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                      Divine Harmony                       
                     -by Kamikakushi-                      
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                      Chapter 1: Gray                      
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Chapter 1: Gray
Divine Harmony
Chapter 1: Gray
Buzzing filled the air around her on that warm Canterlot morning. Buzzing of the busy streets, buzzing from the busy bees, and buzzing from the irritation across the table from her at the corner outdoor cafe. Yet, despite the bustle and company, she wanted no part of it. Instead, she leaned into her hoof, staring disinterested at nothing in particular. Not the small fence enclosing the patio, not the bustling street next to her, and certainly not at the pony sitting across from her.
“Octavia, darling, I’m just worried for your well-being.” Her irritation chimed in.
Given her company, her attention found its way to the lone flower poking up from the pot adjacent to her. Six white petals spread wide, drawing her into the center where six tall stalks stood tall—a king’s spear. Certainly an odd flower to see in the city, but a more than welcome distraction.
Soon a small bumble bee daintily landed on the flower’s petal. It wandered for a moment before climbing a stalk to poke its head into the pollen. She sighed listlessly at the sight. Bees worked, and never rested. They never had a care. Soulless, mindless bees always with something to do. She almost envied it.
But her distraction soon zipped away almost as fast as it had come. With it, her only means of ignoring her company. Left with no other option, Octavia rolled her eyes, and shifted her bored, empty gaze to the pony across from her. A mare stared back from pale violet eyes holding a subtly disgruntled look behind a mostly stoic face. She had a bark brown coat, silver grey mane, and wore a small pair of glasses that sat teetering on the tip of her snout.
"Mother," Octavia began before letting out a long sigh. "Why did you even come?"
She snorted. "A mother is entitled to show concern for her daughter." Her back arched as she looked down at Octavia from the tip of her muzzle.
Octavia stared back, still holding her blank expression. "It’s not concern, and you know it. It’s meddling." She picked her head up from her hoof, and leaned back in her chair. "You’ve never cared for my life in Canterlot, so it’s always meddling when you show your face here," she added under her breath.
Her mother closed her eyes as she lifted the cup in front of her. She brought it to her lips and silently sipped. When she pulled the cup from her mouth, she half-opened her eyes. “It most certainly is concern.”
"Concern you’re money’s not being squandered," Octavia mumbled, focusing down at the half-empty cup of tea held by the old mare’s hoof.
"No,” her mother began as she looked down at her cup as well. She swirling the tea with a small flick of her wrist, snapping her stern gaze back to her daughter as she did. “Your father and I have long since accepted your schooling was a waste," A small, barely noticeable smirk crept across her face. She mother hit back. It was already underway.
As much as Octavia hated to admit it, it stung just a bit. But her expression didn’t divulge any hints to that. No, if she let her mother see that had struck a cord she would lose their little game of cat and mouse. Always they would try to make the other break their stoic nature; a game they had played since Octavia could remember.
"It’s been two months now. How long are you going to keep up this charade?" her mother asked before taking a sip of tea.
“Until you’re six feet under, Mother.” She nearly spit out the tea she was sipping when she heard what Octavia said. “Isn’t that what every daughter strives to do? Disappoint their parents until the day they die?” Octavia looked her mother in the eyes. She scrunched her brow at Octavia’s answer.
If she could muster a laugh, Octavia would have. But, no. Her eyes wore heavy as if she had been awake for days—laughing was out of the question. Perhaps it was the persistent ache in her chest that kept her up, but it didn’t really matter. Flashes of empty pill bottles, a blue-maned mare shouting, then thrown furniture popped to mind. She let out a sigh and rubbed her forehead.
Tired and short-tempered—that was her now. That was all she had been since. Any passion she once held for her work was long gone. Even this exchange felt like she was simply going through the motions. What was even the point?
Her mother straightened her back and set her tea down after regaining her composure. “Why don’t you smooth things over with her?” she asked, putting the jab aside. Their game had come to an end. “It’s been two months. It’s time to quit being so miserable.”
“I’m not going back to her,” Octavia retorted dryly. She shifted her dead gaze back to the potted flower, more content to stare at it than the withering old mare across from her.
Her mother grit her teeth before taking a sharp breath. “Don’t be stubborn, Octavia,” she snapped.
“You didn’t even like Vinyl! Why are you trying to push me to go back to her?” Octavia jumped forward and slammed her hoof against the table. She narrowed her eyes down at the mare. Despite the annoyance in her voice, she stayed relatively quiet. Only a few stares in her direction from the other patrons at the outdoor cafe caught her notice, but she didn’t care.
Her mother glanced around at the other ponies before leaning in. “Because she was the only stable thing you had in your life—even if she was unstable. She had a job—a career. What do you have?”
Octavia laughed in disbelief as she fell back into her chair. “You only care now that she’s becoming famous.” It would have been humorous if it wasn’t so pathetic. What smile smile that laugh had brought quickly dissipated, and Octavia found herself staring into the blue sky above the outdoor cafe. “Why is everything money for you?”
"It’s not the money,” she spat out harshly. “It has to do with your well-being." Her tone still hushed to keep what little privacy they still had. "I may not have liked her, but I know you did. To suddenly throw away your relationship over nothing? It’s unheard of."
Octavia’s eyes closed as her jaw clenched with what she thought was hard enough to to shatter her teeth. Her blood boiled just thinking about Vinyl, let alone the reason they split up. But her mother was oblivious to that detail. Nor would she ever be privy to it if Octavia had her way. She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. "It wasn’t nothing," she muttered as she crossed her forelegs.
"Then what?" Her eyes narrowed slightly at her daughter, mustering what little expression she was capable of.
Octavia shifted her gaze back to the flower. Silence fell over the table, and her mother leaned slowly back into her chair. Once she was seated again, Octavia sighed. "How’s Father been?" she asked.
Her mother sighed. "I don’t know why I bother with you sometimes." She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. "One day you’ll have to stop acting like a spoiled brat and face your problems, Octavia."
"Well, I learned from the best, Mother." Octavia didn’t look at her. In fact, the words didn’t even register as they come out of her mouth. She just continued to stare at the lone flower as the world around her returned to mindless buzzing.
After a moment, she blinked absently. When she glanced back to the other side of the table, a few bits and a half empty cup of tea were all that remained. Her eyes scanned the surrounding tables and the crowd on the street, but there was no sign of her mother. The realization she was alone settled in as her eyes fell back upon the tea cup.
“She left without even saying goodbye,” she remarked under her breath. After a moment, she looked up to the clock on the front of the cafe—a quarter past three. The sun was still high in the sky, the city still bustling, but she wanted no part of it still. She pushed her chair out, grabbed her saddlebag next to her, and left for home.
From the cafe, Octavia walked for only a few blocks before the trendy shops and cafes turned into bleak, dull buildings. Gray, browns, and whites blended together in a nauseating sea of bland. Even the sky seemed to grow dimmer as she ventured away from the clean face of Canterlot into the seedy slums. Soon she came to the small, cramped building she called home. A squished, towering stack—fifteen floors high—pinched between two others just as tall with little room for even a pony to squeeze between. It was yet another dull, gray building completely removed from the vibrant and whimsical downtown, but for now, it worked. It was a roof over her head, neighbors who didn’t poke their snouts into her business, and most important of all, cheap. She glanced up at the sign hanging above the door with the same dead expression she hadn’t managed to shake since her mother’s letter came announcing her visit.
Sunny Estates, she read as her ears fell limp.
She climbed the short three steps to the door. On the other side, a long hallway awaited her. To her left was a wall covered in small, hoof-sized metal flaps, all about eye level with numbers on the front. Octavia pushed on down the hall, keeping an eye on the numbers until one finally stood out to her—1303. With a tired sigh, she lift open the mailbox. Inside, a small stack of letters waited patiently. She rolled her eyes, already imagining their dreary contents before dragging the stack out of its hole and grabbing it with her mouth. Then, she started the ascent up her own personal mountain. Flights upon flights of stairs until she finally came to her floor.
By the time she placed her first hoof on the final step, she huffed through her nose. “Two months, and it’s still tiring,” she muttered through her mail. When she came to her door, she reached her hoof into her saddlebag and pulled loose a small brass key. Once lined up, she shoved it to the hole. With a turn, the door cracked opened with an eerie squeel from the hinges, but stopped partway.
Octavia rolled her eyes, and shoved the door open with a free hoof before plowing inside the door. Immediately, she spat out her mail on the hall table before taking the key from the door and kicking it closed with her hind leg.
“I’m home,” she called out to the empty apartment. The words hung in the still air for a moment before the crushing realization there wouldn’t be a response smacked her over the head.
She let out a sigh, turning her attention to the envelopes. Sifting through them, she quickly noticed a pattern. Bill, bill, bill, bill…
But the last letter stood out. An dark blue envelope with an electric blue wavy streak. On it, thick, blocky letters that read “DJ PON-3.” Her eyes narrowed at the innocuous piece of paper as she grabbed her letter opener on the table. With a quick slice of the keen edge, it was opened, and a single, dark blue slip of paper fell out—thicker stock than a normal piece of paper. On the piece of paper in the same blocky letters as the envelope, in electric yellow was “admit one.”
Octavia’s jaw clenched tightly as she sucked in a lungful of air. Behind the ticket slipped out another small slip of paper.
Hey, Tavi,
It’s been awhile since you left, and I’ve missed you. If you’re done throwing your little tantrum and want to finally talk, come hit me up backstage. Looking forward to seeing you at the show.
XOXO
Vinyl
Uncontrollable shakes rippled through Octavia’s body. In the blink of an eye, she snapped her foreleg across the table. The ticket, note, and envelope sailed into the air where they all came to an abrupt halt and drifted harmlessly onto the floor.
“Damn her!” she hissed as she stormed into the tiny living room. The room was barely big enough to contain the meager furnishings. A small chocolate brown couch and dark wooden coffee table to her left, a tall cello case tucked in the corner. The hall continued straight into the bedroom, and a bathroom across from that. To her right was a cramped kitchenette open to the living room. The walls were barren—no decorations to be seen save for a clock hanging. An empty bottle of cheap whisky sat unassuming on the table with an accompanying glass whose bottom was stained with the remnants of last night’s drink.
She threw herself onto the couch, covering her eyes with a foreleg as she fought the urge to scream. The manta of “damn her” repeated over and over in her head until she thought she might explode. Without realizing, she kicked a hind leg into the opposite arm of the couch. A tremor shook the whole couch for a brief moment.
“Damn her!” she repeated as she peeked under her foreleg. The plain white ceiling was all that greeted her—it and the large crack running from the wall to the kitchen entry across the room. “Why won’t she leave me alone?” she mumbled.
Her eyes closed for a bit longer than a blink. “I told her I’m not getting back together with her. Why can’t she respect that?” Her jaw clenched again as her blood began to boil once more. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
I should give her an earful, she thought as she glanced over at the clock. It was already close to four.
“I shouldn’t let her get to me, and as much as I would love to go off on her,” she started before taking a deep breath, and sitting up. The cool air flooding her lungs seemed to quell her anger, at least a bit. “I have rehearsal tonight,” she told herself.
She collapsed back. “As if that’s why I’m skipping her silly little show.”
Silently she sat in a stiff wooden seat on a large wooden stage. Before her stood ponies—coworkers—each in a tizzy. Pointless conversations filled the air as those around her pretended to care about one another. Truly a colorful cast ranging from stuck up artists to stuck up aristocratic types, all dressed for some grand occasion. Bow ties for the stallions, dresses for the mares, but she hadn’t bothered. Rehearsals hadn’t a need for formality, nor did she care enough given her mood. So she wore nothing.
Beyond the wooden stage were seats in ascending rows surrounding them in a half-circle. The walls were zigzagged in shape with carpet lining them, with grand velvet curtains encircling the stage. Admittedly a fine theater they had, but a far cry from what she was used to.
"Must you always be so depressing?" A voice cut through the chatter.
Without moving her head, her eyes shifted to the seat adjacent to her. Catching a glimpse of her turned Octavia’s stomach in knots. She turned her nose up, and looked the other way.
"Oh, a cold shoulder from Ms. Melody?" Sarcasm dripped off the offender’s tone. "How will I ever recover."
Octavia inhaled deep and slow. As she let out the long-held breath, through her nostrils, she turned. "Rococo." She gave a small nod to the mare beside her. Merely making contact with her dark rose-colored eyes made her want to gag, so she didn’t pause on them for long. Moving from her eyes, past the horn poking out of her forehead, her pristine ivory coat, vanished behind her dark silver locks that draped from her head. A lone, charcoal streak ran off center through her full, wavy mane, and continuing down into her tail. Next to her ear was a dark red carnation, which Octavia had come to realize was her favorite flower. From her shoulders hung a crimson dress—close to her eyes in color—and with a floral pattern.
"I honestly don’t know how you stand it, coming here every night just to embarrass yourself?" A disgusting smirk made its way across her lips.
That was about as much of her sight as Octavia could stand. She forced her eyes front. "Well, somepony has to dirty their hooves to give this orchestra some class after you wrung it dry." She brought a hoof to her chest, and gave a small sigh. "I suppose that’s just the cross I have to bear."
Rococo let out a snort  "Last I saw you were the one climbing down the social rung."
"And yet I still have more class in my fetlocks than you do in your entire body," she replied as she closed her eyes. Despite her mood, her chest still welled up with a small bit of pride.
"Don’t get too cocky, Octavia. When that concertmaster seat is mine, you’ll be out on your keester," Rococo hissed, like the snake Octavia knew she was.
"Certainly you must be joking." She shifted her eyes back to the vile mare, only to be met with a death glare. “Oh, you’re not?” A laugh slipped out forcing her to cover her mouth. “ Keep a stiff upper lip, I suppose. I’m sure you’ll become concertmaster someday.”
“A hasbeen like you won’t be able to count on the director’s support forever, Octavia” Her tone stung like it was laced with venom. After her remark, she turned her gaze front, and she stuck her nose up.
"Everypony, please," a voice called out from the front of the stage. Octavia looked at the source, a short, scrawny pony with a loose-fitting suit jacket. His pitch was high for a stallion, with a nasally inflection and posh pronunciation. Atop his head sat a disheveled salt-and-pepper mess of mane continuously on a quest to fall flat in his eyes only to be brushed back. The strands of grey sticking out matched his ashen coat perfectly.
"We’re about to start, so please get to your sections!" He fumbled with the small pair of glasses propped on the tip of his muzzle.
"Oh, speak of the devil," Rococo sneered as she stood. Before Octavia even had the chance to reply, Rococo was already slinking away, across the stage to her section.
Octavia sighed deeply, and looked back to the director with a bored expression.
"As many of you are aware," he began "we’ve been looking to expand our family." He stepped onto a raised platform at the front center of the stage with a podium. "So, starting tomorrow, we’ll be welcoming a new musician into the company."
The orchestra was silent. As his eyes ran over the sections, he cleared his throat. "This would be where you would clap."
A few humored him, particularly Rococo, Octavia noticed when she turned her gaze to the first violin section. Enthusiastically she slapped her hooves together like a good would-be brown noser.
"If you’re not excited for a new colleague, than perhaps the new works available to us with the addition of a harp will excite you." Pointing his muzzle down, he locked eyes on Octavia. "Speaking of… Octavia, may I speak you after rehearsal tonight?"
The mention of her name broke her dull expression as she blinked rapidly before her ears perked up. "Of course, director."
"Splendid." A warm smile came across his face as her whipped back to the rest of the orchestra. "Now, with addition of a new section—" his voice trailed off into nothingness as Octavia found herself staring into the distance.
Despite her surroundings, those wretched blue slips of paper weaselled their way back to the forefront of her mind. And shortly behind them crawled the mental image of the pony who sent them. "Damn her," she muttered between clenched teeth.
In the bowels of the concert hall, at the far end of a sickeningly bright hallway with suffocating fluorescent lights above, and a minefield of instrument cases, she found herself standing in front of a door with a small gold plaque on it that read "Director Capriccio Verse."
She knocked before opening the door. Awaiting on the other side was the director sitting in a towering dark blue armchair with ample padding behind a giant mahogany desk that was nearly taller than he was.
"Come in, my dear," he said in a soft tone while motioning to a seat in front of his desk.
Octavia obliged, and climbed into the equally giant chair opposite his.
"Would you like something to drink?" He asked, tilting his head to the side. "Not that I have much. Just some tea and water." He giggled to himself.
"I’m fine, thank you." She took care with her tone for what felt like the first time that day. Her bitterness couldn’t leak out here—not with him.
He took a deep breath and sighed. "At least I asked." The tip of the stubby horn barely poking out from his mane lit with a soft blue glow, and his glasses levitated off his muzzle shortly after. "Good manners and all," he said with a tired smile.
Octavia cracked a smile back. "You don’t need to fuss so much about it."
"Let an old goat fuss. It’s one of the few things I can still take pride in." He waved his hoof dismissively. "So, how have been getting along since last we talked?"
"The same," she replied. The small smile had now vanished into stone-cold nothingness.
"That bad?" He grabbed a tea cup setting on his desk. "Having somepony around might help that."
Octavia rolled her eyes. "As I’ve told you before I don’t date colleagues—or my boss."
He laughed as he brought his cup to his mouth. "You’re going to break my poor old heart, Octavia," he teased before taking a small sip. "Joking aside, I do mean it. There was a reason I put you as the first chair cellist—besides your talent, of course. I was hoping ponies would rely on you, and you would make some friends."
"I’m not really in the mood for friends."
He nodded. "I can understand that. Breaking up with somepony you’ve spent years with can take a lot out of you. I also know that having ponies around to support you can help.” He took another small sip from his glass. “And that’s partially why I called you here today."
"What do you mean?" A growing concern manifested in her voice as she raised an eyebrow.
"Our new harpist is a fresh face to Canterlot." A nervous grin came across his face as he loosed an uneven laugh.
Octavia’s jaw dropped. "You didn’t."
He sucked air in through his teeth, and the grin fell. "I did."
"You’re going to have a revolt," she said amidst a laugh.
He furrowed his brow. "The lower circuits didn’t have many harpists, and we auditioned all of them. Pulling from the first circuit was strictly out of the question."
"It would have cost a fortune, I suppose."
"If they would even take the hit to their reputation," he added. "So we had to open our auditions. We wouldn’t have taken anypony if we weren’t sure they were capable."
Octavia nodded. "So, where do I—and friendship—fit in with this new face?" she asked, playing the fool for a moment to humor him.
He gave a small laugh. "I would like it if I could count on you to make sure she adjusts. Maybe even become her friend?"
"I can’t guarantee I’ll like her.” Octavia folded her forelegs as a small frown formed on her lips. “Or that she’ll like me," she added in a small voice.
He clasped his forehooves together. "The effort is all I’m asking." He flashed her big, puppydog eyes.
Octavia rolled hers back. "That’s not cute when you do it."
He furrowed his brow. "Please, Octavia?"
"I’ll try," she said dryly before clearing her throat. "And I mean that."