I cannot stop my heart from pounding in my chest as I approach the grand entryway to the concert hall. I know that I look horrendously out of place among the elite of Canterlot; even discounting my eyes, which never cease to draw disparaging gazes from the crowd, my dress is a shapeless, untailored thing, a cheap and gaudy piece that I purchased out of a department store. I had considered asking Rarity for the loan of one of her creations, but I do not like to impose. Besides, she would have asked after the occasion, and I would prefer to keep this to myself.
Even Dinky does not know where I am tonight. She is not worried; I left her with Time Turner for the evening, and he is wonderful with her. He does know where I am, but he knows enough to keep it to himself.
There is a slight twinge of guilt at the back of my mind for not asking them to accompany me, but I push it aside. Dinky would not want to come in the first place, and I will have other opportunities to see Time Turner. Besides, he understands. Tonight, out of all the nights of the year, is for me.
I could not have afforded a second ticket anyway. It took six months to scrape together enough bits for the one, and the train took another month. Being Ponyville's mail mare, while steady and an opportunity that I am incredibly grateful for, does not pay much. Most of what little there is, once the monthly bills are paid, goes towards Dinky's college fund.
Another pang of guilt. Tonight could have gone towards that as well. But, as much as I hate to do it, I need this night. Not to get away from my daughter, or to escape from Ponyville, or anything of the sort, but I need it all the same.
That thought gives me pause for a moment, and I stand amid the crowd, turning it over and over in my mind. It is odd to think about it that way, in terms of need. But it is true, as strange as it sounds to me at first. I need this. Even though I know that tonight will hurt me horribly, I need this. I need to see her.
Eventually, the movement of the crush of bodies arranges it so that I am next in line. I present my ticket to the guard, who gives it a critical once-over before nodding and motioning for me to enter. He does not even notice my dress, or my eyes. I am just another face in the crowd to him.
I like that. Ditzy Doo has not come to this concert hall to be seen. Most of the others here did; after all, tonight's performance will be taking place before the Princesses themselves. Anypony who is anypony wants to be here just to say that they were.
And then there is me. I admit, some part of me is excited to be surrounded by such opulence and elegance. The foyer I have entered is full of red velvet and gold trimming and crystal chandeliers bathing everything in a warm, amber light. And the thought of the princesses arriving in person later does send a thrill down my spine, even though I know that they will not be paying any attention to me whatsoever. It is a visceral thing, and I know that it is the same feeling that drew in the rest of the attendees.
Tonight, it says, tonight, you will be in the presence of royalty. Tonight, you will sit in the same concert hall and be moved by the same music. Tonight, and tonight only, you will be part of the same crowd. Tonight, you can think of yourself as their equal.
It is a nice thought, but it is not really why I am here. For a few moments, I find my thoughts drifting towards why I did so want to come, but I push them aside. The time for that will come later.
For now, I simply smile to myself and watch as the other ponies go by. I recognize a few of them from various newspaper articles: Fancy Pants, Fleur de Lis, Sapphire Shores. The faces of Equestria's highest social circles, all here and all dressed in their absolute finest. Dressed, as they say, to impress. Again, I remember that my own dress is hardly more than a tablecloth held together with safety pins, while the tie for Fancy Pants' ensemble alone likely cost more than I will make in my entire life.
Nopony notices. I have found a quiet corner in the foyer all to myself, and everypony is too busy trying to catch the eye of somepony more important to look at me now. Outside, they all stared and muttered. In here, they do not care. I am inside, so I am part of their world. Admittedly, I am part of the background of their world, but it is good enough for me, and I simply watch them interestedly while I wait for the inner doors to open.
I am not entirely sure how long it is before they do, but it feels like an eternity. For all the beauty of this room, for all that it is nice to stand among the Canterlot upper crust, it is not why I am here. By the time that the ushers begin showing everypony to their seats, I am filled with a nervous energy that I cannot quite control. I shiver excitedly as I step back into line, and cannot stop myself from giving the young colt who is my usher an embarrassed grin when he glances at my eyes. He offers no comment, but instead takes my ticket, checks the seat number, and sends me on my way. That helps. Tonight will hurt badly enough without the staff insulting my appearance.
My seat is in the uppermost balcony, that part of the theater referred to as the "nosebleed seats". I could not have afforded anything closer without another several months' time, but I do not mind. I have never been bothered by heights, and I do not need to be close to the stage to appreciate the performance.
I sit down between a stallion who, if I am not mistaken, must be from Saddle Arabia and some mare whose thick Manehattan accent cuts sharply through the air as she speaks with her companions. It strikes me that I am quite possibly the only mare here without a date. It should be a sad thought, but it fails to be so, somehow. I would prefer to be alone tonight. I do not want anypony else to see this. Slowly, I allow myself to sink back into my seat, absorbed by my thoughts.
The dull buzz of conversation dips sharply for a moment. By the time I spot Princesses Celestia and Luna taking up their reserved seats in the royal box, everypony has already started talking again. I am not quite as excited by their appearance as the rest of the crowd. They are not who I am here to see.
Once again, I settle in to wait, and the nervous energy from before wells up. I find myself fidgeting uncontrollably, provoking several disapproving glances from the stallion beside me. I smile up at him, trying to apologize without actually saying anything. He merely snorts, rolls his eyes, and turns back to his companion.
Despite myself, despite knowing that I would be out of place here and that ponies would judge me for it, I find myself feeling hurt. He had seen my eyes, and dismissed me for it. Or perhaps he had seen my dress. It does not really matter. Either way, his opinion is the same.
I shake my head and attempt to block out everything around me. My focus goes back to the stage. That is what I am there for. It is what I need. Everything else is secondary.
Soon, the lights begin to dim. I pull myself out of my reverie, sit up straight. My breath catches in my throat.
There is no announcement, no lead-in or introduction. It is not as though there needs to be one. Every pony in the concert hall knows who they are here to see. An introduction would only cheapen the moment. The lights simply dim, leaving all of us suspended in warm darkness as the curtain lifts.
Then a spotlight turns on, and she is there. I feel a shock travel through my chest, as though I have been stabbed.
Her name is Octavia Melody. Even from this distance, even with my lazy eye, there is no mistaking her, or the instrument she holds.
No one applauds. No one moves. I am not sure I am even breathing. In this moment, I feel the connection between those of us in the crowd and the mare on the stage take form. She is the musician, but she does not play a cello. We are her instrument. The music is merely the medium.
Then she begins to play, and I am swept away by the song. Every note sears itself across my soul.
I know every piece she plays by heart. I know every note and every rest, every measure and every melody like they were pieces of myself. They blaze through my mind as she plays, taking me out of the concert hall and into a world consisting of perfect, pristine beauty.
I know that I am crying. I cannot control it, and I do not try to. Others may be weeping openly as well, but I am not paying attention to them. I am focused entirely on her music. It fills the concert hall. It fills me, and for a moment, even my own inner pains are washed away.
She pours everything that she is into it. It is not merely a physical activity, not as simple as pulling a bow across the strings and playing the proper notes. She does not play the music for us. She is the music, and she gives herself to us, completely and utterly. She shows us everything that she feels, everything that makes her the mare that she is. She bares herself to the world. To us.
And she is beautiful.
Time passes. I do not know how long. It seems like an eternity, and it is not nearly enough. But eventually she reaches the end of the final song. She holds the last note, and I know that it is as much because she does not want it to end as it is that the piece has finished. I find myself sobbing when it finally dies away.
The lights come up, and suddenly the audience exists again. We all applaud thunderously. She bows. We stand, applaud harder. I am not the only one whose face is streaked with tears. I am not even the only one still crying, though I know that the rest are not crying for the same reasons.
Even the princesses are standing. Those in the front rows are throwing roses onto the stage, but she does not look at them. She is turned towards the sisters, looking, for the first time in the evening, apprehensive.
This time, they bow to her. She does not know what to do in response to that. Eventually, unable to think of anything else, she bows again. As she does, I feel another stabbing pain in my chest.
The standing ovation goes on for almost five minutes. It is not nearly long enough for me to express my admiration for her, but it still ends. I lose count of how many times she bows, or how many roses are thrown to her. Nopony calls for an encore. There can be no follow-up to that. I already know that the newspapers I deliver in Ponyville this weekend will call this the performance of a lifetime. They will be right.
Eventually, the curtain falls, and she vanishes behind the velvet. All of us begin to make our way towards the exits, headed back towards the lobby.
I know that she will be making an appearance in person shortly. The princesses are waiting in the foyer. They have not called for her, but they do not need to; they know their presence is enough to ensure that she will arrive. In the meantime, they are both smiling kindly and attempting to politely decline the dozens of invitations to other high-society events from the other attendees.
I leave alone. Everypony else has remained, hoping to spend just a little more time in the company of royals, or perhaps to speak with the performer, but I have a home to return to. Time Turner and Dinky will be waiting. I left him with instructions to put her to bed no later than nine, but I know that he will not. When I get back, I will find her asleep in his arms while he reclines on the couch. She always insists on trying to stay up for me whenever I go out.
Besides, I have seen what I needed to see. I saw her, if only from a distance. And what I saw, what I heard, was every bit as beautiful as I had imagined.
It is nearly three in the morning when I arrive back in Ponyville. My hideous dress has been discarded, stuffed unceremoniously into my duffel bag. I will never wear it again. Ponyville's mailmare does not need it.
Time Turner is waiting for me, I know, but he will wait a little longer. I know that I will be exhausted for work later in the morning, but I do not care. The concert is over, but my night is not.
Now, I allow all the thoughts that I had placed to one side to come forth at once. I am aware that I am crying again as I wind my way through the streets of my hometown, but nopony is awake to see.
My home is at the edge of town. It is nothing special - hardly more than a living room, kitchen, and two bedrooms - but I am proud of the way I have kept it in good order over the years. The inside is spotlessly clean, the product of yesterday's furious scrubbing. I throw my duffel bag into the corner carelessly and make my way to my bedroom, trying to scrub the tears out of my eyes as I go.
The closet is largely empty of clothing. There is almost nothing in it but my own mail bag and a few boxes containing miscellaneous keepsakes. It is not hard to find what I am looking for. I do not even have to turn on the lights.
Slowly, with as much care and coordination as I can muster, I draw out the black case, carry it to the bed, and undo the clasps. I have not opened it in over a year. I do so now.
Inside, nestled in the velvet lining, is my cello.
It is not like Octavia's. It is not elegant and beautiful, with its wooden body colored a brilliant, shining red by the finish. It is not free of all marks and scars, its surface unblemished by any signs of its owner's clumsiness. The bow is not a slender curve of ebony with each end joined by shining white. It is secondhand and showing its age, but it is still whole, and can still produce beautiful music when played by a skilled hand. I lift it from its casing and move to sit on the windowsill.
I do not have a skilled hand. The cello is out of tune, and it takes me nearly ten minutes to bring it to an approximation of what it should be. Eventually I manage it and lift my head, looking up to the night sky outside.
Princess Luna has seen fit to place a duplicate of Octavia's cutie mark in the stars tonight, in honor of her brilliant performance. It glitters above the distant Everfree, a declaration to all the world that Octavia Melody is a true virtuoso.
On my flank, the familiar dull-grey bubbles simply sit and glower.
I begin to play. It is not beautiful. It is clumsy and off-key, my hooves stumbling helplessly over every note. My bow moves jaggedly, striking the wrong strings and turning what should have been sharp pinpricks of sound into atonal slurs. It is not awful, and I know that it is not. I am out of practice and my cello has not been played for over a year, and still I manage to tease the basic melody from its strings. But it is not beautiful. It will never be beautiful.
I allow myself twenty minutes before I remove the bow from the strings and bow my head. There is no applause.
With great care, I return my instrument to its case and its case to the closet. Then I move to the bathroom and dry my eyes. They are still swollen and puffy. Time Turner will know that I was crying. I do not care. I will tell him that the concert was so beautiful that it left me weeping all through my ride home.
Then I turn and make my way out of the house, headed back towards Ponyville once again. I tell myself that, next time, I will not buy a ticket. It costs more than I can really afford. That is all money that could go towards Dinky's education, or into the emergency savings. I should not spend that much money on myself. Especially not for this.
I already know that I will do it anyway. Despite how often I tell myself that this is unnecessary, the truth remains. I need this night. It is part of who I am, even if it is not who I am destined to be. I will never be Octavia. I will never perform before royalty. I will never perform before any audience, no matter how humble. I will never even play my cello for Dinky, though some day I will share with her my love of music.
But I will not forget, and I will not deny myself this. I cannot. I am destined for humbler things, but Ditzy Doo was a mare with dreams, once. I remember her, and I will continue to attend Octavia Melody's performances. I will keep my cello, and when I cannot bear to deny myself any longer, I will play. Not for long, and never when somepony else can hear, but I will. Because I need to.
As a memorial.
