet.
You sigh and look up at the clock hanging from an overhang— it reads 6:55. Vinyl had said that you’d be leaving at seven, and yet she apparently wouldn’t be showing up until the last second, herself.
“Hello.”
You nearly wet yourself from surprise. Vinyl materializes at your shoulder, quieter than you’ve ever heard any pony be. Luckily, your fright only showed in a small twitch of your head. “How did you do that?” you ask conversationally.
Vinyl trots up beside you. “I dunno. Maybe you’re just unobservant.”
Since you’ve been at the station, your restless mind has completely analyzed absolutely everything. From the obituaries in an elderly stallion’s newspaper to a buildup of cobwebs in a dark corner of the ticket booth. Nothing has gone unnoticed. “I like to think otherwise.”
“Okay, I’m just a magnificently sneaky ninja. Yes?”
“Sure.”
Vinyl doesn’t seem to have any luggage, but her hood is back up to hide her identity and a pair of expensive-looking headphones are slung around her neck. She’s once again head bobbing, like dubstep is constantly pounding in her brain.
A conductor lets out a loud blast on his whistle, signaling for the passengers to begin boarding. You and Vinyl melt into the flow of ponies pushing to get onto the train. You lean in and speak to Vinyl, loudly over the noise: “Where are we sitting?”
“First class!”
“Oh . . . okay.”
Vinyl grabs you by the hoof and starts dragging you through the crowd, parting the ponies like a hot knife through butter. She shoves you up onto the train before following herself. “I mean, I like crowds and all, but that’s ridiculous!”
“Vinyl, there were like a dozen ponies.”
“And they were in the way of DJ-Pon3 and a soon-to-be-Equestria-famous concert pianist. Lesser beings, my friend.” She flashes you a grin to let you know that she’s kidding. “Now let’s find a spot to crash.”
“Er . . . right here.” You point a hoof at the sign directly above the DJ’s head. First class carriages.
“Right you are!” Vinyl turns and magics one of the doors open, then trots into the luxurious room. You look down at your ticket uncertainly.
“Uh . . . Vinyl? Aren’t we supposed to be in carriage four?”
Vinyl pokes her head back out into the hallway. “Bro, we own this train. We sit where we want. Besides—” She disappears again. “I really don’t think anypony else booked first class, so we’re not taking somepony’s seats.”
You follow Vinyl into your temporary lodgings. It’s all plush seating and crystal goblets, and you feel a little out of place. Vinyl is already sprawled across two seats, pouring herself a shot of some fizzy liquid. “Make yourself at home!” she drawls.
You magic your luggage into the overhead compartment and sit uncertainly. Vinyl is in her element; the lap of luxury is more or less her constant state of existence, but for you it’s extremely alien.
Vinyl notices your discomfort. “You’d better get used to the fancy-pancy treatment, ‘cause you’re gonna be getting a lot of it now. That is . . .” She downs her drink and sets the cup down forcefully. “If you make the cut.”
You look skeptically at the DJ. “You mean to tell me that you’re dragging me all the way to Canterlot, and I might not even be in the orchestra when I get there.”
“Don’t worry, the ponies who show up to the auditions are usually just dreamers, and they can’t play an instrument to any degree. You, on the other hand, are a freaking prodigy.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“Don’t give me that. If I thought you were trash, I wouldn’t have even invited you, you dig? Anyway, you’re good. Really good. Get used to it.”
You don’t have a reply to that. This is one of the things about Vinyl that you’re starting to dislike, but at the same time you’re appreciating it greatly. The fact that she’s so blatantly honest with you about your talents.
“Okay, I’m gonna tune out for a while. Meditation or something like that. So don’t bug me, dearie.” Vinyl slips her headphones over her head and leans back into the seat. You are left to guess whether her eyes are closed or not. Within a few seconds, you hear the dull pound of percussion emanating from her headphones.
The train begins to move. A sharp jolt at first, but quickly it settles into a rhythmic throbbing, almost exactly in time with the beat of whatever Vinyl’s listening to. The initial movement makes the unresponsive DJ to slide down in her seat, her back legs stretching across the cabin and almost kicking your shins.
You decide to take a nap yourself, since this is much earlier than you normally wake up, with your late-night work schedule. Come to think of it, your performance last night was probably less than exemplary; your distraction bred from Vinyl had most likely seeped into your work. You had had to ask several customers to repeat their orders because you’d missed it the first time, sometimes more than once.
You lean back and close your eyes, the pounding of the train beating a soothing massage on the back of your skull. You go through a system check, shutting down your various planes of consciousness one by one. Your agitated mind begins to close, allowing sleep to take you.
*****
Did you really expect not to receive a rude awakening?
The first and only thing you register is shattering bass, pounding percussion, and a good deal of wubs, all at a volume high enough to desolate your eardrums.
You yelp and jerk up in your seat, shoving the offender off your head: Vinyl’s headphones.
The DJ herself is standing, as she had just shoved the headphones over your ears; she’s wiping away tears from laughing so hard. “Good morning, sunshine!”
You heart is hammering and your breath is coming in labored spurts. “Good one, Vinyl.”
“I took it upon myself to wake you up.”
“You don’t say!”
“Yeah, you’re welcome. We’re here, by the way.”
“Here? What?” Despite Vinyl’s attempt to scare you awake, you’re still groggy.
“You’re impossible. Come on, let’s go.” Vinyl’s horn lights up like a beacon and your luggage comes shooting out of the rack and into the hallway, nearly flattening Cherry Cola, who was just passing. “Onward, sleepyhead!”
“Coming.” You drag yourself out of your comfortable chair and trudge after Vinyl, who is practically skipping. By the time you’re out of the cabin, your escort is already pushing out the door and onto the platform.
You step down onto the concrete, your first step into Canterlot.
Then you look up.
“Welcome to Canterlot,” says Royal Riff, the lead violinist of the Royal Canterlot Orchestra. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Canterlot sprawls out in front of you, vast, ornate, and glorious. Upper-class ponies strut upon neat cobblestone streets, noses held high. Fancy galleries and boutiques line the main thoroughfare, providing their customers satisfying eye candy in the form of colourful window displays. Past them you see the spires of Canterlot Palace, a lot more imposing here than back in Ponyville.
Canterlot.
In other words, your personal nightmare.
Vinyl has to nudge your shoulder and clamp your gaping jaw shut for you. “Dude, I thought I woke you up already! Snap out of it!”
You shake your head. “I’m okay.”
Royal Riff looks pleased with your incredulous reaction. He’s a grey stallion with a white mane and similar build to Eiffel and Noteworthy. His cutie mark is a pair of white treble clefs. “So, what do you think?”
“It’s . . . big.”
“That’s understandable, seeing as you’re used to living in Ponyville. It’s an extreme change of scenery. But trust me, you’ll get used to it fast.”
“Hey! Riffs! Can we get a move on?” Vinyl pipes in. She’s practically bouncing from all the pent-up energy she’s been saving on the train ride. “I want to go say hey to Octavia before I have to show at the Wonderbolts’ airshow.”
You tear yourself out of your stupor. “Wait, the Wonderbolts?”
“Yup. I’m designated DJ for their shows. And I’ll have you know . . .” Vinyl glares at you playfully. “I missed one while I was on that wild goose chase for you in Ponyville.”
“Um . . . sorry?”
“No problem. I’ve been to about a million of them. They get repetitive after a while.”
Royal Riff coughs. “Rub it in, why don’t you?’ He turns to you. “Shall I show you where you’ll be staying, sir?”
“Sir?” you mutter. You’re not sure if you like this newfound respect. Vinyl nudges you, smirking.
“Can I take that as a yes?” asks Royal Riff.
“Yeah.”
“Excellent! You will be staying in . . . that building.” Royal Riff points over the skyline at a prominent structure jutting out over the lower shops. A massive gold building full of graceful arches and massive pillars.
“Emerald Palace, huh?” Vinyl whistles appreciatively. “And here I was thinking that they’d ease you into this stuff.”
The Palace was easily a hundred stories, all gold plate and glass. A good deal fancier than anything else you’ve ever seen. “Uh, just out of curiosity,” you ask. “How much is it per night?”
Royal Riff laughs nervously. “Really now! Did you really think that we wouldn’t provide sleeping arrangements? Don’t worry; all the costs are completely covered! Now, shall we?”
The violinist leads you and Vinyl towards the Emerald Palace, merging into the hoof traffic of uppity Canterlotians. Normally, you would have been ploughed over by the tsunami of ponies marching at you in a massive wave, but Vinyl and Royal Riff have a sort of aura that parts the crowd before you. Some of the ponies you pass even bow their heads respectfully at Royal Riff.
Vinyl, on the other hoof, looks uncomfortable. She’s a party pony through and through, and Canterlot isn’t exactly her cup of tea. Too much frill and politeness, and not enough strobe lights and noise. She cringes every time somepony bows to Royal Riff, or utters some uppity phrase, like “I say!”
“I swear, every time I hear somepony say ‘swimmingly’ or ‘dearie,’ I will personally punch Prince Blueblood in the face,” Vinyl moans.
“Would you rather they said ‘radical’ or ‘homie’?” Royal Riff replies, chortling at the DJ’s discomfort.
“You’re a certified comedian, Riffs. And I don’t talk like that.”
You think the musicians’ banter is funny, so you laugh along, earning you strange looks from passersby. Like, “Who is this uncouth young stallion who dares laugh with DJ-Pon3 and Royal Riff? The nerve of him!”
Royal Riff takes a left off the main boulevard, onto a side street. It’s less crowded, and you and Vinyl are both let out sighs of relief. “Thank Celestia!” Vinyl exclaims. “I almost became a full-scale murderer back there!”
“Relax, Vinyl. You’ve been to Canterlot before,” Royal Riff says without turning around.
“Not the main street! I take the subtle entrances! The ones that lead me to the clubs.”
“So you’re telling me that you’ve never run into a Canterlotian or two at all those Wonderbolts airshows you’ve attended?”
“That’s different. You don’t get up close and personal when you’re in the sound booth. These ponies, let me tell you . . .”
“Well, I think the Canterlot folk are simply smashing ponies,” you gush, recovering your silver tongue. “I would adore to become more well-acquainted with them.”
It’s Vinyl’s turn to giggle at Royal Riff. “Sounds about like you, Riffs.”
“Very funny. Fortunately for you, most of the members of the orchestra aren’t the kind of ponies you’ve encountered thus far. Many of them have been hoofpicked from other cities, like Manehattan or Las Pegasus. They haven’t yet adopted our speech patterns. So I expect you’ll get along swimmingly.” Royal Riff throws the last word in sarcastically, turning to look at Vinyl as he says it. Vinyl’s jaw twitches.
“I see. Any from Ponyville before?”
Royal Riff considered. “Let’s see . . . just one.”
“Who is it? Are they still in the orchestra?”
“Of course he is! Because that ‘one’ is me.”
You stop walking, causing Vinyl to bump into you. “You’re from Ponyville?”
“Yes. Frederic Horseshoepin came recruiting, and I showed up for auditions.”
“And you made it?”
“Obviously.”
You fall silent. The auditions. Vinyl had said that they were a pushover, but nervous energy starts to seep back into your system. “So, um . . . how many ponies show up to these auditions?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
“A few dozen,” Royal Riff says offhandedly. “But they’re just a formality, really. When we have our eye on a certain somepony, nothing else really matters. You’re name has probably been added to our roster already.”
“That’s pretty confident of you, Riffs,” says Vinyl. “What if somepony shows up who shatters the competition?”
“You tell me, Vinyl. You’re the one who has actually heard our friend play. Is he actually as good as you made out in your letter?”
“Better. You have no idea. When this kid plays, time stops.”
“Funny, Vinyl,” you mutter.
“No exaggeration. Celestia would move the sun for music like that, and I don’t even like classical!”
You cough. “So, who’s this Octavia?”
Vinyl opens her mouth to respond, but Royal Riff cuts in. “She’s our first chair cellist. Definitely the best musician we have with us at the moment.”
“And she’s the friend who sent me to find you,” Vinyl adds.
“A cellist?” You smirk at Vinyl. “Doesn’t really seem like the pony you’d associate with, Vinyl.”
“I really love these DJ stereotypes. Can’t I hang out with whoever I want? So what if she’s a concert cellist?” Vinyl looks offended at your assertion.
“It’s fine,” you hurriedly correct yourself. “It’s just . . . I was just a little surprised, that’s all.”
The three of you walk in silence for a while. Royal Riff finally breaks the tension that’s building. “I think you’ll like Octavia. She’s really a nice pony, and you two have a lot in common.” When you don’t respond, he plows on. “She’ll be the one to ‘show you the ropes,’ so to speak. I’ll introduce you when we’re at rehearsal later today.”
“Rehearsal? Already?” you say.
“After the auditions, of course.”
“Isn’t that a little . . . sudden?”
Royal Riffs shifts uncomfortably. “Yes . . . but, well . . .” He clears his throat. “Frederic Horseshoepin’s . . . passing . . . came at a rather inconvenient time. Not to sound insensitive or anything! But we have an important performance upcoming, and we’ve been in a bit of a frenzy to come up with a replacement pianist. And now that we have you, we really need to pick up the pace in order to be adequately prepared.”
“I see.”
Vinyl suddenly chuckles darkly. “Going through initiation with Octavia! Good luck, my friend!”
You glance at her, alarmed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pay her no mind,” Royal Riff says grimly. “She’s suggesting that Octavia might not warm up to you, especially during this time of loss. She was quite close to Frederic.”
Vinyl sobers up a little. “Really close,” she adds for emphasis. She kicks at a crack in the road as she passes.
“Oh . . .” You can imagine how she might resent you. Showing up out of the blue to replace somepony who shouldn’t have to be replaced.
Another awkward silence falls. You look down at your hooves. Nerves have never been your best friend, and now they’re practically making you vibrate. The talk of Octavia has made you even more anxious, and Celestia knows, you need more anxiety.
Royal Riff stops walking. “We’re here.”
You look up from your thoughts. The Emerald Palace looms over you, a thousand times bigger than it appeared from the main road. “Okay, then,” you say breathlessly.
The high life is waiting for you. All you have to do is embrace it.
Sorry about the longish wait!
I've been out of town for the 4th of July, and I didn't have WiFi to upload. So here's a slightly longer chapter!
Royal Riff and Vinyl Scratch had abandoned you soon after checking into your hotel room.
With a quick goodbye and a shoulder punch, Vinyl exited to make her appearance for the Wonderbolts, whereas Royal Riff quickly jotted down directions to the concert hall for rehearsal and then sped off without another word.
Leaving you standing in the middle of a massively gold-plated lobby, full of upper-class ponies who are starting to give you strange looks. Your luggage hovers about your hooves, slowly revolving around you because of your lack of attention. You look down at the room key in your hoof: a plastic card with a magnetic strip running down one side. Under the hotel’s name, your room number is emblazoned on the card: 313.
Based on Vinyl’s incredulous reaction when you were handed the card, this is a very good room.
Trying to ignore the stares on the back of your neck, you hike your saddlebag higher on your back and make your way across the giant room to the elevators. Your hooves clop noisily against the marble floors, and you immediately try to quiet your stride. Unfortunately, your diversion in attention throws off your walk cycle rhythm and you stumble a bit. A white stallion nearby gives you a disdainful look. Turning scarlet, you slip into the closest elevator.
The sliding doors mercifully close, hiding you from the lobby. Letting out a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you drop relinquish your luggage from your magic field and it settles down at your hooves. You nudge the crystal button for the tenth floor. With a jolt, the elevator starts to move.
You look to your right, then immediately to your left. On either side of you are full-length mirrors, displaying hundreds of images of yourself, going on into infinity. You grin, and your army of clones mimics you. You stick out your tongue, watching the gesture spread out until it’s a near-invisible speck in the distance.
Foalish giddiness works its way out of the back of your mind, taking control of your bodily functions. You bring your hooves to your face and contort it into a ridiculous shape. Your tongue lolls out, undulating wildly. You widen your eyes, trying to form the most grotesque expression possible.
The image reflected back to you is truly horrifying, and it distorts as you grin to yourself.
The elevator dings. The doors begin to slide open, and you hurriedly compose your facial expression. Outside, a pair of highly-dressed mares are chatting contentedly, too distracted to notice you molding your face back into its original position. Even so, your muzzle reddens in embarrassment. They barely even acknowledge you as you slip by them, dragging your bag behind you.
The practical half of your mind focuses on the room numbers on your right and left, searching for number 313. Whereas, the other, more prominent section of your consciousness is back to worrying.
You don’t belong here. You’re happy with your cheap, out of the way apartment and average-paying job. The excess extravagance and high living is frightening.
You suddenly resent Vinyl Scratch and Royal Riff. How did you let them talk you into this madness?
Room 313 appears on your left. Still distracted, you magic the key card into its designated slot. A beep, a green light, and the door pops open.
For the umpteenth time today, your jaw drops to the ground.
Your “room” appears to take up half of the entire floor. A short hallway leads to the main room, which is massive, and cluttered with high-end furniture that probably adds up to millions of bits in cost. Couches, chairs, ottomans, and coffee tables. A crystal chandelier dangles from the unusually high ceiling, ropes of glass refracting the room’s soft glow, painting light spots across the walls.
The kitchen is separated by a low wall, the thick carpet abruptly changing to sparkling white tile. All of the appliances are metallic silver, polished so brightly so you can see your face clearly in each of them. A granite-topped island takes up much of the floor space. Perched on top of the countertop is a large wicker basket, filled to the brim with fresh fruit, some of which you’ve never even seen before.
Several doors lead off the hallway. Through one, you see a massively gold-plated bathroom, and through another, a master bedroom with a giant four-poster bed.
You absentmindedly relinquish your magical hold on your bags, dropping them to the floor. Your saddlebag’s flap comes loose, causing the few books you packed to spill out. You barely even notice.
You shoulder open the bedroom door and enter. A hardwood dresser sits across from the bed, an exotic potted plant perched on top of it. The bed itself has a thick, brown down comforter and a mountain of throw pillows, somehow balanced perfectly as to not topple onto the floor. One wall is entirely glass, obscured by a set of heavy drapes.
You sit down on the bed, sinking a few inches into the bedspread. Your headache from magical overuse is returning, pounding behind your eyes. You knead your face with both hooves, begging the discomfort to vanish. You’re not Twilight Sparkle; you can’t simply magic your way through your day without a care in the world. Less talented unicorns like yourself have a period of cooldown after a bout of strong magical exertion, and you haven’t given yourself a chance to recover. Terrible migraines come on if one fails to recognize their limits.
Your eyes inadvertently close and you slump down, consciousness slipping from your body. Your focus starts to escape, and you attempt in vain to recover it.
Luckily, a sharp rap at the door tears you out of your stupor.
You push yourself off the unbelievably soft bed and force your legs to drag you into the hallway. Too fried to use magic, you hoof the gilded doorknob, twisting it downward. The door pops open, revealing a smart-looking unicorn with neat black hair and mustache, and a light grey suit jacket. Hovering at his side, wreathed in bluish light, is a long-necked, tinted bottle.
“Yes?” you say, trying to keep your voice level.
“Good afternoon, sir,” says the stallion, a clipped Canterlot accent affecting his voice. “A gift for you, compliments from the Royal Canterlot Orchestra . . .” He offers the bottle.
You reach out with magic to take it, momentarily forgetting about your splitting headache. You’re immediately reminded, though, when white-hot pain stabs your temples. You wince. “Who’s this from, again?”
“I’m afraid, I do not know—I’ve never seen her before. It was a grey mare, with a treble clef cutie mark.”
The description doesn’t ring any bells. You shake your head. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Did she say anything else?”
“No, sir. She looked somewhat disgruntled, though.”
“I see,” you mutter. “Thank you.”
The stallion bows his head respectfully and turns to go back down the hall. You watch him retreat, the bottle hovering around your head. As soon as he disappears into the elevator, you shut your door.
You examine the bottle as you make your way back into the kitchen. It’s sparkling apple cider, and quite expensive by the looks of it. Tied around the neck is a red ribbon, and attached to it is a strip of paper.
Ignoring the pain behind your eyes, you pull the note off, your magic field expanding to accommodate it. You propel the cider into the kitchen and set it on the island, then turn your attention to the paper.
The writing is in elegant calligraphy, drawn by a skilled hoof:
Dear Applicant,
The Royal Canterlot Orchestra welcomes you to their ranks, in hopes that you can be an adequate replacement to the late Frederic Horseshoepin. Enjoy your beverage.
After a long nap and a cold beverage from the Emerald Palace’s restaurant, you’re feeling much better.
The only hint that there ever was a headache is a mild twinge near the back of your skull, but that’s bearable. You’re still not too enthusiastic about using any magic, but at least you’re able to think straight.
Now, you’re standing out on the cobble street again, Royal Riff’s note hovering in front of you. You draw the paper in closer and squint to try to decipher his untidy scrawl. You can make out the time easily, but you have to focus more intently to translate the actual directions. As you pass each word, you methodically memorize the street names and routes.
Still a little confused, but having caught the gist of it, you take a right and begin walking down the now-empty street. Even though it’s barely five-thirty, light is starting to fade over the dazzling city of Canterlot. Golden evening sunlight filters through the complicated gables and arches, throwing intricate puddles of orange on the sidewalk.
You’re thankful for the lack of hoof traffic. Now that you’re actually making your way towards the symphony hall, nerves are once again mounting.
You stop at an intersection, browsing your recent memory for the correct turn to take. A scrap of barely-legible hoofwriting floats across your mind, and you turn left. High rise apartments tower over you from both sides, blocking whatever sunlight was left. Ahead, you can see a pink and orange sunset, splashed over the jagged skyline.
A pair of ponies appear from another side road, dressed to the nines as always. They appear to be a couple—they’re walking much closer to each other than friends would. The stallion is white, with a wavy blue mane and neat mustache. The mare is much taller than average—she approaches the height of Princess Luna or Cadance. She, like her partner, is white, but with a pale pink mane.
You lower your head, avoiding eye contact. You pull Royal Riff’s directions out of your saddlebag pocket and pretend to study them. The distance between you and the couple is closing rapidly.
As you pass them, you raise your head and nod politely, as not to appear rude. The stallion returns the gesture casually, but his eyes seem to linger on your face longer than necessary. Luckily though, he passes on without a word.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You raise your head and quicken your pace.
“Excuse me?”
You stop in your tracks. So much for avoiding conversation. You turn to find the stallion looking at you curiously. “Yes?” you say.
“Now, I could be mistaken, but are you not the new pianist for the Royal Orchestra?”
“Uh, yes. I am.”
The stallion smiled. “Ah, yes. I just so happened to have bumped into Royal Riff earlier today, and he mentioned you. Spoke rather highly of your talents, in fact.”
“Oh, well . . .” you trail off. Royal Riff has never actually heard you play. The only pony within fifty miles who has actually heard your music is Vinyl Scratch. It’s a bit confident of him to spread word of a sensation he doesn’t actually know exists.
“So modest!” the stallion gushes. “I’m eager to hear you onstage. By the way, my name is Fancypants. And this is my fiancé, Fleur de Lis . . .” he gestures at the mare beside him, who nods.
You introduce yourself. “It’s an honor to meet you, Fancypants, but if you’ll excuse me . . .” you move to leave. “I have a rehearsal that I need to be at.”
“Of course! Of course!” Fancypants says. “Well, we won’t hold you up any longer, my friend.” You twitch inwardly; you’re not sure if you’re ready to be considered Fancypants’s friend. “Come along, Fleur, dear.”
Fleur de Lis shoots you a suspicious look before turning to follow Fancypants.
If this is the amount of attention before anypony has even heard you play, you have no idea what could be waiting for you after a concert or two.
****
In a matter of minutes, the concert hall looms over you. A massive golden dome, adorned with countless decorative arches. At the base is a curved plane of glass, dotted with door handles. Fountains and sculpted hedges are scattered around the front gardens, adding a sense of balance to contrast the giant structure ahead.
You shrink under the building’s shadow. Despite the builder’s attempt at making it look natural and flowing, the concert hall is still huge and imposing.
You push a glass door open and enter. Inside, the carpeting is a creamy white, and the walls are pale gold. Three gilded staircases at the back of the room lead up three stories, all overlooking the foyer. Between the staircases are short hallways that lead to double doors, which are closed at the moment. Presumably they lead to the actual hall that you’ll be performing in.
In the center of the floor is the most attractive feature, though. A massive, twisted glass sculpture that reaches up well past the second floor in a thin curling tower. It’s made up of thousands of colored glass tubes, making it look like it’s made of a writing mass of snakes. Upon closer inspection, you determine that the sculpture is actually animated; enchanted by a skilled unicorn. Each tube is independently worming its way to some unknown destination, and back again. Overall, the effect is hypnotizing.
Poised gracefully on a nearby bench is Royal Riff, a paperback novel in front of him. Propped against his seat is a very expensive-looking violin and matching bow. You clear your throat. Royal Riff looks up, placing a hoof on the page to hold his place. He smiles widely upon spotting you.
“Ah, you made it! I wasn’t sure if my directions were clear enough.”
“No, they were informative,” you assure him. If a bit hard to read, you add silently.
“Good, good.” Royal Riff stands, tucking his violin under a foreleg. “Now that you’re here, let’s introduce you to the orchestra, shall we?”
You take a deep breath. “I suppose.”
Royal Riff smiles sympathetically. “Follow me.”
You trail behind as Royal Riff trots over to the doors behind the stairs. He pushes one open and stands aside to let you pass. As you enter, your eyes widen at the sheer size of the hall.
There is easily seating for a few thousand ponies, in the form of royal red velvet chairs placed in dozens of uniform rows. The balconies above protrude out in tiers, the lowest sticking out farthest. The stage itself is about forty meters across, and floored by matte black tiling. The entire room is lit by a monumental chandelier—it spreads across about a third of the ceiling, but only reaches down about three hoof-lengths.
The hopeful applicants for the new position of pianist take up the first few rows of seating, talking amongst themselves nervously. A cream colored mare with a purple mane sits onstage, watching you and Royal Riff.
“That’s Symphony,” Royal Riff says. “She’s one of our finer violinists. A good friend of mine.”
“Right.”
“She’ll be conducting the auditions.”
“Okay.”
As you approach, the conversation among the hopefuls fades. Several curious looks are shot in your direction. Why is he with Royal Riff already? Symphony drops to the floor and trots up to you. She swivels so she’s walking beside Royal Riff and throws a foreleg around his shoulders. “It’s about time you’ve shown up. Now we can finally start!”
“Am I the last one?” you mutter.
“No, we’re still waiting on a few. But we might as well start now that the VIP is in the building!”
You look around nervously. Most of the other applicants are transitioning from curious to suspicious, or even to hostile. Thankfully, Royal Riff comes to your aide.
“We’ll definitely see about that, Symphony,” he replies, loud enough for his voice to be carried across the hall. Making sure everypony heard. “I have a feeling that this might be a close battle.” He gives Symphony a subtle look, which signaled for her to play along.
“Possibly,” Symphony says thoughtfully. “I haven’t actually heard your friend play, so this should be an adventure.”
An adventure. Not the first word that comes to your mind.
You take a seat beside a blue unicorn, who mutely nods greeting to you. You try to smile reassuringly back, but it might have turned out to be more of a grimace.
Up onstage, Royal Riff takes the center, while Symphony disappears backstage. “I suppose I don’t have to tell you why you are here . . .” He smiles warmly. “But I will warn you, you all had better be absolutely sure you know what you’re signing up for here. This position is not for the weak of resolve.”
You swallow, hoping the pony next to you doesn’t notice. He doesn’t appear to.
“Our training schedule. . .” Royal Riff continues. “Is made up of four-hour sessions, usually once, but sometimes twice a day, depending on how our concert schedule looks. The closer we are to a performance, the higher the frequency of rehearsals, which is to be expected, of course.” His eyes drift across the crowd, resting for a second or two on each face before moving on. “It is a considerable commitment, and I understand if you aren’t able to comply. If there is anypony here who thinks that they won’t be able to meet requirements, I would ask you to please exit now.”
Tense silence hovers in a cloud over the room. Not one pony moves.
Royal Riff nods. “I see. Well then, without further ado . . .”
Symphony appears back onstage, pushing a massive grand piano in front of her. It’s a beautiful instrument, made entirely of black ebony. A sparkling white keyboard, dotted by reflective black lines that are flats and sharps.
“Let us begin.”
****
You watch nervously as the first hopeful, a brown earth pony, takes her place at the bench. It’s always mystified you how anypony could play a piano without magic. Hooves seem too bulky to press the keys accurately. But then again, Frederic Horseshoepin had managed it for decades, and his music was extraordinary.
On a signal from Symphony, who is sitting at a table at the base of the stage with Royal Riff, the mare begins to play.
Your stomach tightens. This pony is no novice. Her hooves dance expertly up and down the keyboard, producing a cheerful, uplifting melody. Waves of her music wash over the room, engulfing you with a feeling of content. And by a glance at the judges’ table, Symphony and Royal Riff are also impressed.
Symphony lets the mare go on for a minute or two, and then stops her with a raise of her hoof. The earth pony stands to a smattering of light applause. “Thank you,” says Symphony. “After each applicant is finished, will you kindly take your seats in the congregation? We will get back to you with our results after all the performances are finished.” The earth pony exits the stage, looking a little crestfallen.
“Next!”
The performances go in order of seating, so it puts you in dead last. One by one, ponies take the stage. Gradually, the line begins to thin.
As the performances progress, your spirits sink lower and lower. None of the applicants are terrible, and some are actually quite experienced. A memorable contender was a green pegasus, who used his wing tips as well as hooves to key out a bouncy ragtime piece. He left the stage to rigorous floor stomping, and you could see Royal Riff nodding approvingly.
The first row empties, leaving two more before you.
A unicorn mounts the stage and assumes her position in front of the piano. You sit up, eager to see her technique. Surprisingly, her horn doesn’t even light up. Instead, she works the keys like a regular earth pony, with her forehooves. You recline back into your seat, a little disappointed. As she begins to play, you start to tune out. Her performance is only average, and you’ve had just about enough.
You suddenly latch onto one of the many worries that have been floating around in your mind for the past few hours. Your heart rate doubles as you contemplate the fact that now takes up your entire attention.
What will you play?
When practicing, you almost never have a definite piece in mind when you sit down. Of course, you could play just about anything if you were to put your mind to it, but suddenly nothing seems suitable for this. And you can’t very well improvise; what if Royal Riff asks you to replicate it? Nothing you play ever sticks in your memory; it’s more spur-of-the-moment.
Your attention snaps back to the performance. A different pony than when you last checked is onstage now, playing what sounds like a funeral march. You look down the line, counting the ponies before you. Your heart skips a beat when you realize that you had missed four performances while you were ruminating. Four ponies less than there were two seconds—by your perspective—ago.
For the first time, you look around the theater. Despite what Symphony had said, many of the applicants had left the building. The rest are scattered around, mostly in the front, except for one mare.
Near the back of the room, sitting in the center of a row, her back legs propped up on the seat in front of her.
Vinyl Scratch.
When Vinyl sees you looking, she gives you a hearty wave, which you can’t bring yourself to return. You turn back around to see somepony exit the stage, and a large earth pony take his place.
If the pressure wasn’t on before, it certainly is now. Besides Symphony, Royal Riff, and a roomful of competitors, you also have to worry about impressing Vinyl Scratch now.
Lovely.
The line is down to a handful of ponies, and rapidly decreasing. In a matter of time, only you and the blue stallion next to you are still sitting. The pony onstage plays a slow lament, eyes closed. Whether she’s immersed in her music, or simply being dramatic, the effect is good. It makes her look mystical, especially since her long, ash-grey mane is flowing in a frenzied whirlwind.
When her performance is over, Symphony has to run up onstage to tap her on the shoulder to signal that her time is up. The music ends abruptly, the last chord ringing out across the hall, thanks to the flawless acoustics.
The stallion to your right stands. “Excuse me.” You pull in your legs to let him pass. He takes the short aisle to the stage at a trot and confidently prances up the steps to the stage. Symphony mutters something in Royal Riff’s ear, causing him to shake his head. She tries more insistently, but he denies it again. Frustrated, Symphony turns away and waves impatiently at the stallion onstage, who is gazing at her expectantly. Having been given the signal, his horn lights.
You once again snap to attention. Finally, somepony who knows how to do it properly.
But the unicorn’s execution is still incorrect. As he plays, he takes control of each key individually, instead of the keyboard as a whole. This makes playing a complicated piece inconvenient, as well as tiring. The attention of the caster is constantly shifting, focusing on each key. Whereas commandeering the instrument as a whole makes transitioning octaves and chords almost effortless.
The unicorn’s music is passable, but lacking the flow that is required for a truly masterful pianist.
It may be your imagination, but it seems like Symphony ended the performance a little earlier than the others. The unicorn onstage appears to notice as well, because he frowns suspiciously as he exits.
“And last, but not least . . .” Royal Riff prompts, looking back at you.
Your stomach jumps to your throat. You stand, and your vision clouds from the blood rushing to your brain. You take a few tentative steps, holding onto the seats to keep your balance. Your eyesight clears and your stride quickens.
Before you know it, you’re at the stairs. One hoof in front of the other, taking it one step at a time, you ascend.
The piano comes into view. You pull out the bench with your hoof, frowning slightly. Instead of the cracked leather you’re used to, the seat is hard wood. This shouldn’t make a difference, but you’re unnerved by the little detail. You sit, studying the feel.
Symphony takes a long moment to stare at you before motioning for you to begin.
Your mind goes on overdrive. Magic envelopes the keyboard, probing the unfamiliar objects. The keys are slightly stiffer than your own piano’s. The strings more taut.
Your eyes close, but not for dramatic effect. You attempt to shut down your mind, one port at a time. Without considering and longer, you play.
The song isn’t as impressive as some of your others. The tune is actually much simpler than what most of the other hopefuls had played. No fancy scales and variations, just raw music.
You lose focus of where you are, and what you’re doing. The melody pours out of you like a stream, gently rolling and fading. A hopeful strain tries to break free, but a somber undertone keeps the song from being overly joyful. The happiness is overpowered by a sense of loss that almost beings tears to your eyes.
The sadness is overwhelming. Your music fades out, your emotions taking hold of you. You finish with one last quiet chord, than silence.
Short lived silence, broken by tumultuous applause. You’re torn back to reality and your eyes snap open. Every pony in the room is on their feet, stomping relentlessly. Royal Riff and Symphony are sitting still, dumbfounded. You make out a single tear running down Symphony’s cheek, and the realization hits you like the Friendship Express.
They loved it.
At the back of the room, Vinyl stands with a smug grin plastered to her face, like: “I told you he was good.” Her hooves rhythmically clopped against the floor, showing her appreciation.
Since you’ve been onstage, the audience has doubled in size.
Where the ponies came from, you have no idea. Motion is slightly blurred, and everything seems to be moving at double-time. You have no idea how you managed to stumble off the stage and into Vinyl’s waiting hooves. She practically has to catch you to keep you from falling over.
“Hey, bro. You okay?”
You rub your face with the hoof that isn’t clutching Vinyl’s shoulder. “Yeah. Sure.” You’re magic-drained again. The effort that you’d exerted to play the piano put you right back to square one with a splitting migraine. You’ve effectively negated the feeble attempt at recovery time earlier.
“You don’t look okay.”
“Trust me, I’ll be fine. Just a little . . .” You search for the right word. “Overexerted,” you decide after a minute.
“Cool. Anyway, I think you made the team.”
You say nothing. A crowd of applicants is quietly streaming out the doors, disappointment present in on their faces in varying degrees. Apparently a verdict has already been decided, and they don’t want to stick around to confirm it.
The grey mare from before is gone.
But who are all these other ponies?
There are at least two dozen of them, filling up the front rows. Eerily silent. Royal Riff and Symphony are standing, talking intently to a lavender mare with an elaborately curled blonde mane. She seems to be disagreeing with them over something—probably having to do with you.
“Who’s that?” you ask Vinyl.
Vinyl shrugs. “I don’t know a name. I’m pretty sure she’s in with the orchestra, though.” She nudges you. “C’mon, let’s go say hi.”
Vinyl steers you in their direction, keeping a firm hold around your shoulders. Still a little lightheaded, you don’t complain about being led around like a foal. You affix your gaze on the ground; it can’t give you motion sickness. The only movement you can see is the rhythmic stride of your hooves, and Vinyl’s. Good.
A loud voice makes you look up, cringing.
“He has no experience in this business whatsoever! I’m not about to just let him sabotage our entire production! I don’t care how good he is!”
“Please, Lyrica,” says a voice emanating from Royal Riff’s direction. “We can call it a trial period. If he is any danger to our reputation, I promise I won’t hesitate to release him.”
“He really isn’t the type to go against the grain,” Symphony adds. “I can assure you he’ll follow directions just fine, and . . .” She shoots you a quick wink. “We do need a pianist, after all.”
Lyrica notices you, but tries to pretend that you’re still at the other side of the room. You can tell by a barely-perceptible flick of her eyes in your direction. “I’m not convinced. Royal Riff, you know that we do not hire amateurs. I simply cannot go against our century-long protocol.”
“Yes . . .” Royal Riff admits.
Symphony lays the trump card. “Well, what would Frederic have had us do?”
“You can’t guilt me into accepting him . . .” Lyrica jabs an accusing hoof at you. Dropping the charade of obliviousness to your existence.
“Problem?” says Vinyl innocently and Royal Riff shoots her a look that clearly says “Shut up.”
“A sensitive subject or not, we still lack a key part of our orchestra,” Royal Riff says. “And this stallion is the finest player to show up. Vinyl tracked him down solely for this.”
“And did you see anypony else in the trials who could hold a candle to him?” adds Symphony. “It may be too soon to say, but I personally think that he’s a better performer than Frederic.”
“Okay! Fine!” Lyrica holds up a hoof in defeat. “For now, I will allow him to take a place in our roster, but expulsion is automatic if anything goes amiss. Royal Riff, make sure things do not go amiss, will you?”
“Of course, Lyrica.”
With a flip of her tail, Lyrica turns to leave, sending a strong scent of cinnamon in your direction. As she struts up the aisle, both Royal Riff and Symphony stare after her, venom in their eyes.
“Hate her,” Vinyl says cheerfully, once Lyrica is out of earshot.
“Who was that?” you ask quietly. Their argument has done no favors to the discomfort in your cranium.
Royal Riff attempts an encouraging smile. “That was Lyrica. She’s our charming conductor.”
“A real piece of work,” Symphony grumbles. “Who does she think she is, waltzing in and telling us to do better? Shooting you down before she’s even had the chance to hear you out.”
“What?” says Vinyl, indignant. “She didn’t even hear him?”
“She walked in about a minute ago. Caught about the last six notes of the performance.”
Vinyl looks to be aching to spout a number of unwholesome titles for Lyrica, but is stopped by a sharp nudge from you. It’d be best to keep the conversation somewhat civilized.
“Lyrica assumed her position only days before Frederic’s death,” says Royal Riff. “He was the only one who had some manner of control over us . . . and without him she’s quickly become a dictator.”
“No exaggeration,” Symphony adds. She and Royal Riff share a knowing look.
“But!” Royal Riff suddenly smiles. “Water under the bridge, I suppose! We should be offering our congratulations to you! You’ve successfully secured your position on the team!”
You say nothing. Now that the conversation has steered away from uncertain waters, your focus has slipped from Royal Riff to the audience. Now that the stage is empty, most of the ponies have vacated their seats. A small crowd is slowly filtering through the doors. Individuals send covert admiring looks back at you, but not discreet enough to escape your notice. You lock eyes with several ponies for a few moments before they look away, embarrassed at being caught.
Symphony catches you looking. “Apparently, your performance could be heard all the way from outside, and needless to say, it attracted quite a few passersby.”
“Right . . .” you mutter.
“For Celestia’s sake!” says Vinyl exasperatedly. “Stop being so modest! You’re good, deal with it!”
“Thanks, Vinyl.”
Royal Riff clears his throat. “Well, now that that’s over with, I suppose we should get you started.”
Your heart jumps. “Already?”
“Rehearsal begins in an hour and a half. I’d like to show you around before the rest of the orchestra arrives. Actually . . .” He glances nervously at Symphony for some reason. “I was hoping Octavia would be here to offer the tour.”
“I saw her earlier,” says Vinyl. “I think she left right before you finished playing.”
The grey mare. Of course.
“Unusual for her,” Royal Riff remarks. “She usually shows up early to warm up. Symphony? Would you go to her apartment and fetch her for us?”
“No need, Royal Riff. I’m already here.”
****
And we're back! Technical difficulties arose, ensued, and were overcome. Back on track now.
Octavia had appeared as suddenly and silently as Vinyl had back at the Ponyville train station.
She strikes an impressive figure, standing resolutely upon the black matte of the stage, lights silhouetting her form. Propped against her thin body is a beautifully crafted cello, and a matching bow dangles from her right hoof.
Octavia is clearly the grey mare who was watching from the back of the room; her coat is the color of charcoal. Her mane and tail are inky black and brushed neatly, but not elaborately styled—as opposed to most of the Canterlot crowd, who feel the desire to bring as much attention as possible to their expertly individualized manes. Her cutie mark is a lavender treble clef which matches her eye color perfectly. Hugging her neck neatly is a crisp, white collar, framing a pale pink bow tie.
“I’ve been backstage.” Octavia’s voice is crisp and clipped, pleasing to listen to. “Tuning for rehearsal.”
You’re not an expert on the maintenance and tuning of string instruments, but what common sense tells you is that the instrument would have to be played in order to tell whether it is in tune or not. The past few minutes have been relatively quiet, and you would have been able to hear the sound if the cellist was tuning backstage. This deduction snaps you out of the shock at her sudden appearance. “When were you tuning? I didn’t hear anything from back there.”
Octavia’s gaze rests on you. As Vinyl and Royal Riff had warned, there is hostility in her stare. Overlaying that though is cold calculation, her eyes methodically taking in every inch of you. A faint glimmer of curiosity peers through the venom, giving you reason to surmise that Octavia isn’t quite as heartless as Vinyl has led you to believe.
“No,” she says slowly. “But fortunately I know my instrument well enough to know exactly in what position the tuning pegs need to be in in order for it to be in tune. Can you say the same?”
Royal Riff coughs uncomfortably. “Really, Octavia? Is there any need for that kind of hostility?”
You wave him down. “Don’t worry about it, Riffs.” You accidentally use the nickname Vinyl had coined for him. Your stare meets Octavia’s flawlessly. “Fortunately, I play the piano, and it rarely actually needs to be tuned. But when it does, I can do it in under ten seconds, while polishing the keys and oiling the pedals, simultaneously. Can you say the same?”
Something about the cellist’s demeanor has filled you with reckless confidence. You want to pick a fight, to prove that you’re not as useless as Lyrica insists. Instead of the usual belittling of your magical ability, you’re throwing it out in all its glory, if slightly exaggerated. In reality, the last time you tuned your piano, your attention had lapsed and snapped two strings. But Octavia doesn’t need to know that.
Octavia looks surprised by your retort. Evidently Royal Riff or somepony had told her about your submissive personality, and this has thrown a wrench in her plan to appear dominant. “Well, neophyte. My musical ability has secured me a position at the Grand Galloping Gala every year for the rest of my life, which includes a personal audience with Princess Celestia herself.”
Neophyte? You browse your mental thesaurus to locate an adequate comeback. You come up blank, so you resort back to pointless banter. “The first time I played for Vinyl, it shocked her speechless.” You point to the DJ, whose jaw is hanging slack. “I also swept the competition in these auditions without breaking a sweat.” Also a bit of a stretch; the only reason you stayed on your hooves was because of Vinyl.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”
“You’re too uptight to know any different.”
Royal Riff and Symphony’s eyes are bouncing between you and Octavia as though following a tennis rally. As for Vinyl, you can’t tell because of her shades—she simply stands with a stunned expression plastered to her face.
Octavia falls silent. She lightly drops from the stage and props her cello against the raised platform. She advances on you, and it takes all the willpower you possess not to cringe away. Her face stops inches from yours, and you catch the delicious scent of coffee wafting from her mane. “Do not try me,” she hisses. “You saunter in here, bedazzle Royal Riff and Symphony into accepting you, and then act all high and mighty in front of me. Let me tell you this now, you will never live up to the legacy of Frederic Horseshoepin, but you might as well try. You’re like Lyrica, and it sickens me.”
The inner strength you had tapped into to match Octavia’s insults has left you. Her last jab leaves you wordless. You hadn’t realized it, but during your heated conversation, the pain from your headache had been numbed, but now returned in full force. Your eyesight goes shadowy and your knees tremble. Vinyl notices and grabs your shoulders.
The fire in Octavia’s eyes flickers when she sees you start to fall over. A brief light of concern peeks through, before being extinguished once again by fury.
“You okay?” Vinyl mutters in your ear.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement. Octavia’s cello tips, about to fall over, and instinctively, you reach out with magic and catch it inches away from cracking on the ground.
A bad idea, since the fresh jolt of pain sends you to the floor. You magical hold on the instrument is relinquished and the cello touches down gently. You’ve saved Octavia’s instrument, but you also have propelled yourself farther down a road of discomfort.
Your hazy vision locks on Octavia’s face. Her expression has gone from anger to relief, and interest. Despite her supposed hatred for you, she can’t help but be impressed by your reflexes.
You barely notice Royal Riff and Vinyl helping you into a seat. When your focus is ready to latch onto something besides the cellist, you bat their hooves away. “Guys, I’m fine!”
Royal Riff looks at you skeptically, but Vinyl gives him a look, like: “Just go with it.”
“Are you sure you want to come to rehearsal?” asks Symphony. “I mean, you’ve had a pretty taxing day. And you don’t really look . . .” She cuts herself off.
“Yeah, I don’t look like I’m up to it,” you finish for her.
“Well, yeah.”
Back by the stage, Octavia picks up her cello and inspects it for damage. Judging by her body language, you did an excellent job preserving the instrument’s quality. Even though she acts cold, she’s grateful to you. Giving you one last look, she grabs her bow and mounts the stage again. Without another word, she disappears behind the curtain, making her way backstage.
“I hope you’ll excuse her,” says Royal Riff. “She hasn’t been herself since Frederic . . . I mean, she’s not normally this . . . aggressive.”
“It’s okay. I understand where she’s coming from.” From her point of view, you’re showing total insensitivity to the loss of her very special somepony, and it’s logical that she would be angry at you for showing up so suddenly.
Hopefully, the wrath of the cellist will be short-lived.
You and Vinyl Scratch are standing outside the concert hall, huddling together for warmth, for snow has begun to fall thickly from the darkened sky, making white powder layer the streets.
Despite the high ceiling and open space in the hall, you had begun to feel confined, so you made an exit. Surprisingly, Vinyl followed you after a minute, maybe to get away from the drama between the orchestra members. You appreciate her company, and added body heat.
“Yeah?” Both of you are shivering, but you’re far too tired to summon a heating spell.
“Earlier today, a bottle of sparkling cider showed up at my door. The stallion said it was from a grey mare, and the name on the note . . . it was from . . .”
“Octavia? Yeah, Riffs mentioned that.”
“But why’d she do it? I thought she hated my guts.”
“Riffs made her. He thought you should have a welcoming gift, and an opportunity to meet Octavia. Turns out, the latter didn’t work out so well.”
You say nothing. All you can do is mutely brush some snow off Vinyl’s back. She playfully nudges you with her shoulder, and for the first time, you return the gesture.
Canterlot looks beautiful covered by a layer of snow. With a stretch of imagination, the houses lining the road could be made of gingerbread. The cobble streets become gumdrops and lampposts are candy canes.
You shake your head. The minor hallucinations have started, highlighting your slow descent into madness. Probably only temporary, though.
You hear a slight noise behind you, and turn to see Symphony standing in the next to the building, holding open one of the glass doors. “Are you two okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine.”
Symphony cautiously steps out into the downfall, snowflakes coating her mane almost immediately. “Do you want to . . . come inside?”
You look at Vinyl, whose trembling has increased in magnitude. “Yeah. We should probably get out of the cold. Vinyl?”
“What? Oh, y-yeah.” An accidental stutter because of chattering teeth. You’re surprised that you’ve managed to keep your speech level thus far.
Symphony leads you inside. You’re instantly assaulted by a warm wall of air, putting into perspective how cold you actually were. Beside you, Vinyl moans in bliss. “That’s better.”
Symphony grins. “Come on, the orchestra should be here soon.”
You follow her, trying to keep your eyes off her steadily swaying flank.
Feeling slightly more confident in your magical ability, you cause the auditorium door to swing open before Symphony gets to it. Surprised, she turns around to see you screwing up your face in concentration. Concern flashes across her face. “Are you sure you’re up to playing?”
You take a deep breath as you let go of the door. “Uh . . . yeah.”
The skeptical look tells you that she isn’t buying it. “Well, you look pretty pale. Is there anything I can do for you?” She steps aside to let Vinyl pass.
“Well . . . weird question, but do you have any fruit on hoof?” If you can get a little sugar into your bloodstream, your magical reservoirs should be bolstered a bit. Not by much, but better than nothing.
“Sure. Let me check the concessions stand.”
Symphony trots across the room to a secluded snack bar tucked into an out-of-the-way corner, where a sleepy-looking pony is beginning to set up her wares. You’re close enough to hear the violinist exchange words with the mare.
“Hey, Cluster!” she says, a little louder than normal, leading you to believe that the mare at the stand is hard of hearing.
“What?” Upon hearing her voice, you realize that Cluster is an elderly mare. “Oh! Symphony! How good it is to see you, dearie.”
“Just so you know, Cluster,” Symphony appears to be holding in laughter. “There’s no event here tonight, so you can pack up and go home.”
“Really? Oh, ponyfeathers. I’m more scatterbrained than a cross-eyed pegasus. Thank you, Symphony.”
“That’s all right.”
“Well, now. Who’s that handsome young stallion over there?”
Your stomach jolts. She’s referring to you. Symphony grins and beckons to you. As you make your way over, you hear your name as Symphony introduces you. “. . . and he’s our new pianist.”
You try to plaster a winning smile on your face. Up close, Cluster is a pale pink unicorn with a green mane that’s greying around the edges. Perched on her nose is a pair of tiny, half-moon glasses, framing a pair of squinty eyes.
“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you. It’s always nice to see new faces around here. Somepony to keep me in line, if you know what I’m saying.” Cluster winks at you. You glance almost imperceptibly at Symphony, alarm in your eyes.
“Oh . . . well, um.”
Cluster and Symphony both chuckle at you. “Anyway, dear.” Cluster looks back at Symphony. “What can I do you for?”
“Actually, I just wanted to pick up an apple or something.”
“For yourself?”
“Um, no actually,” you correct. “Me.”
“Feeling a little drained, lad?” Cluster surveys you knowingly. “I know the look.”
“Well, yeah.” You’re surprised that Cluster recognized your symptoms, and correctly diagnosed your magical fatigue. But then again, you can’t be the only unicorn to experience this emptiness.
“Then you don’t want a regular old chunk of fruit. In order to get back on you hooves again—metaphorically of course—you’ll need something a little more potent.” Cluster winks again. You’re not sure if you should be flattered, or intimidated. “I’ve got something here. A rejuvenating beverage.” Cluster opens a small refrigerator behind the counter and withdraws a plastic cup with a lid filled with thick maroon liquid. From a dispenser next to Symphony’s hoof, Cluster levitates a straw over and pierces the designated hole in the plastic. “First one’s free. For a trial run.” She slides the cup over the counter, into your waiting hooves.
You eye the inspissated substance. “What’s in it?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that, darling.” Another wink. “Trade secret, you know. Go on, try it!”
Somewhat hesitantly, you raise the straw to your lips and absorb a mouthful of dense, strawberry flavored liquid. As it slides down your throat, warmth spreads across your body. A tingly shiver shoots up your back and neck, causing your hair to stand on end visibly. The electric pulse gathers at your horn, inadvertently activating it—bright white light shoots out in a ray, illuminating the room. And strangely, you can hear the faint tingling of chimes.
“Whoo, boy!” Cluster crows gleefully. “You didn’t tell me how empty your tank was!”
You can’t respond; your lungs are attempting to inflate after that dramatic assault. After a moment of wheezing, you get out: “Why . . . does that . . . change . . . anything?”
“Well, normally, the magic juice just gives you a little jolt, not a complete system restart. Only when you’re really drained will it take over your horn like that.”
You take a few more deep breaths. “So, I’m full now?”
“Try for yourself!”
You look down at the cup in front of you. Your horn lights again—this time at your own accord—and envelopes the liquid inside. In a bright flash, the reddish beverage is now violently cobalt. Taking advantage of your newfound capability, you levitate the lid off the cup and lift it to your face to take another swig. “Yeah, I think I’m good.”
“So, what just happened?” you ask Symphony once you’ve entered the dim auditorium.
“You just met Clusterbuck. We call her Cluster to be polite, but she probably wouldn’t mind if we used her full name.” Symphony is still grinning at your flabbergasted reaction to Cluster’s eccentricity. “She’s been around here since . . . well, forever. All I know is that she was selling snacks all the way back when Frederic had just barely joined the ranks. It was a good five more years before I entered the picture.”
The two of you make our way down the aisle, kept on course by the miniscule lights at the base of the seats. Ahead, your stomach rises to your throat when you see a smattering of ponies gathering on the stage, sporting various instruments.
“But how she acted . . .” You try to distract yourself by continuing the conversation with Symphony. “Wasn’t that a little weird?”
“Nah. She was probably just flirting with you. Now don’t think you’re something special . . .” Symphony adds when she sees your alarmed expression. “She goes through that phase with everypony. Some of them aren’t even stallions. I remember that Octavia almost throttled her a few times when she tried to put the moves on Frederic.”
You have to laugh at that. After meeting Octavia, this doesn’t seem like to much of an exaggeration.
“Places, everypony!” an unpleasant voice sounds from the front of the room. “Your beloved conductor is in the building!”
Symphony grimaces. “Oh, and you might want to get used to Lyrica. We’re about as close to getting rid of her as earth ponies are to learning how to fly.”
You refrain from correcting her; there are plenty of spells and potions created with the intent of inducing flight in non-pegasus ponies. But Symphony most likely isn’t as educated in advanced magical methods as you are.
As you draw closer, Lyrica shoots you a dangerous look, daring you to retort. You don’t take the bait—it’s one thing picking a fight with Octavia, but provoking the conductor would probably prove to be more hazardous.
“I see,” you mutter to Symphony.
Ahead, the crowd of musicians onstage has thickened, ponies pouring in from backstage, bearing chairs and music stands, as well as their own instruments. Slowly, a series of semicircles forms on the stage, leaving room at the back corners for a percussion section and the grand piano which you’ll be playing.
Symphony leads you by the hoof up the stairs to the stage, noticeably avoiding Lyrica’s eye. You notice that instead of taking you to the piano, she leads you behind the curtains and backstage. The area where the audience can’t see is covered in wires, sound and lighting equipment, and a fine layer of dust. She lets go of your hoof and moves over to a solitary table, where she rummages through a large pile of loose papers, apparently searching for a needle in a haystack, which is made of needles itself.
“Can I help?” you offer.
“No thanks,” Symphony responds, tossing aside what looks like a sheet of music after studying it for a second. “No offense, but you don’t exactly know what you’re looking for.”
A bundle of sheets with a hasty note scrawled in the upper corner of the top paper catches your eye. It bears you name, so you figure it probably pertains to you in some way. You withdraw them from the mound with magic, careful not to cause the rest to topple over. “Is this important?”
Symphony looks up. “Let me see.”
“It has my name on it . . .” you say unnecessarily as the violinist grabs the papers from your magic field.
“Ah!” Symphony says, a satisfied grin on her face. “Yes, this is what I was looking for.”
“What is it?”
“Your sheet music, of course! You didn’t think we were going to ask you to just guess what we were playing, did you?”
“Ah, right.” That’s exactly what you thought was going to happen, but Symphony doesn’t need to know that. You take the sheets back from her and give them a once-over. The music looks deceptively complicated, but by your standards, it’s utter foals-play.
“Is that it?” you mutter, accidentally speaking your mind out loud.
“Not difficult enough for you?” Symphony smirks.
You look up from the musical notes, surprised. “Uh, no. This is fine.”
“You keep using that word. ‘Fine.’ I don’t think it means what you think it means.”
“No, seriously, I’m . . .” You don’t want to use “fine” again. “Great,” you settle on. When Symphony continues to look amused, you go on. “It’s just that I don’t usually use sheet music when I play.”
“Exactly how do you play, then?”
“Uh, instinct?”
“How so?”
“Well, what I play isn’t . . . published music. I basically just invent my own.”
Symphony silently examines you for a moment. “So . . . what you played during auditions . . .”
“I’ve never heard it before. Consequently, I probably couldn’t play it again if I was asked, though.”
“That’s interesting,” Symphony muses. “Could you alter your habits to accommodate sheet music, though?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Okay, good.”
Symphony leads you back out to the glaring lights, where, in your brief absence, a few dozen more musicians have arrived. The seats are more filled out, and that only means that more curious eyes have found your face. The attention is almost like a physical impediment; you have to fight to continue putting one hoof in front of the other,
“I’m going to assume that you know where to go from here,” says Symphony. “So, I’ll see you after we’re done. Okay?”
“Yeah. See you.”
The violinist gives you a reassuring smile, then trots over to join Royal Riff at the other side of the stage. You stare after her for a second; your mind isn’t ready to catch up with the events occurring around you, so it’s decided to go into temporary hibernation.
“Excuse me?”
Your absentminded train of thought is brought to a screeching halt. A violet stallion with a blue mane and lyre cutie mark is standing in front of you, looking concerned. “Yes?” You act like you weren’t just spacing out.
“Do you need any assistance locating the piano, neophyte?”
Strangely, the use of that particular word sounds even harsher that when it was spat at you by Octavia. The stallion’s tone is mild, but has a mocking undertone to it. Trying to keep your voice level, you respond. “No, thank you. I think I’ve found it. But I appreciate your concern.”
“Anytime, my friend. My name is Harpo Parish Nadermane. You?”
What a mouthful for a name. You introduce yourself, smiling pleasantly. “A pleasure meeting you, Harpo.”
“Likewise. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” Harpo makes to leave. “Lyrica does not take kindly to musicians being out of place when she sees fit to begin.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Harpo takes his place at a massive golden harp, which should be expected, given his name. When you look over to the conductor’s podium and see Lyrica’s eyes on you, you decide to take the harpist up on his advice. You make a beeline for the leather bench of the piano, sliding it out with magic before you even reach it.
You gently spread your sheet music down on the stand—the pages rustle in some imperceptible breeze. Titles to several meaningless symphonies blend together as your vision slides out of focus. Musical notes dance across the pages and tumble down into your lap, forming uncoordinated chords and melodies.
You tap yourself on the side of the head. The notes arrange themselves back into their correct order, and the blurs at the top of the pages separate back into distinguishable words.
You look out over the orchestra. Dozens of serious faces lock eagerly onto the lavender conductor, who is raised above the sea of heads on her platform. Her eyes survey the assembled musicians, finally resting on you.
You can’t believe you didn’t notice the cellist, not three meters away from you, for the entire duration of the rehearsal.
When Lyrica steps down off her podium of superiority, Octavia tries to stealthily shoot a glance behind her, accidentally meeting your eyes. She holds the eye contact, surprised that she’s been caught. Surprisingly, her normally grey face is rapidly turning a delicate shade of pink, which you find innocently adorable. All traces of the hostility she had exuded when you first met her are gone.
After a tense moment where time seems to freeze, Octavia finally looks away.
The cellist twirls her bow intricately like she’s been doing it for years, which she most likely has. She hefts her cello by the neck and takes it to a waiting black matte case at the edge of the stage, just out of sight for the audience. Gingerly, she places the instrument down on the velvet lining, and clasps the case’s lid down with several satisfying snaps from the buckles.
“So, how was the first rehearsal?”
Vinyl Scratch peeks around the piano, a wide grin on her face. You hurriedly tear your eyes away from Octavia and focus on the DJ. You smile, authentically for a change. Vinyl has a knack for bringing out the best in you. “Just fine. A bit uneventful, compared to the rest of my day. Did you stick around for the whole thing?”
“Nah. Stepped out for a bit of air about an hour in. I needed a little synthesized music to warm my soul, so I hit one of the few clubs that’s still open in this area. You dig?”
“Yeah.”
“But don’t take it personally. I heard some of your music.”
“Don’t worry, Vinyl. It takes more than your refusing to sit still for a few hours to offend me.”
“Right. We’re cool. Meet anypony nice?”
So far, the only other member of the orchestra you’ve spoken to—besides Royal Riff, Symphony, and Octavia—is Harpo Parish Nadermane, and you wouldn’t throw him under the category of “nice”. You grin a little at the thought. “No, not really.”
“Which is to be expected. I’ve always thought these guys were a bunch of plotholes.”
You take a quick glance around to see if anypony was paying attention. Fortunately, most of the musicians are in the midst of cleaning up, and therefore have little interest in your conversation. “Could you do me a favor, and not try to offend anypony?”
“They’ve heard worse, trust me. But most of them hate me anyway, so I’m not worried about making any more enemies.” Vinyl adjusts her shades a bit. “You want to stop for dinner?” She changes subject at the speed of a Sonic Rainboom.
“Sure. What do you have in mind?”
“That depends if Riffs is coming or not. His opinion of fine dining isn’t actually synonymous with mine.”
“Imagine that.”
“I’d invite Octavia too, but you two have been fighting like an old married couple, so I don’t think dinner would be a great idea. Aye?”
“Sure. What about Symphony?”
“I would have, but she high-tailed it out of here as soon as Lyrica was done talking. Speaking of which . . .” Vinyl grabs you by the shoulders and leads you off the stage. When you look behind you, you just catch a glimpse of a black tail disappearing behind the curtains. “What do you think of that piece of work?”
You search your vocabulary for a suitable adjective, while still focusing on not falling down the stairs. Even after Clusterbuck’s remedial beverage, you’re a little lightheaded. “She’s . . . abhorrent.”
“That bad, huh? I don’t even know what that means.”
Royal Riff is waiting at the base of the stairs, bearing a comforting smile. “How did it go?”
“Great. My only complaint is about our lovely conductor, but what can we do? Oh, by the way, Riffs. Can I call you that? I’ve been saying ‘Royal Riff’ all day, and it gets to be a bit of a mouthful.”
Royal Riffs chuckles. “You are at perfect liberty to call me whatever you want. And I see you’ve had a confidence booster.”
It’s true; your nervousness has all but dissipated. Now, the prospect of performing with the orchestra seems positively exhilarating. “Maybe it’s because auditions are out of the way, and I’ve met your charming cellist.” You feel it necessary to mention Octavia, but you’re not sure why.
“Hey, Riffs,” says Vinyl. “Want to catch a bite to eat with us?”
Royal Riff looks down at a watch you’ve never noticed before. “You do realize it’s almost midnight, don’t you, Vinyl?”
“Midnight is early for me. You know that I’m pretty much nocturnal.”
“I’m a bit of a night owl, myself,” you add.
“What do you have in mind?” asks Royal Riff, unknowingly mimicking your earlier comment.
“Are you coming?”
“I suppose.”
“In that case, we’re going to The Crimson Griffon.”
“The tavern?” asks Royal Riff warily.
“Bar and grill,” Vinyl corrects. “It should still be open this time of night. Are you game, Riffs, or is that too lower-class for you?”
“I’ll be fine. It is one of the finer places to eat in town, which surprises me, Vinyl. Whatever happened to getting pizza and dubstep at some nightclub? I’ll never forgive you for that, by the way, since I’m still washing the alcohol out of my mane.”
You and Vinyl laugh, and even the violinist cracks a grudging smile. Even though you’ve just met him today, Royal Riff is rapidly becoming a good friend. He provides a much-needed filter from the DJ’s constant exuberant behavior. A bit of class mixed in with the madness.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Vinyl giggles. “Let’s get a move on, then.”
“Vinyl, it’s about five degrees outside. And I don’t have anything warmer than what I’m wearing.” Which just so happened to be nothing.
“Don’t worry, I could whip something up,” you say. Now that you’re back to full power, a heating spell for the three you should be effortless.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is that supposed to mean?” Royal Riff looks uncharacteristically nervous. In response, you tap your horn with a hoof, which does little to comfort the violinist.
“Whoo hoo hoo! Look at you and your high-horse magical powers!” remarks Vinyl. “Never fear, our pianist is a sorcerer! He’ll see us safely through the night.”
You smile modestly. Even with the bolster in fortitude, you still try to underrate your abilities. “Sorcerer? No. More like closet experimentations. Simple stuff.”
“Fair enough,” says Royal Riff. “Shall we?”
“We shall!” announces Vinyl. “Onward!”
You and Royal Riff follow the enthusiastic DJ outside. The snow has done little to abate, and if anything, has thickened. And to add to the difficulty, the temperature is even lower. Icicles are practically forming in your mane, and a deep chill permeates you to the core, freezing your muscles.
“N-now would be a good t-time to do whatever you were planning,” chatters Royal Riff. Snow has layered on his back, matching his white mane perfectly. His whole frame is vibrating visibly, and you hear a faint clattering coming from his mouth, caused undoubtedly by his knocking teeth.
“You okay, Riffs?” you say, taking your sweet time to fire up your magic. Surprisingly, you kept your own chattering teeth hidden, which adds to your general appearance of being perfectly comfortable.
“I’m j-just fine. Just a little chilly, that’s all.”
Your horn lights, lighting the immediate area in cinereal light. A wave of pleasantly warm air engulfs the three of you, forming comfortable and protective barriers around your bodies. Besides dispelling the cold, the heat melts all the snowflakes that come within six inches.
“Well, that’s . . . something,” comments Vinyl. “Could you teach me that little trick?”
“Maybe later, Vinyl,” you reply. “Now let’s get going—I can’t keep the spell going for too long.”
“Right. This way.”
You have no idea how Vinyl can see where she’s going. Her horn is lit to provide a little extra light, but the snowfall is so thick that it inevitably does next to nothing. The teal beam of light bounces off the white flakes, only illuminating a few hoof-lengths in front of her nose. Fortunately, it seems that Vinyl has an impeccable sense of direction; she navigates the narrow roads confidently in the semidarkness. You and Royal Riff are forced to trust that she actually does know where she’s going.
Normally, Canterlot is beautiful at night, but your view is largely obscured by the massive snowstorm.
Ahead, Vinyl suddenly curses. Royal Riff catches up to her, with you following close behind. “What’s up?” you ask.
Vinyl points at a dark mass in front of you. A lit fluorescent sign announces the name of the building: “The Crimson Griffon”. And under it, hanging from a nail in the door, is a bright red “closed” sign. “Well, we found the place.” Royal Riff’s attempt at cheeriness.
“Yeah, we did,” Vinyl grumbles. “But we can’t actually get in to get food.”
Secretly, you’re not exactly surprised that the restaurant is closed. Judging by Royal Riff’s watch, it’s a little after midnight. You don’t know much about Canterlot, but in Ponyville, everything would have been closed down about an hour ago. “So, now what?” you voice.
“I dunno,” says Vinyl.
“We could go over to my place,” offers Royal Riff. “I could whip us up some food.”
The prospect of getting indoors is appealing, and you’d like to see where the violinist lives. You look to Vinyl to catch her opinion. She looks understandably disappointed that her plans have been knocked askew. “Sure. Let’s go.”
“Right,” says Royal Riff. He looks around uncertainly. “Now I’m not sure if I know where in Celestia’s name we are, though. It is awfully dark, you know.”
Vinyl’s horn is lit, but not brightly enough. Splitting your mind off like you do when doing you morning chores, you keep some concentration on the heating spell, but a second portion of your mind lights your horn up like a beacon. Now, instead of seeing only a few inches, you can make out the buildings on the other side of the street.
“Lead on, Royal Riff.”
****
Royal Riff inserts his key into the locked door of his apartment, and after a quick twist that you didn’t know was possible for earth ponies, the door pops open.
The three of you tumble gratefully into the warm apartment. About ten minutes ago, your heating spell had faded, leaving you to walk another couple of blocks in the sheer cold. It was a welcome sight when the silhouette of Royal Riff’s apartment building appeared in front of you.
Royal Riff flips on a light, revealing a spotlessly clean living space, dotted with modern-looking furniture. “Let me get a fire going, and then I’ll track down some food.” He gestures at an achromatic sofa sitting next to a fireplace, signaling for you and Vinyl to make yourselves at home. The DJ complies, flinging herself down on a nearby armchair. You lower yourself gratefully onto the couch, your aching bones moaning in relief.
Royal Riff goes over to the base of the fireplace and twists a small knob, causing a raging blaze to spring up behind the metal grate. The heat spreads across the room, instantly negating the outside chill. Vinyl moans in ecstasy. “Royal Riff, I think I might be in love with you.”
“Thank you, Vinyl, but you’re not my type.” Royal Riff disappears into the kitchen, his voice carrying back to where you and Vinyl are reclining.
“Okay, I knew it was a far-fetched relationship.” Vinyl continues the joke.
“Do you have other commitments?” you contribute.
“Nah. Basically one-night deals, but nopony sticks around.” Vinyl doesn’t elaborate, but you don’t press. Her demeanor darkens, barely noticeable, but clear as day for your observant mind.
“How does pasta sound for you two?” comes Royal Riff’s voice.
“Sounds great, Riffs.” Vinyl’s voice sounds cheerful, but her body language still looks sulky. You regret bringing up a sore subject now.
“It’ll be just a minute. Find some way to entertain yourselves.”
“Sure thing,” Vinyl says.
True to his word, a few minutes later, Royal Riff trots out bearing three plates piled with steaming, curled pasta, topped by a layer of marinara and parmesan cheese. He slides them down on the coffee table, placing them precisely in front of each diner. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks, Riffs,” you say. Vinyl shows no such consideration, since her face is already buried in her meal. Elegant, not remotely, but that’s Vinyl’s style.
Royal Riff’s cooking is exquisite, and you all finish in a matter minutes.
After your plates are cleaned, Vinyl excuses herself, and you decide to call it a night too.
And the strength of your friendship keeps you warm all the way home.
Your eyelids appear to be weighed down by several hundred pounds, but somehow you find the strength to tear them open.
You’re in the hotel room, buried in a mountain of blankets and pillows, with no recollection of how you’ve ended up here. The latest memory that surfaces in the jumbled whirl of thoughts that makes up your mind is having dinner with Royal Riff and Vinyl, but you aren’t sure how you managed to get home to bed.
With the power of a thousand dragons, you lift your head from an extremely fluffy feather pillow to search for a clock. You locate one—a modern mechanism built directly into the wall with no numbers, only dashes—and make out both the minute and hour hands pointing vertically. Twelve o’clock.
You’ve successfully slept until noon.
The realization of that sends an electric shock to your muscles, effectively waking you up quite violently. The rest of your body is out of bed before your mind has fully realized that the time for sleep is over. Your horn is lit and flinging pillows and sheets around, making the bed. You leave your magic to do its work, and go into the bathroom. Your refection in the massive pristine mirror is disheveled; your eyes are ringed by red and your cobalt mane is a tangled mess. With two jolts of grey magic, both problems are eliminated.
You’re halfway to the kitchen, when you realize that you have nothing to hurry for.
You stop dead in your tracks. There’s no reason to get worked up trying to get ready for an engagement that doesn’t exist, and it’s a strange sensation. Yesterday, you barely got time to breathe, but today is open.
“Well, what now?” you say to yourself.
Your saddlebag on the other side of the room catches your eye. A pair of books is spilling out, and one of them is your trusty spellbook. Since you have nothing better to do, it might be nice to catch up on your magical studies. You take a seat on the provided sofa, the tome hovering near your head. Settling into the soft velvet, you open to your bookmark. The title of the page makes you grin from ear to ear.
Teleportation.
The concept of disappearing and reappearing in another location is an idea that has fascinated ever since your first instructor at Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns demonstrated the correct technique for a successful teleportation by warping from his desk the chandelier hanging from the entrance hall. You’ve always considered it to be too advanced for your level of magical ability, so have therefore steered clear of it thus far.
But as Royal Riff pointed out, your confidence has been promoted.
After the taxing events of yesterday, performing a teleportation seems positively easy.
****
Performing a teleportation is not positively easy.
In order for the event to occur, it requires an extraordinary amount of concentration, which apparently you’ve been unable to muster. A perfect focus on the area which you want to occupy, with no variation of thought.
A bead of sweat gathers on your forehead and slides down your face, leaving a cold tingle. Your nose almost touches the page in front of you as you diligently scan the notes in the margins. After every attempt, you receive the same result: a bright flash that negates your vision, then nothing, leaving you disoriented and frustrated.
A barely noticeable note near the bottom of the page catches your eye: “A small booster to the chance of success for the spell is to relax the mind, to focus on a pleasing thought. The euphoria raises relaxation, giving the teleportation more margin for error.”
Happy thoughts. You scour your mind for something cheerful enough. I’m playing with the Royal Canterlot Orchestra, you settle on. You let the thought permeate your mind, focusing on how happy the thought is making you feel. As before, you gaze at your desired location—the other side of the room—and launch the spell.
The white light appears, and your insides seem to fall into zero gravity, as per usual. You sense your hooves leaving the floor, and you become extremely lightheaded.
The light clears.
No teleportation has occurred.
You collapse back on the sofa, upending the book and spilling it onto the floor, pages splayed. You’re too exhausted even to pick it back up. That and your growing anger at this spell; no other piece of magic has posed this much of a challenge.
You stare at the wall for a good five minutes, and then haul yourself upright.
Your day is empty—this magic work was the only thing you had planned. The only place you can think of to go is the concert hall; hopefully you’d find Royal Riff, or Symphony, or . . .
Octavia.
The cellist’s face burns into your mind and your horn lights on its own. Your vision is instantly blocked by the alabaster barrage that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, and your body is completely off the ground. Your temples are almost crushed by an intense pressure attempting to flatten your head.
Your hooves touch the ground again. Your vision clears.
You’re no longer in your hotel room.
Dim lighting, black linoleum. A vast, vaulted ceiling. A grand piano.
The only location you can think to be is naturally where you’ve arrived at: the concert hall.
“Where in the buck did you come from?” says a surprised female voice behind you. The violinist, Symphony. She has her violin propped up to her neck, and her bow appears to have frozen mid-stroke.
You look down at your body to make sure all of you made it in one piece. After passing your own inspection, you look up at Symphony, smiling widely. “I’m actually not quite sure. I was in my hotel room a second ago.”
The violinist’s jaw hangs slack, causing you to chuckle at her bewilderment. “But . . . what . . . how?”
“An extremely complicated teleportation spell. This seemed like a viable place to test it out.” No need for Symphony to know that your transportation was entirely accidental, triggered by . . . Oh, Celestia, Octavia.
She was the happy thought.
You cough quietly. An ill-timed move, because it came out sounding slightly suspicious. Not giving Symphony time to question it, you hurriedly keep talking. “So, why are you around here? Rehearsal isn’t until later.”
Symphony, over the sudden shock of your magical appearance, replies, “Oh, sometimes I come over here to practice. Wonderful acoustics, you know. Also, time by myself to think . . .”
“About what in particular?”
Symphony looks up sharply, and you immediately realize your error. “Sorry . . . I don’t need to know. That was inconsiderate.”
The violinist sighs deeply. “No, it’s fine. Mostly I’ve been worried about the orchestra. With Lyrica being so incompetent, the ranks are falling into disarray. Even Octavia’s been difficult to work with, and she’s the one we could usually count on to bring a little bit of order.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s fine now.”
“And you’re the one making fun of me for using ‘fine’. Seriously, what’s up with her?”
Symphony looks in surprise to her violin, apparently she hadn’t realized that she had been holding it up for your entire conversation. She lowers her instrument. “Her music has been wonderful, as usual, but she’s been so . . . unhappy. Unworkable. I’d like to think it’s still her mourning Frederic, but she’d gotten over her loss relatively well. At least, until you arrived.”
“Me?”
“Yes. Something about your presence has her flustered. I noticed yesterday that during rehearsal she kept shooting you these little looks periodically, and she’s been much quieter when I spent time with her personally.” Symphony falls silent. She indeed looks like she has a huge weight resting on her back. You feel like you should say something to console her, but all the scenarios you devise in your mind sound insensitive and inadequate.
Instead, you leave the violinist and walk over to the piano. The bench slides out of its own accord and the keyboard cover folds upward, moved by invisible hands. You take your spot, reaching out with magic to engulf the instrument, feeling its shape and familiarizing yourself with the contours.
You begin to play, and everything fades to nonexistence. You start slowly, a simple melody using the upper half of the keyboard that hopefully imbues happiness, for Symphony’s sake. The lower notes chime in, providing much-needed balance.
The music climbs in pitch, fluttering higher and higher, while the low notes still strike soft chords.
The final note sounds softly, bringing your short melody to a close, and you look up to see Symphony with tears in her eyes.
I usually throw in the link to the music when it occurs, but it often ends up the song is near the end of the chapter, so I'll put it up here too. It'll end before you're finished, but it's worth listening to more than once.
The air is pleasantly cool, a sharp contrast to the hyperborean temperature you’d been forced to walk home in last night. A mild cloud cover provides a needed bit of shelter from the vast celestial orb hanging in the sky, placed there by the Solar Princess herself.
Symphony walks quietly next to you, looking more content than she did in the concert hall. Her pleasant demeanor is a welcome distraction from the stress that has gradually built up during the past few days, and not only for you.
The main thoroughfare is once again teeming with the Canterlotean market-goers, eager to secure some produce in their saddlebags before the stalls have been picked clean by their competitors. You and Symphony don’t purchase much, but simply observe the hoof traffic. You do insist upon buying the violinist lunch though, and she eats the sandwich as you walk.
Every now and then Symphony will point out a familiar face. “Oh, there’s Master,” she says, referring to a blue stallion with a yellow mane. “He’s extremely wealthy. I don’t exactly know how he got all his money though,” she muses. A few seconds later, she finds a few more high-class faces: “And those two are High Style and Powder Rouge.” A pair of mares, one pink with an angular, multicolored mane, and the other tan with interestingly slanted eyes. “They’re some of Photo Finish’s stylists.”
“I see.” You appreciate her commentary, but the sights Canterlot provide are extremely distracting. Your eyes linger on a shop window which is displaying massive, complicated ball gowns that have to weigh more than you and Symphony combined.
“Oh . . .”
Symphony’s pace has slowed down, here gaze fixed directly ahead of you. You follow her eyes to search for what she’s looking at. “Oh,” you repeat.
Octavia.
The cellist is standing with her back to you, focusing on her purchase—a bag of avocados—bought from a bored-looking vendor. A pair of white saddlebags are draped over her back, and they bulge enough to suggest that Octavia has already been shopping for a while.
“Well,” you say, deceptively cheerful. “It’s just Octavia. We could go say hi, at least.”
Octavia’s ears perk up when you say her name. Somehow, across a busy marketplace filled with noisy shoppers, she had picked up your voice. The less observant would assume that she still was not aware of their presence, but you notice the little things. Without turning around, Octavia finishes paying for her avocados and places them in her saddlebag.
You and Symphony resume your brisk pace, advancing on the cellist, who is still feigning ignorance to your presence. She slides her bags off her back and flips one of the flaps open. She lowers her head, whether to search for something or to avoid eye contact, you’re not sure.
“Hello, Octavia,” says Symphony, once you’re within earshot. Although, the previous event suggested that Octavia possesses superpony hearing, so you probably could have held a conversation with her from the other side of the market just fine.
Octavia withdraws her nose from her saddlebag. “Oh, hello, Symphony.” Acting or not, she seems genuine.
Even though it was your idea to instigate the conversation, you make no introduction. Despite your confidence booster, the cellist still makes you slightly nervous.
“Fancy running into you here,” Symphony continues cheerfully. “I was just wondering what you’d be up to today.”
“Well, that’s very considerate of you,” Octavia sounds much less hostile, and when her eyes flit to you, they bear no traces of the virulence she bore yesterday, only curiosity. “I was planning on spending my day at the concert hall. Since we have a concert upcoming, I’m sure you realize.”
“Of course, Octavia. I think we’re adequately prepared. But I suppose a little more practice never hurt anypony, right?”
Octavia smiles politely, and you realize that it’s the first time you’ve seen her show this kind of emotion. Suddenly, the air becomes a bit thin, and your core pounds like a percussion section. She was the happy thought. As she flips her saddlebags back over her back, her mane sends out an intoxicating whiff of coffee.
“It has been good seeing you two,” Octavia says. “But I really must get moving.”
“Then we’ll see you later today,” says Symphony.
“Bye, Octavia,” you voice, barely able to force the two words out, and still sound casual. As Octavia is turning to go, she gives you a lingering look, studying your form carefully, sizing you up.
“Well, that went well,” says Symphony, once Octavia is out of sight.
“Sure.”
“And that confirms it. She fancies you.”
“Hold on! What?” you yelp. Your focus had been following after the coffee-scented mare, and Symphony’s sentence brings it crashing back to the present.
Symphony giggles at your discomfort, but you cough pointedly and she sobers up. “I’ve been seeing the signs ever since your little . . . episode, back when you first met her. Specifically, after you saved her cello’s life.”
“That was nothing,” you deny.
“I beg to differ! Far from it! That instrument is her most valuable possession! Don’t pretend you didn’t notice the look she was giving you while you were talking to Vinyl and Royal Riff. Also, during rehearsal, I’ve already mentioned her strange fascination with your corner of the stage.”
A response to that is not forthcoming from you.
“And to top it off, she just said: ‘It’s been good seeing you two.’ As in me and you.”
“Seriously, Symphony. That’s just common courtesy to acknowledge my presence. It’s not a sign of attraction.”
“Trust me, you don’t know Octavia like I do. It’s a really big deal if she signifies your existence. I mean, she didn’t speak to me for half a year when I first joined up! It’s best just to face the facts: she’s into you.”
“But . . .”
“No buts.”
“But . . .” you insist.
“No buts!”
You fall silent. Symphony is looking at you with a satisfied grin plastered on her face. Conflicting feelings swirl around in your mind, breaking the walls between your planes of thought and taking over your entire intentness. You’re not sure of what you think of Octavia, but Symphony is saying that she’s always had feelings for you. The cellist is a total stranger, but what moments you’ve had with her have been . . . exceptional. Something about her, something you can’t quite place, is just so undeniably irresistible.
“If you say so.” You admit defeat.
Symphony’s next question catches you off guard: “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
You look up, dispelling your complicated thoughts. “What do you mean?”
“Are you going to give her what she wants?”
“Uh . . .” Your face heats up.
“Hey! Mind out of the gutter! What I mean is, are you going to confess your undying love to her? Fill the gap in her life that Frederic has occupied until just recently.”
“Too soon.” You grimace. Part of the reason that Octavia raged at you was because you replaced the late pianist, and you’re not eager for a repeat.
“There’s no ‘too soon’ when it comes to true love.” The impressive part is that Symphony is able to say it while keeping a straight face. Only after you stare incredulously at her for a moment does she crack a smile. “Anyway, I think you should go for it.”
“Wait, you don’t know if I’m interested in her or not.” You throw out one more feeble protest.
“Well, now I do. You’ve told me yourself.”
You should have seen that coming.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at rehearsal.” Symphony gives you a quick pat on the back, a friendly gesture that holds more meaning to you than it logically should. “Think about it, though.”
Symphony leaves, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
****
You arrive early to rehearsal.
Tired of waiting for the designated time to roll around, you left your apartment to walk to the concert hall. It’s true that you could have teleported, but you’re still a bit nervous about the results. Even though you now know what . . . who . . . triggers the teleportation, the recent events have made you unsure of what to think.
You come through the stage doors to the sound of cello music.
Octavia stands alone on the stage, eyes closed, lost in her music. Her bow slides rhythmically, mechanically across the strings, producing the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. A melody of loss, but with an undertone of hope.
It being the first time you’ve heard her play, you’re floored by the sheer beauty of her fantasia. Her form in handling her instrument, it’s clear that she’s been playing for decades, and has long since perfected the art.
Whatever Royal Riff and Vinyl have said about the quality of your own music, you’re sure that it can’t hold a candle to the sound Octavia produces.
Octavia looks at home here. Standing in the spotlight, alone. Nopony to tether her down, but space for her to be free. To escape the bonds of being in a group effort, the orchestra. No Lyrica to tell her what to do.
You lean against a nearby wall to further relax, to immerse yourself in her music.
The soft sound of your body against the bricks that you can barely hear yourself breaks through the cello music, snapping Octavia out of her reverie. She cuts off, an ugly interruption to her piece.
“Oh, it’s you.”
Three simple words. Octavia doesn’t look angry, or even surprised. Just weary. “Sorry to interrupt,” you say. “That was amazing.”
“Thank you.”
A bad idea in concept, but you go for it anyway. “Do you mind if I . . . play along?”
Octavia now looks perplexed. “Play along? Do you have any idea what I’m playing?”
“Do you?” You’re not sure what made you say it, but it feels like a viable question.
The cellist’s look bears no traces of irascibility, but confusion. “What makes you say that?” she says slowly.
“Have you ever played that song before?”
“No.”
“I thought so.” You trot over to the piano, your magic performing your pre-performance check. “Keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll figure it out.” You take a seat, your horn glowing in anticipation. You look at Octavia expectantly. She still looks unsure, but begins to play once more.
It takes a moment, but you grasp the feel of her music and begin to play alongside her.
Her tone is faster, more staccato, but the rhythm abruptly changes to longer bow strokes. You add your own accompaniment, but are especially careful not to overshadow the cellist. The music swells, then comes to a slow point, where Octavia taps the strings with her bow, creating layered percussion. Then your part comes back in, and Octavia lengthens her strokes again.
You no longer have any say in the direction your music goes. Your mind is blank, but your magical gut instinct keeps the music going, from high to low and back to high again. Octavia’s melody clashes flawlessly with you, but eventually it all has to come to a halt.
And come to a halt it does, with a long, drawn-out note, then nothing.
Music courtesy of The Piano Guys. I love them, and you all should too, dang it. Check out their YouTube channel here. Art from metadragonart. Cool picture, bro.
The rehearsals quickly begin to blend together in your memory.
Even though the intensity of practice has been ramped up since a performance is right around the corner, you’re rapidly growing bored of the repetitive drills the musicians are forced through. Lyrica, ever the commander, runs a zero-tolerance boot camp, and it’s put a bit of a damper on your experience.
The only aspect of the daily exertions that interests you is the banter between your fellow musicians, which is extremely entertaining.
A particularly bold move is made by a violinist named Concerto. Lyrica is about to alter the violinists’ parts drastically, giving them music that they haven’t been practicing since years before, an unreasonable and ridiculous request. While giving the announcement, Concerto stands and advances on her and they begin to argue heatedly over the rapt attention of the other musicians.
“Are you questioning my judgment, Concerto?” says Lyrica angrily.
“No,” Concerto answers evenly. “I’m merely pointing and laughing at your idiotic decision.”
The silence after the statement was tangible. You look over to see Symphony and Octavia with their mouths hanging open at Concerto’s courage. Lyrica has fire in her eyes, looking like she’s ready to throttle Concerto where he stands. She takes a deep breath through the nose. “Concerto, have a seat.”
“I will back down after you’ve agreed not to change our part. Not before.”
“Concerto!” Lyrica snaps. “Do you realize who you’re talking to?”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” Concerto retorts. “What is your answer?” He has diplomatic immunity, since the orchestra is too close to a performance to lose a violinist. Lyrica can’t dismiss him—finding a pianist was difficult enough.
“I am not inclined to oblige.”
“Lyrica, this is madness.” Royal Riff stands, anger in his voice. “We haven’t played that piece since a few years ago. You cannot expect us to pull through in three days.”
“Madness? No.” Lyrica clenches her teeth. “This is the Royal Canterlot Orchestra. You must be prepared to face whatever challenges arise.”
“This challenge is unnecessary and suicidal. What in the name of Celestia was wrong with what we have been working with?”
Lyrica has no answer.
Rehearsal ends early, since you can’t continue without a conductor.
You slide the piano’s cover over the keys and stand. The rest of the musicians are still sitting, stunned by the events that had just taken place. Concerto and Royal Riff are standing still, muttering quietly to each other.
“That was brilliant,” says Vinyl’s voice.
“How do you do that?” you ask casually, your heart jolting from the surprise. Vinyl is now sitting on the piano bench you had just vacated, grinning from ear to ear.
“Dark magic, of course. But that was awesome. I didn’t know that Concerto had that in him. Sure told her what for.”
“Hello, Vinyl.” Octavia appears on the other side of the piano. “What are you doing here?” You look at her uneasily. The two of you haven’t spoken since your little informal performance before rehearsal the other day.
“Hey, Octy. You know I can’t resist tuning in to some of the drama you all ooze. This was particularly juicy. And of course, I wanted to visit my two favorite ponies in all of Canterlot.”
“Please don’t call me that, Vinyl.”
“What? Octy? I kind of like it. Anyway, what else do I have to work with? Via? Tavi? C’mon, give me something.”
“Go with Tavi,” you suggest.
“Hold on a moment . . .” Octavia starts.
“He has spoken!” Vinyl interrupts impressively. “Cool. Tavi it is, then.”
“Thank you, for that.” Octavia’s eyes meet yours. Her face bears annoyance, but there’s no malice behind her expression. “That nickname will most likely stick until the end of time.”
“No problem, Tavi.” You playfully throw out the name to rub it in.
“You do not have my permission to use a childish nickname to refer to me.”
“But my inner child often overpowers my better judgment.”
Octavia’s body language suggests that she might be about to launch into another argument like when she first met you.
Vinyl stretches widely. “Grab some popcorn, kids. This one might last a while.”
“No,” says Octavia. “I refuse to lower to your level of petty bickering.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re getting there, you autocratic bigot.” You smile to let the cellist know that you’re not serious.
“Is that so? But you are a puerile novitiate.”
“Chauvinist.”
“Abecedarian.”
“Monomaniac.”
The two of you glare at each other, neither of you willing to back down and admit defeat.
Then, suddenly, you’re both laughing.
For no discernible reason, your argument has turned into giggles. Something about the staidness of your stares became hilarious.
“Well, that was unexpected.” Vinyl whistles. “What’s up, you two?”
“I don’t know,” Octavia chuckles.
“Did you kiss and make up while I wasn’t watching?”
“Vinyl!” you and Octavia say in unison. You look at each other, and inescapably, you start laughing again. Your side begins to ache from your mirth.
“Kidding, guys. Kidding,” Vinyl assures you. “But seriously though. Is there something I don’t know about going on between you?”
“Really, Vinyl? Really?” you ask, with mock seriousness.
“I’d sooner start a relationship with an Ursa Major,” Octavia adds pointedly.
Vinyl holds up her hooves in surrender. “Fine! Fine! I see how it is. You dump me and run off with a cellist and it’s complicated.”
“Two things.” If you had fingers, you would have held two up. “One, I was never dating you. Keep dreaming. And two, I did not run off with a cellist. There’s no need to play matchmaker.”
During your conversation, the auditorium has emptied, except for Royal Riff, who is sitting a good distance away, listening to your palaver interestedly. At your last comment, he smiles mirthfully. He sees you looking and waves good-naturedly. “This has been an interesting turn of events. I’m with Vinyl, though—you two should get together.”
“Not you too,” you moan. You and Octavia covertly glance at each other. An awkwardness that wasn’t there a minute ago now permeates the air.
“Not this second, but think about it.” Royal Riff winks.
“Sure thing, Riffs. I’ll put some deep thought into the matter.”
****
When Royal Riff said to think about it, he had no idea to what lengths you were prepared to go.
You sit alone in your new apartment, an immaculate flat you selected because of the unmatchable view out the living room window. Royal Riff had mentioned that you needed a more permanent solution for living quarters, since a hotel room at the Emerald Palace could only last so long.
But now, the sight of Canterlot’s skyline is blocked by your heavy curtains, leaving you in semidarkness. Your trusty spellbook rests in front of you, open to a random page in the middle.
Several glowing lanterns hover above you, slowly roving around the room. They are made of translucent magical bubbles, with flickering orange fire trapped in the center. A trick you had just invented yourself, by combining spells for solidifying magic, and conjuring fire.
Royal Riff and Vinyl’s comments drift around through your head, forming an entangled mess of thoughts.
You can’t go out with Octavia. You’re not sure what your feelings for her involve, even if she is attracted to you. The insensitivity toward Frederic is unacceptable, but it seems like everypony is shunting him to the side in order to play Princess Cadance with you and Octavia.
One of your lamps meanders in front of your face, and you study it, mesmerized by the scintillation of the fire. You reach out and place it into your hoof. The sphere is warm to the touch, but also very soft—contrary to what the glazed surface would suggest.
You close your eyes, and your horn ignites, brighter than usual.
You send out a magical probe, like you do with the piano. But this exploration covers the entire room. The wave fans out around you, exploiting every last crevice in the dark corners. Your analysis paints and extraordinarily detailed picture in your mind, so you don’t even have to use your eyes to know exactly what is going on in the room.
Your consciousness melts into the flow of the room. Your body is no longer your own; you can see yourself sitting, as though watching from overhead. An overwhelming sense of peace comes over you, and your troubles all fade.
The serenity is complete. Your thoughts can now be focused flawlessly.
Then the knock at the door ejects you from your happy place.
“Come in!” you call wearily, trying not to let your annoyance show in your voice.
A soft click sounds from the door, but you don’t turn around until your hear the voice. “You okay? What are you doing?”
Symphony.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“That word again.”
“I’m . . . fabulous.”
“Better. What have you been up to?”
You gesture at the bubbles levitating near the ceiling. “Bubbles,” you answer simply.
Symphony cautiously steps over the threshold, eyeing the objects curiously. “Did you make these? If so, how? Magic?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re beautiful!” Symphony crosses her eyes to focus on a bubble that had just lowered itself onto her nose. She smiles, making her face look ghostly in the firelight.
“So . . .” You cough to bring the violinist back down to earth. “What brings you around these parts?”
“Oh. Vinyl sent me to ask if you wanted to tag along for dinner. She told me to tell you that it’ll work out better than last time, whatever that is supposed to mean . . .”
“Yeah. Who’s coming?”
“Me and Royal Riff. Octavia if Vinyl can convince her.”
Perfect. More quality time with the cellist. Just when you thought things couldn’t get any more confusing. Feeling it would be rude to turn down the offer though, you agree to accompany the group. “Sure. I’m guessing we’re going now?”
“Yep. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”
Vinyl and Royal Riff meet you and Symphony at the Crimson Griffon. This time, the lights are illuminated, and the “closed” sign is no longer present. A consistent stream of customers is flowing in and out of the double doors, so you take that as a good sign that the restaurant is open.
“No Octavia?” you ask, immediately noticing the cellist’s absence.
“Nah. She needed to have a bit of a nap. More like a break from you, you dog. You wore her out.”
“Give it a rest, Vinyl,” sighs Royal Riff.
“Anyway,” Vinyl continues. “I thought ahead and reserved a table this time. We’re just waiting for them to clear it up.”
As if on cue, a mustached stallion in a black suit top appears at the doors. “Vinyl Scratch?”
“That’s us, guys,” Vinyl says unnecessarily. “That’s us!” she adds, louder for the waiter’s benefit.
“Right this way, Miss Scratch . . .”
“Hate that,” Vinyl mutters in your ear.
“Now you know where Octavia’s coming from, not liking her nickname,” you chortle.
“Touché.”
The four of you take a seat in a wide booth, Royal Riff and Symphony across from you, and Vinyl at your side. The waiter slides a set of menus across the table, placing them in front of each occupant. “I will be with you in just a moment.”
You flip the menu open with your nose and begin to peruse the selection of meals.
“So, you guys gonna be ready for your performance?”
Never a dull moment with Vinyl.
“I suppose,” says Royal Riff, his gaze fixed on the salads section of his menu. “It would help, however, if we had a competent conductor.”
“Too late to arrange that, though.” Symphony has already set down her menu, having decided quicker than the rest of you. “We’re going to have to suck it up and muscle through.” Her tone was suggestive that this topic shouldn’t have come up, and the conversation is over.
You don’t contribute to the dinner conversation. After deciding on a pecan and apple salad, you simply lean back and let Vinyl’s consistent flow of words flow over you. She’s going on about something related to her clubbing last night, but you’re not taking in a single detail of what she’s saying. Symphony is looking at the DJ with rapt attention, but her eyes are glazed over. Royal Riff, on the other hoof, doesn’t even pretend to acknowledge Vinyl.
The waiter returns to take your orders, and promptly turns to go and fetch your drinks.
You look around at the assembled ponies around you. Symphony, the soft-spoken violinist who gave you dating advice. Royal Riff, your self-appointed coach. And Vinyl Scratch, the DJ pony that livens up your life with her crazy antics.
Despite your reservations at first, your trip to Canterlot has turned out better than you ever expected.
Sorry for breaking the fourth wall here, but during the second song, skip to 0:28 in order to get directly into the music.
“Get up! Get out of bed and get your flank to the auditorium!”
You shoot bolt upright in bed. Symphony is at your shoulder, shaking you violently and screaming in your ear.
“What’s going on?” you ask blearily. “How did you get in here?”
“Door’s unlocked. Lucky for me—do you remember what today is?”
You rack your still half-asleep brain. Rehearsal had gone late last night, and Lyrica’s uber-rehearsed speeches tend to blend together and lose all meaning. You draw even less out of them when you’re falling asleep over your piano.
“Uh?” you prompt Symphony.
“The performance! You were supposed to be there five minutes ago!”
You’re out of bed in an instant. “Say no more, let’s go.” You dash out of the room and outside, accidentally knocking over and end table near the door. You right it with magic and step aside to let Symphony exit. You slam the door behind you, nearly smacking the violinist on the behind.
You can barely see the domed concert hall over the skyline of Canterlot. “It’s too far. We’ll never make it,” says Symphony. “It takes at least ten minutes if we run. They’ll have started by then!”
“Do you trust me?”
“What?” Your sudden question catches Symphony off guard.
“Do you trust me?” you repeat, no time for explanation.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“This might be slightly uncomfortable. Bear with me.”
“Wait, what?”
You close your eyes in concentration and force Octavia into your mind. Good memories. Your horn illuminates and everything fades to white. Gravity suddenly has no meaning; your innards float freely, one of the more uncomfortable side effects of teleportation. You faintly here the surprised yelp from Symphony before being sucked into the void.
The magic deposits you and Symphony at the back entrance to the auditorium, the doors that the musicians take on performance days. Next to you, the violinist loses her balance and collapses on top of you. You steady her, holding her leg around your shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Symphony wheezes breathlessly. “Let’s get in there. Just . . . warn me next time.”
“I did, I told you it’d be uncomfortable.”
“Specificity would have been nice.”
“C’mon, you big baby. We’re late enough as it is.”
You push open the door, still supporting the violinist, to find that backstage is an anarchic mess.
Musicians mill about, checking their instruments or getting into arguments with each other, only slightly obscuring the sound of the multiheaded entity behind the curtains that is the audience.
“Royal Riff, we cannot delay any further!”
You locate Lyrica in the middle of a mass of ponies, including Royal Riff and Octavia. “It’s unfortunate, I agree, but we will have to simply carry on without him.”
“Lyrica!” Octavia snaps. “Go back to your list of requirements and add ‘a pianist’ to it. No matter how long we need to wait, he is essential to the orchestra. This performance will fall apart at the seams without a piano.”
“Thanks, Octavia, I didn’t know you cared so much.” You push you way into the circle. You had left Symphony behind to catch her breath. “I’m here, so we can all calm down now.”
“Where in the name of Celestia have you been?” demands Royal Riff.
“Slept in. Thanks for sending Symphony.”
Lyrica looks strangely angry at your appearance. Any excuse to fire you, she would have taken it, and not showing up to your opening performance would have been a viable reason. Well, I’m here, you force the thoughts at the conductor maliciously.
“Places,” Lyrica says simply.
Her voice carries over the din the musicians are creating, finding its way into every ear. Any argument that had just been in full swing is now over.
Violinists enter at the front, followed by the rest of the strings. Then brass and woodwind. You and the percussionist, a heavyset pony with an overwhelming desire to hit things, enter at the very back, emerging to tumultuous applause.
Your long-since buried nerves threaten to make a reappearance, but you lock away that part of your mind, focusing only on the task at hand. The percussionist gives you a reassuring pat on the back that almost knocks you to the floor, and goes to attend to his drums.
You take you place at the piano. As always, grey light envelopes the instrument. Any fine tuning of the strings is immediately done by your probe, tightening or loosening the entire board at once. You have no chance to warm up, but the adrenaline permeating your bloodstream is giving you confidence.
Up at the conductor’s podium, Lyrica is muttering something to Octavia, who does not look happy. After a series of head shakings and clenched teeth from Lyrica, Octavia turns and marches back to her position.
“What did Lyrica want?” you whisper, allowing your voice to reach the cellist.
“I’m doing a solo. Unrehearsed.” Her voice is calm, but cold fury causes it to shake slightly.
“She can’t do that.”
“She just did. She claims that we need something to ‘liven up the performance’. Suggesting that what we’ve been working for is insufficient, and that she needs to make a last-minute decision.”
“Can you manage it?”
“I hope so.”
****
Lyrica takes a wide bow, earning herself a polite smattering of applause. She then turns to face the musicians, and to give credit to your fellows, every single one is staring at the conductor with an undivided look of sheer animosity on their faces.
Lyrica raises the baton, casting her eyes across the symphony.
Despite Lyrica’s reservations, your music is more beautiful than ever, better than anything you’ve produced in rehearsal, a slow-starting piece that focuses on the keyboard. You piano perfectly complements the empowering, layered melodies from the orchestra, fading in and out when needed.
Lyrica’s conduction feels forced, unnecessary. The musicians all know what to do better than the conductor, and therefore turn a blind eye to her attempts at controlling them. Lyrica seems to realize what is going on, and is not happy about it.
You have to smile at the conductor’s discomfort. A few meters away, Octavia is laughing softly to herself. She meets your eye, and you somehow pass a nonverbal message to the cellist, and you’re sure she interprets it correctly.
A change in tactics is in order.
Octavia’s melody changes, slowly at first, but eventually blends into a whole new song. The musicians near her catch the gist, and also alter their music. The phenomenon spreads like wildfire, reaching the farthest corners of the stage. Soon enough, every violinist, bassist, flutist, and pianist is playing to the tune of a single mare near the back of the room.
Some of the more avid music-lovers in the audience notice the shift, and wonder why the movement has strayed so far from the program, but the vast majority of the patrons notice nothing. The transition is perfect.
Lyrica is furious. Her eyes show murderous fire, but she plays along, trying to keep up with the rapid, unexpected change in tune. Her conduction is off by at least a few beats at all times, but nopony in the audience seems to notice; every eye is surveying the musicians, not the conductor.
The orchestra has the advantage: they’ve played the composition before. Lyrica has never even heard it, and is having a hard time keeping up with the rapid shifts of melody. To be fair, you haven’t studied this either, but it’s simple enough to pick up and play along with, at least for somepony of your ability.
Unplanned, several of the musicians improvise, forming a makeshift choir to beautifully accompany their own instrumental. But then again, this entire ordeal is unplanned. Unplanned, but stunning.
The music reaches a crescendo, the musicians empowered by the sense of rebellion against their tyrannical, self-proclaimed leader.
Eventually, it all has to come to an end.
The audience is instantly standing, stomping furiously. Lyrica, still hoping to retain a shred of dignity from this disaster, smiles winningly and bows.
You look over at Octavia, who bears a mischievous smile.
You’re not done yet.
Octavia folds her bow under her forelegs and begins to pluck. Your piano accompaniment follows shortly after. The audience immediately quiets—the performance not yet completed. Lyrica stares at the pair of you, utter bewilderment and fury on her face.
You ignore all else. Your eyes close, but Octavia’s smiling face is still visible, driving you to greater heights. The keyboard is no longer a device for producing music; it is a channel for your innermost emotions to travel, emerging in the form of sweet, sweet melodies.
Octavia laughs openly. The audience can’t hear it over the sound of your duet, but it’s a special laugh, designed for only you to hear it. The small, seemingly insignificant sound tears the barrier between your heart and the outside world, and you begin to laugh yourself.
Somewhere near the middle, the music suddenly shifts to another piece, like you and Octavia had instigated with the orchestra. But as in-sync and impressive as the group effort was, it pales to the sheer beauty of the pianist and the cellist, alone in a rhapsody of happiness.
With a final, long, faded note, the music ends.
After a moment of stunned silence, the auditorium erupts.
A noise so loud had never been heard in your life. Anypony who had bothered sitting down is no longer in that position. On the front row, you can make out several ponies with tears in their eyes, giving you the indication that what you did was the right thing.
****
You walk home alone in the semidarkness, your spirits high enough to practically allow you to fly all the way back to your apartment.
That performance was amazing. Even before your duet with Octavia, the orchestra had really pulled together and made it count. After all was said and done—all the musicians were congratulating each other, Lyrica was nowhere to be found. Nopony was overly disappointed by her absence, but it made you uneasy.
The gap in between street lamps seems to grow, plunging you into darkness for longer and longer periods of time. Despite the outward welcoming appearance of Canterlot, with its clean streets and impressive architecture, being alone at night is unnerving.
You sense a presence behind you, but don’t turn. You keep walking, ignoring as the being is joined by another, and shortly afterward, a third.
“Excuse me?” says a clipped, familiar voice.
Lyrica.
“Yes, Lyrica?” You stop in your tracks, but still don’t turn.
“I would like to have a word with you about that performance. Really something, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Please, look at me when I’m talking to you.”
You don’t want to, but a rough hoof grabs your shoulder and spins you around to face your adversaries.
Lyrica looks disheveled, her elaborately curled mane coming loose and tumbling out of its bonds. She is accompanied by two of the scariest-looking stallions you have ever seen; one is a dark brown pegasus with half a wing missing, and the other is a massive grey earth pony with an eye patch. Both are almost double your size.
“I can’t fire you for this,” Lyrica continues. “The general public would be in an outrage if I fired the pony responsible for such excellent music. So, I decided to go with something a little more permanent than expulsion from the orchestra.”
The two stallions advance on you. “Hold on . . .” you start, before one wraps a foreleg around your neck in a strong headlock. Dragging you effortlessly, he turns and takes you into a secluded alley, a dismal, dark place covered in trash that nopony could expect anything good to come out of.
Your back is slammed against a wall. You’re held in the air by the stallion’s hoof on your throat, while the other leers unpleasantly at you. Even if you had the breath, you can think of nothing to say. The stallion who isn’t holding you lands a sharp punch on your ribs, then another, and another.
With a sickening crack, something breaks.
The onslaught continues, the two of them barraging any and every inch of your body. From a swollen eye, you can make out Lyrica, standing a distance away with a smug smile in her face.
Finally, mercifully, your focus fades and you slip into unconsciousness.
Filmusik Instrumental, Nintendo, and The Piano Guys provided this chapter's music.
Your unconsciousness is unusually blissful, considering how you had been forcibly beaten into it.
Your dreams are foggy, but pleasant. You're back in the concert hall, but reality is strangely warped. The lights are too bright, and yet the shadows are deep. Instead of being behind your own eyes, you look yourself in the face from across the instrument.
Your body sits at the piano, alone.
Except for a certain grey mare.
She stands in the center of the stage, her hoof moving expertly across her instrument, coaxing a sweet melody out of it. Her bow slides rhythmically over the strings, producing a constant flow of music.
Your eyes are transfixed in her, and behind you, your body's horn lights to envelop the piano in grey light.
Your accompaniment is soft, as to not overshadow the cellist, but provides an empowering melody to highlight your partner's. Octavia doesn't acknowledge your presence, but alters her recital to accommodate your keyboard.
As your music reaches a crescendo, you begin to hear hushed voices. You falter as you search for the source, but the theater is empty. Octavia notices your abrupt halt, and stops as well. She looks at you questioningly, but you lack the ability to form words. You open your mouth hopelessly, trying to explain that you can't explain.
The voices are louder, and the hall starts to fade into blackness. Inexplicably, Octavia doesn't notice this phenomenon; she continues to stare at your blank face expectantly.
You can't move, the darkness is rapidly closing in, consuming you from the inside out.
The last thing you see is Octavia's concerned face, before you lose all vision.
****
"I think he's waking up!"
You open your eyes. A pair of giant, violently purple orbs are staring you in the face. You yelp and sit up straight, your heart jumping.
You're in a hospital bed in a sterile white room, a strong antiseptic smell permeating the air. An ugly potted plant sits in a corner, and next to it is a low bench, with a sleepy-looking Royal Riff perched on top of it. Vinyl Scratch stands over you, and your eyes flit to her glasses— the objects that had caused your fright. She smiles dryly. "Yep. He's awake."
"Easy, Vinyl. You might scare him back into a coma," admonishes Royal Riff.
"What? Coma?" Your breathe deeply, massaging your pounding chest.
"Not exactly," Vinyl says. "Riff's little joke. You were out for a full two days, though."
A small sniffle sounds from the doorway, and you looks up to see Octavia, with barely-visible red rims under her eyes. She stares at the ground, her hoof swiping at her face to try and hide the tears. Your heart aches when you see her upset like this. But what could have caused her sadness?
"Lucky for you," Vinyl continues, not noticing the cellist. "Riffs and Symphony took the same route home as you did, and found you on the side of the street. Clothes torn, bleeding everywhere. It looked like you'd been there for a few hours."
Octavia notices your gaze and turns away. Without a word, she exits, leaving behind only the smell of coffee.
"Is Octavia okay?" you mutter quietly, just in case Octavia is still within earshot, which is likely, given her enhanced hearing.
Vinyl turns to see the tip of the cellist's tail disappearing. She chuckles humorlessly. "You're asking about her? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"
For the first time, you look down at your bruised body. You are a mess of white bandaging and body casts. You raise your hoof to your forehead and feel stitches where your skin had broken. You attempt a reassuring grin. "Who me? I'm fine." You laugh unconvincingly.
Vinyl nods skeptically. "Yep, you sure look it."
"He seems a little . . . delirious," says Royal Riff from across the room. You raise your eyebrows at him. He shrugs.
Vinyl goes quiet for a moment. She holds an alabaster hoof in front of your face and moves it back and forth slowly. Your eyes automatically follow the motion.
"Uh, Vinyl? What are you doing?"
"Checking for mental trauma. What's your name?"
You sigh and answer the question.
"Good. What's eight plus eleven?"
"Nineteen."
"Right . . . what's my name?"
"Vinyl Scratch. DJ-Pon3."
"Nailed it." Vinyl turns to Royal Riff. "I think he's good."
"But you didn't answer my question," you persist. "Is Octavia okay? Why is she . . ." You don't finish. You don't want to accentuate the fact that the stoic, unbreakable cellist is showing weakness-- a crack in her armor.
"Because of you, of course," Royal Riff says matter-of-factly. "She's been worried! We all have!"
Your gut twitches. "Me? Why?"
"I don't know . . ." Vinyl pretends to consider. "Oh! Maybe it's because Riffs and Symphony found you half-dead on the side of the road in a very scary pool of blood! And maybe because you've been unconscious all day, and according to these machines . . ." She gestures at the giant metal box covered in flashing lights next to your bed. "You might have died once or twice!" Her voice has risen to a yell.
"Your heart may have stopped momentarily," Royal Riff clarifies.
"But I'm fine!" you insist. "I barely even feel hurt!"
"Aside from the fact that you look like you've been chewed up and spat back out again by a Chimaera, I would believe you," Vinyl says coldly. She sprawls onto the bench next to Royal Riff, accidentally pushing him off onto the floor.
"But, can I leave?"
"I'm sorry." Royal Riff stands, dusting himself off and shooting Vinyl an annoyed glare. "But the doctor's orders are bed rest and no mental overexcitement. Therefore, you cannot leave custody."
"Love how you phrased that, Riffs," Vinyl shoots, annoyed. "Custody. Like a freaking prisoner."
"Vinyl, you're not helping," Royal Riff admonishes, carefully avoiding your eyes. "Show a little consideration, would you?"
"No, it's fine," you say in Vinyl's defense, for she had become dangerously quiet. "I'll just . . . stay here, then."
"I'm sorry," Royal Riff repeats softly. Behind him, Vinyl stands and follows Octavia out the door. She pauses to look back at you.
"I've gotta go. Got to . . . work on my mixes. For . . . something."
Royal Riff cringes as Vinyl disappears. "I hope you'll excuse her. Like I said, we've been incredibly worried by your condition. We all express it in our own way . . . Symphony has been distant, and Octavia has been more or less in total isolation. She only left her apartment because I told her the doctor said that your brain waves were spiking."
"It's fine," you assure him. "About Vinyl." The words are automatic. It's probably a good thing that Symphony isn't here to criticize you on your usage of the word "fine". Your thoughts are back on Octavia, with only a small portion of your mind focused on the conversation at hoof.
"Vinyl has just been so angry for the last forty-eight hours. You have no idea how relieved she looked when you finally opened your eyes."
You have nothing to say to that. Your eyes drift across the room and settle on a crack in the ceiling tile. Royal Riff, Vinyl, Octavia, and apparently Symphony too. You've only known these ponies for a few weeks, but they're as concerned for your safety as Noteworthy and Lyra would be.
Speaking of which, what would your old friends think if this?
“Okay, we leave you alone for a week, and you land yourself in the hospital.”
You look up from your spellbook, courtesy of Royal Riff, who took a trip to your apartment to pick up some reading material, to see an unexpected familiar face.
Your old friend Noteworthy is standing in the doorway, a combination of exasperation and relief on his face. Out in the hallway, Lyra peeks out from behind Noteworthy’s vast build, trying to make herself visible.
“What are you two doing here?” you demand. You close the book with a sharp snap and set it gingerly on your bedside table.
“Well, when you decided to get up and move to Canterlot, we thought we’d come to visit, so you can say goodbye properly,” Lyra pushes past Noteworthy into the room.
“I sent a letter,” you say sheepishly.
“Yeah, we got it. That’s what convinced us to make the trip.” Noteworthy throws a foreleg around Lyra’s shoulders, and she snuggles up next to him affectionately.
You stare at them. “What was that all about? Since when were you two so . . . open about it?”
“Wait . . .” Lyra says, her head separating from Noteworthy’s chest. “You knew?”
“Always. Notes isn’t very good at keeping secrets from me.”
Noteworthy smiles proudly. “Guilty as charged. I proclaimed my undying love for her a few days after you left.”
“But that’s not what you’re here for!” Lyra throws you back to the present, a little red-faced. She nudges Noteworthy in the ribs. “What happened to you?”
“Nopony told you?” You don’t really want to rehash the details of that night, since the pain still lingers just under the surface of your skin.
“Some violinist named Royal Riff said that you were mugged.”
“He got that right,” you mutter darkly.
“Details?” Lyra inquires.
You sigh mightily. “Walking home from the concert. The former conductor shows up with a pair of thugs. They beat my skull in for a while. Any more questions?”
“Lyrica?” Lyra looks knowingly at you.
“You know her?”
“I read it in the news. Some pianist died, and the old conductor retiring. Some piece of work named Lyrica takes his place.”
“Frederic Horseshoepin. He was my predecessor, and I don’t want you throwing around his death casually like that!” Your voice has risen. You haven’t realized before, but respect for the old pianist is extremely important to you. The accidental insensitivity on Lyra’s part hits a raw nerve.
A tense silence fills the room. Noteworthy and Lyra are staring at you, surprised by the outburst. You’re breathing heavily, and the heartbeat sensor next to your bed is going berserk.
“Sorry,” Lyra squeaks. She looks scared.
“No . . .” You take a moment to catch your breath. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’ve found it a lot harder to draw oxygen from the air these days. “I’m sorry, Lyra. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. You didn’t mean any disrespect.” You take a second to control your breathing, watching your heart rate gradually drop back to normal.
“Well . . . back in Ponyville, you were always so . . . quiet. Even around us.”
“I’m fine.”
“Hey! I thought you stopped using that word!” A muffled voice sounds from out in the hall. Symphony enters the room. She casts her eyes across Lyra and Noteworthy. “You’ve got visitors, I see.”
“Yeah. Notes, Lyra, this is Symphony. Symphony . . . Noteworthy and Lyra Heartstrings. They’re friends of mine from Ponyville. Symphony is a violinist in the Royal Canterlot Orchestra.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Symphony nods politely to Lyra and Noteworthy, and then looks back at you. “I was just talking to one of the doctors . . .”
“And?” you say eagerly. You sit up as far as your back brace will allow.
“Sure you want to know?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I don’t know, are you?”
“Symphony, I refuse to play your little game. What did they say?”
“Fine! You’re no fun, but you can leave tomorrow morning.” Symphony sticks out her lip, feigning exasperation.
You fall back on your pillows with a dull thump. The soft bedclothes support most of your fall, but the impact still sends a quick jolt of pain up your spine. Symphony sees the disappointment on your face and trots over to your bedside to look you in the face. Her purple mane hangs over you, unpleasantly making it into your mouth. “Hey, cheer up. Just one more night, right?”
You spit out a few strands of violet hair. “Easy for you to say. The food sucks, the service is only passable, I hurt all over, and I have these infernal . . . tubes stuck in me!” You wave a foreleg around, flipping the pair of transparent tubes around wildly.
“Careful!” Lyra yelps. You’re not worried about damaging the equipment, but you lower your hoof to put Lyra’s worries to rest.
“Just take it easy, okay?” Symphony croons, her face contorted into something that would be appropriate to use around newborn foals. “You wouldn’t want to get overexcited, would you?”
“Symphony, now is not the time,” you warn, annoyance layering your voice.
The violinist wipes the horrid simper off her face, but continues to grin. “By the way, Vinyl and Treble Clef were over earlier today.”
“Come again?”
“Treble Clef. Vinyl has taken to calling Octavia that.”
Your ears perk up at the mention of the cellist. “What? When?”
Noteworthy gives a short bark of laughter. “Whoa! How’s it going, Captain Mood-Swing?” You physically wave his comment away with your untapped foreleg and continue to stare at Symphony.
“Around noon. You were asleep,” Symphony replies, examining the remains of your dinner on a metal platter.
“Well, tell them I said hi.”
“Will do.”
Lyra and Noteworthy move closer to you cautiously, as though still nervous about another outburst. “Guys, I’m not going to bite,” you sigh. All it takes is one stay in the hospital for everypony to start treating you differently.
So, uh . . .” Noteworthy looks around the room, searching for something to focus on besides your face. “We saw your performance the other day. . .”
“It was incredible!” Lyra gushes. “Though . . .” She frowns curiously. “What you were playing wasn’t on the program.”
You laugh naturally. “Funny you should mention that . . .”
“We kind of . . . improvised.” Symphony beams, still relishing the memory of publicly humiliating Lyrica.
“Lyra could tell,” Noteworthy puts in. “When the song changed, she leaned all the way forward in her seat. I bet the pony behind us wasn’t too happy . . .” He gives Lyra a little shake. “Actually, he was probably pretty weirded out by how she sits normally, anyway!”
“Notes, I told you not to bring that up.”
“Anyway, when Lyrica lost control of you, she started conducting in her seat. Perfectly, I might add. She only stopped when your duet with that grey mare started.”
You look at Lyra, who is staring at her hooves modestly. “Lyra, I didn’t know you had that in you! Did you ever consider taking Lyrica’s place? We do need a new conductor, since the old one . . .”
You and Symphony exchange dark looks.
“Whatever happened to Lyrica? Did they find her after she . . . lost it?” You can tell that Noteworthy didn’t want to say “beat you up”.
“Yeah. I guess they didn’t expect me to survive through the night. They wanted to keep it quiet.” You stretch widely, causing several satisfying pops in various joints. “However, since I am very much alive, I could spread the word. From what I heard, she was very surprised when a platoon of Royal Guards showed up at her front door and hauled her to the palace to meet with Celestia.”
“I would have loved to sit in on that one,” says Symphony wistfully.
“Yeah, me too. Riffs and Octavia got to, and they said it was a little scary. They’d never seen Celestia so mad—Princess Luna had to step in to stop her from sending Lyrica straight to the moon.”
“You’re exaggerating,” says Lyra.
“Nah. Royal Riff was dead serious. As it turns out, they just banished her to the Canterlot Caverns under the palace. Personally, I would have petitioned for lunar imprisonment.”
Noteworthy and Symphony laugh, but Lyra looks stern. “Really now, being banished to the moon is fit for those who . . . I don’t know, try to destroy Equestria or something. Not . . .”
“Attempted murder?” you finish.
“Well, yeah.”
“I know it’s far-fetched. I just think it’s about time we have another one sent to the moon. How long has it been since the last one? About a thousand years?” When Lyra continues to eye you reproachfully, you add, “Relax, Lyra. I’m kidding. She got what she deserved, and everything’s fine and dandy.”
Symphony stands. “Sorry to leave so soon, but I’m planning on dinner with Octavia. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve ditched her, though, so I’d rather make it to this one.”
“Okay. Bye, Symph.”
“That’s new.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll probably the first and last time I’ll use it. It sounded a lot better in my head than in words. Oh, and if you run into any of the doctors on the way out, could you tell them I could use a drink?”
Octavia looks up from her menu. The violinist gazes at her with a knowing look. “Well, that’s considerate of him.”
“I think he wanted to tag along, but the doctors wouldn't allow it.”
“I see.”
Symphony noses her menu open and begins to peruse the entrees. Octavia studies her carefully, taking in every detail of her demeanor. Ever since her performance before rehearsal on that fateful day, it seems like the rest of the orchestra is trying to pair Octavia with the new pianist, and the instigator seems to be the pony sitting across from her.
The waiter appears, a notepad and pen hovering near his face. He looks pointedly at Octavia. “Are you ready to order, miss?”
Symphony looks up, annoyed that she wasn’t acknowledged. “You order first, Octavia. I need just a second to decide.”
“That’s fine.” Octavia closes her menu and offers it to the unicorn. “I will take the peanut and apricot salad with your raspberry vinaigrette. Hold the onions.”
“Of course.”
Symphony places a hoof on an item on the menu. “What sauce does the hay burger come in?”
“Er, there is no sauce.”
“Then add one. Barbeque sauce will suffice.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The waiter takes the menus and vacates the table. Octavia turns to Symphony, an exasperatedly patronizing look on her face. “You do realize where we are, of course.”
“Yes. The Paradigm. Finest Canterlotean cuisine that can be found.”
“And you ordered a hay burger. Well done, Symphony. Well done.”
“And what, pray tell, is wrong with that?”
“When I reserve a table for us in such an expensive place.” Octavia puts a fair amount of stress on the word. “I don’t expect you to order something that could be found for two bits at Doughnut Joe’s.”
“Okay, so sue me. I don’t fit into the upper-class cliques as well as you do, Octavia.”
Octavia, smiling to herself, affixes her gaze on her glass of spring water so she doesn’t have to look at the staged look of offense on Symphony’s face. She toys with the lime wedge clinging into the rim of the glass with her hoof, one of the many nervous habits she constantly utilizes. Her fun does not last for very long, however, because a particularly vigorous prod dislodges the fruit’s grip and sends it tumbling into the water.
Symphony laughs at Octavia’s vaguely disappointed look. “Having fun?”
“Yes, actually. I found an extraordinary amount of entertainment from that citrus. It was really speaking to me.”
“Was it giving you insightful advice?”
Octavia can see where this is going, and hopes to avoid that conversation. “Not particularly. Limes aren’t known for being a deep reservoir of wisdom. The most that you could hope for from them is small talk.”
A stallion at the table next to the musicians’ sends them a concerned look, desperately confused by their conversation. Symphony smiles winningly at him, and he goes back to his salad, sheer bewilderment consuming his features.
“Did your small talk involve anypony?” Symphony continues. “Like a stallion?”
And they’ve arrived on the subject that Octavia considered to be taboo. “No, actually,” she answers simply, trying not to give Symphony any more ammunition to use against her.
“Are you sure?”
“Symphony, I know what you’re trying to convey. Believe me, I am absolutely positive. I did not intend to attend a meal with you with the sole purpose of discussing who you think I should get together with.”
“Okay, I’ll let it happen on its own. No need for me to prod you two in the right direction.”
“My thoughts exactly. Minus the portion of that sentence that involved it happening on its own.”
The waiter reappears, a pair of dishes enveloped in blue magic levitating in front of him. “Your meals.”
“That was quick,” says Symphony, impressed, as her burger assumes its position in front of her.
The waiter looks at Octavia uneasily, who smiles pleasantly. “Yes, ma’am. We pride ourselves in service here at the Paradigm.”
Symphony flips the top bun off her burger to examine the quality. Once the item on her plate has passed inspection, she nods approvingly, giving the nervous-looking waiter the signal that he is free to leave. “So, what was that look? Was he, like, an ex of yours?”
“Symphony, you’re showing far too much interest in my social life, and I’m not sure if I appreciate it or not. You had just commented on how promptly they prepared our food. The reason he looked so uncomfortable is because first time I was here, I may have intimidated him a bit when it took an hour and a half for them to produce food for Vinyl and I. Ever since, their normally very slow service has been satisfyingly quick.”
“Brilliant, Octavia.”
Octavia smiles, then gently lowers her face into her salad and begins to eat.
The crisis has been averted, Octavia had successfully avoided mention of the pianist. She simply can’t talk about him honestly to Symphony, it would be too painful.
Like Symphony had said, hopefully it will happen of its own accord.
If you wanted, you could have a bit of background music in the form of this. Shining Glory gave me the link to this, and I think it's fitting later in the chapter.
The last five hours of waiting were the worst.
Unable to sleep, you simply sit up in bed, trying to distract yourself with magical education from your spellbook—illuminated by magic light from your forehead—but rapidly grow bored and resort to staring avidly at the wall clock. This is hardly a better solution to pass the time, because focusing on the passing thereof causes the seconds to crawl by at about a third of their usual rate.
Your curtains are closed, but you’re immobilized in bed and therefore unable to get up and open them to let in the—hopefully—bright morning light. You’re left to guess when Princess Celestia sees fit to thrust the sun into sky, throwing a bare sliver of resplendence onto the floor.
Finally, at long last, your door opens to admit a pair of nurses who announce that you are free to leave.
Your first steps are understandably unsteady, but you rapidly regain control of your motor functions, taking the door to the outside world at almost a run. You emerge into the chill air, taking deep, grateful breaths of crisp, fresh oxygen; a welcome change from the stale, antiseptic-flavored air you’ve become accustomed to.
As you had planned, Royal Riff and Vinyl are waiting for you, huddled close together to ward off the cold. When she spots you, Vinyl nudges the violinist to jerk him out of his stupor. Royal Riff looks around, confused by the sudden dislodging from his thoughts. Eventually, with a little assistance from the DJ, his bleary eyes affix on yours, and a genuine smile breaks across his face.
“So, how’ve you been?” you ask casually, trotting up to the duo. Vinyl grabs you in a violent, one-legged hug around the neck, making you wince. “Hey, careful! I’ve recently broken just about every bone in my body, and that was probably at least a few you’ve just re-broken.”
“Sorry, mate, but it’s so good to see you back up and running again, I can’t be held accountable for my actions!” In her enthusiasm, Vinyl had accidentally knocked her shades askew, revealing a pair of bright, mesmerizingly magenta eyes. When she notices you looking, she coughs and immediately adjusts the glasses to hide her gaze. She gives you an extra squeeze, signifying that you should not mention what just happened.
“Hey, Riffs,” you refer to the violinist, who is standing just outside of Vinyl’s reach in case of another outbreak of spontaneous affection.
“Hello again,” Royal Riff says pleasantly. “How was your stay?”
“Phenomenal. Five stars. The experience of a lifetime. Can I go home now?”
“Absolutely, for a while. Because, er . . .” Royal Riff eyes you, uncomfortable for some reason.
“Yeah?” you reply, prompting the violinist.
“Well, I know it isn’t the most convenient time, but tonight . . . we sort of have an engagement that’s mandatory to attend.”
“It’s a concert, isn’t it?” You’re not sure where Royal Riff’s reservations are coming from; getting back to the piano would be an ideal way to get you back into the swing of things. You’ve experienced a severe lack of music in your life for the past few days, and a concert is a welcome idea.
“Well, yes . . .”
“I’m game. When is it? And . . . wait, do we have a conductor? Because last I checked, ours is locked in some inaccessible dungeon somewhere.”
“Well, about that . . .” Vinyl says, finally releasing you from her headlock. “Yesterday, Symphony had a conversation with one of your friends from Ponyville. I can’t remember her name off the top of my head, though. Turquoise, lyre cutie mark . . .”
“Lyra?” you offer.
“Yeah, her. Anyway, apparently she showed some promise as a conductor, so Symph offered her the position.” How is it that Vinyl can call Symphony “Symph” and it sounds completely natural? “Let me tell you, she wasn’t too thrilled about the idea. She’s a lot like you when you first got here—she kind of wants to dodge the spotlight.”
“Seems like Lyra.” Despite yourself, you’re not in the slightest bit surprised that the lyrist had accepted the position. Her pragmatic nature wouldn’t allow her to turn away from such a conspicuous issue. “But my other question: when is the concert?”
“Well . . .” Royal Riff checks his ever-present watch, and you decide that you eventually need to purchase one for yourself. It’s becoming a bit debilitating to constantly have to inquire the time from Royal Riff. “It’s in about an hour. We wanted to give you a bit of time to recuperate before you were back onstage, but unfortunately, the concert hall’s scheduling doesn’t work like that. We take the time that they give us, and no questions are asked.”
“Okay. No problem.” You hadn’t anticipated it to be so soon, but the urgency sends an exhilarating thrill through your being. Sharply contrasting from your intense nervousness that had consumed you during auditions, or ever your first concert, you now feel overwhelmingly excited. The prospect of performing once more is favorable in your mind, and you’re now realizing why these musicians have stuck with the orchestra for so long. They fight with each other, the rehearsals are difficult and emotionally draining, and they have to bear the constant criticism from a fanatic conductor, but the sheer bliss provided by performing your music makes it worth all the discomfort.
“But will you be ready?” inquires Royal Riff. His nervousness that you would be unprepared is uncalled for, but anxiety still shows on his expression.
“Are you kidding, Riffs? I was born ready.” Your confidence, you notice, has altered your normal speech patterns. There was truth in Noteworthy’s earlier statement: you had been a very quiet individual. But now, you find yourself talking more in the style of Vinyl Scratch. More informality in speaking, less unconventional vocabulary words permeating your sentences.
“Excellent. If you wouldn’t mind, would you go fetch Octavia? I haven’t seen her for a few days, and she may have forgotten that we have a concert today. I’d do it myself, but I wanted to get to the concert hall early, to familiarize your friend Lyra with our orchestra.”
“It would be my indescribable pleasure,” you say exaggeratedly. “I shall make the errand my number-one priority, rest assured.”
“Dude, you’re kind of hard to follow,” says Vinyl. “One second, you’re talking like a DJ, and the next you’re sounding more like the pianist that you’ve led us all to believe that you are.”
You shrug. “I’m a complicated guy.”
“Yeah, we’d all like to know what’s going on inside your head, eh?”
Your mind unconsciously splits into its different planes of consciousness, as if to prove a point. Anypony other than yourself who would try to venture into the complicated mass of data that is your brain would most likely leave the venture not entirely sane. “That might not be a good idea.”
“Um, not to distract from your conversation,” Royal Riff holds up a hoof to drown Vinyl’s response. “But we’re running a little short on time. Could we all get a move on, please?”
“Yeah. One problem, though. I don’t know where Octavia lives.”
“It’s simple enough to find her apartment from here. All you have to do is . . .” Royal Riff launches into an incredibly detailed and complicated explanation of how to get from Point A to Point Octavia, describing every turn with loving detail. You can only gaze at the musician, hoping that your glazed look isn’t too noticeable. His directions are being tucked neatly inside your brain, but you can’t hope to make any sense out of them at the moment. The drawback to having a near-flawless memory is that it takes quite a while to process a heavy input of information. “Do you think you can manage that?” he finishes, and you quickly arrange your composure to that of undivided attention.
“Sure thing,” you say, feigning confidence.
“Good on you. I’ve got to go. Good luck convincing her to come out of hiding.”
Royal Riff turns tail and trots off in the vague direction of the concert hall. Vinyl claps you on the shoulder and follows him, but taking a left on a side street instead of continuing on the main boulevard.
Leaving you alone standing in front of the hospital.
You open up a recent mental file and withdraw Royal Riff’s directions, perusing them at your leisure until you’ve gotten a general idea of where Octavia’s apartment is located. After giving them a twice over, you look up, frowning. The route that Riffs had instructed you to follow involves several unnecessary detours, which you can see methods of dodging. Instead of taking the main street and turning right, you could just go right in the first place, take two more quick rights, and then a left—you’d end up in the exact same place.
You sigh at Royal Riff, amused. A pony who has lived in Canterlot for most of his life, and still doesn’t know how to get around.
While your mental map had indicated that your route was ideal, the actual layout of the streets say otherwise. You’re now in the midst of several wide apartment buildings, none of which contain Octavia.
After cursing yourself under your breath for a while, you backtrack, trying to find your way back to the hospital so you can start from scratch, but inadvertently getting more and more wayward with every step. Once you’ve realized that you’re getting no nearer to your destination, you come to a halt, sending your eyes around you, searching desperately for a familiar landmark; be it a building, street sign, or even the Canterlot Palace viewed at a certain angle.
You sigh heavily, looking up at the sun. You know some ponies who can determine the time of day simply by the position of the solar body, but you had never thought it an essential skill to learn. Now, however, you wish you had shown a little more interest in survival techniques, since you’re running low on time in which to locate the cellist.
A little desperately, you close your eyes, forcing Octavia into your mind. Immediately, your horn shines with the power of a supernova, teleporting you back to your original location: the hospital. You reappear in front of the double doors, surprising a passing palace guard, whose shock only shows in a slight widening of his eyes—the guards are specially trained to emit professionalism at all times, which means that they rarely show emotions. “Fine day to you, sir,” you say respectfully, but at the same time holding back a chuckle at the guard’s expense. He nods in reply, then continues on his rounds.
You pull up Royal Riff’s directions again, this time refraining from adding your own variations. Sheepishly, you begin on the route the violinist had signified, mentally chiding yourself, and at the same time telling yourself not to mention this detour to anypony.
Surprisingly, the directions actually carry you to your destination even faster than you anticipated your improvised ones to, and you silently take back what you had thought about Royal Riff being directionally challenged.
An unusually large apartment complex rises above you, towering over all the other lower buildings around it. You pull up Royal Riff’s description of the building you would find Octavia’s apartment in, cross-referencing it with the structure in front of you. A perfect match. Now all that’s left to do is locate Octavia, which should be a breeze considering the wild chase you had to embark on in order to find the complex.
Fortunately for you, the floors are organized in a manner that makes sense. This might be odd to consider, but it had taken you about an hour to locate your own apartment—the numbers on the doors seemed to be arranged with no rhyme or reason, jumping rapidly from the 100’s to 500’s between one flat to the next. The manager’s excuse, however, was that they had recently added several new wings, which you were forced to believe.
Octavia’s flat is on the top floor, which gives you some extra stair-climbing, but no matter. You clamber up the concrete steps, paying attention to the floor numbers as they pass by. Finally, breathing heavier than you would like, you reach the top.
In a few seconds, you’re standing outside the apartment which you presume to be Octavia’s. Before knocking, however, you double- and triple-check that you’re in the right place. Once you’re certain that you won’t be intruding on some stranger, you raise your hoof and rap the door with a quadruplet of sharp taps.
You don’t hear hoofsteps of the owner coming to the door, but nonetheless, it swings open, seemingly on its own.
When you don’t see Octavia, you look down, and find a lean black cat staring you in the face. You blink slowly, unintentionally losing the staring contest the feline had instigated, and you could swear, the cat looks satisfied with the small victory.
“Crescendo? Where did you go?”
Octavia’s voice sounds from inside the depths of the apartment, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized that you were holding. So you are in the right place; the cat had thrown you for a loop. You weren’t sure what to think.
“Oh . . .” The grey cellist appears in the doorway.
“Surprise!” you say feebly. The sudden sight of Octavia makes you short of breath, and when added to the fatigue you already acquired while climbing the stairs, you can barely articulate words.
“Well . . .” Octavia also seems at a loss for words. She gestures at you vaguely. “You seem to be . . . on your hooves again.”
“Uh . . . yeah. I suppose I am.” You look down at Octavia’s pet, who is still gazing at you smugly. “If you don’t mind me asking, did your cat just answer the door?”
Octavia bends to nuzzle the back of the kitten’s head with her nose. “Crescendo? He is an extraordinarily smart feline. It was only a matter of time before he discovered the doorknob principle, and since then, he’s been racing me to the door when a visitor comes calling. I didn’t hear you knock, though.”
“I see.”
Crescendo purrs in a holier-than-thou attitude, as though he somehow detects that he’s the main topic of conversation. He presses his body against Octavia’s face, his tail flicking her ear.
“Well, would you like to come in?”
“I’d love to.” The prospect of entering Octavia’s living quarters sends a sharp thrill through your stomach. Octavia steps aside to allow you to pass, and you comply, careful not to tread on Crescendo’s tail and elicit the use of his claws.
Octavia’s apartment is modest—there is no extravagant luxury visible in her home. Her furniture is simple and sparse; the living room consists of only a couch and coffee table, on which a chessboard is placed. Strangely, the chess pieces are positioned in a manner that would suggest that a game is in progress.
“Uh, stupid question?” you say, cursing yourself already for what you’re about to say.
“Yes?”
“That chessboard. Were you playing against . . .” You don’t finish, embarrassed.
Octavia laughs genuinely. “No, of course not. Crescendo may be gifted, but he hasn’t quite grasped chess yet.” Instead of criticizing, Octavia’s mirth is encouraging. Her laughter is a pure, wonderful sound that you could listen to for hours on end.
“Ah . . . right.” You smile sheepishly. “But then . . . who were you playing with, if it wasn’t your kitten?”
“Oh . . .” Octavia looks embarrassed. She shuffles her hooves distractedly. “Well . . . myself, actually. I consider it to be a stimulating mental exercise when I have free time. I mean, not to be boastful, but I’ve played against Royal Riff, Symphony, Harpo, and Vinyl, and none of them lasted very long.”
“Would you mind if I tried to knock you off your podium?”
You’re not sure where the sudden challenge came from. It would be a bad idea to engage in a chess game with Octavia, when you’re so short on time as it is.
“Oh?” Octavia smirks. “Do you consider yourself skilled enough to accept my challenge?”
“By my reckoning, I have a sporting chance.”
Octavia smiles, moving over to the chessboard. “Just let me reset, then we may begin.”
You follow her, taking a seat on the floor opposite her. When she reaches out to start moving the pieces manually, you hurriedly place your hoof over hers to stop her. “No, let me.”
Surprised, Octavia looks up from the white rook she had been about to place back in its designated starting spot to see the grey stallion’s horn lit up with ash-colored light. She watches as a pulsation of magic engulfs the board, claiming the chessmen one by one. Once the entire playing field is consumed, the pieces begin to move on their own accord. The pawns move in with singularity, forming a pair of lines facing each other, and the rest of the royalty are left to arrange themselves behind them, protected by the barrier of small wooden pieces.
The stallion looks up, smiling. “White goes first. Your move, Octavia.”
Octavia gazes over the board, taking in the perfectly-arranged chessmen. As a chess player who knows what she’s doing, Octavia appreciates the importance of the first move of the game; equally as important as any other move, but often ignored by novices. After glancing up to see a flawless poker face looking back at her, the cellist places her hoof on a pawn and slides it forward two spaces.
The stallion in front of her considers, then mirrors her move with his own pawn.
And so it begins.
Octavia is obviously an extremely experienced tactician, and plays a primarily defensive game, countering every wave you launch in her direction, while at the same time searching for chinks in your armor, which you’ve worked hard to fortify. Distracting you with a very destructive queen, while sending out scouts in the form of knights or bishops, then withdrawing quickly when you recognize her ploy.
The rows of defeated pieces lining up on the side of the board gradually grow, and the variability for an assault deplete when you no longer have a complete pair of rooks to corner stragglers. Octavia realizes your disability, and presses in for the attack, breaking against your defenses like waves on a beach. She places a sizable dent in your wall, despite her loss of a knight and both bishops, and you immediately have to move to the defensive stance. Whatever unnecessary forces you can spare converge on your vulnerable king, giving a last ditch effort to secure a victory, or at least survival.
Octavia slowly begins to surround her opponent, confidence growing in her eyes. The stallion across from her bites his lip, analyzing every single piece on the board, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for something he can work with. When he lands on one of his bishops, a smile breaks across his face. He moves the soldier diagonally, through a gap Octavia had neglected to close. “Check,” he says triumphantly. Octavia frowns, moving her king a space vertically to remove it from the bishop’s line of sight. She’s not quite sure why the small victory warrants such excitement, and that makes her nervous. He may be bluffing, but Octavia does not like to take chances.
Eager to stomp out your supposed rebellion, Octavia moves more onto the offensive. Her remaining pawns move to advance, hoping in vain that they can make it past your rook and knight combination, which is picking off anyone who comes close. Once again, Octavia’s queen emerges from her derelict corner near the king, and stalks in on a bishop you had forgotten about. To counter it, you bring out your own queen to break against whatever pieces the cellist had left back on her side of the board. Concerned, Octavia brings back a bishop, but more as a distraction than anything. She’s planning a final attack, and you can see the signs.
Octavia positions her rook to catch an escaping king, when the time inevitably comes. Anticipating an attack, she places a strategic knight to protect it. The pianist begins to look scared—his pieces are scattered across the board, except for an easily killable bunch next to his king. Desperately, he sends out his remaining knight to try and knock a few of Octavia’s pieces off the board.
“Checkmate.”
“Excuse me?”
You look up from your strategizing to see Octavia leaning back, a satisfied look present on her face, then glance back down at the board. While you weren’t paying attention, Octavia had punched a hole in your wall of pieces, and promptly inserted her queen into the hole, giving your king no option but to surrender. You blink, still stunned at what had just occurred.
“That was a well-fought game,” Octavia says fairly. “You put up much more of a fight than Royal Riff did, if that’s any consolation.”
You rub your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself. “You are truly a master. I’m honored to accept defeat from you.”
There is a spurt of frantic knocking at the door, and you and Octavia look at each other. “Who could that be?” she wonders aloud.
Your heart sinks. “Oh . . . about that . . .”
Crescendo balances on his back legs and places his tiny paws on the door handle. With a sharp click, the door pops open to reveal a frantic-looking Royal Riff. “What have you two been doing?” he demands. “Both of you were supposed to be at the concert hall ten minutes ago!”
Octavia looks exasperatedly at you. “Something you forgot to tell me?”
“Maybe,” you reply quietly. You stand, avoiding Royal Riff’s eyes. “We should get going, though.”
“I’m going to go stall the audience.” Royal Riff turns to leave. “But you two should hurry, anyway,” he adds, sticking his head back into the door frame.
“Right.” You begin to follow him, but a hoof on your shoulder stops you. Octavia stands next to you, a small smile on her face.
And before you can react at all, she leans in, invading your personal space, and places her lips on yours in a long, lingering kiss.
All you can think about is her soft lips, and the scent of coffee from her hair.
Octavia breaks off, leaving you standing, shell-shocked. “Come on, Symphonic Keys. Let’s go show them what you can do.”
No music for this one. I couldn't find something that had personal meaning for this chapter, but if you take just about any symphony, it'll work just fine.
“Royal Riff, what took you so long?” inquires Concerto curiously, interrupted from his intent to continue tuning his violin.
Royal Riff, framed in the stage doorway, stares incredulously at you and Octavia. He had just arrived, out of breath and sweating, when you confronted him.
“But . . . what? How did you . . . get here?” the violinist pants, his eyes darting between you and the cellist.
You wink widely at Octavia, who shakes her head exasperatedly at your ridiculous gesture. “We took a shortcut,” you answer, simply and mysteriously. After you had recovered from the paralysis Octavia had forced you into by kissing you, you had performed a double teleportation, so elated that you mustered up the power to effortlessly transport both you and the cellist to the concert hall, well ahead of Royal Riff. Actually, the teleportation had been mostly inadvertent—as soon as Octavia had released you and turned to leave, your horn sparked, engulfing the both of you in the alabaster light that normally accompanies your fast-traveling. Without your mental consent, your inner reservoir of magic pulled you and the cellist out of Octavia’s apartment and spat you out next to the stage door.
“That was some . . . shortcut.” Royal Riff takes a pair of extraordinarily deep breaths to steady himself. “I’ll have to get the details later. How’s the audience doing?”
“They are fine,” Harpo assures him from across the room. “The new conductor is keeping them well-entertained.” As if anticipating it, the harpist points in the direction of the auditorium, perfectly timing a particularly loud shout of laughter from the concert hall’s patrons. “She’s doing better than Lyrica already.”
“Okay . . . good.” Royal Riff, a slightly manic look on his face, looks imperceptibly disappointed that there is nothing for him to attend to. You and Octavia, ever-observant, share an amused look at Royal Riff’s overexcitement. “What are we waiting on?”
“Well . . . you,” says the tuba player, Beauty Brass. Her instrument is already wrapped around her form in anticipation of mounting the stage, and you notice Royal Riff go slightly pink in the face. Could you finally have a bit of ammunition to use against him when he teases you about your affection for the cellist? “But now that you’re here, we can get started!”
Royal Riff swallows visibly, casting you an annoyed look. “Right, then. Shall we?” When the rest of the musicians’ attention is diverted from him, Royal Riff leans in and mutters to you. “If you hadn’t insisted on engaging Octavia in a game of chess, you could have saved me a fair bit of trouble. We could have begun by now.”
“Sorry, Riffs,” you say sincerely, catching him by surprise. He looks directly into your eyes, searching for a trace of sarcasm, and finding none. You truly are contrite that Royal Riff had to run back and forth from Octavia’s apartment, then returning to the laughter of his fellow musicians. “It was my bad. I should have just told Octavia that we needed to get going. I got distracted, and my pride was at stake.”
“Well, did anything good come out of it, at least?”
Royal Riff, seconds ago firmly annoyed at you, now sports a smugly knowing smile that you don’t appreciate. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . did you progress your relationship with her?”
You sigh heavily, watching the rest of the musicians spill onto the stage to tumultuous applause. You wait until the tip of Concerto’s tail is completely out of sight before responding. “I thought we had dropped that topic.”
“I can’t help bringing it up when it’s clearly taking the front page of your mindset. You think I’m a simpleton, that I don’t notice these things?”
“Crazy talk, Riffs. You know that a relationship like that would never work. Anyway . . . she’s way too good for me . . . and I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You might as well drop the charade now.” Royal Riff strides over to the wall where he had stashed his violin in his mad dash to Octavia’s apartment.
“Fine. Let’s go, before you make any more ridiculous assumptions.”
On the conductor’s podium, Lyra taps the baton against her hoof nervously, eyes flitting from the assembling musicians to the eager audience, the vast, multi-headed entity studying her every move. Her normally confident demeanor has shrunk in the presence of the cold judgment of what appears to be half the entire population of Equestria.
“How are you doing?” you inquire. You stand close to Lyra’s elevated platform, leaning in so she can hear you over the din of musicians tuning their instruments and general conversation. Your question is unnecessary—you know exactly how the lyrist is doing.
“A little nervous. I can handle this, though. Just go easy on me, okay?”
“I’ll try.” You smile, hoping you look reassuring. “I didn’t know you had a comedy act planned to keep the audience entertained while we argued backstage.”
“It was kind of spur-of-the-moment—the jokes just came to me. I probably couldn’t put on another show now if you asked me.”
“I know how you feel.” You can relate, since all of the spontaneous pieces you produce vanish from your memory as soon as you’ve played the last note.
“No unscripted duets this time, okay?”
“I don’t know, Lyra. I might not be able to manage that.” You smirk to let her know that you’re kidding. She confidently returns the smile, but even if the nerves don’t show up on her face, you know that they’re present behind her eyes. “It’ll be fine. You’ve got a great sense for music,” you add, trying to alleviate a bit of her anxiety. “You’re so much better than what I had to deal with last time.”
“Thanks, Keys.”
“No problem. Show ‘em what you’ve got.”
You leave the lyrist-turned-conductor and make your way to your piano, the now-familiar instrument that you consider a personal friend, as much as a chunk of wood and strings can be considered a friend.
As you cast your eyes around, you take in the confidence of the assembled musicians. Assurance behind their eyes, they grasp their instruments, fully prepared to exceed all expectations that have ever been set for them. The dismissal of Lyrica had invigorated them, prompting them to be better than ever.
You sit, warming up your magic for this musical exertion. As you begin to gain control of your instrument, your neck prickles unpleasantly. The tingling can usually mean one of two things: one, an electric current is somewhere nearby, and the shock is about to get much more painful.
Or two: somepony is watching you.
Not making an obvious show of it, you twist your neck as though to eliminate a persistent kink, and in the process, you spy a certain grey cellist with a treble clef for a cutie mark who is trying to conceal the fact that her eyes are looking you over methodically. And for a change, not analytically—more like a timid affection.
In order to allow Octavia to continue her charade, you don’t acknowledge that you’ve noticed her.
Instead, you continue to send your own vision over the musicians, focusing for a second or two on each.
Concerto, the bold violinist with no regard for his own safety. Beauty Brass, the mare who seems much too small for her instrument, and a possible object of longing for Royal Riff. Harpo Parish Nadermane, the impolite harpist you’d taken an almost instant disliking for, but have since gradually warmed up to. Several more flutists and violinists whose names you haven’t yet learned.
Symphony and Royal Riff, sitting side by side, analyzing the same set of sheet music propped up on their metal music stand, their violins already at their necks.
When your eyes alight on Royal Riff’s face, your hoof automatically flies to your forehead with a loud clop. You had fabricated an ideal counterargument if the violinist had brought up Octavia in the sense of you being a couple, and you had simply forgotten to use it. You make a mental reminder to inquire about him and Beauty Brass, and if there is anything going on between them.
You look back at Octavia, catching her off guard so she has little warning to drop her gaze in time. Surprised, her eyes lock onto yours, her lips parted in a silent gasp. You hold the stare, captivated by her purple irises; two flawless amethysts in the center of her crystal-white orbs. Forming a pair of amaranthine portals, transporting you to an alternate world.
And then she smiles.
It’s a soft smile—a simple upward flick of her lips—but it’s the most tender, genuine gesture you’ve ever seen, let alone been on the receiving end of. Your heart liquidizes, melting into your bloodstream and filling your being with warmth. Such a simple movement, but holding so much—probably unintentional—meaning to you.
And then your attention is snapped back to the present when Lyra’s baton falls, briskly tapping her music stand, invoking sudden silence across the audience. It’s also a signal for the musicians to prepare for the first notes of their symphony; in a flurry of movement, instruments are raised to faces—bows stand erect, waiting for their owners to allow them to begin producing their sweet melodies.
Lyra holds both hooves aloft, her eyes darting back and forth, making absolutely certain that the musicians are fully prepared to begin. When her gaze affixes on you, you confirm the affirmative with a short nod.
The blaring voice of the DJ causes you attention to slip, making the keyboard cover you had been levitating crash down with a loud clack. The ponies around you wince at the noise, and you glance in their general direction, hoping that you look apologetic. “Hello, Vinyl,” you say wearily.
“Is it too much to ask for you to confront us after we get backstage?” Octavia asks pointedly. She’s fastening the clasps on her cello case, making sure that the velvet lining on the interior isn’t escaping at the edges. She locates a black corner of fabric, and pokes it back inside before clipping the last metal clasp in place.
The ever-eccentric Vinyl slides onto the piano bench beside you, her faintly lemon-scented mane whipping your face. “Sorry, Tavi, but I just can’t wait that long. I sat through that four-year-long symphony for you—I can’t be expected to sit still for another half hour while you pack up.”
“You actually stayed here for the entire time?” you ask incredulously.
Octavia points at the pair of headphones dangling around Vinyl’s neck. “I suspect that those helped you cope with the boredom.”
Vinyl looks down at the offending contraption and smiles sheepishly. “Heh . . . Maybe a little. But that’s not the point. I was here for moral support, wasn’t I?”
“You sure were, Vinyl,” says a passing Royal Riff, who is supporting a music stand and a violin case on his back. “Here in the physical aspect, but your mind was lost in the world of electronica.”
Vinyl waves an errant hoof, batting Royal Riff’s comment away like a persistent fly. “Funny you should mention that though, Riffs. I’m making an appearance at one of the ‘classier’ clubs tonight, so I thought you might want to tag along . . . Keys and Octavia are welcome too, if you want.”
Royal Riff slides the stand off his back, sliding it neatly into place with the others, lined up against the stage wall. “You seem to have forgotten that the last time you took me out, it tarnished my view of the night life. It is far too soon for me to be forgetting that grudge.”
“Naw, man. It’s cool. This place rarely is has any bar fights.” Vinyl puts a fair amount of stress on the word. “I mean, it’s been at least a month since anypony was hospitalized.” When she sees the look on Royal Riff’s face, and realizes that the assurance has done little to boost the violinist’s motivation, she adds, “But it was only a minor leg fracture. Seriously, it was just some idiot who got a little too hammered and tried to dance on three tables at once. It didn’t work out so well.”
“Is that so?” says Royal Riff grimly.
“I don’t know, Riffs.” You nudge Vinyl off the bench so you can slide it under the piano. “That sounds pretty promising.”
“See?” Vinyl jabs a hoof at you triumphantly. “This kid knows what I’m saying!”
“Symphonic, you and Octavia are at perfect liberty to accompany this maniac to that rave, but I will have nothing to do with it,” says Royal Riff, with a firm sense of finality.
“Fine, Riffs. I see how it is.” Vinyl jerks her head to the side briefly, suggesting that she had just winked at Royal Riff, who shakes his head in exasperation. “But what say you, Keys? Octavia? C’mon, help me out here.”
Octavia stands up, satisfied that her cello is sufficiently secured in its case. “I’m a little reluctant as well, but I would accompany you nonetheless. I have a free night, and I might as well get my . . . dosage . . . of electronic music.”
“Excellent!” Vinyl ignores Octavia’s implication of the DJ’s style of music being akin to unpleasant medication. “Keys?”
Whatever reservations you had possessed before Octavia had volunteered are now nonexistent. There isn’t a question of whether or not you’d deny Vinyl’s offer. “Why not?” you say casually, not alluding to the fact that your heart rate has crept up from your slow resting pace to a frequency that would be associated with running a mareathon. The prospect of spending the night with Octavia has made you more than a little excited. “Might as well,” you echo the cellist.
“Righty, then! Let’s get a move on!”
****
“Alright!” Vinyl crows, throwing both forelegs around you and Octavia, and you wince as your heads are banged together. “Trust me, guys, this’ll be the best night of your life!”
“Famous last words,” Octavia mutters darkly.
“You’re a funny mare, Tavi.”
The three of you stand in front of the mass of neon lighting marking the entrance to Vinyl’s preferred club, watching the steady stream of ponies coming in and out. Oddly, the building doesn’t seem to have a name—the swirls of violently turquoise light don’t form any type of comprehendible written language—but Vinyl had assured you that it’s called “The Lunar Princess.”
“It was named after Princess Luna,” Vinyl had explained. “Back when she was Nightmare Moon and all, and wasn’t around to complain about it.”
Present Vinyl drags both you and the cellist along with her, none too gently. “Now, you two should be just fine. There are just a few things to remember: keep an eye on your drink at all times, and if you see a suspicious-looking puddle on the floor, don’t touch it.”
As you draw closer, the pounding of a dubstep beat begins to reach your ears. It’s too far to make out the synthesizers and electronically-tuned vocals, but it’s enough to give you the gist of what you’re in for. You swallow.
A muscular grey stallion with a baby blue mane guards the double doors, his nose in the air. He sports an air of superiority about him, as if used to being in a position of power.
“Twilight Sky!” Vinyl calls jovially. “What’ll it take to get you to let my sidekicks in?”
The bouncer, Twilight Sky, blinks, his eyes sliding into focus. It takes a second for him to locate where the DJ’s voice is coming from, but once he’s found her, a wide grin breaks across his face. “Vinyl Scratch! It’s been a while, dude.”
“Too long, mate. I’ve been crazy busy lately, and I haven’t been part of the night life since forever ago. This is a good place to get back into it, eh?”
“You said it, Scratch. Who’re the buddies?” Twilight Sky’s gaze drops from Vinyl’s face to the two ponies she’s holding in a practical double headlock. You try to smile politely when his eyes falls to your face, but it probably turns out as more of a cringe.
“Symphonic Keys.” Vinyl jostles you a little to indicate that she’s referring to you. “And Octavia.” The cellist receives a similar treatment. “Can I sneak ‘em in?”
Twilight Sky sighs deeply. “I guess, Scratch, but don’t go spreading around the fact that I went easy on you. I’ve got a reputation, you know.” The bouncer steps aside, surreptitiously surveying the surrounding area. Making sure that nopony had noticed his lapse in stringency.
“You’re the best, Sky.” Vinyl releases you and Octavia—you both clutch at your throats, gasping for air. A little more dramatized than necessary, but since Vinyl’s watching, you want to get your point across that your experience so far has been altogether unpleasant. The DJ ignores your retching and trots up to Twilight Sky, an odd smile forming on her lips. Next to you, Octavia’s jaw drops as Vinyl boosts herself up on her hind legs and plants a kiss on Twilight Sky’s cinereal cheek.
The bouncer’s complexion reddens significantly, tarnishing his image as the stoic warrior of the night club. His jaw locks, his teeth clenched, eyes wide and staring. Vinyl trembles as she holds back her laughter, beckoning for you and Octavia to get a move on.
As you near the doors, the music quickly gets more defined—now you can make out traces of lyrics, but cannot interpret them as actual words. The blaring buzz of the synthesizers grates against your ears even out here, and you shudder to imagine what the sound would be like inside the confined building—with terrible acoustics, no doubt.
Once you’re past the doors, and they’re securely closed behind you, Octavia turns on Vinyl, her face incredulous and impressed. “What in the name of the Solar Princess was that about?”
“What?” asks a surprised Vinyl. Her violaceous gaze falls on the cellist.
“You just kissed the bouncer to convince him to let us in.”
“Crazy talk, Tavi. He was already cool with it. I just gave ‘im a little thank-you gift. Me and Twilight Sky go way back, it’s cool.”
“You’re not . . . going out, or anything?” Octavia says tentatively.
“Naw, nothing official. Just a friendly peck, y’know? Why the sudden interest, Tavi?” A curious grin breaks across the DJ’s face.
Octavia’s face assumes a delicate shade of pink at the question. “Just trying to keep up to speed with your social life, as difficult to follow as it is.”
“Darlin’, you don’t know the half of it.”
“I won’t even ask what that is supposed to imply.”
“Probably best if you didn’t.”
Your trio emerges from the short hallway leading to the main thoroughfare that is The Lunar Princess, and is immediately assaulted by the full power of unobstructed dubstep.
Your entire being trembles at the sheer force of the bass slamming into you in rhythmic waves. Your teeth are set on edge, grinding against each other with every pulse. And as fate would have it, traces of a headache begin to form at the base of your skull; not a good start to the night. Hopefully, the discomfort will only be temporary, and not escalate into a full-blown migraine.
The room is a labyrinth of multicolored lasers and white pinpricks of light thrown off by a slowly-revolving disco ball. Puddles of prismatic glow congeal on the floor, deliberately patrolling across the dancefloor, which is occupied by a good dozen ponies in varying states of intoxication. It’s remarkably easy to determine which ones who had been at the bar for the longest.
The vast majority of the patrons, however, are not participating in animalistic gyrations to accompany the music. Ponies are scattered about the room, sitting at the small circular tables or making casual conversation with their fellow club-goers. All in all, more polite—more civilized—than you had expected them to be, and this realization helps to improve your outlook on the night.
Up on an elevated platform, a light blue pony with reflective black shades and a spiky onyx mane bobs his head in time to the pounding beat, his hooves a blur over the turntable, flipping switches and prodding sliders.
“Now, my loyal companions, watch your buddy in action.” Vinyl rolls her neck, eliciting several audible pops. Octavia winces at the noise. “Let’s command this club.”
Vinyl breaks into a run, mounting the stage and playfully shoving the DJ out of the way, relieving him of his headphones and shoving them over her own ears. She triumphantly thrusts a hoof into the air to deafening cheering. The other DJ pushes his face close enough to the microphone to shout, “Fillies and gentlcolts! DJ . . .” He leaves the J hanging longer than necessary, for dramatic effect. “PON3!” he finishes victoriously.
The resulting scream from the dancers is enough to blow out your eardrums. You give a slight, imperceptible gasp at the sudden shock.
“Are you okay?” Octavia inquires loudly.
“Did you . . . hear that?”
“That undignified explosion of noise? Or your little outlet of pain?”
“Uh, the latter.”
“Apparently so. Going back to my previous question, though: are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just surprised, that’s all. But my question is how could you possibly hear that? I’ve noticed lately that you have an . . . advanced sense of hearing.”
Octavia smiles proudly. “There is a beauty in silence. Any disturbances thereof, I have a knack for picking up and identifying.”
“Octavia, this is by no means silence.” You gesture widely around the room at the writhing dancers and throbbing music.
“Perhaps not, but after a time, I was able to train myself to split the noises in an area into defined layers. A method of organization, you see? If there is an irregularity, or a sound that is not a part of any of my designated layers, it is remarkably easy to pinpoint and locate. Your intonation was not consistent with anything else in this room, so it was a beacon.” Octavia laughs breathlessly. “Does that make sense? Or do I just sound insane?”
Your eyes are wide from that revelation. You had always assumed that the cellist just has naturally advanced hearing, but you had no idea that she had developed such a sophisticated system for understanding her surroundings. “No, that’s actually very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve actually done something similar, but not with sound. I organize my thoughts into planes of consciousness, keeping my mind focused on one thing, but my subconscious is left to attend to less important tasks. It makes multitasking much easier.”
Your heart skips a beat. The words had started to come with little to no warning from your layered mind. You’ve never told anypony about your mental processes, and the thrill of finally letting your “secret” out is exhilarating.
Octavia looks interested. “How so?”
You rack your mind for an example. “Er, for instance . . .” You clear your throat. “The piano,” you decide. “When another unicorn musician plays, he focuses on one note, or one chord, at a time, because his mind is used to only used to managing a single task. But when I play . . .” You pause uncomfortably. Your explanation is verging on being boastful. Octavia looks at you expectantly, and you continue. “I command the entire keyboard at once. Each plane of mind is concentrating on one octave, and it makes it easier to transition. It just gives it a bit more of a flow.”
Octavia moves closer to you. “So the secrets of our mysterious pianist are finally revealed. That is truly impressive, Symphonic.”
You like the sound of your name coming from Octavia. Her voice carries a sweet innocence, and the annunciation of the single word is heart-melting. You smile sappily, too happy to care about the image you’re setting.
“Octavia?” Something from a previous conversation comes back to you. “Why did you care about Vinyl kissing Twilight Sky so much?”
Octavia doesn’t bother protesting that she had already answered that, because you both know that she hadn’t been entirely truthful. “About that . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was sincerely hoping that Vinyl was dating him, because I’ve never seen her in a relationship, and I was hoping if she was seeing somepony, just maybe I could pick up . . . some . . . advice.” Octavia trails off, having said more than she had intended to. The run-on sentence had run on farther than she had expected.
Your mind is instantly left to contemplate the possibilities of the meaning of her accidental admission. Not your immediate consciousness, of course—your surface thoughts are completely and blissfully blank. Only your subconsciousness is active enough to consider anything.
Octavia leans into you. You look over to find her face screwed up in pain, her teeth clenched. You hold her in your forelegs, tighter than necessary. “Okay, now are you okay?”
Octavia forces out a grunt. “Headache.”
“How bad?” Probably not the most educated question to ask, but you’re no doctor.
“Uh . . .” Octavia blinks, her eyes squinted tightly. “Bad. Very bad.”
You look up at the sound board, where Vinyl is commanding the crowd with effortless ease. “I don’t think Vinyl will mind if we back out a little early. You should get home.”
“No,” Octavia mutters. “You stay here. Don’t want you to . . . leave on my account.”
“Not a chance. You won’t make it back to your apartment in this state. I’m coming with you. Anyway . . .” You smile weakly. “I’ve had about enough of this madness.”
You lead Octavia outside, despite her quiet protests. Twilight Sky glances at you curiously, but thankfully doesn’t say anything. The weakened cellist has given up trying to talk you out of accompanying her. She gestures to your right. “That way.”
“No, it’ll take too long. And honestly, I’m a little scared of Canterlot at night, now.”
“Understandable,” Octavia mutters.
“We’re taking a shortcut. Brace yourself, this might be uncomfortable.”
A quick prompt of elation. A white flash. A few seconds of weightlessness.
You land heavily in front of Octavia’s door.
Octavia nearly tumbles onto the ground. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
“Sorry. I’m still working out the kinks.”
Octavia opens her door, fumbling with her doorknob. As soon as she has managed to push it open, she promptly falls face-first on the floor. She tries to push herself up with trembling forelegs, and only manages to slam herself on the tile again. You bend down to help her, and she accepts gratefully.
“How are you doing?” you whisper.
“Not better . . . little . . . worse. Since when . . . did you have a . . . twin?”
You blink. Not good.
“I think you should get to bed, Octavia.”
“Yes . . . bed. Bed is . . . desirable.”
It seems like your teleportation had accidentally induced some minor delusions. Coupled with your exhaustion, the jaunt could have been flawed enough to send Octavia even farther along her waterfall of pain.
You lead the magically-intoxicated cellist into her bedroom, where she blissfully collapses onto the bedclothes. Your horn lights to surround the blankets and sheets, gently tugging them out from under Octavia. You float the heavy coverings over her, tucking her in tightly, as you remember your own mother doing so long ago.
The cellist’s eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady. You turn to leave.
“Wait. Don’t go.”
Octavia’s bleary gaze is fixed on you. “Stay here.”
You cautiously climb into the bed next to her, moving as close as possible to her. Octavia carefully extracts one of her forehooves out from underneath the covers and wraps it around your neck. “Stay with me,” she whispers. Her eyes close once more, and her breathing instantly falls into the rhythmic pattern of a pony deep in slumber.
“I will,” you answer. The cellist does not respond, but traces of a contented smile play about her lips.
Next to you, the soft sound of breathing can be heard, the only noise currently audible. Quiet, but deafening considering the magnitude of what it means.
Your eyes snap open. The ceiling above you is clearly not your own.
While your mental functions are warming up, you’re left to wonder where you are, and who the pony in bed next to you could be. Since your mind is not sufficiently focused to command control of your body, you survey as much of the area as you can without turning your head.
A stormy landscape painting on the wall. The faint blur of a digital clock on the nightstand on your right. Navy blue bedclothes. A white-painted bedroom door hanging ajar, giving you a glimpse of the immaculate, ultramodern apartment on the other side.
A familiar black cello case propped up against the wall. Very familiar, belonging to . . .
Your mind is awake now.
As to not cause any sudden vibrations on the bed, you slowly turn your head to look at the sleeping mare on the other side of the bed.
Octavia’s mouth hangs slightly open, the mound of blankets she shelters under rising and falling with her breath. She’s adorable in sleep, but that doesn’t make this situation any less precarious.
Your heart pounds, almost loud enough for Octavia to hear, even in sleep. You have no idea what you should do. Should you leave, and hope she doesn’t wake when you’re climbing out of bed? Or should you wait for her to wake up? You’re not sure if her supernatural hearing is as effective during resting periods, but you don’t want to take chances.
“Octavia?” you mutter in the cellist’s ear. You figure it would be safer to wake her up yourself—she might be more willing to negotiate if she doesn’t catch you suspiciously sneaking out of her bedroom. It would understandably inspire the wrong idea. “Octavia . . .” You nudge her shoulder gently. “Wake up.”
Octavia’s breathing changes in rhythm and her eyes suddenly squeeze tightly. She’s definitely awake. The cellist rolls over so her face is buried in her pillow.
“I swear to every name in the Equestrian aristocracy, if you don’t leave me alone, I will hunt down and kill everypony you love, and . . .” Octavia’s muffled ranting is cut off abruptly.
Octavia’s head snaps off her pillow, her wide eyes immediately finding your sheepish face. She blinks once, twice, her mouth ajar. “What are you doing in my bed?” she asks, dangerously quiet. You would have preferred her to shout—her cold fury is far more horrifying than any exclamation would have been.
“Uh . . .” you start. “I can explain?”
“How did you get in my house?” Octavia shrieks.
So much for placidness.
You recoil at the sudden cry, falling off the bed and getting hopelessly tangled in bedclothes. “What are you doing in my bed?” Octavia continues.
“You asked me to!” you protest, you voice muffled by a wad of blankets over your face. You tear some of the fabric off of you, finding Octavia’s disbelieving gaze.
Octavia mouths wordlessly, staring at you incredulously. “W-what?” she splutters.
“You were . . . a little delusional last night. Also my fault,” you admit.
“What happened?” Octavia demands. Her eyes grow, impossibly, even wider. “Oh, sweet Celestia. You slept . . . in my bed!”
“It’s not like that! We didn’t . . .” You cut yourself off, not happy with your implication of . . . that. Both you and the cellist redden. “Nothing happened, is what I’m trying to say.”
“But how did you get here?” Clearly Octavia wants to steer clear of the subject as well, and that’s fine by you.
You manage to mostly extract yourself from the blankets. “Uh, how much do you remember from last night?” you ask, tugging your last leg out of the mess.
Octavia ponders for a moment. “I was talking to you in that club, then I started to get the most terrible headache. You offered to take me home . . . then it’s all blank from there on out.”
“I teleported us here. It was a bad idea—we were both exhausted, and I didn’t have time to prep completely. When we got here, you were a little . . .” You pause. Traces of your headache from last night is starting to resurface, and is only accentuated by the fact that you’re beginning to feel the strains of magical draining. Octavia isn’t the only scatterbrained pony in the room.
“Discombobulated?” Octavia offers, her rage quickly dissipating. Thankfully.
“Yeah. When I tried to leave, you wouldn’t let me.”
“Okay. And we didn’t . . .” Octavia trails off, looking at you pointedly.
“No,” you confirm firmly. Octavia stares at you for a minute, searching your expression for any hint of untruthfulness. Apparently you pass her inspection, for she sighs and drops her gaze.
“I suppose I can’t blame you for this, but if I’m ever intoxicated out of my mind again, do not do what I tell you. This time it was relatively tame, and I’m grateful for that.” Octavia slides out of bed, miraculously leaving the blankets unruffled, making her side of the bed look like nopony had even slept in it.
You blink slowly. “This time? This has happened before?”
“Don’t ask.”
Octavia has such a comically intense look on her face, that you can’t help snickering, which only accentuates her exaggerated disapprobation. She sticks her lower lip out, glaring at you with fiery death behind her eyes, and at this point, you decide that she’s messing with you. You hold the eye contact, smiling contentedly until Octavia can no longer uphold her mask of antagonism. A crack in her armor appears in the form of a shy grin.
“I’m really sorry, Octavia,” you say sincerely. “This won’t happen again.”
Octavia waves you off. “You’re quite all right. I suppose I should have expected something to go wrong when Vinyl asked us to partake in the night life with her. I’m just sorry that you had to be put in such an awkward situation at my hooves. I made it far more uncomfortable than it had to be.”
“Logically, though, it was my fault that you were in such a state in the first place,” you counter, determined to wipe the cellist clean of all blame.
“It was my idea to accompany Vinyl. You didn’t know what would have happened.”
“I shouldn’t have even tried to teleport us. It was a moment of stupidity on my part.”
“Symphonic Keys!” Octavia snaps with a smile on her face. “Just shut up and let me take some of the animadversion. You cannot deny that we wouldn’t be in this situation if not for my actions.”
You open your mouth to retaliate, but Octavia clicks her tongue sharply, and you wisely clamp your jaw shut again. “Sorry,” you mutter.
Octavia looks down at the mess of blankets you had created on the floor, then at the door to the bathroom. “I am in desperate need of a shower. I don’t think I’ll ever get the smell of that club off of me, but I may as well try. You . . .” Octavia pauses at the doorway. “Make yourself at home, I suppose.”
The tip of her charcoal tail disappears into the bathroom, and the door shuts with a soft click. A moment later, you can hear the ambient sound of running water—in your opinion, one of the most relaxing sonorousness ever to be discovered.
You shake your head to clear your thoughts. The sudden jerking tugs at your mentality, sending an angry, and painful, response to your nervous system. A dull, rhythmic, pounding begins behind your eyes, sending regular pulses of discomfort.
You wince, kneading your face. One of Clusterbuck’s miraculous remedies would come in handy just about now. You make a mental note to demand the recipe from her, trade secret or not. Your horn sparks—miniscule points of white light scatter from your forehead, dissipating before they hit the ground. That’s new.
You look up, barely making out the blurry outline of your grey horn, anticipating more unconscious magical activity. After a moment, though, it becomes clear that the spurt of sparks was a one-time thing.
As you move to leave, your hooves nudge the pile of bedclothes you had dislodged. Your persistent headache dissuades you from using magic to make the bed, but you feel obligated to right the disorder—considering that you had caused the mess in the first place.
And so you engage in a practice that you haven’t participated in since you were a young foal, when you hadn’t yet discovered your magical prowess.
You make the bed by hoof.
And mouth, to be fair. The ends of your forelegs lack the gripping ability that your jaw possesses, and dragging the heavy blankets back onto the bed requires a steady grasp on the layered fabric. It feels strange, you having been using magic for the majority of your lifetime, and you begin to question the sanitariness of the ordeal. But then again, earth ponies have been using this method since the beginning of time, and they seem to be doing just fine as a species.
A bead of sweat pools at your forehead and rolls down the side of your face. The droplet threatens to drop from your chin, but never does. It quivers maddeningly, a tingling that you cannot address at the moment—for your mouth is clamped tightly onto the down comforter, tugging mightily on the cloudlike surface, attempting to put it back into its rightful place. Your center of gravity is low, putting your entire body into the gargantuan effort.
Finally, after much sweat and silent cursing, the comforter is in place. You smile, satisfied with yourself for accomplishing the seemingly simple task. The grin, however, slides off your face faster than it appeared when you see that you still have another blanket—plus several throw pillows—waiting on the floor, mocking your discomfort. Determined to defeat the inanimate objects, you grit your teeth and go to work.
“Symphonic? Do you need any . . . assistance?”
You whirl, the blanket still dangling from your mouth. Octavia stands in the now-open doorway, her mane damp and shiny from her shower. Warm steam and the scent of mint wafts out of the bathroom, accentuating your sweat. “Ohm, Ahktarvia,” you slur unintelligibly, your words muffled by the intruder in your mouth. You hastily spit it out when Octavia titters. “Er, no thanks. I can manage.”
“Are you sure?” Octavia’s mirth at your inability to accomplish even this, again, seemingly simple task, without the aid of your magic.
You look down at the bed. Your efforts had made it marginally better-looking, but not by much. “Uh, maybe not . . . could you . . .”
“Absolutely. How long has it been since you’ve made the bed without magic?”
You start to count the years in your head, but quickly give up. Your mental facilities are far to scattered to accomplish simple math. “Too long,” you settle on.
“I see.” Octavia takes up her position on the other end of the bed and bends over to grasp the corner of the blanket in her mouth. “Tungth,” the cellist intones. Hoping you had interpreted the attempt at communication correctly, you tug at your side of the beddings, at the same time as Octavia. The effort the chore had required is halved with the cellist helping.
In less than a minute, the bed is back into perfect order, just as presentable as it had been last night. Octavia is giggling quietly to herself, she having just noticed your labored breathing. “Are you okay, Symphonic? Do you need a lie-down?”
You draw in a difficult breath. “On this bed?” Gasp. “Are you kidding? That would mean . . .” Gasp. “I would have to . . .” Gasp. “Make it again!”
“The couch?” Octavia suggests, still chortling.
“Rest assured, Octavia.” You take a moment to draw in a lungful of oxygen. “I’m just fine. Winded, is all.”
“From making my bed? That is definitely a first.”
“Fair enough. What now?”
Octavia leads you into her living room. On the white couch, Crescendo the genius kitten perches, licking himself contentedly. Across from him, the chessboard you had played on is placed, it’s pieces once again midgame—undoubtedly another mental game Octavia plays with herself.
“Crescendo,” Octavia croons, leaning over to nuzzle the back of the kitten’s head with her nose. “Where were you last night when this scary stallion tried to rape Mommy?”
“Excuse me?” you ask, mock offended.
Crescendo gazes at you smugly, his pink tongue still hanging over his chin, further mocking you. A faint rumbling emanates from his direction as his purrs. He lets off a quick mew, and for a moment, you consider getting yourself a cat. Why is the creature so irresistibly adorable?
“Do you have any plans today?” wonders Octavia. She puts her hoof up to Crescendo’s face, and he gratefully thrusts his head against it.
“Since I moved to Canterlot, the extent of my plans involve rehearsals, concerts, and the occasional dinner with Vinyl. No, I’m not busy. You?”
“No.” Octavia avoids your eyes, distracting herself with Crescendo. Her body language suggests that she is expecting you to continue the conversation, and all you have to do is correctly interpret her intentions.
“Do you want to . . .” You clear your throat. “Do something?” you finish vaguely.
Octavia meets your gaze, smiling casually, but behind her eyes, excitement shines. “Symphonic, are you suggesting a date?”
“No . . .” Octavia stares pointedly at you. “Well, maybe. Yes,” you admit.
“Very well, then. I accept. What do you have in mind?”
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.
Despite the magnitude of the production being put on in front of you, your mind is focused entirely elsewhere.
The actors onstage fight to command the attention of the audience, and for the most part, they succeed. The ponies around you stare with rapt attention at the retelling of the founding of Equestria. The narrative is almost entirely accurate, if a bit dramatized—much like your life at the moment. You could swear that what your life has been going through is directly out of a bad romance novel.
No, the actors don’t command the focus that they deserve from you. Your attention has firmly settled on the mare seated next to you.
Octavia is surreal in the semidarkness—the only hit of light emanates from her eyes, an amaranthine glow that reflects the winking lights from onstage, forming angular stars on her white orbs. She bears the image of a goddess. More radiant, more elegant, than either the Solar or Lunar Princess.
The narrative of the heavily-costumed ponies on the stage is lost to you—your mind is preoccupied running every possible scenario with Octavia by your subconscious, shooting each one down almost as soon as it is proposed.
Leaning over and kissing her at the finale? No. Walking her home and declaring your undying love for her on her front step? No. Engaging in extremely intimate activity on the spot? Oh Celestia, no. You shake yourself mentally, berating yourself for even harboring those kinds of thoughts. Your . . . relationship . . . with Octavia isn’t like that. Even still, you are hesitant using the word “relationship”. Have you reached the point where you can safely assume that it is the correct lexeme to use?
Reciting heartfelt poetry? Negative. A love song composed at the piano on the spot? I don’t think so.
Your eyes regain focus, but not on the stage. Your gaze affixes on the couple in front of you. Royal Riff’s foreleg is wrapped around Beauty Brass, as it has been for the past twenty minutes.
Putting a foreleg around Octavia’s shoulders? You smile, encertain. That’s doable—positively easy! The logical part of your brain says otherwise, but your more prominent romantic half is egging you on, eager for you to take the next step.
Your eyes dart to the side while you keep your head still. Octavia is not quite as enthralled by the performance as the other patrons are—her eyelids are drooping and her posture has slackened. You try not to let Octavia’s disappointment distract you from the task at hand—it requires enough focus without an added agitation of the mind.
You attempt to reach out and hold her, but your muscles have tensed up, making movement impossible. You mind locking them down as a last-ditch effort to convince you that this is a bad idea. You grit your teeth, exerting more focus than you’re used to towards your left foreleg, trying to get it to move at least an inch; an inch would be a good start—better than nothing. This is a new concept for you: having an argument with your own mind. Come to think of it, you’re surprised that your consciousness hasn’t rebelled on you earlier than this, given your independent sections of thought—one is bound to develop some entitlement at some point. At that point, what would prevent you from making a quick descent into madness?
Your motor functions are still disabled, and you’re fighting a hard battle with your brain to regain control of your body. Your second and third attempts to move fail as well, followed by a fourth and fifth with little more success.
You mentally count to ten, then send a particularly powerful signal for movement down to your numbed limb. The result is a feeble twitch.
You rack the portion of your mind that isn’t rebelling against you. Feeling particularly superstitious, you go through all the numbers that appear lucky to you, carefully selecting one that is bound to give you success. Trivial and unreliable, but your desperation has thrown logic out the window.
You settle on thirteen.
One . . . You begin to count in your mind. Two . . . As you go through the numbers, you feel your once-adamant logic center begin to release its command of your body. Six . . . Seven . . . Your hoof begins to slowly drift upward. Eleven . . . twelve . . . Your limb has reached the peak of its arc, and has started its descent.
Thirteen! Your leg triumphantly flops down over Octavia’s shoulders, causing her to jump. You feel her warmth against your fur, generating a feeling of closeness that you haven’t experienced with the cellist. It’s a pleasing sensation, but you’re not sure how Octavia might react to your . . . forwardness.
The cellist’s eyes widen, all hints of boredom erased from her facial features. She tenses at the sudden movement. Her head quickly turns to the side to locate the source of the disturbance and immediately latches her gaze onto your face, which you had hurriedly arranged into a deceptively casual expression. Out of the corner of your eye—you don’t trust yourself to look Octavia in the face—you make out a slight upward curl of the cellist’s lips.
Octavia presses her body close to yours, melting into your embrace. She nuzzles her nose into your neck and closes her eyes, sending a pleasantly lingering chill down your back. You lower your chin, resting it lightly on the top of her thick, ebony hair. The scent of fresh coffee that you’ve become familiar with wafts up your nose, making you drowsy. You’ve always loved the smell, and to have it in such a close proximity, from such a desirable source, is mesmerizing.
Now that your self-assigned mission has been completed, you’re free to enjoy the performance, as you should have been doing ever since the curtain opened. Contented, you allow your gaze to drift upward to focus on the heavily makeup-caked ponies onstage. And promptly latch your eyes onto one of the cast members who looks more than a little familiar.
You blink, your jaw hanging ajar. “Uh, Octavia?” you whisper.
“Mmm?” the cellist responds, eyes closed.
“Is that . . . Symphony?”
“What?”
“Look.”
Octavia’s head pops off your shoulder, her eyes now wide open and searching the stage.
Dressed in the elaborate, pastry-covered garb of Chancellor Puddinghead, is the unmistakable form of the beige violinist, Symphony, who is deep in dramatic dialogue with the actress for Smart Cookie. Even from afar, you can sense the violinist’s discomfort—a long-imbued dislike for the theater, surfacing at the worst of times. Octavia’s face slowly breaks into a smile, her teeth sparkling like her eyes in the calignosity. “Now, I wonder who convinced her into that costume.” Octavia voices softly.
“Royal Riff, maybe?” You’ve forgotten that the pony in question is sitting directly in front of you, and he turns at the sound of his name.
“Pardon?”
You gesture at the stage. “Symphony?”
“Yes. I was surprised as well. Also, have you spotted your friend yet? I believe she’s filling the role of Princess Platinum.”
“Who?”
“Our new conductor. Lyra, I believe.”
You open your mouth, not sure what is about to come out, but an elderly mare behind you taps your shoulder sharply before you can annunciate anything. “Shh!” she hisses, annoyed at the performance’s interruption.
“Sorry,” you whisper back.
You fall silent, and right as you turn your attention back in front of you, the lights on the stage dim significantly, allowing the stage crew to set up the next scene. The cover of darkness, however, is negated slightly by the glow of unicorns’ horns transporting props on and off the stage.
When the lights relight, it reveals a pair of unicorns in the midst of a fabricated snowy landscape, complete with convincingly-cardboard trees and plastic bushes. As soon as she’s sure that the audience can see her, the mare portraying Princess Platinum begins her remonstrative speech, much to the disdain of her companion, Clover the Clever.
The voice is remarkably similar to a certain turquoise unicorn from Ponyville.
You laugh silently to yourself, as not to disturb the irritable pony behind you. This production’s entertainment value has just been increased tenfold with the addition of Symphony and Lyra. You recline, allowing Octavia to snuggle in close again.
A bright, indestructible blossom of happiness surfaces in your soul, filling your being with joy. Octavia’s form is warm against you, pleasantly soft.
Your adoration towards the cellist might finally be returned.
You once again find yourself in another awkward position—similar to waking up to finding Octavia on the other side of the bed.
The cellist has fallen asleep, nestled in your embrace, her face snugly pressed into your chest. You can barely make out her peaceful face if you look down as far as your eyes would allow, almost rolling them down into your head. Even in sleep, she appears happy; Octavia bears no smile, but a certain contentedness dominates her facial features.
The curtain closes for a final time, after the traditional cantillation of the Heart Carol. Somewhere in the midst, Octavia had slipped from consciousness, becoming a dead weight pressing you down. Even the sheer magnitude of the chorus didn’t rouse her—Octavia is apparently a very deep sleeper. Her heightened sense of hearing appears to have shut down to allow her to get some shuteye.
Ponies begin to mobilize, since their purpose for coming here has come to pass. Their entertainment for the night has ended, now the time has come for them to return to their warm homes. In front of you, Royal Riff and Beauty Brass stand in unison, chatting amiably.
“Riffs,” you whisper urgently. Your low tone is unnecessary; the ponies around you are making enough noise to wake a hibernating dragon. But apparently, not the slumbering cellist.
Royal Riff turns to meet your eyes. A grin breaks across his face when he sees Octavia, so small in sleep, preventing you from getting up. “What seems to be the problem, Symphonic Keys?” he smirks.
“Help,” you breathe desperately.
“Unfortunately, I have no idea what you’re talking about . . .” Royal Riff sports the maddening, unhelpful smile that you have come to know, and loathe. “It appears as though that you have everything under control. What do you need me for?”
“Riffs, c’mon. What do I do?”
“Wait it out, I suppose. She should be awake by morning. But I guarantee, she will be extremely ornery if you interrupt her sleep schedule. Coming here, she has gone far past her normal bedtime, as it is.”
“Thank you for your infinite wisdom and assistance. I appreciate it. But how am I going to wake her up without being brutally murdered?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Good luck to you, Symphonic Keys.”
The violinist makes his exit, towing his date by the foreleg, ignoring the imploring looks chasing after him, leaving you alone with the sleeping tiger. “Well buck you too, Riffs,” you curse under your breath.
“Symphonic, I thought you didn’t blaspheme. I’m disappointed in you.”
But apparently, more crude vocabulary words make it through to her mind just fine. Octavia’s voice sounds from under your chin, the vibrations making your jaw vibrate. “That wasn’t the ideal way to be woken, I must admit.” Octavia rubs her eyes, leaving visible red marks, accentuating her increasingly disheveled appearance.
“Sorry,” you apologize shamefacedly. The cinereal mare pushes off of you, stretching one foreleg above her head and tugging at it with the other. You hear a satisfying pop, and Octavia lowers the limbs, sighing contentedly.
“Why is it that I achieve my deepest sleep in the midst of several hundred noisy Canterlot ponies?” Octavia wonders aloud. “No, I am sorry, for giving you an unnecessary burden to bear.” Ever the gentlecolt, you stand, and help Octavia to her hooves. She accepts gratefully, her motor functions not being fully awakened.
“So . . . shall we?” you suggest.
“We shall,” Octavia agrees.
You join the throng of ponies trying to squeeze out the doors simultaneously with a dozen others—a futile quest, it seems. The most that the grand doors to Canterlot palace can accommodate at a time is eight, as Octavia astutely informs you as you advance nearer. “How do you know that?” you ask.
“My mind is a mass of random trivia. Building specifications are particularly fascinating to me. For instance . . .” Octavia points at the high, vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall. “This hall was not built at the same time as the rest of the castle. It was added a century later, built by a team of one hundred and fifty pegasi. There were two fatalities, caused by a falling eight-ton support beam. That has inspired the rumor that this hall is haunted by the ghosts of the builders.”
“Is that so?”
“Do you care, or are you just saying that to spare my feelings?”
“No, honestly,” you assure Octavia, who is smiling knowingly at you. “Color me interested in anything about Canterlot, or just history in general.”
Octavia falls silent. You push your way past a trio of unicorns who are moving a little too slowly for your taste, keeping a firm grip on Octavia’s foreleg to keep track of her. Celestia knows, you’d never be able to locate her in this throng. “Thank you, Symphonic,” Octavia says suddenly.
You look back at the cellist. She is smiling genuinely, overwhelmingly joyful for some unfathomable reason. “For what?”
“For caring,” Octavia answers simply. And leaving you to ponder what she could possibly be inferring, she takes the lead, pulling you along now.
With Octavia steering you, you emerge out into the cold, among a hundred other ponies going their separate ways. She pulls you off to the side, away from the flow of hoof traffic. “Symphonic?”
“Yes?”
“Can we not go home?”
You do a double take. “What do you mean?”
“Can we go to the concert hall?” Octavia looks at you expectantly, not a trace of embarrassment in her voice.
You decide not to question the strange request, because for some reason, you were thinking the exact same thing. “Absolutely. I was thinking of that, myself.”
“But no teleporting,” both you and Octavia say in unison. There is a moment of silence where you stare incredulously at each other, then simultaneously burst out laughing. Your mirth carries on for longer than it logically should, and your mind struggles to find an explanation for it. Your analytical nerve center settles on a mixture of exhaustion and sheer, utter joy brought about by being with this mystical, musical deity.
“But seriously, though.” Octavia pulls herself together to gaze at you seriously. “We’re walking, no matter how cold it is.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else,” you assure her.
“Then shall we?” Octavia smirks, echoing your earlier statement.
“We shall.”
****
“Symphonic?”
“Yes?”
“When we were talking earlier, you mentioned my family. I shrank away from your prompt, changing the conversation in the opposite direction. But now . . .” Octavia trails off.
You move closer to Octavia, not for warmth, but for assurance. “Octavia, you don’t need to tell me. I can gather that it’s an uncomfortable subject, and I really don’t want to bring back something as sensitive as that.” Once again, you find yourself wandering the dark streets of Canterlot, checking every corner for the possibility of thugs and ruffians. But this time, you feel protected, not only by the forcefield of warm air you’d conjured, but by the presence of Octavia.
“No, I want to tell you. I want to tell at least somepony before I die. I think you should be the one.”
“You’ve never told anypony? Not even Vinyl?
“No, not Vinyl. Now, you understand that I love her unconditionally, but she really wouldn’t understand what I’m trying to say. She’s always had an understanding family . . . one that could actually function as a family,” Octavia adds sadly.
“Octavia . . .”
“No buts. I will tell you this story, and you will not interrupt or protest that you don’t want to hear it. I’m deadly serious, Symphonic. It’s been eating away at me for most of my life, and I need to get it off my chest.”
You take a deep breath. “Okay. Hit me with your best shot.”
Octavia’s eyes grow distant as she travels back into the past. “Well . . .”
****
“I was raised in Las Pegasus. My mother was a concert violist and my father was a casino manager. Their relationship could have been better . . .”
A young Octavia cowered in her room, adorned with depictions of modern art, some of which she had drawn herself. Tears sparkled in her eyes—it was that time of day again. The time when Daddy got home.
The furious screaming could be heard from her top floor bedroom, even with the door closed and a blanket pressed against the crack. The shrill soprano of Octavia’s mother rang out surprisingly clearly, but not distinguished enough to make out words. The mare’s shrieks were punctuated by angry bellows from a larger stallion: Octavia’s father.
After a particularly loud scream, Octavia heard the sound of a heavy blow and a sharp cry of pain, and she winced, the tears that had been long since threatening to make an appearance now rolling down her cheeks. “Stop it, please,” she whispered to herself.
The sound of the front door slamming, and Octavia’s father was gone. He probably wasn’t going to be home for the rest of the weekend. After the serious fights with Mommy, he would leave the house for days at a time, sometimes weeks. Octavia never knew where he went, but all she knew was that he came back even angrier than he was when he left.
Hoofsteps sounded on the creaky wooden stairs leading to the second floor, and Octavia hastily jumped off of her bed and launched herself into her desk chair. She furiously swiped at her eyes, hiding the tears before her mother entered the room. She quickly grasped the pencil out of the tin can that held her writing utensils and pointed it at the clearly-unfinished homework assignment that she was supposed to have been working on.
Octavia’s door creaked open, pushing the stars and moon patterned blanket out of the way. Mommy stood in the doorway, the sad weariness clearly visible in her eyes, even for the young filly. A pink welt shined against her pale yellow face. “Hello, Octavia,” she murmured, not having the energy to bring her voice up any higher. “How was school?”
“It was . . . good,” the filly responded, spitting out the pencil to speak with her mother.
“Did you make any new friends?”
Octavia’s eyes fell. “No . . .”
“Did you play with Symphony again?”
“No, she wasn’t at school today.”
“Then what did you do during recess?”
Octavia pointed at a short, paperback novel sitting on top of her school bag. “I read my book,” the filly answers simply, not wanting to further explain her antisocial attitude.
“I see.” Octavia’s mother regarded her daughter sadly. The sadness was a given expression now—it was almost consistently present on the mare’s face. The only relief she got in her day was playing her viola for the customers at Daddy’s casino in the Very Important Pony section. And even that wasn’t guaranteed to bring her happiness. Octavia’s mother was a proud one, but also a worried one; she wanted the best for her daughter, but considered her shyness as a hindrance.
“I was a very introverted filly at school. The others thought of me as a shut-in, and to be fair, there was some merit in that theory”
Octavia turned in her newly-completed homework assignment to her smiling teacher—a teacher that the filly knew full-well was consistently sneaking out behind the school during recess to have a strong drink or two. Octavia returned the sentiment, but hollowly.
The filly took her seat at her small desk at the very back of the room. It was far away from the rest of the students, but she liked it that way. In fact, Octavia had specifically requested the spot. It was a good distance away from the staring from her fellow classmates; a space where she could get her work done undisturbed.
Even still, the larger-than-average white colt in front of her still threw back dirty looks on a regular basis. Octavia’s mother had said that he was jealous, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. Octavia was much more scared of him than she cared to admit. When picked on her, she stared ahead, silently begging him to leave her alone. Eventually, he would grow bored and turn around again, leaving the filly behind him fighting back tears and wishing nothing more than to return back home to her library.
The lessons and lectures had started to blend together for the filly very early in the school year—whatever the teacher could throw at her, Octavia could have easily recited in her sleep. It was the result of too much time alone, with a library full of dusty tomes that everypony had forgotten about years ago. Octavia had become good friends with the librarian—a mare as dusty as the books named Clusterbuck—and the small institution had become her second home.
“As I reached my teenage years, I started to seriously consider making a change in my life. But then Mom . . .”
Octavia wept openly at the side of her mother’s sickbed, begging the pale mare to stay with her.
The mare’s eyes had closed ten minutes ago, and her breath had become almost nonexistent. There was still a slight rise and fall of her chest under the thin bedclothes, and Octavia used that as a motivation that her mother could still yet make it through the illness. The convalescence was something that the doctors had never seen before—something that only existed in legends, and hadn’t even been named. No need, since it’ll never come back, they had said.
“Octavia . . .” A faint whisper from Octavia’s mother. So slight that her daughter had to strain to hear it. “I want you to know . . .” A weak cough. Then two.
“Mommy, please stay here . . .” Octavia whispered back. The desperation of the situation had caused her to revert back to her fillyhood, calling her mother “Mommy”.
A bare twitch of the mare’s lips became a smile in Octavia’s mind. “Octavia, I . . . I love you. So much. I’m sorry.”
“I love you too, Mommy.” Octavia had accepted the inevitable, but still wanted to hold on to hope, for her mother’s sake. “Can we go home now?”
“No . . . I’m sorry. I love you,” the sick mare repeated. “Tell your father that I . . .”
The dialogue was cut off, the mare dragging out the last word but unable to continue to the next. The unfinished sentence that Octavia would never hear the end of. With her final sentiment, Octavia’s mother’s breath stopped. For good this time.
Octavia shrieked in pain and anguish. So loud, that doctors and nurses by the dozen came rushing into the room. One scooped the filly up and carried her out of the vicinity of her mother’s body; she screamed the entire way down the hall, and through several more.
She had just lost her mother. Nothing mattered anymore.
“After that, I took whatever money my mother had left me and left home. I hadn’t seen my father since Mom was diagnosed, and I didn’t plan to ever again. I went to the only place I could think of.”
Trottingham College of Music.
Octavia walked alone across the campus, dragging the tiny suitcase containing the few possessions she owned, along with her cello. Despite the college students milling about, chatting or wandering aimlessly, the cellist had never felt so alone.
Following the directions the friendly mare at the gate had given her, Octavia made her way to the dormitories, where she was supposed to meet her new roommate. The mare had been familiar with the pony in question; she had said that her name was Vinyl Scratch, and they would get along just fine. Octavia had misgivings, even from the mystery mare’s name. Scratch.
Upon reaching the correct door, Octavia took a deep breath and knocked.
“Come in!” cried a voice from inside. Octavia complied, pushing open the door to find the most disorganized, chaotic living space that she had ever seen.
The floor was more wires than carpet, leading to various machines whose function were lost on Octavia. Some appeared to be speakers, but most were completely alien to her. A couple of familiar objects, resting in a corner, were a blood-red electric guitar and a black digital cello—an abomination in Octavia’s eyes.
Sprawled on a couch which had most likely been shoved out of its original space to accommodate more wires and mess, is a white unicorn with a wild, electric blue mane and heliotrope reflective shades. Reading a magazine. A saucy one by the position of the mare on the front page. Octavia reddened.
“So, you’re the roommate,” the unicorn drawled, in a voice that Octavia was absolutely certain that would get aggravating very quickly. “Name’s Vinyl Scratch. Or DJ-Pon3, if you like that better. Either’s fine by me.”
Octavia surveyed the room once more. She set down her cello in one of the few free spaces available. “My name is Octavia. And what in Celestia’s name have you done to these living quarters?”
“And the rest is history,” Octavia finishes.
You have reached the concert hall, your arrival perfectly coinciding with the conclusion of Octavia’s life story. The abridged version, but touching nonetheless. “Wow . . . Octavia,” you mutter, in awe.
“Don’t start feeling sorry for me, now. I didn’t tell you the story so you could get all sentimental and never look at me the same way again. Symphonic, please . . .” The cellist has pleading in her eyes. Imploring you to heed her. “I just needed someone to understand.”
You open one of the glass doors, which is unlocked for some reason, and let Octavia pass. “Believe me, I understand. I can’t relate, but I can at least see where you’re coming from.”
“Thank you.” Octavia seems to be on the verge of tears, and that pushes you to the brink.
Only a select few lights in the foyer are still illuminated—throwing the glass centerpiece in the hall into a ghostly light. Even with very little light to see by, you’ve walked these floors dozens of times, and finding the auditorium door is effortless. Pushing open the heavy doors, you notice that on the stage, somepony had forgotten to turn a spotlight off; it leaves a yellow circle around the instrument that you had come to love.
The piano. And next to it, propped against the bench, is Octavia’s cello.
“How did that get here?” Octavia asks.
“I have no idea. It was back at your apartment this morning. Unless I inadvertently teleported it here some time during the day, I’m not sure.”
Octavia surges ahead of you, her pace quickened to reach the stage before you. Not sure if she’s racing you or not, you match her stride, running alongside her. When her speed increases, you know that she is indeed feeling a bit competitive. You pull forward, close enough that the tip of her tail is whipping you across the nose.
Octavia wins the race, mostly because you are back behind, trying to swipe the long black hairs away from your face. The cellist breathes heavily, beaming from ear to ear. “That was . . . exhilarating.”
“Let’s do it again,” you suggest jokingly.
“Maybe later, Symphonic.” Octavia winks at you. Did Octavia just wink? You’re left to ponder the question, because Octavia has mounted the stage and picked up her cello, complete with her trusty bow.
You follow, watching as Octavia tunes her instrument to the utmost perfection. As you draw nearer, you pull the bench out from under the piano with magic and take a seat. Then, to your surprise, Octavia sits down next to you, her bow still in position to play. The closeness of the cellist is stifling; you can barely draw breath, even after all this time.
Before you can even contemplate what to play, Octavia leans over and kisses you on the cheek. “Symphonic?”
“Octavia?”
“I love you.”
Those three words. Those three, simple words that you have been unknowingly fantasizing about ever since the moment you had laid eyes on the cinereal cellist. The words that you have been forming in your mind, hoping in vain that they would be eventually directed in your favor.
You move in and kiss Octavia back. A lingering kiss that held more meaning to you than anything else had ever hoped to hold a candle to.
“I love you too.”
And your music begins. It carries on through the night, and forever onward, a joyful strain that cannot be interrupted by any worldly force. Your keyboard is the most beautiful that Equestria has ever heard. You have motivation for it to be as such . . .
Octavia twirls her bow unconsciously, rotating it methodically, mechanically. It’s a nervous habit that she’s done for as long as you’ve known her, and probably before, and it’s one of the little things that she does that you find simply irresistible. Taking advantage of her distraction, you sneak up behind her and quickly plant a kiss on her cheek, earning yourself a playful jab in the ribs. You’re surprised that you got that close to the cellist without her hearing you, but then again, you have been working on finding ways around her extremely sensitive ears. “Hey!” you say indignantly.
“Hey, yourself, Keys. That was unwarranted.” Octavia takes a false swing at your head with her bow, and yet you flinch anyway, causing Octavia to laugh softly. You suck up your loss and nuzzle your head against hers, and this time, she doesn’t shy away.
“How are you feeling?” you inquire, speaking into her thick mane.
“I’m fine.” But Octavia doesn’t meet your eyes.
“If Symphony were here, she’d be on your case for that.” It had become a running joke among those in the orchestra that Symphony hated the word “fine”, and therefore they all made a special effort to use it around her. Foalish, perhaps, but the musicians needed a little outlet from their stressful lives.
“In all seriousness though . . .” Octavia starts.
“Why do you have to start it that way? It only makes this seem all the more intense.”
Octavia shoves you away from her. “Then what would you have me say?” she challenges.
“Just say what you’re thinking. There’s no need to make a big production of it.”
“But I enjoy using long sentences,” the cellist protests, pouting adorably.
“Believe me, I do too. But how are you doing?”
“I’m . . . phantasmagorical.”
“You’re cute when you use long words.”
Octavia punches your foreleg, a gesture that she likely picked up from Vinyl Scratch. Despite her tame outer appearance, her blows pack a considerable amount of pain, and it takes all the willpower you possess not to cringe. “Do you have any idea what I just said?” she says exasperatedly.
“Phantasmagorical. Excellent. Phenomenal. Particularly romantic. I’ve been brushing up on my vocabulary since I’m going to be around you and your fancy expressions more.”
Royal Riff presents himself from seemingly out of nowhere, suddenly at your shoulders. Apparently he’s been taking lessons in sudden appearances from Vinyl as well. “How are you two faring?”
“Funny you should ask . . .” you mutter.
“We’re doing just fine, Royal Riff.” Octavia gives one of the tuning pegs on her cello a miniscule twist, making an imperceptible change in tune. She avoids your eyes, which you’ve noticed that she tends to do when you aren’t alone. Your proposition is that she still isn’t comfortable coming out and admitting that she is going out with the pianist, and you have to tease her for it.
“Nervous?” Royal Riff asks. He slides a hoof across the keyboard as he passes, creating an ascending flurry of music with no discernible melody. Despite the lack of professionalism, the sound of a swept keyboard has always been one of your favorite sounds to coax out of a piano.
“Yes,” you reply honestly, at the same time as Octavia says “No”.
“Why so, Symphonic Keys?” Royal Riff smirks. “What makes this particular event so stressful? It bears nowhere near the magnitude of a concert—this is a much smaller scale.”
“I don’t know, Riffs.” You examine the interior workings of the piano. Not that you detect any imperfections, but you need to give your eyes something productive to do. “Something about it just makes me a little uneasy.”
“It is not as though you’re performing for an overly-critical audience. Let me see . . .” Royal Riff sticks his head into the piano as well. “Your listeners compose of Vinyl, Symphony . . .” The violinist taps the sound board once for every name. “Lyra, Noteworthy, Beauty, and myself.”
You had set up a makeshift stage in the back corner of a secluded café that Octavia has always been a regular patron for. And ever since you’d openly admitted to be going out with her, you’ve found yourself enjoying a coffee or pastry here more and more often. Something about the quiet, serene atmosphere gives the shop a homely feeling, making the time that you spend with Octavia at a table for two the highlight of your day.
Octavia finishes her tuning. She taps the strings briskly with her bow, setting an upbeat rhythm. The beat is brisk, feverish even. Despite her assurances that she’s doing just fine, her body language suggests inner tension. “Since when has Beauty Brass been ‘Beauty’?”
“Does that mean that you’re ready to admit your open adoration for the tuba player?” you add, withdrawing your head from the piano and sitting down at the bench. Your horn gains possession of the instrument and you pump out a quick flurry of fluttering notes.
Royal Riff’s head pops out of the instrument’s inner workings, cringing at the sudden noise. His ears flatten against his head in an involuntary attempt to protect his eardrums. “Thank you for that, Keys,” he says through gritted teeth. “As for Beauty . . . yes, I am extremely enamored by her. Does that make you happy?”
“Exorbitantly.”
A faint tinkling sounds from across the café; the bell affixed on the door is disturbed, and it sends out its distress call. The wooden door swings open, and Lyra and Noteworthy enter the establishment, the stallion with his foreleg around the lyrist-turned-conductor. They appear to be deep in conversation. A change that you’ve noticed in Noteworthy since he’s started seeing Lyra is that he’s been much more talkative, as opposed to his naturally quiet self, back in Ponyville.
“Hello, Symphonic! Octavia!” Lyra calls cheerily. “What have you got planned for us?” The turquoise unicorn pulls you into a friendly hug.
Royal Riff blinks. “Am I invisible?” He holds a hoof up to his face and waves vigorously as if to check if he is actually impercievable.
“And you, Riffs!” Noteworthy extricates himself from his partner to trot over to the violinist and playfully slug him on the shoulder. Royal Riff winces, not accustomed to the more casual greetings that some of the more . . . informal . . . ponies utilize. “What’s up, bro?”
“Nothing . . . much . . .” Royal Riff answers hesitantly. Because of the influx of casually-speaking ponies, he had recently taken it upon himself to master the slang that would be expected in Ponyville, or one of Vinyl’s clubs. His attempts have proven futile, though; his speech still verges on cavalier. He turns to you expectantly. “Am I doing this right?”
“You’ll get there.” The violinist hasn’t yet gotten the hang of transitioning between styles of speech as you have. You are practically two different ponies, depending on who you’re talking to. Possibly even three.
Behind the couple, the door crashes open again. Vinyl seems intent upon practically kicking it down. The DJ stands in the doorway, triumphantly backlit with her wild mane thrown into a frenzy by the rush of outside air. “Vinyl Scratch, everypony, is in the house!”
Royal Riff kneads his eyes. “I feel as though I’ve just released a manticore in a china shop.”
“Perhaps,” admits Octavia. “Let’s just hope that she can remain sufficiently occupied so that she doesn’t start destroying the place, shall we?”
“Hey, Tavi. Keys . . . Riffs,” the DJ adds as an afterthought. “What’s up, all?”
“Hello, Vinyl.”
“So, how late am I?” Vinyl wonders.
“Right on time, actually.” You check your watch, which you had finally gotten around to purchasing, with Octavia’s comprehensive input on which model you should buy. “We’re only waiting on Symphony and Beauty Brass.”
“Now that’s just not cool,” Vinyl laments. “As DJ-Pon3, it is Rule Number One in my books to always show up fashionably late, no matter the event. I’m afraid that I’ll have to come back later. See you!”
Before the DJ could make her exit, Octavia snags her tail between her teeth, bringing Vinyl’s retreat to an abrupt halt. “Sit down, Vinyl,” the cellist spits around the mess of cobalt hairs in her mouth. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“What’s going on here?” inquires Symphony, who had just appeared in the doorway, which was still open from Vinyl’s dramatic entrance, accompanied by an intimidated-looking Beauty Brass.
“Aggressive negotiations,” you reply simply, watching in amusement as Octavia spits out the tail and frantically begins to swipe hairs off of her tongue.
“I see.”
Royal Riff stiffens next to you at the sight of Beauty Brass, and you nudge him, smirking. The violinist shoots you an annoyed look, but doesn’t say anything. “Shall we?” you suggest.
“We shall.” Octavia smiles as she finishes the diction. The phrase had become a trademark between you two, and you make an effort to utilize it whenever the situation called for it.
Feeling no need to issue any instructions for the assembled ponies, you simply turn your attention back to the piano. Never having let it go, the keyboard still glows with the silvery light from your magical reserves. Octavia positions her cello, her bow poised once again. “Any requests?” you offer.
Lyra perks up. “I’ve been working on a piece for the orchestra, but it’s still in the concept phase. Otherwise I’d love to hear it live.”
The question that had been resting contentedly in the back of your mind, that you hadn’t gotten the chance to ask, surfaces. “So how are you liking the conducting situation?”
The former lyrist beams. “It’s wonderful. It’s been so great working with all of them . . . and you.” She gestures at the assembled orchestra members. “It’s been a lot more hoofs-on than I expected, but all the better!” she finishes cheerfully.
Noteworthy places his hoof back around Lyra’s neck. “Speaking of conductors, what happened to the old one? Lyrica? Has she been banished to the moon yet?”
“From what I know, she’s still in the Canterlot Caverns. Probably never to be heard from again,” supplies Symphony. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up about lunar banishment.”
“I’ve got a suggestion!” announces Vinyl, bringing everypony back to the present.
“Yes?” Octavia prompts. In response, the DJ mounts the stage and leans in to whisper in the cellist’s ear. Octavia’s eyes widen and her face breaks into a gleeful grin. “We could do that . . .” As you look at her questioningly, she waves you off. “But we’re going to need a little vocal help. Riffs?”
“What?” yelps Royal Riff, alarmed.
“Could you please sing for us?”
“No,” the violinist says irresolutely.
“Please, Royal? Would you do that?” Beauty Brass snuggles up to her partner, widening her eyes and sticking her lip out in a slight pout. The look paints Royal Riff into a corner—his willpower crumbles at the thought of impressing the mare in his embrace, coupled with the undeniably persuasive look she aims in his direction. The inner turmoil shows on his face as the battle between his logical outer shell and romantic core rages.
“Fine.”
Vinyl whistles impressively. “That was way too easy.”
Royal Riff advances on the stage. “What exactly will I be singing?”
“Yes . . . what will he be singing?” you ask. “Since, you know, I have to play what he’s singing.”
“The only thing that we know Royal Riff knows how to sing, of course. The one that he did during The Lunar Princess’s karaoke night.” Octavia looks down at the violinist, confidently sporting a knowing smile.
Royal Riff’s face goes from its regular grey to a bright tone of pink. “You were there?” he squeaks unbecomingly.
“Ah, yes!” you recall triumphantly. “An excellent decision, Vinyl. Riffs, would you kindly take your position?” A wide grin breaks across your face—this is going to be extremely entertaining. The glow bathed across the pearly white keys intensifies as you turn your attention back to it.
“Uh, Symphonic?” Octavia questions. You look, to find that her cello has been enveloped in a cloud of grey light to match the one around the keyboard. The instrument slowly drifts out of her grasp, hovering near the ceiling. The cello begins to fade, becoming more and more transparent as the seconds pass. “Would you kindly give my instrument back?”
Now that your consciousness has realized that you had taken control of the cello, the ascent is stopped abruptly. The instrument becomes solid once more, the edges being fleshed out with the auburn wood. “Sorry. It seems like my mind has some sort of symbiotic relationship with your cello.”
“As in the time when you stole it from my apartment and teleported it to the concert hall?”
“Yeah.” Ever since that instance, your mind has developed an attraction toward Octavia’s instrument—when your focus slips, a magical field tends to reach out for the cello, and if you don’t catch yourself in time, your magic tosses it around whatever room you happen to be in. Not always gently.
Royal Riff clears his throat. He taps the vintage microphone that had been placed in front of him by Noteworthy, sending out a spurt of interference. “I don’t mean to hurry you, but can we get started?”
“By all means, Riffs.”
Your audience had made themselves comfortable, seating themselves around the various tables scattered around the café. Noteworthy and Lyra were intertwined in a single seat, and you notice that Lyra had made an effort to sit normally. Symphony and Beauty Brass sat across from each other at the table closest to your improvised stage. The tuba player wears a look of dreamy admiration, aimed at the nervous-looking Royal Riff.
Vinyl is in the midst of ordering breakfast from the café’s sole waitress. The DJ has the menu pressed up against her face, her back legs crossed on top of her table. The waitress gazes at her disdainfully, but doesn’t make a complaint.
Ignoring Vinyl, Royal Riff looks to you for the okay, and you nod. You play a short intro, followed by the introduction of Octavia’s part. The cue is hit, and Royal Riff leans into the microphone and begins to sing.
You have perfect confidence—if the violinist hadn’t won Beauty Brass over before, he certainly has now.
****
Canterlot has always been a peaceful city.
Despite being the nation’s capital, inhabited by thousands of ponies, there has always been a sense of security among its inhabitants. Many knew each other by name, and were friendly on the streets, if in a rather uppity manner.
Canterlot had never seen warfare. Even the legendary conflict between Princess Celestia and Nightmare Moon was contained mostly in the Everfree Forrest. So the Canterlot ponies were not accustomed to the concept of military conflict. Despite the heavy force of royal guards that patrolled the streets regularly, the citizens have never seen reason to fear.
So when the blast of the cannon rang out across the city, there was much confusion, then panic. The echo of the fantastic sound rang for a full minute. A minute in which the ponies huddled together under their wide-brimmed flowery hats and parasols.
Shortly after the cannonade, a faint cry could be barely made out from the palace.
Octavia gently placed an opaque red orb on a low-hanging branch of the small, evergreen tree that rested in the corner of the room. She daintily unhooked her teeth from the hook, not relishing the metal-tasting residue it left in her mouth. Her tongue was now heavily coated in the metallic sensation, but she resisted the urge to go into the kitchen to get a glass of water to wash her mouth out with. Instead, she bent down once more, rooting around in the cardboard box at her hooves for another ornament.
From the room over, Octavia heard the sound of a soft piano melody, played by an obvious expert. The music wafted through the open door, emanating the entire home with a feeling of serenity and contentedness. Octavia allowed her eyes to close, the ornament in her mouth falling slack.
Symphonic Keys’s strain reached a crescendo, the notes fluttering higher and higher on the keyboard. The lead part then faltered, a few low chords sounded, balancing the triumphant overtone nicely. In a moment of rest, Octavia heard the pianist draw a deep breath, and then the melody continued.
Sighing in peaceful joy, Octavia resumed her task, hanging the multicolored, prismatic spheres on all the branches she could reach; she would have had to leave the higher ones for Symphonic, and his magic. However, she wouldn’t imagine interrupting his recital, his absolute focus, for such a mundane task—if her companion could do it, she might as well try. Looking around, Octavia spotted a stepladder that she had set out for just this purpose. Smiling, she positioned it in front of the tree and clambered on top of it, clasping a blue ornament in her teeth.
Across the room, lying lazily on the couch, the no-longer-kitten Crescendo looked up blearily. His spotted coat was immaculate—Octavia had insisted that he would be taken to be groomed. The feline hadn’t been overly keen on the prospect of some unknown pony prodding and brushing him for about an hour, but the end result was clearly worth the uncertainties; Crescendo looked like a lion, proudly regarding his territory. Upon seeing Octavia perched much higher than she normally would be, he mewed, wondering the cause for such a change in perspective.
Gently, carefully, Octavia placed the ornament on one of the thinner branches. Mentally, she heaved a sigh of relief—she was afraid that she would overbalance and send herself into the prickly arms of the tree. Smiling to herself, she turned to dismount the stepladder.
Octavia’s triumph was short-lived, however. When she turned, her back legs inadvertently tangled with each other, sending her reeling backward. Time slowed down as she looked behind her, watching the green needles advance on her in a multiheaded host. She closed her eyes, and at the same time opening her mouth in a silent scream. She waited for impact, tensing her muscles to brace for the pain that was sure to follow.
Impact never happened.
Octavia hesitantly opened her eyes. Not two inches away from her nose, a particularly long branch threatened to shove itself up her nostril. She went cross-eyed, focusing on the protruding object.
A grey blanket of warm, pleasingly-scented magic had enveloped her body, bringing her to a halt in midair.
Symphonic Keys stood in the doorway, giggling to himself. Crescendo stood on his back, bristling in surprise. The unicorn’s horn was glowing softly. Sheepishly, Octavia smiled back at him.
“Think you could get the high ones by yourself?” Symphonic intoned. The layer of grey around his horn pulsed, and the forcefield that had caught Octavia slowly lowered to the ground, allowing her to step out of it.
“Perhaps,” Octavia replied. “I didn’t want to disturb your reverie, so I took the task upon myself.”
“You couldn’t have waited for another minute?”
“Apparently not. Thank you, by the way, for saving me from that prickly fate. I am once again indebted to you.”
“I should start cashing these favors in. They’re starting to mount up.” Symphonic winked, a habit that he had just recently picked up. At first, Octavia had been annoyed to no end by the gesture, but she now accepted it as just another one of her husband’s strange quirks.
“Keep it tame, Keys.”
“I wouldn’t dare try anything otherwise.”
“The consequences would be severe.”
“I do not doubt that in the slightest.” Symphonic’s magic moved from the body of the cellist to the box of ornaments. From it, he withdrew half a dozen orbs. Magicking them carefully, he placed the remaining spheres on the higher branches.
“I wonder,” Octavia mused. “Why didn’t I enlist you to do this task from the start? It would have saved me an unfathomable amount of manual labor.”
Symphonic collapsed on the couch, Crescendo hopping daintily off his back and curling up by his side. The cat nuzzled the stallion’s neck, purring steadily. “Well, Octavia. I consider this a bit of a character-building experience.”
“Don’t you lecture me on the nature of my character.” Octavia lowered herself onto the couch next to him, careful not to sit on Crescendo. She pressed the side of her head against Symphonic’s.
“Or lack thereof,” Symphonic added, smiling to let her know that he was only messing around. He could never be too careful around Octavia; his sarcasm had led him into many a sticky situation when the fiery cellist was involved.
“You’re a downright comedian.”
“Thanks. I try.”
Across the house, the doorbell rang. Crescendo immediately leaped to his feet, darting in a feline blur out of the room and down the hall. Neither ponies made a move to get up to answer the door—the cat would take care of it for them.
“Vinyl?” Symphonic wondered.
“Most likely.”
“Heyo, Crescendo!” shouted a new voice. The exclamation was followed by a sharp meow from Crescendo, as if he had just been squeezed like a ragdoll. The voice belonged to the eccentric DJ, Vinyl Scratch.
“Come in, Vinyl,” Octavia called. “We’re in the sitting room.”
Vinyl Scratch appeared in the doorway, Crescendo following a safe distance behind. He eyed the DJ reproachfully. Vinyl’s horn was aglow, levitating a glass dish along above her head. Her trademark glasses reflected the firelight, throwing a ghostly glow across her grinning face. “Whassup, my main digs?”
“Hey, Vinyl,” Symphonic said, standing. “What’s that?” he inquired, gesturing to the hovering dish.
“You wanted pie, right? Well, I delivered!”
“All by yourself?” Octavia smirked knowingly.
“Nah. You know I can’t bake worth anything. Neon Lights came over and we tag-teamed on it. Among other things,” Vinyl added suggestively. She may have winked—her head jerked slightly to the side—but the shades made it impossible to tell.
Octavia moved closer to Vinyl, squinting. “You’ve got something at the corner of your mouth.” She mimed the gesture on her own face to convey her meaning.
Vinyl mimicked her, wiping away something white and sticky. She held it close to her face, examining it. Cautiously, she poked her tongue out to taste test the substance. Octavia recoiled, gasping reproachfully and reddening.
“Vinyl Scratch! Is that . . .” Octavia left the sentence hanging, not willing to finish her thought.
Vinyl looked up, regarding the cellist exasperatedly. “This is whipped cream, you idiot.” Her tongue darted out to snag the rest of the morsel and extract it into her mouth. “Get yo’ mind out of the gutter, darlin’.”
Symphonic laughed jovially, infectiously. Vinyl joined in, adding her prominent, booming chuckle to the strain. Even Octavia, the still-pink humiliated party, cracked a grin at her own expense.
“So!” Vinyl said, clapping two hooves together. “Who else are we waiting on?”
“Lyra and Notes are the only others,” Symphonic replied. “Riffs and Beauty couldn’t make the trip from Canterlot, and Symphony missed her train.”
Vinyl, neglecting to ask for an invitation, plopped down on the second couch, across from the snuggling couple. Crescendo retook his position at Symphonic’s side, never taking his eyes off of Vinyl. “I tell you, mate. It’s different, now that you’ve moved back to Ponyville. I mean, I can’t just come on over whenever it tickles my fancy. You guys are a little too unreachable for my liking.”
“Ever considered relocating yourself here as well, Vinyl?” Octavia asked.
“Nah, man. I’m a city girl through and through. I don’t go for the homey rural town folk, ya dig? I’m happy for you, an all, but I can’t be expected to make that kind of commitment.”
The doorbell rang again. Twice in quick succession, followed by a brief pause, than another chime. Symphonic looked down at Crescendo. “You want to get that, buddy?” Unsurprisingly, the cat didn’t respond—he stood, stretching widely, luxuriously, then dropped lightly to the floor and broke into a sprint.
Seconds later, the muffled voices of Noteworthy and Lyra Heartstrings could be heard from the entrance, speaking in the crooning, singsong tone that was generally used around foals and animals.
“Come in!” Octavia repeated her greeting for the couple.
Lyra poked her turquoise head around the door, grinning from ear to ear. “Surprise!” Noteworthy, the massive blue stallion, followed, bearing a tray of delicate desserts on his back. He smiled weakly, burdened under his load.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” Symphonic said, gesturing around himself widely. “Now that we’re all here, we might as well get started.”
Hours later, after everypony had eaten their fill, drunk enough eggnog to kill a small animal, and sang loud enough to rupture a lung or two, they gathered around the fire, watching the flickering light throw writhing convolutions on the walls and floor. A contented silence had fallen, a welcome change from the festivity that had since been occurring.
Vinyl, for what seemed like the first time in her life, had removed her violet glasses. Underneath, her irises shone magenta in the firelight, unmoving, fixed on the blaze. Across from her, entwined in the same chair, Lyra and Noteworthy both had closed eyes and steady breath. They weren’t asleep—their muscles weren’t relaxed enough to imitate slumber, as perceived by Octavia.
Octavia was enveloped in Symphonic Keys’s embrace, nuzzling herself as close as she possibly could. The stallion smelled of wood smoke and pine, and Octavia made an effort to absorb as much of the scent as she could.
Symphonic’s voice broke the silence, a quiet line of song:
“The fire of friendship lives in our hearts . . .”
Octavia joined in, adding her own melodious voice to the song. “As long as it burns we cannot drift apart.”
“Though quarrels arise, their numbers are few,” sang Lyra quietly.
“Laughter and singing will see us through,” added Noteworthy.
“We are a circle of pony friends,” Vinyl contributed, perking up.
“A circle of friends we'll be to the very end.” The last line was in harmony—five voices united in the words of the Heart Carol.
