Memory of a Melody

by Cadenza Heartsong

Rating: everyone
Tags: Octavia, Mrs. Cake, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 3835

Plagued by a particularly troublesome composition, not even her favorite cup of tea can quell the churning storm of Octavia's thoughts. Perhaps an old memory might serve as a greater muse...

Plagued by a particularly troublesome composition, not even her favorite cup of tea can quell the churning storm of Octavia's thoughts. Perhaps an old memory might serve as a greater muse...

Cover art by OverlordNeon: deviantArt / Tumblr

Published 2018-06-29 18:10:06 UTC
Last updated 2018-06-29 18:10:06 UTC

Memory of a Melody

Octavia sat with her hoof hugging a cup of her usual tea, the cozy aroma blending with that of the various cakes and pastries that lined the shelves of the front counter. She loved spending her mornings here and often found that a warm infusion lightly spiced with the chill of mint was the perfect way to focus her thoughts for the day’s practice session. As the rejuvenating brew awakened her mind, she began humming a structureless song searching for a resolution.

“Still working on that song, dearie?” Mrs. Cake said, holding a dainty saucer with a fresh teacake as she approached Octavia’s table, rousing her from her reverie.

“I just can’t seem to find the right melody,” she sighed. “I had hoped coming here would help clear my mind and inspire me as always, but…” She trailed off, lost in thought.

“Well, I don’t know much about music, but I do know how much you love these!” The baker beamed as she laid the sweet toasted bun in front the musing mare. “Here, on the house.“

Octavia furrowed her brow, bemused by the unexpected gesture. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly accept,” she flustered. Her wistful gaze lingered a moment too long, belying her craving.

Mrs. Cake gently laid a hoof on the troubled musician’s shoulder. “I insist! I made one too many," she said before making her way back to the kitchen to clean up the usual confectionery cacophony left from the frenzied morning rush. Octavia smiled graciously and partook of the teacake, losing herself in the warm buttery flavor punctuated with blueberries.

She is quite the baker, Octavia mused with an air of melancholy. To have come to know her customers so well, even as friends... truly a master of her art. Would that I were able to master my own. She tentatively sipped her tea and winced as a blistering pain seared her tongue. Groaning as her thoughts turned inward, she reflected on the song that had plagued her for weeks. She had come to despise it and became increasingly frustrated at her ineptitude to compose even a simple melodious complement for the aimless tune.

She was gratefully spared further destructive introspection by a gentle chime inviting a gust of brisk autumn air sweeping about the shop as a blue-maned colt rushed up to the front counter.

“Mrs. Caaaake!” his nasally voice rang through the shop as the orange blur bounced impatiently from hoof to hoof.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” came her response, muffled alongside a clattering of baking dishes and utensils. The impatient colt craned his neck over the counter, attempting to peer into the kitchen until Mrs. Cake emerged from it. Her apron was covered in fresh wet spots and splotches of various ingredients. “Now, what can I do for you, dearie?” she chimed brightly.

The young pony seemed fit to burst with excitement he could no longer contain. “Guess what! I finally got my cutie mark!” he exclaimed proudly and tossed a few gold coins on the counter. “My mom said I could come here and get a cake to celebrate!”

“Oh my, that’s wonderful!” she replied with delight. “I bet you like chocolate, how does that sound?” The colt seemed so thrilled he could do nothing more than bounce gleefully about.

“Well then, I have just the thing.” Mrs. Cake briefly disappeared behind the counter and resurfaced with a slightly oversized chocolate cupcake piled high with whipped frosting and an assortment of festive sprinkles. “Here you are! Consider it a gift, and congratulations on your cutie mark!” She smiled cordially as she gave him the cupcake and returned his bits.

“Really? Thanks, Mrs. Cake! You’re the best!” With an excited flourish, he was gone just as quickly as he had come, leaving little more than another chime and a fresh cold breeze in his wake. Sighing with equal parts mirth and exhaustion, the weary confectioner glanced over at Octavia, who was studiously staring at her tea.

“Did you happen to see what his cutie mark was?” Mrs. Cake asked. “I couldn’t get a good view from behind the counter here.”

“I’m not quite sure.” Octavia shrugged. “I think it might have been a bat and ball or something otherwise pertaining to a sport. He was moving around rather erratically, though I do suppose he had every reason to. Finding one’s calling is truly a remarkable experience.”

Mrs. Cake nodded merrily in affirmation before her face suddenly contorted into an expression fraught with worry. “Oh! I just remembered we have a very large order to fill this afternoon! Do call if you need anything, dear.” With a brief curtsy, she promptly zoomed back into the kitchen, resuming her cleaning and clattering with renewed vigor.

Octavia regarded her anxious friend with a smile as her contemplations turned toward the origins of her own cutie mark. A remarkable experience indeed, she thought, chuckling to herself. She took another sip of tea with immediate scalding regret as her musings drifted back to that Canterlot garden party, a veritable lifetime ago.

It was there where she first heard it—the deep, dulcet tones of a cello. The enthralling sounds emanated from a small stage erected at the edge of the courtyard. In the center stood a unicorn, horn ablaze in a radiant emerald aura, drawing bow across string and bringing life to the most gorgeous sound she ever heard. Everything around her began to melt and fade away as the melody resonated within her, permeating her very soul with pure bliss. Attempts at conscious thought faltered as the music enveloped her, soothing and reassuring her as dissonance gave way to harmony. Time seemed but a fleeting speck of insignificance before the fiery prominence of the song.

As the cadenza concluded, Octavia stood in awe and attempted to regain her composure. Tears began to stream down her cheeks; she found herself unable to recall a time in which she had felt such happiness. She chose to dedicate her endeavors to manifesting that same joy in the hearts of others and resolved to master the art of music.

She thereafter managed to obtain a cello of her own. As a filly without the gift of magical dexterity, learning to command the massive instrument and coax from it the beautiful tones of which she knew was capable proved to be a rather arduous task. She sought out other musicians for instruction, but all were unicorns who scoffed at her—the mere idea of an earth pony attempting an art privy only to unicorns seemed a laughable absurdity. Dejected but undeterred, she began the meticulous process of teaching herself, an undertaking that was both physically and mentally exhausting. She pored over tomes musty and modern, studying everything she could find regarding music and instrument technique.

Once she became familiar enough with music notation, she set about determining correct hoof positioning used for influencing different tones though holding specific strings. With much effort, she learned to discern the sounds each string sang as the bow danced across it. Through blending these new sounds, she could create endless combinations of harmonies and melodies—some sweet, warm, and pleasant, while others harsh, dark, and dissonant.

Yet, all the knowledge and memorization could not alleviate the sheer difficulty of wielding the bow and actually playing. She struggled with finding how best to hold the bow without sacrificing maneuverability and precision. She began by clenching the base of the frog between her teeth, but that had made playing effectively quite a backbreaking endeavor. After considerable trial and error, she eventually came to grasp the bow in the crook of her foreleg, propping the cello upright against her and using her own weight to support it. Though her posture helped to facilitate progress in the early stages of her learning, holding and gliding the bow across the strings in such a fashion was initially strenuous and painful. Her forelegs grew stronger and her delicate hooves progressively became callused as she continued to improve, acclimating to her exhausting, albeit effective method.

Throughout the time she spent studying and honing her technique, she made many subsequent ventures to attend other performances in Canterlot to observe and learn all she could. During these visits, she began to attract some attention for herself. Some of the other concert attendees seemed rather interested as to why she was so enamored with the finer arts at such a young age. It didn’t take long for news of an earth pony cellist to spread throughout the intricate gossip networks of societal nobility. At the time, music was almost exclusively performed by unicorns, as only they were possessed of a means to apply the requisite dexterity demanded by their instruments of choice. To hear of a non-unicorn attempting to play anything was unthinkable! However, she knew the aristocrats’ collective curiosity was piqued, if only for all the hushed chiding they failed to prevent from reaching her sensitive ears.

After months of nigh ceaseless practice and diligently working to master her methods, she felt the time was right to prepare for her first performance. She selected a piece she knew was popular among the social elite, one that was sure to put a smile on the faces of all who heard it. She worked assiduously to commit the entire piece to memory: the notes, the dynamics, the requisite hoofboard positions—absolutely everything; for she was determined to play her best.

Many weeks of meticulous exertion passed as she became content with her own ability to perform the piece perfectly. She secured an entry in a recital held annually at the magnificent Canterlot theatre that played host to various artistic exhibitions from musical showcases to stage productions. Musicians of varying ages and abilities filed in and out as she anxiously waited in the anteroom. When the time for her performance approached, she snuck a peek from behind the curtain and beheld the unexpected enormity of the crowd.

Suddenly the prospect of performing for a horde of unfamiliar faces seemed infinitely more so a daunting one. As she withdrew behind the safety of the curtain once again, fear began to claw its way into her mind, instigating reservations and insecurities.

What if they didn’t like her performance?

What if she forgot part of the song… or slipped and made a mistake?

What if they laughed at her?

She froze, rigid with trepidation as she struggled with these new unbidden thoughts. Intermittent, confused applause resounded throughout the auditorium as the prior musician concluded their piece, enkindling an abrupt blaze of panic within her.

While she sat unmoving, the stage door swung open and nearly collided with her as a white, blue-maned filly swaggered into the waiting room. She exclaimed in surprise and apologized profusely before taking a moment to acknowledge the apprehension painted clearly across Octavia’s face. She beamed at the frightened cellist as if she hadn’t a care in the world regarding the less than stellar response her performance had received.

“Don’t sweat it, you’ll do fine!” she said, her magenta eyes gleaming with confidence. “Music is meant to be fun!”

Octavia could only nod silently as the pony trotted over and sank into the nearest seat. She afforded herself a brief smile—never had a unicorn not criticized her desire to play despite her lack of magical ability. Turning back to face the curtain, she reflected upon all that she had learned and accomplished. She recalled that fateful day in the garden, the moment when the purity of music touched her soul. She speculated that so long as she enjoyed her song, then so too would the audience. She had rehearsed countless times until the piece was ingrained into her memory. No doubt she was capable of flawless execution.

Finally quelling the storm within her mind, she made her way onstage. There—courtesy of the stageponies facilitating smooth transitions between acts—stood her cello, bathed in light. Its gleaming mahogany brilliance filled her with pride as she slowly approached. The dull roar of idle banter pervading the theatre fell to a murmur as her sudden emergence served to calm the assembly. However, they remained far from silent; whispers ran rampant through the crowd, some of wonder and fascination, while others of skepticism and hesitation.

Grasping the cello and assuming her stance, she allowed herself a moment to compose her thoughts. She ignored their insinuations of her ineptitude and instead decided to simply present a means of enlightenment. The audience fell still, filling the chamber with the telltale silence that preceded each piece. With a graceful flourish, she took the bow in the crook of her foreleg and set it against the strings.

From the first note that rang out, she commanded the attention of the entire theatre, masterfully drawing forth the cello’s beautiful tones and timbres. All traces of reservation and doubt uniformly vanished from her captivated spectators, immediately replaced with expressions of wonder. Focused solely on playing, her eyes darted rapidly between the hoofboard and bow, making sure the right notes were played at the right time with correct inflections and articulations. She knew it was far from necessary as she could play the song in her sleep, but this was her first public recital and she wanted to be certain it went impeccably.

During a lull in the piece, she relaxed slightly and allowed her gaze to wander over the faces before her. She was dismayed to find that despite a flawless performance thus far, they seemed disinterested. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She knew the song was popular, so why weren’t they enjoying it? What had caused their collective interest to gradually wane?

Her proficiency was unquestionable, but she could not help but feel something was wrong. She played with precision, her nigh endless rehearsal made obvious. Could it be that her solo was too perfect? A yawn escaped from somewhere within the crowd, spreading through the apathetic audience like an infectious plague.

Her lofty ambitions of bringing joy to others with her music swiftly descended into a living nightmare of uncertainty. What was she doing wrong? She hadn’t missed a single note. Her utilization of dynamics was flawless as denoted by the composer, so surely it couldn't have been her fault. Was it the music itself? Was it simply lacking?

As her mind raced in a feverish endeavor to determine her error, her bow slipped. A shrill dissonance erupted and echoed throughout the theatre as the bow clattered to the floor, startling the bored spectators from their stupor. Poorly concealed gasps and hushed whispers rippled through the auditorium. Paralyzed and horrified by her repulsive mistake, she could do naught but blankly stare, baffled by the collective escalation of interest and attention.

Her petrified gaze wandered over the crowd as they stared back, silently imploring her to resume playing. Their reaction was simply unexpected—they weren’t ridiculing her at all. Instead, they appeared to be intrigued by her sudden cacophonous blunder that shattered the monotony of an over-rehearsed performance. She always thought that it was only through striving for excellence and precision she could impart upon others that joy and happiness she once experienced. Yet, here was undeniable evidence to the contrary. If not by means of an ideally impeccable tribute to the creator of a masterpiece, then how was music meant be loved, cherished, and shared? Was her method flawed?

Amidst her crisis of self-doubt, she remembered the mantra of the prior performer.

Music is meant to be fun!

An idea began to take root, a small glimmering seed of hope imbuing her with the selfsame confidence that saturated those words. She began to contemplate the notion that music was meant to be enjoyed through the unique style and flair of the one bringing it to life. It certainly stood to reason, otherwise all instances of any given song would sound identical and monotonously dreary. Perhaps it was playing with emotion that brought forth music’s true essence. With astounding clarity, she realized how mechanically she had been playing—like a metronome—memorizing everything necessary to perform musically verbatim. Music wasn’t intended to be played from the mind. True music was meant to be a work of passion from the heart.

As the audience began muttering uncertainties wondering if the cellist would carry on, she retrieved her bow from the floor with as much dignity as she could muster. She breathed slowly and deeply, achieving a state of relaxed tranquility. Retaining a calm demeanor, she began to purge her thoughtlessly mechanical methods from her mind, resolving instead to play what simply felt right. The blue-maned filly’s words pervaded her thoughts as she once again assumed her position, closed her eyes, and began to play.

Considering the prescribed dynamics more as guidelines, she continued the piece and began to create her own inflections and articulations. With an extra note here and a trill there, she became more and more liberal with her improvisations, culminating in a dramatic crescendo as she brought to her melody to life. A jovial smile spread across her face as the bow danced gracefully across the strings to her whim in a vehement style all her own. Her music resonated with a vivacious zeal that permeated the entire theatre.

Mesmerized, the audience could do naught but watch in awe as they witnessed the profound transformation unfold before them. She stood in full command of her art, playing with such fervid passion and poise as her dulcet, warming tones summoned forth an unrelenting deluge of melodious euphoria. Her riveting refrain reverberated throughout the hall, captivating each attendee in turn and evoking fond, pleasant memories.

As her aria concluded—the last note ringing out and dying away with resolute finality and finesse—a palpable silence filled the auditorium. Octavia held her pose, waiting for her reception with bated breath. So enraptured by the song, the audience seemed wholly unaware of their surroundings. One by one they blinked, as if awakening from a trance. Some let out soft gasps as they returned to reality.

Is it...over? Oh, right...I suppose we should applaud now.

Subdued intermittent applause followed from the dazed crowd as Octavia simpered quietly. By no means did they roar to life, but this was perhaps even better. Her song took them on a transcendent journey as the melody swam before them in a sea of reds and yellows, wrapping them all in its harmonious embrace. That her audience was so transfixed was all she needed—she knew how she could spread happiness and joy through her music. A soft, glowing warmth enveloped her as she slowly opened her eyes to behold the appearance of her cutie mark: a stylized treble clef, sparkling with a brilliant violet radiance.

Octavia absentmindedly sipped her tea and nearly retched as the cold brew jarred her from her musings. A fresh assortment of tantalizing fragrances filled the shop as Mrs. Cake began stacking several parcels on top of the counter.

“Are you alright, dearie?” she called, her voice saturated with exhaustion.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Octavia coughed in reply. “I’ve been... lost in thought longer than I’d care to admit.” Having placed the last of the packages, Mrs. Cake returned to the kitchen. After a brief clinking of dishes from the back of the bakery, she emerged holding a small tray with two cups of tea and a sugar bowl.

“Just the way you like it,” she said with a smirk as she laid the tray upon the table and set one of the teacups in front of the hesitant musician.

“You need not furnish me with another. The fault is mine for losing track of time.”

“Oh, won’t you please? I could certainly use a break,” the baker exhaled wearily while taking a seat opposite her favorite regular.

“Ah well, if you insist.” Octavia took a cautious sip and was surprised to find the beverage pleasingly warm rather than scalding. She gave the kind mare a coy smile. “Truly, your endeavors in caring for your patrons and their preferences are quite astounding.”

Mrs. Cake giggled melodiously. “Well, when you have Ponyville’s premier party pony living on the second floor, her fondness for filing and knowing everypony’s favorite desserts starts to influence you!” She dropped two sugar cubes into her cup and stirred it slowly.

“So, what were you thinking about? I’ve never seen you let your tea go that cold.”

Octavia breathed a wistful sigh. “That eager colt from earlier reminded me of my own cutie mark, and so I was reflecting upon how I first found my fervor for music,” she said before sampling her drink once more.

“Yes, I remember,” the confectioner chortled. “You’ve certainly worked hard to earn your position as Equestria’s finest cellist!”

“Quite. Though I must admit that my current troubles vex me far more than those of once dealing with the ridicule of being among the first earth ponies to take up the art,” she said bitterly, scowling in irritation. “Now I can’t even muster a simple melody to finish my—” Octavia paused, her eyes widening as she stared vacantly into nothingness.

Mrs. Cake regarded her with a quizzical expression. “Is something wrong?”

“That melody...the one I played when the passion of music took my heart. I remember it so vividly now,” the musician said with the faintest of grins, her voice rising in an emphatic crescendo as she spoke. “That’s what I’ve been missing! How could I not have seen it?”

As Octavia began humming with renewed vigor, Mrs. Cake sighed contently—not at all bothered by her guest’s sudden lack of attention. She knew this look well and was loath to disturb an active muse. Partaking of her cup, she savored the warm brew as she watched Octavia close her eyes and lose herself to her song. Though she was primarily an instrumentalist, her vocal manifestations were no less impressive. Mrs. Cake quickly found herself enthralled by the virtuoso’s perfect pitch as her unobtrusive humming transitioned into fervent singing. Even without the trademark cello, she could just as easily envision Octavia onstage shrouded in her veil of resplendent grandeur.

Relinquishing herself to the passionate whims of her muse, her voice rose to a dramatic apex. After holding a particularly long note, Octavia abruptly ceased with a gasp as her eyes snapped open.

“O-oh! I’m sorry,” she said, blushing slightly. “I lost myself there for a moment.”

Mrs. Cake beamed cordially. “That’s alright, dearie! I very much enjoyed your little song.”

Octavia nodded graciously. “You have my sincerest gratitude… and my humblest apologies, for I simply must be going. There is much practice to be done and music to be made. After all, inspiration waits for no mare!” With a flourish, she downed the remainder of her tea in one draft and laid the cup upon the table. She gave a courteous bow before elegantly pivoting on the spot and trotting out the door, leaving naught but a delightedly content friend and a gentle chime ringing in her wake.