"Princess, do you play an instrument?"
The filly knows no better. She stands not among peers, but strangers. A noble filly in the Princess’ court. Her shelves of knowledge lack compare to the venerable breathing-library before her. She knows next-to nothing of the historic mare, sole ruler of the sovereign land of Equestria, her favored princess. Of the estranged here, the filly knows least, and so it is plain to see that she seeks to abate her curiosity most. Still, the nobles about recoil at the audacity the unknowing filly holds, but stay their words, lest they invoke some unspoken ire the vested monarch wields. The filly’s mother reaches for her, but a pale white hoof, clad in gold, heels her.
Princess Celestia speaks kindly. “I do, my little pony. But I’m afraid you wouldn’t know it. Nor is it one you will play.”
The filly is aware enough to notice she’s made a blunder of some kind; the eyes of the room startle her. She starts for the quickest, most elegant apologies she can fumble, even starting to curtsy.
Celestia’s muzzle dips down before her. She titters. “But perhaps, if you can keep a secret for me, you may know my instrument’s name.”
The filly is shocked still. She looks to her mother, whose ghostly face clashes sharply with her vibrant coat. The filly looks to the smiling, bright-eyed princess, and nods slowly.
The Princess comes forward, her neck craning low, her smile unmarred.
The filly barely recognizes the world as it falls silent, save for the twinkling of stars.
“Xenorphica.” Celestia leans back, her whisper unheard by the masses: her horn cools, slipping to sleep alongside the hushed veil of magic surrounding them. “Now then, I know your mother is quite the talented musician herself, and I can see it in you. Tell me, what do you play, dear? Maybe you are an aspiring pianist?”
The filly huffs, leaping to correct the Princess. The Princess humors the young noble with ease, performing her duty as she has many times before. At the sight of her routine, the crowd’s unease dissipates, the transgression forlorn.
The night continues without impasse. The Princess speaks easily with her ponies, the Crown’s most loyal, the stone-faced garrison. To an unknowing filly, she is remarkably talkative this evening, but the Grand Galloping Gala has always seen such a reception from the kindhearted ruler. It was why the auspicious event held in the Princess’ name was oft-spoken of by the ponies of Equestria, no matter their background. Here, the Princess trot among the less-gifted, among those ever-seeking her blessing and counsel, both in equal measure. It was the chance to speak with and hear not just history, but the nigh-heavenly words of a mare beyond the worldly matters of ponykind. Here, her affairs of placating the troubles of Equestria frothed, a flourishing time for the ponies yearning to reach up to her.
It was for this one evening of the year, then, that the Princess retired earliest.
She clambered up the steps of Canterlot Castle. Upward along the marble steps, reaching higher-and-higher toward the unreachable expanse of space. To the room closest to the heavens, where no other pony dared tread. She walked alone: there were no advisors, warning her of needy court-petitioners; no guards, alert for any slight against her safety; no family, just as eager to see reprieve from the rigors of courtly life. It was the stairway to the boundary of the celestial sphere, traveled only by one.
It was on this night in Equestria that Celestia felt most alone.
Her hooves, having carried her to her quarter, rest for a moment. Slowly, she disrobes from the regal burdens upon her: the gold pieces clink as she finally steps deeper into the room, leaving them beside the now sealed doorway. A flick of magic casts the balcony doors asunder, and a cool breeze licks at her prickly ears. The flames of the hearth come to life, reds and oranges bathing her coat with superfluous, but still-comforting warmth. The silk pillows along the floor do not shift for her now, as her hooves carry her elsewhere.
Set aside the room’s wall, the xenorphica sits.
The silk strings hidden, here, are what she longs for. A wistful smile cracks her façade, not unlike the curiosity before a noble filly’s eyes: the blue-lacquered instrument calls for her, and she answers.
She runs her hoof along the wood, and closes her eyes. It is made of the first felled trees of Everfree, ones felled as fit for a castle. A castle long departed, and stripped of royalty. From the casing of black-and-white keys, the wood runs up, forming the arch of a harp, where the metal-wrapped strings are tied taut. Two silver plates, pressed into the crest of a waning moon, are aligned on either side of the instrument. They are polished neat, even if they are unseen by all, even Celestia.
A wince waves through her, and she sighs.
She returns to feeling along the wood, as if searching for blemishes. The xenorphica is perfect—she is always sure of it, now—and has no need for repair, or even adjustment. The instrument asks only for a player. Celestia is one.
She sits before the artifact. The metal lining wrapped about the strings of the xenorphica flash in the firelight. She does not reach for them, though they call for her. Her hooves run across the keys without sound, and her magic reaches to pull at the pedals. They are ready for her, but still, she does not play.
She must choose a song.
The xenorphica waits, knowing the answer.
A threnody.
A low, choking sound leaves Celestia. Her smile returns, and a tear slips free.
Her hooves reach out, and she begins to play her chosen song for the night. From the steeple’s balcony, the song seeps, singing only for two heaven-bound souls.
One day, Celestia and the xenorphica hope, a song will play, and it will be happier than the last.
Author's Note
Disclaimer: The song linked here is not what Celestia is implied to play.
A small shout-out to NorrisThePony for inspiring me to write more about Celestia.
