Count Caesar stabbed at his salad with lethargy. A simple appetizer to sate him for the time being, he lifted the well-dressed fork into his mouth and chewed without haste. He had been to this bistro before, but it wasn’t the food that interested him this time around. It was the company.
The sun glared down under the brim of Caesar’s top hat onto his monocle, which he then adjusted with his hoof. In doing so, he spotted a familiar ashen-grey mare gracefully strolling towards his outdoor table with deliberation. Octavia Melody, no doubt. Her jet-black bangs hanged above her face that saluted Caesar with a warm, if questioning, expression.
Caesar waved with a great smile in acknowledgement at her, motioning her over to the opposite side of the outdoor table he sat at. Octavia took the cue and sat down on the soft hay seating, eyeing Caesar as he silently slid his menu over to her. Then he went back to idly stabbing his salad, much to her perplexion. Still, she gathered the courage to make the first move.
“I received your letter, Count Caesar,” - Caesar nodded silently - “and I can’t express how happy it made me. It’s good hearing from—and seeing you again. Though, if I may ask, what brought you to invite me to lunch?” her posh accent punctuated.
“Do just call me Caesar,” he corrected as Octavia glided over the menu, “and I was just in the area when I thought to invite my old ward out for some conversation. All expenses paid for, of course.”
“How generous, but I brought-“ Octavia was interrupted by Caesar slamming his own bits onto the table with glee.
“I insist. So, Octavia Melody, how has life been treating you? I haven’t seen you since the two years passed Grand Galloping Gala. I regret not being able to see you then, given the circumstances. Did you not want to get signed on again after the events of that one?” he joked.
Octavia put down her menu as one corner of her mouth creased into a half-smile. “Simply ‘Octavia’ is fine, too—and no. Although I suppose the managers of the orchestra might have had similar thoughts, and after that disaster, I was fine with it. Did you keep going to them? After how Rainbow Dash treated you, I would be quite surprised.”
Caesar chewed slowly, finishing his salad as he recalled Rainbow Dash’s abrupt stunt with him. “Ah, yes. Rainbow Dash. I never quite figured out what she did that for. I should have sued her for that.”
He laid his fork down neatly onto the plate before brushing the edges of his mouth with a napkin.
“Didn’t Pinkie Pie fuddle with your orchestra as well?” he continued. “Your divinely played cello was quickly drowned out by her peasant music. Not that I’m against that sort.”
“Oh, yes,” Octavia snorted. “It seems we both got the short end of the stick in that regard. Isn’t it funny how they both went on to become among the greatest champions in Equestrian history? Who would have guessed?”
“Princess Celestia, I suppose. Also why I didn’t sue Miss Dash. Bringing one of the mares who brought down Nightmare Moon to court would have been more trouble than it was worth,” Caesar said with a wry smirk.
“As if you needed the money from her,” she teased. “What is it that you do for a living, anyways? I’ve always wondered that since you first fillysat me all those years ago.”
Caesar waved his hoof with lidded eyes as if it were no big deal. “I’m an advisor to the princesses, of course! Why do you think I attend all of their events like the gala? I do keep going to them, to answer your previous question, even if they do either bore me to tears or make my life far too interesting. It’s how I incur their favor.”
Octavia’s ears perked up at his status drop. Given the old nobility of Canterlot and their time-consuming tradition of meeting with Princess Celestia, she perhaps should have expected it.
“Mm. Involve yourself in the nobility’s politics?” Octavia probed, trying to figure out how being an advisor supported his lavish lifestyle.
“Yes, but not in the way you might expect. I champion the cause of the urban poor;” - Octavia stifled a chuckle - “the poor wretches are the backbone of Canterlot’s prosperity, and the near-constant world-ending events leave them without heart and without a leader. That’s where I put my hooves in. My appearance is just a representation that even noblestallions can be their savior,” Caesar adjusted his top hat with self-confidence, blissfully unaware how pompous it made him seem.
“Well, you are clearly generous enough, treating me to a meal,” Octavia eyed her menu one last time. “I’m sure they appreciate it.”
While Octavia was rather skeptical of him being a so-called champion of the common pony, he was at the very least magnanimous with his bits and evidently is a regular at small-town diners.
“I’m sure they do. Enough about me, though. How is your personal life, outside the orchestra? That’s all your mother ever talks to me about you, is how all you ever write to her is about the band. You should visit the poor mare and myself some time, Canterlot isn’t that far-“
Octavia interrupted Caesar’s unintentional guilt-trip, embarrassed and ashamed. “Do you remember my childhood friend, Vinyl Scratch? Pale yellow one with the striped-blue mane, who used to come over sometimes when you fillysat me? We’re roommates, now.”
Caesar leaned back and rolled his golden eyes up as he placed a hoof on his memory. “The loud, energetic, somewhat obnoxious one? All power to her, I suppose,” he paused in thought. “You know, I remember seeing some spark between you two. You know what they say, opposites attract. Did you ever think of-“ Caesar lightly tapped his hooves together as Octavia cringed at his implication.
“Now you see why I don’t write much anymore,” Octavia half-chastised, not entirely sure of her capability to refute that it crossed her mind more than once.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” he quickly defended. “I’m sure you’ll find the right stallion some day. Still, there’s nothing wrong with experimenting with your fellow mares. Celestia knows I’ve done the same with stallions-“
Octavia glared at him with raised eyebrows, and he took the hint to cease talking. “You’re like my father,” she reprimanded.
Caesar’s hoof propped up his chin as if in deep philosophical thought. “I was thinking more like your great-uncle. I don’t see you nearly often enough to be your father just yet, although your mother does seem rather lonely without you or myself. Really, do come visit Canterlot on your free time. Your mother worries to death about you, and I’d like to see how my old ward is shaping up as a young mare.”
Octavia nodded silently as she felt her inflamed cheeks, something she hadn’t noticed before, pass. Either out of the mention of Vinyl or Caesar’s apparent genuine care for her and her family, she could not tell. Still, she felt slightly uncomfortable; usually whenever someone refers to themself as like your uncle it typically carries negative connotations.
A waiter came upon their table. “Ready to order, or should I give you two a few more minutes?”
Caesar glanced at Octavia, trying to see if she was ready, and she shot a glance back. They both took this as a cue that they were prepared, but Caesar deferred to Octavia.
“I’ll have a simple hay sandwich, please. No petals.”
The waiter turned to Caesar. “And I’ll take the egg salad sandwich, extra dressing.”
“Drinks?” the waiter asked as he took their orders down.
“Water is fine,” said Octavia.
“I’ll also take a water,” Caesar repeated.
The waiter put down his notes and nodded before taking their menu. “I’ll be back with your meals shortly,” he said before taking off into the bistro itself.
Almost before he was gone, Caesar turned back to Octavia. “There’s no need to order something so small. I insist, I’ll pay for everything. You don’t need to think of it as a burden on me. You and I both know I have more bits than I can make useful.”
Octavia looked down as she stroked the hay stack that was her seat. She appreciated it certainly, but she also did not want the stallion to waste his money on her.
“Oh, it’s fine,” she retreated to a more passive, defensive demeanor. “I don’t want to eat too much anyways, watching my weight and all,” she trailed off.
“Nonsense. Just enjoy yourself. I don’t get to see you often enough as it is, so when I do, I want to make sure it’s worth your while,” Caesar insisted.
“You really are like a father to me,” Octavia smiled. “Do you and mother still speak often? It breaks my heart to leave her all the way up in Canterlot by herself ever since father passed,” she looked suddenly but expectedly downtrodden.
Ah, Octavia’s father, Caesar’s old business partner. If he alone couldn’t enforce the common ponies’—and his—will on Princess Celestia, the both of them certainly could. In fact, he wondered if it was both of their influences that led to Octavia appreciating the austere life of Ponyville, with company like Vinyl Scratch. It was certainly a lot less refined than the Canterlot elite was, but both Caesar and Octavia enjoyed it nonetheless, something he was sure her father would be supportive of. He wanted to take her mind off of his passing, though.
Caesar leaned forward and offered a warm smile. “Don’t you worry about that dear, I still talk to her on an almost daily basis. Why, I even invited her to the just-passed gala!”
“Really?” Octavia exclaimed, jolting her from her saddened state before composing herself. “Did she say yes? She didn’t write to me about it!”
Caesar all of a sudden appeared more hesitant, as if he accidentally gave away her mother’s secret. “Yes, well,” he stammered while his own cheeks blazed lightly, “it was just a formality to bring her. As old friends. No disrespect intended towards your late father.”
“I’m sure that made her day, all the same,” cooed Octavia, who was glad to see her mother was doing well in spite of her neglect. “Did anything interesting happen this time around? Or were there no Pinkie Pies or Rainbow Dashes?” she made fun.
“Oh, you won’t believe this,” Caesar chuckled. “Discord.”
Octavia’s eyes widened as her groomed tail swished against her hay stack for a seat with awe. What madmare would invite Discord? she wondered.
“Exactly what I thought,” he continued as he clasped his hooves together. “If being thrown around by Rainbow Dash or having your music drowned out by Pinkie Pie wasn’t enough,” Caesar scoffed, “then having a ‘reformed’ god of chaos bring along a ball of sludge that devours everything it touches would certainly have driven you mad. Consider yourself lucky the gala is an opportunity for you, not an obligation.”
Octavia continued to stare on, blinking twice rapidly before going back to her unfazed gaze. “You mean the Schmooze, that can-“ she finally mustered, but was interrupted by a familiar beige waiter.
“One hay sandwich,” the waiter said as he lowered a plate in front of her, “and one egg salad sandwich,” he flourished by lowering another plate in front of Caesar.
He proceeded to lower their two humble waters, and with a curt nod signifying if they were satisfied, made off.
Octavia eyed Caesar’s sandwich with slight disappointment that she hadn’t ordered something with more taste. “You really love salad, don’t you, Caesar?” she taunted.
Caesar shrugged his shoulders with a cheeky grin. “If you want to trade, I’m more than willing to bargain.”
Stingy stallion. Had to be, considering how he got to where he was in the food chain of business and politics.
“I’m fine,” Octavia white-lied, but it was a façade Caesar saw through, given how she eyed his dish conspicuously.
He slid his own dish over to hers, unwilling to let a light meal ruin her day. “I’ve had the salads here before, it’s best for me to try something new, anyways.”
Octavia hesitated, looking between the two dishes as Caesar grew slightly impatient. “Are you sure? I can-“
“Young mare, please! You don’t need to worry about me. I invited you out for your enjoyment just as much as mine,” chastised Caesar, his tone almost like that of a parent.
Octavia hanged her head slightly, but still pushed her hay sandwich over to Caesar’s side. He smiled at her backing down, hoping she would just enjoy the time instead of worrying how much it would cost him, monetarily or otherwise.
Caesar and Octavia proceeded to take their own napkins and tuck them into his own dress collar and her own bow-tie, respectively. Their prim and proper mannerisms made them stick out at this small-town bistro, but it was something they paid no heed to. Octavia grasped the sandwich with her hooves, but hesitated before lifting it into her mouth.
“I don’t remember if I said it earlier, Count Caesar, but thank you for inviting me out.”
Caesar halted his own eating before replying, “It’s nothing. If you visited Canterlot more often, you and your mother could get used to this,” he said, biting into the bland sandwich.
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” Octavia teased as she took a bite of Caesar’s sandwich, which she savored the taste of; it wasn’t her typical style of eatery.
Caesar simply shook his head to from side to side in response, aiding his chewing as he swallowed. “Not until you come visit. I would say I’m insisting purely as a favor to your mother, but that would downplay my friendship towards you. You can’t forget the stallion who helped raise you, can you?” he fake guilt-tripped.
“Fine, fine,” Octavia relented through intermittent bites. “I’ll see you two when I have the free time. Mother deserves better,” she trailed off. “Speaking of which, how did she fare at the gala? I trust Discord’s monstrosity didn’t ruin her time?”
Caesar chuckled. “I might be used to the circus that is the current state of the Grand Galloping Gala, but your mother isn’t! Ah, she quite enjoyed it though, in spite of or because of it; she wore a great smile on her face that was nearly as large as the one she wears when you’re around. I never asked her if she did though, if only out of embarrassment that we were nearly swallowed alive by the sludge. The only thing I could think of that would have made it better for her—and all of us is if you were there playing.”
Octavia’s apprehensions about the gala subsided. If her mother could enjoy such wackiness, how could she not share in that with her? Her heart warmed to hear her both her mother getting out and enjoying herself, and hear her own praises sung.
“Good on you for convincing her to go out, Celestia knows I couldn’t. I would have gone with her if I had she written to me about it, but I suppose that leaves me with no excuse now to not come visit Canterlot with her,” Octavia pretend-lamented.
“And me,” Caesar said as he finished Octavia’s small dish, brushing his muzzle with his napkin.
“And you,” Octavia half-sarcastically shot back. “How is Canterlot nowadays, by the way? You admittedly don’t do the best job at advertising it as a tourist destination.”
Caesar hanged his hoof in the air with authority. “If the Princesses listened more to those like me and your father, it would be a completely different story. Unfortunately, they don’t, so we’re stuck with seemingly bi-annual disasters like Discord’s liberation or Changeling attacks.”
He paused, realizing he was ranting rather than doing justice to his cause. “That shouldn’t stop you from visiting, though. It’s still a lovely, booming place, when it’s not being used as a testing ground for the wielders of the Elements of Harmony,” scoffed Caesar.
Octavia sighed, knowing it to be an all-too familiar sentiment. “It’s the same song and dance here in Ponyville. Why, it doesn’t even seem that long ago when Vinyl and I were signed on to perform for a wedding, when all of a sudden the town square is being thrashed by some monstrosity from Tartarus! Guess who had to save the day while we struggled to even get our performance there on time? That’s not even counting all the times their dilly-dallying nearly destroyed the town,” she lamented.
She paused before lifting a hoof up, “They do more help than harm though, I must admit,” conceded Octavia, which Caesar begrudgingly nodded at. “The village is small but charming, too. I can’t complain.”
Caesar was all too focused on one part of her story, though. “A wedding, eh? And with Vinyl, too? Mayhaps I’ll be hearing wedding bells between you two in the distant future?” he teased.
Octavia buried her muzzle in her hooves. “You are the worst,” she blushed, glad there weren’t many other patrons around.
“Just don’t forget to invite me, your old stallion,” Caesar capped with a wide grin, content with his skills at embarrassing the younger generations.
“What, are you going to give me away like father would?” joked Octavia, but she quickly started wondering if that was something she might actually want.
Caesar brushed his chin as his eyes looked off to the side in thought. “You might be joking, but I don’t have any family left, and it’s far too late for me to start one,” the late-middle-aged stallion lamented as Octavia bemoaned his sudden shift into the depressing, as the elders often did. “Maybe keep it as a possibility? I always wanted a daughter, and you’re the next best thing to my own.”
Octavia slowly chewed and finished Caesar’s own sandwich as she contemplated the thought. It was a strange request, certainly, but it wasn’t like it was something too out of the ordinary. She didn’t have any other father-figure to step in for walking her down the aisle, which she desired for want of a traditional wedding for a traditional mare. Plus, it seemed like something he genuinely regretted not being able to do.
She brushed her lips with her napkin. “I shall consider it,” offered Octavia, hesitantly; Caesar smiled nonetheless. “If only because you and father were so close. Under one small condition.”
Caesar leaned back, equally taken aback. “Name your condition, and I’ll be sure to fulfill it,” he posed more as a question.
Octavia leaned back herself, not wanting to come off as overbearing. “How did you and father meet? You two were always close, but he-“ Octavia paused as she rubbed her hoof, saddened, “left before I could ever learn much about you two.”
Caesar chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood as he realized what a small condition it truly was. “I’m sure that’s something your mother would have told you, had you ever come to visit her and asked,” he said, making true to his threat of not letting her infrequent visits go.
He paused to think, rolling his hoof around as if to start up the gears in his head as Octavia looked on, expectantly.
“Your parents were obviously immigrants; Gritish, Grittanian, whatever those folk like to aggrandize themselves as. Now, they had a strong backing as their own elite in their own isles, but that didn’t translate well to the old guard of the Canterlot elite. Still, your father was a decidedly competent stallion; much like me, and so I saw something in him,” Caesar related as he took the time to aggrandize himself.
Octavia merely nodded on as if expecting the revelation.
Caesar nodded in response before continuing, “He had no trouble adjusting to Canterlot’s politics, even without my help. I had gotten to know him through our mutual political opinions; those Gritish have their own fair share of common ponies and dirty hovels, something we both bewailed, even as rich stallions. Hay, we even gave the Princess a run for her bits on how to govern Canterlot, if not all Equestria! After a while he introduced me to his lovely wife, and not long after she gave birth to a wonderful daughter,” he cheekily complimented.
Caesar paused as Octavia attempted to piece together her father’s friend circle. “And is that how you came to fillysit me?” she asked adorably weakly.
“More-or-less. It was your mother’s idea, though. You see, your father had a lot of catching up to do to ensure his position as one of the greats and entreat you to a lavish upbringing, so he spent a lot more time than I did campaigning and governing. Your mother took kindly to me as I did to her husband, so I of course accepted. It was its own reward,” he reminisced.
Octavia smiled, appreciating her family history that she was otherwise too afraid to ask mother, given the former’s benign neglect.
“Do you have any good stories?” inquired Octavia. “I’m told I was an interesting young filly.”
Caesar untucked the napkin from his collar as he freed his thoughts, prompting Octavia to do the same. He then flashed a sly grin at her, remembering a few embarrassing ones.
“Ah, I remember when you first started learning the cello,” Caesar loftily related as Octavia started lightly sweating, knowing where this was going. “You weren’t particularly great. Much unlike you are now, but you have to start somewhere. It was grating, but I dealt with it,” he trailed off with laughter that Octavia joined in on, briefly.
He continued, “I even remember when Vinyl Scratch came over a few times.” Octavia gulped, which Caesar took as a sign to press on, “You two got along unusually well. You would always get so mad at her whenever she would play her strange club music while you were practicing, but you always forgave her. Sometimes you went above and beyond forgiving,” he trailed off with vague implication.
“Okay, I get it!” exclaimed Octavia, rousing the remaining patrons. Lowering her voice, “Do you have to say that in public? We were just fillies, we didn’t know any better,” she defended as her voice became more hushed.
Caesar rubbed his shoulder sheepishly as Octavia brushed her hair and looked away. “I’m sorry, dear. You asked for ‘good stories,’” he explained.
“Yes, well, perhaps not that good,” Octavia exasperatedly chastised.
Caesar felt bad embarrassing her, but it was just his paternal instincts. She should get a laugh at his expense, too.
“You know,” Caesar started slowly, “I have some good stories about me, as well. You tried to teach me how to play the cello a few times.”
Octavia’s face brightened up as she started to remember that part of her childhood.
“Oh, yes. It was like trying to teach an old pony how to jump hurdles. Futile,” she laughed, as Caesar joined in.
He paused. “Old?” he questioned with fake insult.
“Oh, hush, you know I don’t mean it that way,” explained Octavia. “No wrinkles and just some venerable grays!”
“Oh, very funny. You know, my hair was a slick black, nearly like yours. That was back in my hey-day, though. The mares loved it,” Caesar postured.
“I’m sure they did,” Octavia rolled her eyes. “Anyways, you could never quite stand up with the cello like you’re supposed to, always falling down with bow in hoof. Eventually, you got so frustrated you tried playing it like a violin over your shoulders!” she bellowed.
Caesar chuckled. “Yes,-” he tapped the table, motioning over for a waiter, “-perhaps the finer arts were never my business. I still like to be a patron of them, though.”
“Clearly,” said Octavia, enjoying the meal and their time.
The same waiter came upon their table. “Bill?” Caesar curtly asked.
The waiter nodded and made away with due haste.
“You know, you could be a good musician. Have you ever seriously tried picking up an instrument, just as a hobby?” asked Octavia.
“Oh, no, and I doubt it. Music is something you spend your whole life learning, like you did. It’s amazing that you’re at such a skill level already, being such a young mare,” Caesar complimented, prompting Octavia to twirl her hair with a hoof, humbled. “Rather, I should be asking if you ever thought of going into politics? It’s more of a hobby, anyways.”
Octavia was taken aback, never considering it. “No? I don’t think I would make a great politician, if I’m being upfront.”
Caesar waved his hoof nonchalantly. “Well, you’ve clearly experienced the same nonsense here in Ponyville that I have in Canterlot. What would you think is the best course of action for fixing it?” he probed eagerly.
“Oh, well,” Octavia began to stammer, but she paused to put some thought into it. “I would, hm, stop relying on the Elements, for one. Organize our own defenses so we may sort out our own problems. Actually put some time into rooting out the crooks and criminals like the Trixies or Flim-Flams so we’re not incessantly terrorized by them.” Octavia picked up her pace, “A return to our traditionalism. Lower the taxes so the private arts and culture that define Equestria flourish, but invest in the infrastructure here; there’s far too many death traps for roads and abandoned or underused buildings. Although I don’t think I’d be a great ruler, I’d just let everyone sort their own problems out; they would know best about them, after all,” she rubbed her cheek, expecting Caesar’s disappointment.
Octavia paused, putting even more thought into how she would run the place, fearing her previous answers. It was a nice thought experiment, and all the while Caesar leaned in closer to hear her ideas, one golden eye shining through his monocle.
“Very impressive, Octavia. You possess an actual understanding of local problems and that youthful go-getter attitude that I had when I was young, in spite of your humble hesitance. It’s just about putting it to use, is all,” Caesar praised, much to her pleasant surprise.
“Really?” Octavia asked, shocked. “I had expected you to be disappointed. I still expect you to be, because I don’t think politics is my thing. What brought you into it?” she inquired, wondering if it could be a hobby for her.
The waiter returned with their bill in hoof and set it on their table, before leaving Caesar and Octavia to their business.
Caesar slammed a very generous amount of bits on the table, more than enough to cover their expenses and even a generous tip. “Aside from compassion for the lower classes, I too was quite frustrated with how things were being run. I thought Princess Celestia was far too complacent in how she dealt with our affairs, always waiting until a problem struck to fix it, rather than weeding out the roots of the issues. I thought Princess Luna’s reformation would fix that. It didn’t,” he sighed.
Octavia looked on at him, understanding his frustrations if not outright agreeing with them.
“I thought the rising prominence of the Elements would fix it. It didn’t,” he continued. “If the Princess actually listened to me and your father, or even the other nobles, things would have been better. Rather, she viewed us as a chore to meet with, something she was never quite good at hiding. She was always too interested in paperwork. My political legacy seems for naught,” Caesar vented, hanging his head, but he wasn’t too saddened.
Octavia hesitated, “You’re confident in your own and my father’s advisory. Do you think you would do better in the Princesses’ steed?” she genuinely probed.
Caesar perked up and nodded his head with formality. Octavia stifled a giggle.
“Oh, don’t be too harsh on them. I’m sure you would do great, though,” offered Octavia, who then started to realize something.
“Your ‘political legacy,’” Octavia paused to think, “you don’t have designs on the monarchy, do you?” she asked as her royally purple eyes met his own.
Caesar leaned back and rubbed his cheek while pretending to adjust his monocle, feeling caught out. It didn’t help that his laurel wreath for a cutie mark started to glow softly, something Octavia leaned up over the table to catch a better view of.
“You do, don’t you?” she giggled. “Well, it would explain your cutie mark. That’s one question I don’t need to ask you.”
“It’s not that incriminating,” Caesar defended. “It just means I’m good at politics, as your father was. Perhaps we would have made better princes is all I’m trying to suggest,” he trailed off with a sly but joking whistle.
Octavia laughed. “Maybe,” she offered before pausing. “Caesar, you didn’t come all the way down to Ponyville just to tell me this?”
Octavia started to think more on Caesar’s invitation. He said he came to this bistro before, so certainly he must have been to Ponyville a few times before. Why didn’t Caesar invite her then? Why is it so important for him now? Not that she didn’t appreciate it, but he must have his reasons.
Then, it all started to spill out of her at once.
“You want to preserve your political legacy, right? And since you have no extant family of your own, you came down looking for somepony who shares in your designs to succeed you? And since you, father, and I were close, you looked on me as the proper heir to your legacy? And you invited me out now because you thought I was the right pony, as the light on your political life starts to dim in your venerable years?” blurted out Octavia, her posh accent making itself known.
She started sweating a fair amount, feeling as if she had pieced together some master puzzle, but still a bit afraid she had put it together all wrong. Caesar stared at her with apparent confusion as he started to sweat himself, only adding to her troubles.
Only then a cheeky grin encroached on his face as he started to slowly clap his hooves. “Well done, Octavia Melody. You were always a clever mare, even in your developmental years,” he offered as he helped himself off of his seating.
Octavia drew out her breath, both out of relief for the present and anxiety for the future.
“It’s not all that complex, though,” Caesar remarked as he offered to help Octavia off of her hay bale, which she accepted. “I’m just looking for someone I can rub off on, like family. You were always like a daughter to me,” he smiled. “Although if you want an in for politics I certainly won’t complain. I always did see myself in you, not just your father.”
Octavia’s breathing regulated itself as she leaned off her seating. “I hope I don’t disappoint, but I think I’ll just stick to my cello for now,” she light-heartedly joked. “You and father always had a flair for the dramatic. And with this ‘daughter’ talk, you sound like you’re one hoofstep away from proposing to mother. Although I can’t say I would be disappointed in you acting as a father to me,” she smiled back.
Caesar wrapped his hoof around her neck as he brought Octavia’s ashen coat into his suspiciously similarly-colored body, then began to guide her home.
Caesar drew in his breath and sighed contently as they glided down the beaten path. “You know your father?”
Author's Note
I started writing this as a means to practice my dialogue and pacing, so I took best pony Octavia and criminally underused Count Caesar and stuck them in the stereotypical “coffee house” scenario. I didn’t originally plan the ending as it was, but I kept dropping subtle hints throughout writing that I wanted and had to commit to. Besides, it needed something fulfilling at the end, otherwise it was just dialogue for dialogue’s sake—even if it was a cliffhanger.
I actually quite enjoyed the relationship I created between the two, so I was considering writing an anthology-style sequel, mostly focusing on Count Caesar and, well, the Caesars.
Also, 100 E-Dollars, redeemable to me only to stroke your ego, to anyone who can figure out why I named the title that way. The chapter name is just a pun on one of Octavian’s titles, Divi Filius, “Son of the Divine,” or in this case, “Daughter of the Divine.” I dropped a few other Caesar and Octavian jokes in there, as well.
