Practice Does Make Perfect
At first glance, one would think that pony hoofs are not suited to play any instrument with finesse or grace – or to even play at all. It is true. Hoofs are much too broad, and without any appendages or digits like griffons’ claws, it is quite impossible to play.
For unicorns, though, that wasn’t a problem. They had a horn to solve the problem of hoofs – their horn solved almost every problem, anyways. They could press a key, touch a string, or open and close the holes in a wind instrument, all with a simple spell at the tips of their horns. It was so easy with a horn.
Unfortunately, Tempest had no such luxury. Hay, she’d forgotten about the whole horn and hoof issue when it came to playing an instrument. She’d just gone straight into it like she’d gone straight into Canterlot, except that this time only her pride got hurt.
She’d bashed herself for being so foolish. How could she not have thought this through?
She’d felt her hopes dwindling then. Adding to the fact that she couldn’t use her horn without instantly reducing the precious mahogany instrument into an ashen crisp, she became outright discouraged.
Wait, that brought up an awkward question. Miss Octavia had no horn or any other appendage with which to channel magic though. So...how did she play her instrument?
Tempest had rushed to the musician's house. She’d asked Octavia – interrogated her – about the issue. The musician merely laughed, in that posh, Canterlot-esque style, and explained that pony hoofs could certainly play an instrument as well. All one needed to do was form little magical points over the keys or strings they wanted to play, and then just…play. No secret technique nor god-like ability required – it was like breathing. Just breathe.
Tempest wondered how ponies could just form magical points without having a horn. Octavia, with her limited knowledge of magic, simply explained that all ponies had some form of magical reserve within themselves – it was just their interaction with it that was different.
Tempest was a little surprised – amused, even – at the revelation, and though she didn't show it, her hopes were rekindled, and she secretly basked in the relief that she could still play the piano…
That is, until Miss Octavia slapped her with an exercise regimen that consisted of repeating the same chord over and over again. This, Miss Octavia explained, was to train her hoofs to form those magical points, because said points were very, very difficult to master. Tempest had eagerly accepted the challenge; after all, having some military experience under her belt meant that such regimens weren't alien – just in slightly different circumstances, that's all.
She could do it. She would do it. It’d be as easy as pie. Hay, even a cupcake.
***
It was hard. Difficult. And energy-consuming. Tempest had repeated the same chord for a whole month, but she still struggled to keep her points perfectly stable. Her chords were muddy, unclear, and clumsy, a far cry from the angelic voice the instrument was meant to produce.
Her hoofs screamed pain. It was so painful to channel magic through her hoofs. She'd tried to shut it out – she wasn't going to let a little pain deter her from playing – but it was becoming ever more difficult to keep them stable. It hurt. It hurt so badly.
Darn it, why couldn't she just play it perfectly?
Tempest sighed, frustrated – whether at herself or at the piano she didn't know. She stood up from the instrument. She stretched her muscles and cracked a few joints here and there, for she’d been sitting at the instrument for the past two hours.
She looked at the time. It was around…17:50 in the afternoon. She looked around the room, then out the window; Octavia was sitting at her desk working on her music, while ponies milled here and there in the street below, some basking in the beautiful sunset, and others chatting and slurping a drink.
Next to a tall lamppost, an earth pony was jamming with a fiddle. A crowd of ponies had gathered round her, bopping and dancing to the lively jig. Tempest observed her hoof movements. They were so…perfect. So precise. So virtuosic. Running up and down the fiddle, with nothing but magical hoof-points to finish off the song with a satisfying glissando.
She must be really talented… thought Tempest sullenly, perhaps a little jealously too.
“Oh yes, she is,” replied Octavia.
Tempest looked back, a little surprised that she’d thought that out loud. “You know her?”
“Yes, she’s one of the students I taught.”
“Your student?”
“Yup. She’s a bright, young filly. Has a real talent and heart for music,” mused Octavia, before sighing. “It’s sad that she lost her horn at such a young age.”
Tempest gasped a little. “Wait, she's a unicorn?”
Octavia nodded, a little sadly. “She was. She grew a long mane to hide the stub.”
Tempest looked back, through the window. There the mare was, sitting on a bench as she packed away her instrument. Indeed, she had a long, chocolate-brown mane with beige streaks, but aside from the oversized bow adorning her head, nothing seemed out of place…
Tempest steeled her eyes and observed her forehead. It was hard to spot, and easy to miss, but there it was. It was true – peeking from beneath the lattice of hair, was a small little stub of a horn, broken off no doubt.
She wondered if the mare had felt the same as she’d felt. A certain kind of loss. One that is not easily replaceable. A unicorn’s horn was as precious to them as a heart was to a body. Without it…one might as well be considered dead.
Tempest pushed away those memories and turned from the window. She trotted to the desk and sat down, a tired groan escaping her lips.
“It’s easy to be discouraged, Tempest,” said Octavia, not looking up from her work.
"Yup, and I'm having lots of it," Tempest answered dryly.
“Ponticello felt the same before.”
Tempest raised a brow at that name, before hazarding a guess. “Your student, the fiddler?”
Octavia nodded. “She continued her lessons after her accident. She was quite tenacious.” Octavia cracked a smile at that remark. “But she had to relearn everything by hoof, and it wasn’t an easy process.”
Tempest looked down at her hoofs. They ached badly. “Yeah, I can see why.”
The musician nodded. “Ponty came close to giving up several times, because it was so difficult to master her hoof-points. She was also bullied by some members of a band she had joined.”
“Did she beat them up with her fiddle?” smirked Tempest.
“No, she didn’t,” deadpanned Octavia. “What she did do, though, was come to me for some encouragement and advice. You know what I told her?”
“What?”
“I told her to stop trying to make her practicing perfect. She was always frustrating herself over not being able to play a certain note perfectly. I told her to just let go and allow herself to make mistakes from time to time.”
Tempest pursed her lips.
“Same with you too, Tempest. Don’t try to play the chord perfectly. If you make a mistake, get over it and continue on.”
Tempest sighed. “But I’ve been practicing for a month, and still there’s no progress.”
“That’s alright. Just take it slow. Not all musicians learn at the same pace. I took a year to perfect my cello playing. Ponty took two – it was pretty exhausting.”
“I’ll take three, then,” smirked Tempest.
“Pfff, it doesn’t have to be three. It could be two, maybe one, or even half. Just continue practicing, Tempest. Don't give up.”
Tempest nodded, allowing herself to digest everything Miss Octavia had said. She gazed at the piano for a little while, before turning to Octavia.
“I guess I’ll have to continue torturing myself with those exercises.”
Octavia sulked. “Please, my father wrote those exercises for me when I was little.”
Tempest blew a face. “You should tell him what a harsh taskmaster he is.”
“Oh, you don’t know how harsh he is when it comes to music. He studied under Neightoven himself, after all. It’s a standard he fervently wishes to live up to.”
Tempest nodded with a smug “I see” look. She might look up on that Neightoven guy later on. Octavia giggled, again in that posh Canterlot style, before glancing at the clock – 18:10.
"Why don't we do one last round of practice?"
"No."
"Dinner's on me."
"With complimentary ice cream dessert?"
"Only if you help me finish the woodwind parts."
"Fine. Deal."
