Last Dance of Tchaicoltsky

by CrackedInkWell

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Death, Alternate Universe, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Suicide / Self Harm
Length: 12135

The composer of Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, and The Nutcracker is dying. Tchaicoltsky is expected to go to his grave alone, until he gets an unexpected visit from a griffon that asks him out for a date.

Shortly after the premiere of his sixth symphony, Pyotr Tchaicoltsky, composer of Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, and The Nutcracker is dying. Far away from his home country and stuck in Manehattan, he expects that he will spend his final days alone. That is until he gets an unexpected visitor - a griffon by the name of Gregory has come to the dying composer for an unusual request... to ask him out on a date. Seeing that he has nothing left to loose, he agrees to do it the day before he dies. What the old composer doesn't know is that this final date has a few surprises.

A huge thank you to Lilrq28 for proofreading this story.

This story is written as an entry for the M/M Shipping Contest!

Update: This story has been awarded The Medallion of Melancholy from the M/M Shipping Contest!

Published 2021-11-05 19:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2021-11-05 19:40:01 UTC

The Last Waltz in C# minor. Opus 75.

Nine days.

That was how long he had left to live. According to the doctors, given how severe the sickness was, how irreversible that it was at this stage, he had only nine days. As much as he wanted to believe that this must have been some cosmic mistake, he could feel it in his bones.

He, Pyotr Tchaicoltsky, was going to die. Worse yet, he was going to do so very far from his country of Budyonny. At the same time, however, he knew that it was his fault. Three years ago, the old composer was given the opportunity to tour Equestria. To give out concerts to a new audience that have become interested in his new sound. At first, he came because the money was good if he was there to perform and conduct his concertos, symphonies, and ballets. Yet, unexpectedly, the composer had asked for an extended visa to stay in Equestria for at least five more years. No one knew why he did so, but all he wanted was to stay and live in Manehattan for a few years before going back to his home country. Perhaps he stayed for inspiration or that he was popular in the music halls of the city.

Tchaicoltsky wasn’t unproductive during his extended stay either. On days when it wasn’t too windy and the sky was calm, Manehattaners could see the composer wondering about Central Park with a notebook under his wing. Often, he would go towards the quieter parts of the park, remote enough that he wouldn’t be bothered to sit there among the trees to sketch out a few bars of music. From time to time, they would get a glimpse or two at the stallion who wrote out that joyous violin concerto, the tragic Swan Lake, and the newest sensation of The Nutcracker. What they would see was a face that had a gray beard with melancholic dark eyes that sat above the wrinkles below them. His back would be against a tree or sitting on a bench in a blue suit and an open sketchbook. A quiet stallion that on the off chance somepony does speak to him would reply in hushed tones – which was expected given that the composer was in his fifties.

Now the city was talking – the composer was dying. It had been a few days after the première of his new symphony. The Pathetique, his sixth and (as many feared) his last. Rumors began to spring up as soon as the news reached the masses about the circumstances of it all. Some say that the composer believed that his latest work didn’t do so well, and he has drunk a slow-acting poison that will kill him. Others say that he has caught a fatal disease, perhaps from drinking a glass of tainted water. But regardless of what may be the truth, it didn’t prevent Manehattaners from sending up prayers for the dying composer.

“Pyotr?”

As for the composer himself, this was a new low in his life. When he was told the news that he was going to die, he broke down and wept. Even when he chose to go back to the apartment he had been staying in for the past few years he couldn’t stop crying. Never in his life had he felt this helpless where he couldn’t reach out to his brothers back in Budyonny. He couldn’t return to his country as by the time he would arrive, he would be dead. And his family wouldn’t be here in time either. In his final days, he was going to die alone in his self-exile. And for the past seven days, that was exactly what he was doing. Cocooning himself in pity and fear as he felt himself being wasted away.

“Pyotr?”

His ears perking up, Tchaicoltsky finally pulled away from the window that looked out to the street and over his shoulder. There he saw a familiar blue unicorn that was out of his usual tuxedo. The conductor, Largo, looked at him with concern. For a moment, the composer wondered if he forgot to lock the door.

“You shouldn’t be up like this.” Largo tried to pull him away from the window. “You should be resting.”

Instead of obeying, the composer pulled the blanket over him tighter, trying to ignore him.

“Please Pyotr, don’t be like this. I’ve talked with your doctor, and he says you should be in bed. I mean… the orchestra is worried sick over you and-”

“Largo, stop,” Tchaicoltsky said, hushed but his voice turned icy like a Siberian blizzard. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m not in the mood to sit down and rest.”

“Oh really? And what am I trying to do?”

“You’re trying to get me to think that none of this is as big as I’m making this out to be. That dying isn’t so bad. That the orchestra that hated my new symphony during rehearsal has suddenly had a change of heart. That if I spend the rest of my waking hours in that bed wasting away, all will be right with the world.”

Largo frowned, “Mr. Tchaicoltsky, I’m going to be blunt with you. Just because you’re dying, does not give you the excuse to be a selfish jerk.” Now, this caught Pyotr’s attention. “And no, I’m not treating this lightly. No one in Equestria with a newspaper is treating this lightly. It’s a shock to all of us – there’s no secret in that. And no one in the orchestra is just going to stand aside and do nothing for you.”

Letting out a frustrated exhale, Pyotr responds, “Fine… what do you want?”

“It’s not what I want. Some members of the orchestra want to speak to you while they still could. You’ve worked with the Philharmonic, and we’ve proudly presented your latest works. The least you can do is to have us try to make you as comfortable as we can and to say our farewells while we still can.”

“Then you set yourself a titanic task. How does one comfort someone who is so far from home that they’re about to go to the place where not one soul returns from?”

Largo let out a grunt, “Please Pyotr, it’s the very least any of us can do for all you’ve done for us.”

Although he didn’t want to, Tchaicoltsky gave in. “When do I expect them?”

“Some of them are already here, out in the hall. By now I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a line of them just waiting to get a word to you.”

Pyotr sadly laughed, “How ironic it is that only when the world finds out you don’t have much time left that they suddenly treat you like a Czar. Very well,” he got up and went over to the bed, “send in the aristocrats.”

So, one by one, Tchaicoltsky was met with each musician that came to his bedside. He shook many of their hooves, exchanged a few words or compliments, here and there he received gifts – mostly in the form of comfort foods from sweets to freshly baked bread. For hours, he met members of the horns, the percussion, the winds, and all of those of the string family from the first and second violinist, to the violas, and even the cellist.

As he lay there with a pain in his stomach, the musicians that came in often expressed how much it was an honor to perform his music. Some were on the verge of tears while others were so choked with emotion that they didn’t say anything at all. All of it seemed to be the usual flatteries, barebone condolences in what great a stallion they were about to lose. While there were those that seemed very sincere, Tchaicoltsky didn’t fully believe them. If anything, he was hoping that once the whole orchestra had expressed their goodbyes, then maybe, he would be left alone in peace. Even in the company of those he worked with, he felt that he was in the most isolated place in the world.

By the time the sun had set, and the gaslights outside his window were being lit up, Pyotr felt that he just wanted all of this to stop so he could go to bed. It got to the point where he wasn’t paying attention to them anymore but dozing off to sleep. However, before his tired eyes could close entirely, he was startled awake when someone called out to him.

“Mr. Tchaicoltsky?”

He gasped in shock as he was suddenly woken up. There, only about a foreleg’s stretch away was a face that he didn’t recognize. It was a griffon. Sitting up, he got a good look at who this stranger was. Although he had lived in Manehattan for three years where there was a small immigrant population of griffons – he had never seen the likes of this one before. Simply because… apart from his clothing, he was almost wintery white. From his eagle head that had a pair of dark icy blue eyes with a beak as pale as bone to his lower half that resembled a snow leopard – it was as if he was the personification of winter itself. The clothes he had on were a dress shirt with a black vest, tie, and suitcoat. On the griffon’s head, he wore a silk top hat that was black as his suit – dark as a night on a new moon.

The griffon backed away when the composer woke up. “Oh, terribly sorry,” he lifted his hat. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Who are you? Are you from the orchestra?”

“What?” the griffon tilted his head, “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. The door was open, and I let myself in. I knocked but you didn’t answer.”

“Oh… They probably are gone already. What time is it?”

“Almost ten, sir. There were so many in the hallway and I wanted to speak to you and…” The griffon looked away, trying to hide his face from the composer, “My this… this is embarrassing I…”

“Pardon but… who are you?”

“Oh! Oh, of course, forgive me I’m such a featherbrain sometimes. Yes!” Turning back to him, he took off his hat and held it in his claw. “My name is Gregory and… well… I-I’m a fan of yours.” He nervously smiled but quickly broke down. “Truthfully, I’m early but… I just couldn’t wait to meet you any longer and… I messed up, have I? Sorry, I didn’t come off as strong but I’m really star-struck right now and-”

“Wait, wait… I’m confused.” Tchaicoltsky rubbed his eyes. After collecting his thoughts, he asked, “How… How did you get in?”

“Sir?”

“This apartment complex has security downstairs, so how… oh, right, you have wings. So… Gregory, is it?” He nodded, “Please listen to me… I am grateful that you like my music but… now is not a good time.”

“Why not?”

“Do you know? I don’t… I don’t have much time to live. A few days in fact. I don’t want to spend the rest of my remaining life with all these flatteries. So please if you could just tell me what you want so I may sleep in peace.”

“Oh… Oh! Right, of course,” Pyotr saw Gregory clear his throat, and… he thought he saw a bit of red on the griffon’s cheeks. “Yes, I’ll… I’ll go straight to the point then. With all that’s going on and what’s about to happen to you… I was um… wonder if… a-and you have the right to turn this down, mind you. But I just-”

“Please get on with it,” the composer deadpanned.

“Would you go out with me?”

There was an awkward pause between the old dying stallion and the pale griffon. It seemed minutes had gone by with the only sound being from the street outside. In that silence, Tchaicoltsky thought this might have been some sort of joke and he waited for the punchline. But whatever cruel laugh he expected, none came.

Finally, the old stallion spoke up, “When you say… go out with me… are you implying that…?”

Gregory nodded, “Yes sir… a date.” He said, his cheeks getting redder.

Shifting in his bed to where his back laid on the headboard, he looked around the room to make sure it was truly them that were alone. “Are you saying you… prefer the company of stallions?”

“Yes sir.”

Tchaicoltsky blinked, “Gregory… How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.” Taking in a deep breath, the griffon told him, “But, before you turn me down, please hear me out on this. Listen… I know… why you chose to ask for an extended stay here in Equestria, because… you’re like me. You stayed here because Equestria has a better tolerance for us than they would have in our native countries. And before you ask – no – I’m the only one that knows this. But when I heard that your time is almost up I… I want to take this chance to at the very least have some fun before you have to go. Also no, I’m not asking for sex from you – but just to give you something to be happy about. I may be a fan of yours, but I want to get to know the composer who made such brilliant things.”

Looking up and down the griffon, the composer told him, “You do know that none of this is normal.”

“I know, but sir… you have a few days left. Do you really want to spend the rest of your time in this room to be miserable in? If you allow me, I will treat you like a king to make every moment memorable. So… please?”

Though as weak as he was, and how foolish of a proposition this sounded where he would never have accepted in Budyonny… the griffon did have a point. Ever since he was told that he was going to die, he spent these past seven days in isolation. It gave him a moment of pause. With what precious time he had, was this really the way he wanted to spend it? On the other hoof, this griffon was a stranger that suddenly appeared in his apartment asking him to go on a date with him. He didn’t know who he was or what his true intentions were. For all he knows, he is trying to blackmail him. On the other hoof… He has only two days left. Why would he be worried if this griffon did have ill intentions? He could be agreeing to court a murderer for all he knew, but what difference would that make as he’s already condemned to die anyway?

With a tired sigh, he replied, “Even if I did agree, what do you have to gain from this?”

Gregory smiled, “Only your time.”

“…. Was that a reassurance or a pickup line?”

He shrugged, “Why couldn’t it be both?”

Raising an eyebrow, the old composer pondered over the sudden confidence of this griffon. After judging that he has nothing to lose from this, he replied. “When do we start?”

There was a glint in Gregory’s eye as he beamed, “Oh thank you! I promise sir, I will make your time worthwhile.”

“It better be since I will be dead in about two days.”

“However,” Gregory held up a talon, “if we do this, all I ask is to leave your bitter attitude behind.”

“I’m still in shock that I’m dying! Isn’t that an excuse?”

“Nope!” Gregory chirped. “I will come again to pick you up at… let’s make it ten in the morning.”

“Why?” Tchaicoltsky turned to get a glass of water from the nightstand, “What do you plan on doing with…” he trailed off when he saw the apartment empty. The only hint as to where the griffon had gone was an open door hung ajar. Rolling his eyes, he let out a frustrated huff. “Typical Equestrian exit…” he muttered, “Always leaving without shaking your hoof to say goodbye.”

Deep down, the old composer felt this was a bad idea. He could feel it the moment he woke up when the sunlight’s rays beamed into his apartment. As nauseous as he felt, he did give his word that he would go out with the mysterious griffon. After a very light breakfast and trying to put on his clothes without vomiting, Pyotr carefully, gingerly walked out of the apparent, down the elevator, and out the front door of the apartment to sit on a nearby bench.

As he waited, he could feel the stares of the ponies that passed him by. Some with curious looks while others with pity. Yet, there were plenty of those who were concerned that a dying stallion was out in the streets. However, even knowing that he was being seen, he tried his best to pay no attention to them. He adjusted a woolen shawl over his back and exhaled a foggy breath. Early November in Manehattan often tends to get quite cold, yet Tchaicoltsky felt he was somewhat unprepared for this weather. Such a thought was amusing to him as he once lived in a country that’s renowned for its winters. But perhaps it was the sickness that somehow, the cold felt like knives in his joints and his bones.

“Have I been keeping you waiting very long?” Pyotr looked up to see Gregory there. He didn’t hear him approach, it was as if the griffon just popped into existence without warning.

“No, I just came out.”

Gregory looked at him up and down, “You’re shivering. Well, good thing I brought some blankets with me.” He gestured over to a black-covered carriage with the door opened. “Here, let me help you up,” the wintery griffon offered a claw to him.

“It’s alright, I can manage.” Tchaicoltsky got up from his seat, “Just because I have gray hair doesn’t mean that I can’t take care of myself.” Carefully, the stallion walked up and into the carriage with Gregory following behind. Once inside, it was made clear that whoever this griffon was – he must have some wealth. The seats were padded and covered in white silk, there was a soft carpet that covered the floor, and underneath Gregory’s seat was a brass device with a metal screen. And above them was a row of wine bottles and a few blankets.

“Here, let me get those for you.” Gregory reached up, unfolded, and draped the thickest one that had white fur on one side. “It’s made of rabbit pelt, perfect for cold days like this.”

“And what’s that under you?”

“Huh? Oh! It’s a new electric heater, I had it installed not too long ago.” He turned a dial to the side, and within a few moments, the car started to get warm from the cold outside. “Given your current state, I thought it best to make it so that you would be as comfortable as possible.”

Looking around at the carriage, the composer asked, “Pardon me for asking this, but is this your carriage?”

“It is, uh… one moment.” The griffon turned to a small slot behind his head to open it. “Driver, we can start heading over when ready.” After closing it, the carriage moved onto the street and followed the flow of traffic.

“Where are we going?”

“There are a few places I have in mind,” Gregory smiled, “But first, we’re going to go through the park, taking the scenic route, naturally.”

“And this carriage doesn’t move that much either while we’re moving.”

“A spring and suspension system.”

“My… you thought of everything, have you.”

“Only the best for you, sir.”

Pyotr raised an eyebrow, “You know, that is the one thing that I couldn’t figure out.”

“What is?”

“Why… all this? You said it yourself that you know I won’t be alive tomorrow. And… I don’t even know you. So why are you doing all of this for me?”

Looking out at a window, Gregory replied, “I also said I’m a fan of your work. And for good reason, because… it means a lot to me personally. And I understand when you wrote what you wrote, you probably had something specific in mind but… to me, it means what my life is worth.” Timidly he rubbed his talons together, “Is it wrong to get to know the stallion that has created works that meant so much to me?”

“But that is precisely what has confused me. How do you know me? The music halls? Piano pieces I’ve published? The ballets? Just… how?”

“Oh! Ha-he, yes, I completely forgot to mention that have I? Well, I know of your work because I played it in Griffonstone.”

“You’re a musician?”

Gregory nodded, “Cellist and pianist.”

There was a sudden bump when the carriage turned into Central Park. Pyotr groaned as his stomach ached from the unexpected movement of the carriage. Quickly, Gregory reached over for a panel in the carriage’s walls and popped out a small shelf that had bottles and jars. He pulled a jar that had an herb, unscrewed the lid, and pulled out a tiny portion.

“Here, eat this.” He offered, “This should calm your stomach down a little.”

In pain, Tchaicoltsky took the herb and chewed on it. Sure, enough a minute later the pain in his stomach didn’t entirely go away but it made it more barrable. “How did you-” He was about to ask after he swallowed it but was quickly interrupted.

“My father was a doctor,” Gregory told him, “He showed me what certain plants are good for certain ills. I may not be a doctor, but I do know enough to help ease out certain things.”

“Well… the nausea is also going away too. So… thank you at least.”

The conversation quickly died off while they turned their attention to the park itself. Being late autumn, the trees have already turned to several shades of browns, golds, reds, and oranges. What leaves that haven’t clung on to the skeletal branches have covered the ground in a chaotic carpet of color. While the carriage made its way across the park, now and then they saw foals playing in the leaves to thrash about in it.

“Do you… remember your foalhood?” Gregory asked.

“Pardon?”

“I mean… Do you remember what it was like for you?”

“Vaguely, but I still recall enough. I mean, I never grew up in a city like this.”

“No? Then where?”

“A small town. Watkinsk – I doubt you’ve ever heard of it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, it’s close to the Spural Mountains. My father used to be in the military but changed his position to an engineer that worked in a nearby ironworks factory. And mother…” he trailed off, letting out a heavy sigh as he gazed towards the window. “…. She was an intelligent mare. Both my parents were trained in the arts, including music. Mother especially had introduced me to Moztrot. And she would play at the piano with such tenderness. At times I think it was thanks to her that I had become obsessed with music from the start. I started learning all about music and started writing little piano pieces for her when I was five years old.”

“Wow,” Gregory blinked, “I didn’t know you were a child prodigy.”

“Well… I wouldn’t go that far.” He shrugged. “I don’t consider myself as the best pianist, but I did learn how to read sheet music and sight-read it accurately within three years of my studies.”

“And here it took me twice that,” Gregory remarked, “I had learned to read and play music from a friend of mine. And it took me forever to get all the notes right.”

“But as to your question… I remember being a solitary if sickly foal. I was the second oldest of seven, but I was the most sensitive in the family.”

“Sensitive, how?”

“Well, I remember that I would have quite a bad stomach and headaches. The latter of which was from not being able to write down the music inside my head fast enough. But more than that, my hearing as a colt was near unbearable. Why would I cry for hours when someone played a terrible sounding chord loudly. My nanny had commented that I seemed so fragile that it was as if I was made of glass.”

“My… I’m sorry to hear that.” Gregory rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly… when I grew up, life was a hard one. Where I couldn’t afford to so much as cry, least I’d be called a sissy. Since, you know, griffons are supposed to be tough and hard – especially males.”

“I understand, my father was less torturable than my mother when it came to me expressing my turbulent emotions. At least… until I was ten.”

“Why? What happened?”

Tchaicoltsky adjusted the blanket over him. “Despite how comfortable we all were with the home we lived in, my father had an unreliable income and wanted me to gain independence as soon as possible. So, they chose the most prudent and stable way for me to become a civil servant and sent me to a boarding school. One that was eight-hundred miles away.”

Gregory’s jaw dropped, “At age ten? That… That is just cold-hearted.”

“I was bawling my head off when mother had bid me farewell at the gate of the school. What was worse is that I hardly saw my family for a long time. I was left there alone to train for a job I knew I would hate. There were letters, of course, but… that was it. They were hundreds of miles away, so visits were few and far in-between. On some days, I remember thinking that they just abandoned me at the school to fend for myself.”

The old composer’s gaze turned to the window once more at the foals tossing the colored leaves at one another. “I remember days when I had looked out the windows of the school at foals who ran about in freedom while I was trapped behind a classroom. Often daydreamed that I would be home again with my mother, brother, and sisters. Yet, as the days went by, it became abundantly clear that I wasn’t going to go home anytime soon. Even when…” From the carriage, he saw a mother pushing her child on a swing, when he saw that, his voice choked up and tried to hold back that bitter memory.

“Sir?”

He cleared his throat, “When I was fourteen, I got a letter from my sister… it said that Mama had died… it was sent weeks after the fact. Being so far away, I had no idea that she was already buried until it was far too late.”

Gregory got up from his seat to sit next to the composer. Unfolding a wing to wrap around him. Tchaicoltsky, though as ill as he was, felt as though all the pains both physical and emotional had soothed in his wing. “My deepest apologies, Pyotr,'' Gregory said, “I didn’t mean for you to bring something that pains you.”

He shook his head, “I often think of her every day. I’m a little over half a century old and I still miss her terribly. Though, not just her of course.”

“I lost my father when I was fifteen,” Gregory admitted. “He was murdered by some robbers in Griffonstone. Even though it happened years ago, it leaves a hole in your heart.”

Pyotr looked up at him, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes… Though looking back, I guess that in such bleak times like that, you really appreciate those that stand by you the most. Have you… ever had anyone like that?”

He nodded, “The school did have one silver lining. It was there that I first met someone. Sonet Proza. And well… until we graduated at around nineteen, he helped me figure out about my certain nature. Towards stallions I mean.”

“Your first lover?”

“…. I wouldn’t push it that far. He was my loyal friend.”

“Was?”

“He passed away in August. But he and I, while now and then we had relations, but I wouldn’t call it romantic.”

“Oh…” Tchaicoltsky saw Gregory blush, “So a… friends with benefits sort of situation.”

“If that’s what you call it, then yes. After we graduated and I had entered the civil service, he and I indulged those lusty desires with each other and other stallions we came across. Of course, we tried to be careful to not let anyone know who we were in case we might be recognized. Because such relationships among stallions in Budyonny are punishable by banishment to Siberia. Yet, despite the risk, we did find ways to indulge in…” He cleared his throat, “Hedonistic tendencies.”

“…. Well, to be fair,” Gregory’s blush now turned crimson around his cheeks, “I wasn’t any better at that age either so…”

He nodded, “That being said, I don’t remember doing it for very long. Eventually, when I found out that my younger brother too prefers the company of stallions, well… I am the older brother and I should set an example. So I calmed down on my affairs and focused on the future. Let me tell you, sir, after two years at the civil service, I was so fed up that I quit my job and moved to the capital to become a composer. Though my family was furious that I did this at first, I had to prove them wrong when I enrolled at the Budyonnian Conservatoire of Music.

“Never in my life had I worked so hard in those classes. For ten years, I dedicated myself to completing every technical exercise, every arrangement I was given to test the best of my abilities. It was there that I learned from the masters such as Buch, Moztrot, and Beethooven, to learn about their techniques and tools of composition and incorporate them into my roots as a Budyonnian.”

“And the whole world thanks you for that,” Gregory smiled at him.

“Eventually, it all paid off. I found myself in a new, more stable position as a professor of music. As well as holding a side job of being a music critic, which I got most of my money at the time from.”

“Really? I didn’t know you’re a professor.”

“Retired, but… yes, I was…” Tchaicoltsky went quiet, as he eyed the carriage moving out of Central Park and into the city. “It was there that I met my first, real love. I first met him during a composition class, though he was younger than I was at the time, I developed such affections for.”

“Was this before or after you got a teaching role?”

“After. I was his professor… Bariton was his name. Like Sonet, we didn’t become lovers right away but became friends who were interested in composition. But even after he passed my class, he still came by to speak with me often. From there, our friendship blossomed into something deeper. And though it was a secret, for the first time I felt happy. Genuinely happy to be with someone that has connected the deepest parts of my soul. So much so that I wrote an overture that was a secret tribute to him.”

“And what was it?”

For once, a smile came across the composer’s face, “Roanio and Filliet.”

Gregory blinked, “As in… the overture that has that one passionate moment where the violins crescendo into a blushing climax?”

“That’s the one,” Tchaicoltsky chuckled, “it was amusing to have a whole audience hear it and not know that it was dedicated to a stallion. Bariton understood what that symphonic poem meant. After the première, we became quite close. Yet… A month after he left the school, suddenly and unexpectedly. Turned out that he returned to his family and had gotten a job as… I can’t remember what it was, but it involved him traveling to several cities. I wrote to his mother asking if he was doing alright and maybe send him back to the capital so that I may see him once more.”

“Did he ever come back?”

“Yes... Only after I said farewell to him, was the last time I ever saw him alive. Because a week after our meeting… he died at his own hoof.”

Gregory covered his beak in shock.

For several, anxious minutes, the old composer said nothing as he looked at the window. “He was just… nineteen. And to this day, I have no idea why he did it. And though many decades have passed, I still think of him every day. It’s amazing how clearly I remember him: the sound of his voice, his movements, but especially his extraordinarily wonderful expression on his face at times…” He let out a deep sigh, “Even now… I still cannot conceive the fact that he is no more. Not of him being dead but being nonexistent is still beyond my comprehension. I may have loved a few stallions, but never as strongly as him. Good heavens! No matter what they told me then and how I tried to console myself, my guilt before him is terrible!” He hunched over, putting his hooves over his eyes. “And at the same time… I loved him. That is… not loved but love him still, and his memory is sacred to me.”

He felt a claw over his back, patting him. “Please forgive me, Pyotr, I didn’t mean to bring up such pain. I really wish there was something, anything I can do for you now… but I don’t know where to start.”

Sighing, he slowly pulled away from his hooves, “I appreciate your honesty with me. And that you have listened to an old stallion rumble about the tragedies of his life.”

“Not at all. I don’t blame you one bit for what you have gone through. Yet, look at me, opening old wounds that should have been left alone. I was supposed to make you at peace given the circumstances. Instead, I’m making it worse.”

“No, I am grateful that you have listened to me for this long.” Tchaicoltsky looked out the window to see that the carriage turned a corner, down an alleyway before stopping. “Where are we?”

“Our first stop.” Gregory got up. As soon as he stood, and his wing left the old stallion’s back, he felt his sickness ebbing back. “I noticed that you had to walk carefully all around, so… do you want me to carry you or…?”

“I’m dying, not helpless.” Tchaicoltsky joked that it made him chuckle. “But where are we?”

“Let me show you.” After opening the carriage door, he stepped out and helped the composer down. Walking around the carriage, they came face to face with a small bakery that Pyotr had never seen before. There was a large window that held rows upon rows of loaves of bread and pastries that he hadn’t seen since he left Budyonny while next to it was a door that showed a few empty chairs and tables that had oil paints hanging from the walls. Above was a sign that was aged by peeling paint but still readable, yet it made the old stallion let out a small laugh.

Пекарня «Лебединое озеро»

“Swan Lake Bakery?” Tchaicoltsky raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t realize that this was here of all places.”

“Apparently it’s run by a Budyonnian family,” Gregory went towards the door, “I come here from time to time because of their pastries and their tea. And it’s where we’ll have our lunch.”

Curious, Pyotr followed the griffon as he pushed the door. The very smell of the bakery filled him with nostalgia, from the sweet honey cakes to the mouthwatering mushroom stuffed Pirozhki. Even the floating scent of black tea perfumed the air that for a brief moment, the composer felt he was home. There was a counter made of panels of glass that proudly displayed the baked goods from sweet to savory. And behind the counter was a unicorn stallion in an orange beard who turned his head when the bell over the door rang out.

The baker jolted up, eyes going wide when he saw Pyotr, “О Боже мой...” He uttered out in amazement as he rushed behind the counter to meet him. “You… You’re Tchaicoltsky. Thee Tchaicoltsky!” The baker took the composer’s hoof. “Sir, it’s… it’s an honor having you here!”

“Who are you?”

“Zavitushki, sir. I-I have been an admirer of your works that I named my business after a ballet of yours.”

“Swan Lake, yes, I saw.”

“Oh it’s… here, come inside.” He showed him to a table, “For you, whatever you order is on me.”

“But you don’t have to-”

“It’s the least I can do.” Zavitushki smiled, “So, what will it be? Can I start you off with some tea perhaps?”

“That sounds lovely,” he gestured over to Gregory who stood near the door. “But what about-”

“I’ll get to you right away!” The baker dashed off before he could finish his sentence.

The composer blinked. “He has enthusiasm,” then turning to Gregory he added, “but he ignored you completely. That was rude of him.”

“It happens sometimes,” Gregory took a seat across from him. “Still, I hope you approve of my first spot to bring you to.”

Pyotr nodded, “I appreciate your thoughtfulness. How did you know this was here?”

“A friend told me about it.”

“Ah…” He nodded. For a moment, the old stallion took in the atmosphere of the small hole-in-the-wall bakery, especially the paintings hanging from the wall. They all depicted scenes of peasant life in the countryside of his home country. Of serfs reaping the harvest, of winter dances, and sleigh rides in the icy wilderness. Then, a thought came to him, “Why did you leave Griffonstone, Gregory?”

The griffon shrugged, “Better opportunity. At least, compared to Griffonstone, Equestria is where someone like me can come and have a clean slate to make his life whatever he wants to. And while ponies are still wary of me, being a Griffon, at least I don’t have to worry about who I love without being stoned to death. Plus, the music halls give me the opportunity to hear more of your brilliant works.”

“Such as?”

“Well… remember when you premièred your first piano concerto when Carneighgie Hall opened up? I was blown away at what the piano could do that I wanted to learn how to play it myself.”

Tchaicoltsky smirked but shook his head, “You know when I first showed it to my music teacher in the conservatory – he hated it.”

“What?” Gregory blinked.

“It’s true, even after I got an orchestra to play out the first movement alone, he asked me if I lost my mind. ‘Where is Tchaicoltsky?’ he asked, ‘I don’t hear him in this! It’s vulgar, loud, and confusing to the ear.’ He told me that the concerto might be saved after a seriously heavy rewrite. But I had worked so hard on it that I got upset at him. Swearing to him that I would not change a single note of it.”

“So… did you keep it as it is now?”

“I did. And to his surprise, it became popular both in Equestria and Budyonny. Eventually, his opinion on the concerto did soften somewhat where he offered constructive criticism that I used in my music afterward.”

Just then, the baker returned with a pot of tea with honey and raspberries. “There we are!” He sat them down. “Would there be anything else I can get for you, sir?”

“Well besides another cup, I wouldn’t mind having a small Pirozhki.” He turned to Gregory, “And you? What would you have?”

“Just the tea would be fine for me,” Gregory answered.

Tchaicoltsky looked back at the baker who was looking at him strangely. “Well, you heard him, go get another cup please.”

“Another cup for…?"

“For him,” he gestured over to the griffon.

The baker said nothing but gave a weird look before complying, he returned a moment with the mushroom-stuffed pastry and another cup before leaving them alone. From there, Pyotr dished out the tea in the two cups, filling each with black tea before putting in some honey and raspberries. “Here you go, my friend.” He said.

Gregory smiled, “Oh? So I’m now at friend status, huh?”

“Well, you have been so kind to me already.” He said, taking a sip of his tea, feeling the hot liquid falling past his throat and into his chilled belly.

Picking up his cup, the griffon asked, “So… what happened?”

“What?”

“After… your first real love… passed on.”

“Oh…” The composer took another sip before setting it down. “Well… at the time when my grief calmed down, I was starting to get more noticed when I released more and more of my music to the public. Both through publications and performances. Naturally, I didn’t become famous right away, but I was starting to get noticed enough where the public had an eye on me. So, when the public has noticed me, they begin to wonder why someone who is in his thirties hasn’t settled down yet. At the time there were rumors that circulated about my condition. I knew that if I didn’t do something right then, I would be only one sex scandal away from utter disgrace.”

“What did you do?”

Frowning, he took in a deep breath and said, “I got married.”

Gregory nearly choked on his tea. “Wait, I’m sorry… what!?”

“I got married, foolishly, I might add. At the time, I knew some of my friends who got married out of convivence where publicly they appear like everyone else but in private… They were like how I was in my twenties behind their wives' backs. One day I got a letter from a mare who said had studied at the conservatory with me. Desperate to get the rumors off my back, I asked to meet her. When she did, three days later I proposed.”

The griffon’s jaw dropped, “Why do I get the sense that this is a perfect recipe for disaster?”

“To be fair… it was. One of the darkest times of my life was being married to someone that I didn’t love and couldn’t love back. It was stupid. My friends at the time thought it was stupid. My brother and sister who knew that I preferred stallions knew it was stupid. Anyone with a brain could see that it was bound to collapse. Yet at the time… I honestly thought that if I tried, really tried to maybe love her, then I would be rid of my nature. But…”

Tchaicoltsky shook his head, “On the one hoof, I don’t blame her for the awful situation we were in. But it was so terrible for me. That despite my intentions, I felt nothing towards her. Instead, I felt trapped, isolated, and unable to perform my duties as a husband to the point that I tried to drown myself in a river during the winter. So… two and a half months later, we separated for good, and I went traveling.”

“Dear Gods…” Gregory runs his claws across his head. “I could never imagine that you had this bad of luck.”

“…. From a certain perspective, it would be so.” Pyotr nodded, picking up his pastry and taking small bites from it. “Yet, after we separated, my fortunes did start to improve. For one, I gained a patron. A wealthy widow who gives me all the space to create what I wanted only if we never met in person – that was her request, by the way. My music was becoming more widespread across the world becoming popular in concert halls and theaters to hear my symphonies, concertos, ballets, and operas. And then… while I was traveling in Istally, I came across a violinist that made me fell in love for the first time in years.”

“Oh? And who was he?”

“A brilliant virtuoso, Stoka Strasti. And if you knew Budyonnian, it translates as ‘Passion String.’ And… oh he was. Handsome, witty, and when he held a bow and violin, he could play melodies so enchanting that all your worries would be forgotten. Even when I was in deepest melancholy, he was there to comfort me by improvising on his instrument.”

“Was it really that effective on you? To hear someone play to not fall into complete despair?”

“Don’t underestimate it. When you’re as old as I am, you know the world is a cruel, intolerant place. Thurley there would be reason to go mad were it not for music. Because it is incomparably more powerful means and is subtler language for expressing the thousand different moments of the soul’s moods. To treasure its rhapsodies when they happen to comfort in deepest despair.”

“And for the violinist? What did it do for you?”

After sipping his tea, he answered, “It inspired me to write my first… and only, violin concerto. Of course, it was dedicated to him. My love letter expressed the utmost joy of being with him.

“Yet…” Pyotr sighed, “It was not meant to last. After about less than a year, the relationship just… faded out. He moved on to perform elsewhere while I returned to Budyonny.”

Gregory looked down at his cup, a shameful look on his face. “At least… you are lucky in that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I had once loved someone. When I moved here, I offered my services as a cellist to perform at events such as weddings, funerals, etc… Well, at one party that was thrown by this wealthy business pony, there was a stallion there who liked how I played. A lawyer who had a good ear, we started off talking about our lives and such where one thing leads to another… well, he became my coltfriend soon after. At first, all seemed right with the world until I…” He shook his head. “It turned out he was already married, and he was having an affair with me.”

“Oh, how horrible.”

“The worst part is that he never once told me that he had a wife. Ever. Instead, he lied to me at every step of the way and was using me to basically go to bed with. When I found out… you can only imagine how upset I was, so I broke it off while shouting at him. I don’t know what happened to him if he’s still married or what but… At least with that relationship with the violinist, it just faded and didn’t end in flames as mine did.”

Tchaicoltsky reached a hoof out and touched his wrist, “I understand. It’s not fair for anyone when that happens. Not for you especially.”

Nodding, Gregory looked up to give him a grateful smile, “Thank you. I think out of everyone, you have the kindest soul out there.”

“And you have the patience of a saint. It’s strange that whenever I talk about my woes, it immediately bores everyone.”

“What can I say?” Gregory shrugged, “I was born with good ears.”

This got a good laugh out of them.

It was strange how fast everything had gotten. The dying composer felt that the past few hours felt like mere minutes by the time Gregory had loaded him into his carriage once more. And though the subtle pain in his belly was a subtle reminder of his mortality, now – at least for the moment, things weren’t so bad.

Back in the carriage, they road into the backstreets of the city. Weaving between the poorest of slums to the most affluent neighborhoods, they road through it all with a noticeable difference: Gregory lowered the window and bid the driver to go slowly. No matter where they went, Pyotr notice that regardless of where they were, they all had one thing in common – his music. From the slums of a bar, a ragtime pianist was wowing the patrons with a reimagined variation of the Trepak from the Nutcracker. Through a window of an apartment, the unmistakable sound of Swan Lake was played lovely on a clarinet. Here, a street violinist played the trickier parts of his violin concerto. There, a ballerina school trained a class of dancers with their exercises to the tune of Sleeping Beauty. And on the Highrise that belonged to Manehattan’s upper-crust elite, a filly practiced the seasons – June: Barcarolle.

By the time the sun was beginning to set, Gregory finally pulled up the window. “I have a feeling that your influence isn’t going to go away anytime soon.” He remarked.

Looking away to the bustling street, Tchaicoltsky nodded, “Perhaps, though a part of me doubts if I would be remembered after at least a decade or two.”

“Now why would you say that? I’ve heard much of what you wrote and you have plenty of melodies that could rival Moztrot.”

“Ach! But that is where I have my doubts.” Gregory asked him to explain. “Compare to me and him, Moztrot is the highest, the culminating point that beauty has attained in the sphere of music.”

“And you’re not?”

Pytor let out a huff, “Not without trying over the years. But unlike him, there were years where I wasn’t exactly free to write such poetry as I wanted. For example, after my marriage had fallen apart and I had returned to my country – I had gotten the patronage of my life. Nopony but the Czar himself as someone to commission me to write music for both special events and for the court’s pleasure.”

“Is that so? I didn’t know that. What sort of things did you write during that time?”

With an eye roll, he replied, “For example, the 812 Overture, and Sleeping Beauty.”

Gregory tilted his head, “Hey, what’s wrong with the Overture? I liked that one.”

“It was a chore to work with where it hardly inspired me at all. I’m still embarrassed that I wrote that and more so that anyone would like it.”

“Well, what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s loud, crass, populistic, dated, and overall, one of the worst things I’ve been forced to put pen to paper.”

“Says the stallion who used cannons as an instrument.”

“I’m serious, every time I perform that monstrosity, I always turn to the audience and apologize for what they’re about to hear. At least with Sleeping Beauty that it isn’t quite so bad. Even with the strict restrictions from the dance master at the time where I was restricted on how many bars I could use. Mercifully, though I was never at its première, it was received more favorably than Sawn Lake.

“However, as far as I see it, I don’t know how much this fame is going to last. Yes, Moztrot is still remembered, but how long of mortality does my work have until they fade into obscurity?”

“Even if that happens,” Gregory pointed out, “it’s also possible that you could come back in the future. I mean, Buch was almost completely forgotten for over a hundred years. Now there isn’t a music lesson in the world that doesn’t use his work. You’d be hard press to find a piano teaching book that doesn’t have his famous minuet for foals to practice over and over on.”

“If that happens.”

Gregory leaned back in his seat, folding his arms, “That’s the one thing I don’t fully understand about you. You created dozens of masterpieces and yet you doubt if they would withstand the test of time?”

“Because everything I’ve written was out from passion.” Pyotr explained, “It is something that I have carried on from my school days at the Conservatory. What I have set down in a moment of passion I must then critically examine. Sometimes I must do to myself violence before I can mercilessly erase things thought out with love. Because I know there will be those who will be ready to tear what I hoofcrafted into pieces if I am careless.”

“Have you ever heard of the phrase ‘You are your own worst critic?’” Gregory asked.

“Don’t give that ‘It’s all in my head,’ when critics tear what you painstakingly crafted to shreds. For example, the fifth symphony was so lovingly described by a reviewer – and now I’m quoting! ‘Of the Fifth Tchaicoltsky Symphony one hardly knows what to say… in the Finale we have all the untamed fury of the Cossack, whetting itself for deeds of atrocity, against all the sterility of the Budyonnian wasteland. The furious peroration sounds like nothing so much as a horde of demons struggling in a torrent of brandy, the music growing drunker and drunker. Pandemonium, delirium tremens, raving, and above all, noise worse confounded!’ How in all that is holy can you have compassion for your own talent after something like that?”

For a long, dreaded moment, Gregory didn’t say anything. His arms, still folded with a frown on his face. Trying to figure out how to respond to something so self-defeating that, when he finally did make an answer, it caught Tchaicoltsky off guard. “What if you’re wrong?”

Pyotr blinked, “Pardon?”

“What if all the doubts that you harbor over your music, all the boos of the critics might change over time? I can’t predict what would happen or what would remain popular or remembered but… to brush everything you spent your whole life on to think that it would be worthless because you alone saw it as such – you never grasp onto the concept that maybe… just a big fat maybe… someone, somewhere out there where you can’t see or you’ll never meet, might have changed their lives because of what you’ve put out.”

Tchaicoltsky frowned, “Name one.”

Unfolding his arms, Gregory looked at him in the eye and said – “Your music prevented me from ending my life.”

A longer, painful silence followed as those words sunk into the composer.

Before he could ask, Gregory answered. “When my father died, things had gone from bad to worse as we had to beg for our food by whatever means necessary – even exploiting my ability to play an instrument that was about as big as me to earn bits. Out there on the street, I was shown no mercy from bullies that threw whatever they could get their claws on at me. Even worse when they call me the worst insults you can imagine where I couldn’t do anything because if I did – we would starve. At fifteen, I had enough. I was ready to end my life if it meant that all of that would stop.

“However, on the day that I was meant to do it, I found a new piece of music that my mother had me play in hopes that it would get something. And do you know what that was?” Pyotr shook his head. “The theme to your Sawn Lake. Even when I practiced that dark melody, it did something that no other piece of music did – it spoke to me. Although I have never seen the ballet, that melody was like… like an old friend who has gone through the lowest depths of Tartarus and back where he would hold out his claws,” Gregory held out his to the composer, “and would tell me that it knows… It knows what it’s like to be lonely, to feel as if you’re the only one in the world where no one can love music as deeply or have confusing feelings towards males that you’re not supposed to. It says, ‘I know what it’s like, trust me, I’ve been there!’

“And you know what? When I played that on a street corner for the first time, I played it so well, that I gathered an audience where they gave me bits that lasted us for a month. That had never happened before! For once, the griffons saw that I had a glimmer of potential. That maybe, just maybe, I could have a future.” Lowering his arms down, he finished with, “If that doesn’t convey to you how much this music means to someone like me, I don’t what will.”

It was a shock to the old composer. Never, in his long life to making music from the heart had he ever heard of anything like this before. This wasn’t just admiration from a fan; this was something much more powerful than that. Even when he wrote that ballet years ago, he could never imagine that anything would result in this.

Gregory sighed, “…. I’m not angry at you. When I said that you mean the world to me – I meant it. Although you are nearing the end of your life, doing all of this for you is… well… the least I could do on my part for saving mine. It just hurts is all when you find out that the stallion who wrote something so life-changing thought it was worthless.”

Swallowing, Tchaicoltsky replied, “Please forgive me, I had no idea.”

Nodding, Gregory looked up from his carriage, “We’re nearing our last stop before dropping you back to your apartment. Hopefully, I’ve saved the best for last.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

He pointed out of his window as the carriage slowed down. Looking up, he saw the familiar red brick building with its towering arches as monumental as a temple. Indeed, this was a surprise to him when he realized where he was. “Carneighgie Hall? But… I don’t understand. Why here?”

“I’ve rented out the theater for tonight. For you.” Opening the carriage doors, Gregory steps out and offers a claw to him, “It’ll no doubt have plenty of surprises.”

Curious to see what he meant, Pyotr followed the griffon through the theater doors. At first, the lights were off where the only source of illumination was from the street. However, past the foyer and through the double doors, they entered into the theater itself where, to the old composer’s amazement, the space had been decorated in an elaborate way. Hanging from the ceiling and the balconies were finely made snowflakes that hung on strings. Looking up, there must have been hundreds, perhaps thousands that were suspended, making it look like the early gentle snowfall of winter. All around in the theater seats and some of the isles were yards upon yards of white fabric that were draped like piles of snow with young aspen trees poking out here and there. On the stage, there was only a grand piano, a little black bench, and on it a gramophone.

Tchaicoltsky paused in the middle of the theater, turning around in place to see how this space he became so familiar with being turned into a winter wonderland until returning to a smiling Gregory who asked, “Do you like it?”

“What… What is all this?”

“A fantasy of mine about to be made true.” He guided the old stallion towards the stage, “I have a dream where on the first days of winter in a forest like this, I would get to dance with the very stallion that had changed my life to the most incredible waltz ever conceived.”

“You mean… you did all this?”

Gregory nodded, “I even strung up the snowflakes myself. Took all night last night to make sure that everything here was just right.”

In all of his years, Pyotr had never received a gesture of admiration quite like this before. He couldn’t recall anyone so dedicated to impressing him in ways that were mind-boggling to him. Yet, at the same time, seeing the sheer amount of effort that was put in, not only from the theater but to orchestrate this date when he wouldn’t be alive tomorrow… Part of him felt terrible for Gregory. To put in so much love and devotion to him when he wouldn’t be around for another few hours or so.

Climbing up to the stage, the griffon went over to the gramophone to crank the spring. In the silent theater, the clicking from the machine echoed all around until Gregory couldn’t wind it up anymore. Then after throwing a switch that moved the record on the turntable, he carefully placed the needle down in a particular groove where the brass horn began to sing out a familiar few notes.

With a smile, Gregory turned to Tchaicoltsky, an open claw inviting him. “Shall I have this dance, sir?”

The composer looked between his eyes and the claw, “I haven’t done this in years.”

“Then I will go slow.”

Reaching out for his claw, the two stood on their hindlegs where they were whither to whither, face to face. Tchaicoltsky took his claw in one hoof and his shoulder on the other while Gregory wrapped his free claw around his waist. Then, from the horn of the gramophone, they heard the strings pulsating the waltzing tempo in which they began to move. Slowly they danced as the horns began that familiar melody that the composer knew all too well.

“I take it you liked the Nutcracker?” He asked.

“It has been growing on me,” Gregory admitted. “There’re certain parts of the ballet that I couldn’t help but smile from. The music from it is probably one of your best in my opinion.”

“That I can understand.” Pyotr nodded, “I liked the plot of the Nutcracker – not at all.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because, when you get down to it, there is not much of a story to work with. Once the Mouse King is defeated, the rest is just an hour of celebratory dances that go on for too long.”

“Then… how come you released the ballet?”

“Partly because I was commissioned to write it. And partly… to dedicate it to someone that has been dear to me.”

“Who?”

“…. My sister. Sasha – bless her – she… beside my brother was the only one in the family that fully knows about my nature and still loves me unconditionally. In my darkest of times, she was always there for me. Even when she found out that I preferred the company of stallions, she didn’t see me as a disgusting monster but… her big brother. So full of kindness, of compassion and understanding was she that… when she passed away, I felt that I had done something so that she would not be forgotten.”

Gregory’s eyes widen as he realized, “You wrote her into the ballet, didn’t you?”

He nodded, “As Clara, I saw her come alive again. The ballet turned from an uninspired chore to painting her as to how I wanted to remember her. Of us, together at home during Hearths Warming of our Foalhoods. Where she would reach out her kindness and love towards something that by all reason should be. And yet, because of that love, it turned a stiff, wooden object into a prince. In a way, the ballet is my ode to the sister that has accepted me with open hooves.”

“That is incredibly beautiful,” Gregory said, his claw caressing his face. “With a heart like yours, you should be made as a saint. I can’t express how blessed I am to get to know you.”

While the waltz echoed in the theater, the old composer’s expression faded into melancholy. “You know, none of this is fair to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Though I haven’t known you for less than a day, I wish that I had more time to get to know you better. Yet, I’m fated to die. And it isn’t fair at all that you had spent all this time, dedication, and maybe a fortune to make me happy when you will lose me in a matter of hours.”

Gregory stopped dancing, his eyes darted away, “Well… yes… about that.”

“What?”

“…. Pyotr, this is something that I need to tell you. Something that, maybe I should have made clear from the start.”

“But what? Are you dying too?”

“Not that, it’s just-”

“Mr. Tchaicoltsky!”

The sudden calling of his name made the old composer suddenly jump. So unexpected that he nearly fell onto his back. He looked towards the rows of seats in the theater where he saw Largo, the conductor rushing towards the stage. By the looks of him, he seemed out of breath and near wild in bewilderment and worry.

“Mr. Tchaicoltsky, there you are! We’ve been looking all over the city for you!”

“Mr. Largo?” Pyotr quickly got back on all four hooves, his face turning red in embracement. No doubt the conductor had caught him dancing so closely with Gregory. “Listen, I can expla-”

“Where in Celestia’s name have you been this whole time? I came by your apartment this afternoon to find it empty. I had no idea where you have gone off to so I had to cancel tonight’s performance so I can organize the orchestra into a search party for you.”

“…. I am indeed sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you-”

“You nearly gave all of us a heart attack. We thought you were foalnapped or something.”

Climbing down from the stage, Tchaicoltsky said, “Mr. Largo, please understand, I didn’t think I would be gone for this long either.”

“Well, what were you doing this whole time? You’re a dying stallion, you shouldn’t be running about the city to who-knows-where! In fact… what are you even doing here of all places? The theater was closed, how did you get in?”

“You see I met this…” Tchaicoltsky paused. “Closed?”

“Yes, what are you doing dancing in the dark like this?”

“In the dark? But don’t you see the…” When he was about to point out all the things that were around them, he saw the theater was bare. All the snowflakes, the fake snow, and the aspens had disappeared. Even the grand piano with the gramophone had vanished – everything was gone except for Gregory who stood by the ghost light that flickered in the darkness. Tchaicoltsky was bewildered. What happened to all the things? Where did the lights go? And the music? “Gregory…? Where is everything?”

“Sir?” Largo tilted his head. “Who’s Gregory?”

“Don’t you see him?” He pointed, “The griffon right over there by the light.”

Looking around, the conductor told him, “Mr. Tchaicoltsky, there’s no one here except us.” He walked over to him, “Are you feeling alright?”

How could this be? Why couldn’t he see Gregory who is standing right there, clear as daylight!

“You don’t look so good,” Largo gently took his foreleg to guide him to one of the front-row seats. “Sir, you should sit down.”

“But he’s right over-”

“Please listen to me. I don’t know what has happened to you today, but I think you should go to a hospital. Just, stay right here and don’t move. I’m going to go get help.”

“But what about-”

“I will be right back,” Largo galloped away out of the theater, leaving only him and Gregory who flew down from the stage.

“…. Gregory… I don’t understand. He was looking right at you. And… where did all the things go?”

Sighing, Gregory pulled down a seat next to him. “I think…” he began, “It’s about time I tell you what is really going on.”

“What?”

“Look behind us, what do you see?”

Confused, Tchaicoltsky looked over his shoulder. There was there in the empty theater where the ghost light on stage illuminated him, his shadow and… He froze. No matter how many times he looked between him and directly behind him, there was no shadow of him. Gregory had no shadow!

Fearful, the old composer looked at him, trembling. “W-What are you?”

Gregory took in a deep breath. “I didn’t lie to you that my name is Gregory and that I’m twenty-eight… Well, at least that was the age I was when I died.”

Wide-eyed, he looked at him up and down. Despite what he was being told, he looked so real that he could reach out to touch him. “But… what are you? A phantom? A vampire?”

He chuckled, “It would be almost amusing if that were true. No. The truth is… the truth… is that I’m not just dead for the past… three years. I’m an angel. A particular one with one particular job.” He looked over to him, “Can you guess where I’m going with this?”

“Are you…” Pyotr swallowed, “…. Death?”

“Kind of, I’m a Reaper. And while I have come early, I’m assigned to come and collect you.”

Never in his life had Tchaicoltsky felt so terrified. “You… You tricked me!”

Gregory nodded with regret in his eyes.

“But… But why?” The composer asked, “You could have taken me at any time. But… But you were so kind. So compassionate… Why set all of this up for me?”

“I did tell you that you changed my life. And when I was alive, you did save me. Even from the beyond, when I found out that I was going to collect you, I wanted to give my utter expression of thanks for what you’ve done for me, even when you’ve never met me.”

“But why didn’t you say that you were-”

“Would you have believed me from the start – much less go out on a date with me? Please, I beg you to understand, I did this because I wanted to get you to see.”

“See what?”

Gregory shifted in his seat to face him. “Pyotr… Have I ever tried to harm you in any way? You talked with me. You confided in me. You laughed with me. Comfort me. Even danced with me. Yes, I know when I met you were terrified to meet me but… am I really that scary?”

Even when Gregory tried to reach for his hoof, he pulled away, “But… I-I don’t want to die.”

“Am I really that bad? It’s not me you’re afraid of – because you’ve already gotten to know me. What you’ve feared is the unknown. You’ve been afraid that if you leaped out, you would get hurt. But I’ve been to that place you’ve been so terrified of… it’s alright now.”

“Please… Please don’t…” Tchaicoltsky begged, tears forming in his eyes.

With caring eyes and a soft face, Gregory got out of his seat to kneel before him. “It’s okay… you’re okay.” He reached both of his claws out, “It’s time.”

“No… No…”

“Please, Pyotr. You don’t have to be scared of me anymore. Don’t be afraid.”

For a long, long time, what might have been hours or days – the composer didn’t know. As terrified as he was, as realizing that he wasn’t going to live if he touched those claws, those talons meant… There was something in Gregory’s eyes that reminded him of all the kind souls that had when the rest of the world would have condemned him for who he was – that pair of eyes were those of acceptance. Nonjudgmental with no trace of hatred or malice; but love. Even in the face of death itself, he found peace in it.

Slowly, gingerly, he reached out his trembling hooves to the angelic griffon. Only when he made contact did Gregory pull him up from his seat. With a smile, he told him. “You see? What you feared might come as a bolt of lightning, is but a gentle melody. What you thought might be a never-ending abyss, is just a new chapter waiting to be written up.”

Pyotr breathed, feeling relief, and… the pain in his stomach had vanished. He didn’t feel hurt or terror in the presence of this angel. “What now?”

“Now?”

“Yes, what happens to me now? I mean… when do I expect it to start?”

“Oh! I see what you mean. Turn around.”

The stallion did so, and he was taken aback to see himself sitting in the theater seat. He saw his face, not in terror, but at peace as if he had fallen asleep.

“We’ve already begun,” Gregory said, unfolding a white wing to drape over him. “I will tell you this, while your body may go back to your country. Your soul, your music, even your story will belong to eternity. Just as you inspired me to keep on living when I didn’t want to, so will you go on to inspire countless others out there. For as I said, this isn't the end for you – but the beginning.”

“And where would I go?”

Guiding him out of the theater, Gregory told him, “From here on out, it only gets better.”