Little Flavio, a colt of tremendous renown today, but it is more infamity than the usual worth of a musician. Born to a family of two, the young colt grew up as a foal surprisingly loved and cherished by brother, sister, mother, and father within the confines of the city Frun situated in Prance. The father, the head of a mining operation, brought in much needed coin for the family that allowed them to live just right. They had enough for food, clothing, but still had to save for special occasions where gifts were given out. The cramped streets of Frun were just another bout of the lack of technology and general knowledge of hygiene, so maladies were always rampant. Not one day would go by that a carter wearing a beaked mask would walk through the streets empty-hoofed, something that any pony would find discomfort in.
Flavio did not care for these things, however. In Prance, specifically on the high plateau that Frun stood proudly on, rain was a prominent feature of the day, and Flavio hated that. He hated rain. In fact, he absolutely despised anything that reminded him of rain, such as a dripping faucet, pump, or even tears, so much so that even when he was hurt, be it physically or emotionally, he wouldn't cry. Well, that's not true. He would make the sounds and his face would swell up like a tomato, but no tears or snivel would leak from his face. As time passed, however, the young stallion, his coat having turned a pale blue with a resplendent, silver mane and tail, pondered about his future. At sixteen, he still hadn't found his one true talent, and his parents worried for him. In a day and age where one's talent decided their future, suspense of a cutie mark's appearance was troublesome. The first brother had inherited his father's position after harsh studying and training, and the sister became a couturiére for the local nobility, something she seemed quite good at, although even her talents could not protect her from the capricious personality of the spoiled all the time.
The young stallion looked through his room window, his head resting on his foreleg, and sighed. The trickling of the water droplets on his dirty window were the only things that made any semblance of noise. Irritated, annoyed, and tired, the sound of water hitting glass started filling Flavio's ears, and just before he lost i, he started to notice something. His ears perked up and he looked around his wooden room. The large bed, covered with a crimson blanket and head with two white pillows, made no sound. The hoof-carved drawers, their surfaces something like a Ponan sculpture, were not creaking, as furniture had a tendency to do. His vanity mirror rested calmly upon its legs, the various beauticious products of equally varied size and color, did not move by some manner of ghostly hoof. No. it was the rain. The thing he detested the most. The thing that bothered him throughout his foalhood.
Suddenly, a stroke of inspiration, if only to get rid of this annoying noise in his head. Downstairs, next to the entrance, laid a harpsichord. A modest little thing made from polished red wood with two rows of painted keys. Having come from a grateful dignitary when Flavio's sister was commissioned by the local governor to make him a beautiful scarf, the instrument remained in the house for the young stallion's mother to play with on her free time.
He pulled the small stool up and, with heart pounding and breath irregular, put his hooves on the instrument. Noise. That's all that came out, but he would not relent. That sound needed to leave his ears. That accursed tapping of rain against glass. Weeks passed that he trained himself to associate each key with a sound, and each sound became associated with a key and hoof position. Eventually, he became confident enough to play the instrument in front of his family during a celebration to honor spirits, and it is said that, upon a single stroke of ivory, that his cutie mark appeared by the thanks of spirits. Ironically, the cutie mark was the top half of a black, eyeless mask through which tears flowed. His family was pleased and congratulated him, but he was not happy. To Flavio, it was a shame that he would never get rid, so he would simply hide it.
His talents were used at a local theater, then personally for the governor, then he nobles, and his soon became famed across the country. Years went by that he entertained so many ponies and he loved this. Finally, after so long, he could give back to society what it gave him: Joy. Nature, however...well, let's just say he was an adamant supporter of industrialization at the expense of the forests and river banks. This caused him some ire, but being a musician, he only had affair with a brute or two of the linguistic variety.
After fifty years of touring, the old stallion, at the ripe old age sixty-six, was invited by the dying noble of his old home of Frun. It had been so long, the stallion thought. So long since he had seen his home. What of the people? The new generation? What of the buildings? What had changed? What about his mother and father? Surprisingly, they were still alive and well on their way to become centenarians, yet they were not senile enough to not recognize their son. The mother was rather remiss at him not having grandchildren or being married like his brother and sister, but he brought so much soothing music to the ears of the people that it mattered little. He already had a legacy made, and he wouldn't be forgotten, nor would his family.
A mere week after arriving, the old harpsichord was taken from Flavio's old home and placed in the same large theater as his first performance. Much like the city, it hadn't changed much. Curtains of velvet red draped around rows and rows and rows of olden seats, and over those even more seats. Several hundred ponies came for the performance, and he was happy, so he started the music at due time, yet the four seats reserved for his family remained empty. It was okay, though, as his performances lasted several hours, so he played on, entertaining the masses.
But woe, the family did not arrive after three hours. Something was wrong, he thought, but he carried on. Hours became minutes which, themselves, became seconds, and no sign. Looking up from his instrument, Flavio realized something: Blue specters were sitting upon the empty seats above and the personal studios around. What did this mean? the only seats empty were the four remaining at the front, yet still empty!
Then the stallion had a better look, and realized something dreadful. Even thought the years had passed, some of these revenants were old nobles from those times before when he was still young. He couldn't understand, then it hit him: His talent was not a boon. It was not even a blessing; It was a curse. Not to him, but to his listeners. Damned forever to listen to his concerts until he died, but soon they would be freed, for he had not long to live. He was certain of this, yet...Ponies turned disheveled and decrepit, then collapsed, yet their spirits remained, unaware of the time passing. The only one not going through this torture was the musician himself, and he was more than aware of the passage of time. He wanted to stop, but he couldn't. The curse, perhaps? It was a dreadful realization to make, especially when you thought you were doing good. The audience was stuck until he finished, but he could not finish until his audience became complete. A music of circles, and it is at this moment, and this only moment, that Flavio did something he despised more than anything in the world: He imitated rain. Nary a few tears leaked from his eyes, but they were a throwback to the start of his talents, and their fall reminded him of the first tune he ever heard. A very, very sour note to leave on, one would think.
It's unknown why his parents never arrived, nor if his cutie mark was truly cursed, but Flavio plays, awaiting his family's arrival; and his audience, unaware of the passage of time, still listen to him as intently as they did during their fresh arrival. Forever trapped in a music of endless circles and an audience and performer undying.
