Irreversible

        An overcast draped itself over Canterlot as Octavia followed a quartet of stallions carrying a casket into the city’s funeral home. Every pony was silent as the suit clad ponies carried the casket up the aisle and set it in its place at the altar.

        Clinging desperately to courage, Octavia approached the casket. Her legs felt unsupportive, the pit in her chest heavy and constricting.

        Her throat threatened to close as she came to stand next to it. She swallowed hard. Her legs shook like stalks in the wind and she nearly collapsed as one of the attendants peeled the casket open.

        The tiniest of noises escaped her as her tear-brimmed eyes fell upon her father, looking peaceful as ever as he lie there.

        She tried her hardest, but she couldn’t hold it in, and with an undignified gasp she began to sob; and as she allowed her sorrow to swallow her up, she felt a hoof gently snake itself around her shaking shoulders.

“Miss, Octavia?” A heavy voice asked as one of the stallions approached her. “Do you need a minute?”

Octavia simply nodded and without so much as a word the stallions exited the funeral hall, leaving her alone with her father.

Even after they’d left, Octavia remained where she was and simply allowed herself to cry until her throat felt raw and her eyes burned from the tears.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she finally got to her hooves, but as she turned and exited the building she was surprised to find a large group of ponies waiting outside, their expressions somber and mournful.

        Octavia found herself at a loss for words and as she continued to stare stupidly at them, she suddenly realized how much of a mess she must have looked.

        “Excuse me,” she said, clearing her throat and dabbing at the tear stains under her eyes.

        A sudden tap on her shoulder almost made her jump and she turned to find a grizzled looking stallion holding a handkerchief out to her.

        “Thank you,” she sniffled, giving the area underneath her eyes a more thorough pass until she felt she looked at least a little bit presentable.

There was another long moment of silence before the Chaplin appeared at the doors behind Octavia and began ushering ponies inside. The procession of ponies passed Octavia slowly, many offering their condolences or expressing how sorry they were for her loss; and Octavia took each compliment with grace, thanking every pony for their kind words as they filed inside.

The proceeding service was a quiet but solemn one, and when ponies did get up to speak, it was with the utmost reverence and respect. Eventually, it was Octavia’s turn to take the stand, and she slowly drug herself up to the podium, cradling a tiny wooden box under her foreleg.

“Thank you for coming every pony,” she croaked through a voice that didn’t quite sound like her own.

“My father-” she tried, fighting with the tightness in her throat. “My father was a good pony. He raised me all by himself after my parents passed away. He taught me everything I know about music.” A small smile graced Octavia’s muzzle even as tears once again began to flow down her cheeks. "I'm sorry-"

Feeling as though she was losing her composure, Octavia turned away from the microphone for a brief second to collect herself. Clearing her throat and righting her posture, she turned back toward the podium and tried again to speak but all that came out was a mess of noisy sputters as she broke down and — for the second time that day —  allowed herself to cry.

For the brief minute that she wept, every pony in the funeral hall was silent; and when she finally collected herself enough to speak again, she found herself at an utter and embarrassing loss for words, so instead she opened the small box she’d placed near the podium and retrieved the instrument inside.

It surprised her how pristine it still looked, even after weeks of non-use; and despite her extended stay from the instrument, as soon as she placed it in the crook of her neck, her years of training and practice came back to her in an instant.

“This was both my mother’s and my father’s favorite song. It was the first song my dad ever taught me. I hope you like it.”

With her instrument poised and ready, Octavia turned and gave one last look at her father and, In that small moment she was hit with a barrage of conflicting feelings.

The first and most prominent of the feelings that hit her was sadness, knowing that this was the last time she was going to see her father before he was buried; but, after a moment she was hit with a second more powerful feeling that caused her breath to catch.

It was joy. A swelling feeling of almost overwhelming happiness that pervaded her every pore even as her father’s body lay cold and lifeless not five feet from where she was standing.

 Octavia frowned in confusion and then suddenly, the image of her father’s catatonic body bled away and her mind was filled with the image of his smiling face as he coached her younger self on the proper way to hold the bow of her violin.

Octavia smiled fondly at the memory, and then just as suddenly as it came, it disappeared, giving way to yet another memory, this one depicting a much older Octavia sitting with her father at the piano and gently humming along as he poured his soul over the keys.

This one too lasted only a moment, and the one that replaced it made her heart soar in her chest.

It was a day she remembered fondly. The day she had come home from her competition, depressed and distraught. She remembered how he’d brought her out of her room and into the foyer. She remembered being absolutely entranced by his artistry and masterful play, and she also remembered trying (and by her standards, failing) to play for him.

But what she recalled more vividly than anything else about that particular day was when he’d told her that she had the potential to be something great, even if she herself hadn’t been able to see it.

As the last of the joyful memories faded from her mind and she was brought back to reality, Octavia couldn’t help but smile. Wiping the last of the tears from her eyes, she let her gaze linger on her father for a few more precious moments before turning back to the crowd before her.

With newfound understanding filling her weary soul, she brought the bow purposefully to the strings of her violin, steeled herself and began to play.