The Cellist of Saraneighvo
She awoke to the sounds of cannon fire rumbling like thunder in the distance. It had become the sad tradition for mornings in Saraneighvo since the war had begun. It would only be moments before the retaliatory barrage hit. If they were lucky, the shells would impact outside of town.
They were rarely lucky.
She felt the telltale tremor run through her, yet she never heard the blast. Weights seemed to pull down at the corners of her mouth. Her home, near what had been the city’s once-thriving center, was perfectly situated to hear every blast from the shells that were sent into Saraneighvo. If it was close enough, the deafening explosion would send her reeling shortly before the ensuing debris would fall upon her home like the summer rains. She preferred when they struck towards the outskirts of town.
She couldn’t hear the screams then.
Rising from her bed, she stifled a yawn with a hoof. Moving to the window, she looked to the east. The sun was hidden behind a veil of grey clouds, plumes of smoke, thick and black, poured into the sky, as if to choke the life out of the city. When had it been that she last saw the sun shine? How long had it been since she had felt its warmth on her face? She couldn’t remember anymore.
Her beloved home, proud Saraneighvo, once a beacon of culture and art, had been reduced to scarcely more than a smouldering husk. Where weeks earlier had been the opera house, the museum of art, the concert hall, now only mounds of rubble remained. The skeletons of countless buildings all dusted with snow rose from the ruins eerie reminders of what had been, not so long ago.
Ponies wandered aimlessly through the smoldering ruins. They huddled around small fires, their eyes hollow like the buildings around them. Some scavenged what few resources they could; some collected trinkets of the past, as though a small locket or toy could remove them from their troubles. Still, others wandered simply to wander, their minds lost along with their homes or families.
The only ponies left in the city were earth ponies and unicorns. The few pegasi that had lived in the city before had long since taken to the skies. While most ponies condemned them and slurred their names, none could blame them for escaping while they could.
Of those that remained, the mare had been luckier than most. Her apartment complex stood comparatively unscathed. The southwest corner had been torn apart in one of the first attacks, but the building stood strong as ever. It was one of the few left standing anymore, by luck or the influence of a higher power, she didn’t know. She didn’t care to know anymore.
Moving away from the window, she made her way to her cupboard. She had three pieces of hardtack left. They sat precisely where she had left them in a neat stack on a clean silken handkerchief. She took a single bite from the top one, grimacing as she did. She would trade them all for a good pot of tea in a quiet room, the dulcet sound of Johoof Sebastian Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1 playing in the background.
Her imagination wasn’t good enough to distract her from the reality of her situation. Try as she might to imagine she was nibbling a freshly baked scone with a hot cup of tea beside her, all she had was a mouthful of tasteless starch and a tin of dirty water she had boiled the night before to purify. It did little to quench her thirst, but it would suffice.
It had to suffice.
She allowed herself a quiet sigh, not for the first time wishing she had evacuated when they had been advised to. But how was she to know her city would become the battlefield? How was she to know it would all come to this?
With a quick shake of her head, she banished the thoughts from her mind. There wasn’t a point in regretting the past anymore. The past couldn’t provide the simple comforts or succor she desired.
She left half the hardtack for supper. She had to ration carefully; supplies were becoming increasingly strained as the emergency rations ran ever lower. Another drink of dirty water helped her swallow the last mouthful. She would have to collect more all too soon, an undesirable task if ever there was one.
Making her way to the bathroom, she observed herself in the mirror. Two amethyst orbs looked back to her, yet she scarcely recognized her own reflection. Her mane and tail, once long and flowing, had been cropped short. She had had no choice after so long. Without water to bathe with, there had been no way to control the raven locks. Even her iron-grey coat was filthy and unkempt.
The shell that had torn apart the west façade of the building had left a jagged crack through the reflective glass surface, splitting her image in two. Not so long ago, Octavia had spent days contemplating the crack. She had debated if it was some kind of metaphor as to the nature of ponykind. Perhaps it was the gods trying to tell her something about herself. Now, though, she recognized it for what it was: a simple crack in a piece of glass.
Taking her brush in a hoof, she did her best to clean up what was left of her mane and tail. Her coat was a lost cause and she had given up on trying to find her bowtie long ago. Still, she tried to look her best. Today would be a special day, after all.
From her closet she retrieved her winter coat. The black cotton had faded to a dirty grey, its fibers having become entrenched with ash, soot, and dust. Tears and scuffs marred the jacket as well, the shoulder having been torn open, leaving loose threads and sullied padding exposed to the elements. Like so many other things, though, there was nothing Octavia could do about it.
Wrapping what had once been a white scarf around her neck, Octavia reached a hoof under her bed. She pulled out a heavy, black case that was longer than she was from nose to tail. With practiced ease, she secured the case on her back and left the confines of her apartment.
The ponies she passed in the hall on her way out of the building paid her little mind. Their eyes followed her with but a moment’s curiosity before their attention faded; she paid them little mind in turn.
On the street, she saw a small group of soldiers marching through the streets. Nopony bothered begging them for help anymore. They all knew the soldiers had nothing left to offer the beleaguered civilians. She watched them pass, heavy, brown cloaks shielding their bodies from the cold breath of winter.
Once upon a time, the sight of a passing garrison made her feel safe. Then, when the war had arrived at Saraneighvo’s doorstep, she had felt gratitude, even a profound sense of patriotism. Eventually, as the siege grew longer and supplies grew shorter, those feelings faded, leaving only resentment and anger in their wake. Now, she felt nothing.
The soldiers’ attitudes had changed markedly as well. In the beginning they trotted down the streets in proud strides, heads held high and weapons at the ready. As the days dragged into weeks, their pride gave way to fear and constant manic activity. They had run about from hotspot to hotspot as though possessed, eyes wide in barely contained panic. Now, like the ponies they were charged with protecting, they had resigned themselves to fate. They wandered about town seemingly in a daze, only rousing to enter another bloody skirmish before falling back to their catatonic state.
Once the patrol had passed, she pulled her scarf over her nose and continued her walk. Past one of the neighboring apartments she saw a dead stallion, his body half crushed under the rubble of a collapsed wall. Blood dripped from between his lips, a sign he had been killed by one shell of the morning’s barrage. An older mare pulled at the blanket that hung loosely around his shoulders. Where the act would have horrified her once, she had grown used to the sight; after all, the dead had no need for warmth.
Pressing onwards she passed the emaciated corpse of a young filly. She paused beside the small body. Like all the others, the filly lay naked on the cold ground. What little she may have had was long since gone, taken for the living to use. It had been a few days since the cellist had passed down that street; there was no way to know when the filly had passed. Octavia wondered if she died alone, or if there had been a loving face there to hold her until she drew her final breath.
She shook her head; it was all such a waste.
Still she walked on, passing at least a dozen more bodies along the way. Most were civilians, caught in the unending crossfire, though a few soldiers in bloodied armor lay beside them. Everywhere she looked there were other ponies, collecting what little they could from the dead and loading them onto ramshackle wooden carts. She could smell the massive funeral pyres in the distance, the pungent stench of burning corpses wrinkling her nose and forcing a gag.
She could never get used to the smell, no matter how often the fires burned nor how many bodies were turned to ash. It brought water to her eyes, sickness to her empty belly, and would haunt her to her dying breath. She moved quickly to escape the oppressive smell, grateful her destination was upwind.
Octavia’s run took her past city hall, now nothing more than a pile of charred and crushed stone. It had been destroyed on the very first day of shelling. Nopony knew if the mayor had been inside when the first shells hit, or if he had fled the night before, bartering passage with the last pegasi to escape before the siege began. She shook her head, lips pulling into a frown.
Like so many things it no longer mattered.
Safely away from the overbearing smell, she slowed her pace to a steady walk through the ruined streets. Every step of her hooves left shallow tracks in the soot and snow. Rounding the corner, she found her destination. Her heart sank at the pitiful sight.
Saraneighvo’s concert hall had once been a majestic building. Barrel vaulted hallways with coffered ceilings were richly decorated by the finest artisans of the day. The halls had seen legendary composers and musicians from every era perform. Centuries of history, all reduced to rubble and ash in moments.
The great dome that had topped the auditorium had collapsed, leaving a pile of rubble where symphonies had been played. The north and east walls were now but ragged fences made of shattered marble and steel reinforcements. She didn’t dare think of how many souls were buried under the debris.
Octavia stood in silent reflection. She had played there many times before. Her father had played there for decades before retiring to the country with her mother. She had made countless friends there, brought audiences to tears with the pull of her bow. A lump built in her throat; she had poured her very soul into those hallowed chambers.
And now those memories were naught but another mound of ash-covered wreckage, a silent ghost of a nearly forgotten past. She observed a small group of ponies huddled together around a small fire they had made under the remains of the parlor. They spared her only a passing glance of curiosity before turning back to their fire. She walked past them, small chunks of marble crunching and clattering down the pile with every step she took.
Careful almost to the point of reverence, she placed the heavy black case down atop the pile where the stage had been. Unlatching three locks, she lifted the cover. There, laid securely in soft felt, was her prized cello. The polished wooden instrument bore the scars of its age in countless scuffs, scrapes, and dings. They gave it character, though, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
The ponies that had huddled in the parlor looked to Octavia with renewed curiosity; their eyes watched her balance the endpiece on a larger chunk of marble. Standing upright, she balanced her body with the instrument and readied her bow. She closed her eyes and waited, weary Saraneighvo’s mournful cry ringing in her ears like a clarion’s call. She took a breath, and pulled her bow across the strings.
Her cello sang for her home, the sonorous note crying out through the skeletal remains of the concert hall. Her body moved with the music; it became her, and she it. She needed no notes, no plan. Her city was her conductor; its pain her inspiration. Mighty Saraneighvo. Proud Saraneighvo. Dead Saraneighvo. Her cello would sing its final lament.
Ponies gathered from all around the block; weary faces watched her with tired eyes and hopeless expressions. For them, she played.
The cannons in the distance fired again, the thunder of the shots echoing off the hills around the ruins of Saraneighvo. Warmth blossomed across her face as a fireball engulfed a nearby building; it lingered barely a moment before vanishing in the winter cold. She felt the earth tremble under her hooves as each shell hit, yet still she played.
The return volley sounded from the opposite side of town. Shells crashed into the streets and buildings, scattering debris and ponies without discrimination. She heard the screams around her, she heard the frenetic hoofsteps as they scattered in all directions, she felt the tiny crumbs of the city fall over her like snow.
Yet still she played.
Inevitably, the shelling ceased. Silence again reigned over the ravaged city. Octavia paid it no mind, her bow moving across the strings, her music never faltering, and never failing.
Ponies gathered around her ruined stage: soldiers and civilians, mares and stallions, young and old. They listened with rapt attention on every note. Some smiled, others wept, but none could bring themselves to move.
She never saw them, never heard them. There was no Octavia, no old cello in her hooves. The mare and her instrument were one and the same, and together they gave voice to Saraneighvo’s cries.
There they stayed, until long after the ashen skies grew dark, the unseen sun disappearing below the horizon once again. Only then did she bring her song to its final refrain, the last note echoing through the city’s bones.
No applause greeted her, no bouquets of fragrant flowers were tossed at her hooves. Only the silent stares of the homeless ponies greeted her when she opened her eyes. Before long they too lost interest, drifting into the dark, unlighted streets.
Octavia put her cello away and closed the case, locking the brass latches. Again she lifted it onto her back and carefully made her way down the pile of rubble that had been her stage. She paused under the ruined parlor to warm herself at the modest fire those same ponies she had seen earlier maintained. They said nothing, but they did offer her the smallest of smiles.
Looking up, she saw the clouds had broken. The night’s sky was moonless and glittered with a thousand points of light. She smiled at the sight.
Returning to her small apartment, Octavia carefully slid the cello under her bed. She took a few minutes to collect more water in her tin, which she boiled over the stove top as she ate the other half of her hardtack. This time she drank the water while it was still warm. The heat it left in her belly almost fooled her into the illusion that it was one of the fine teas she enjoyed so dearly.
Climbing into her bed, she pulled the sheets up and blew out the lantern on her nightstand. For the first time in weeks she dared to dream. She dreamed of warm auditoriums filled with chattering, happy ponies, their bellies full of good food and their tongues loosened with fine drink. She dreamed of her symphony, filling their hearts with song and bringing their hooves to dance. All as it once was. All as it should have been.
She awoke to the sounds of cannon fire.
