The night was perfect.
I knew because she told me so. Not explicitly, but her blonde mane on my shoulder and her hoof over mine and her voice low in my ear told me all I needed to know. Told me that now was as good as it was ever going to get.
We were sitting on a hill overlooking Fillydelphia, gazing at the city lights that chased the night away, resting after a performance. I was single. She was single. We were best friends. And the night had been... well, the night had been amazing. We had played before hundreds, maybe finally made our big break.
This is it. Do it now!
With the grass soft underneath us, the stars bright above us, and the whole city laid out before us, it seemed Celestia herself couldn’t have set out a better place for me to tell her... to tell her that I—oh, Celestia!
Why was I so nervous? Why couldn’t I just do this? Just this once—just one time—reach out and take what I wanted.
Come on, Second Fiddle. You can do this!
My pulse quickened. My chest tightened.
Okay, come on. You’ve run this in your head a thousand times. Just open your mouth and—
“Hey, Ragtime?”
“Yeah?” She looked up at me, and I glanced down, catching her clear green eyes.
Oh, Celestia, those eyes...
My heart fluttered in my chest. No, beyond fluttered. It was outright palpitating. I think I might have been sweating. Oh, Princess, don’t let her notice!
“Can I—can I tell you something? Something crazy?”
I’m doing it! I’m actually doing it! There’s no stopping it now. Just gotta get all the words out right...
“Sure.”
She glanced up at me expectantly. A thin smile danced across her lips, her head cocked just barely sideways. I could swear she knew what was coming. I could swear she was excited for it.
“I—I just wanted to s-say that I-I...”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no! Don’t start stuttering again! You haven’t in years, don’t start now!
“Hmm?” she murmured, leaning her head against me. I was so tense, I nearly jerked at the touch. Nearly.
“I s-said I l-love, uh, I-I l-love y—”
“—Second Fiddle, you—” she said, her voice deepening slightly.
“Wait, please, just let me finish,” I said, cutting her off. “I love—”
“Second Fiddle, wake up!” Her voice was definitely different now.
Oh, no, please no! Just let me finish this just for once let me finish this let me tell her please oh please not yet.
“Wait, please, I just have to say that I—”
“It’s time to wake up!” she said cheerfully. Without moving her legs, she began to slide away from me as the world faded to darkness.
“No, come back, please—”
“Time for your medicine, Mr. Fiddle!”
I opened my eyes slowly. I was in the Ponyville hospital now, being shaken awake by a rather persistent nurse.
“Just let me sleep...” I mumbled.
“In just a minute, dear. Doctor Stable says you have to take this once every four hours to reduce the chance of rejection,” she said firmly.
“From what, nintey-five to ninety-two percent?” I snapped. I hated this. Every few hours, she came in and woke me up. Couldn’t they just let me get some sleep before I died?
“Every little bit counts,” she said. “Here, come on now. It’s just two pills.”
She handed me the pills and an open bottle of sarsaparilla. “Sunny Lanes Sarsaparilla,” the label read. “100% Guaranteed to Brighten Up Your Day!” Below the words, two cream-colored ponies appeared to be dancing, exuberant smiles plastered across their faces.
I wanted to go find these two and buck their smiles off.
Instead, I popped the pills into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, and washed them down with the soda. It was sickly sweet, and coated the inside of my mouth with a thin film.
“Do you not have any water?” I said, retching.
“I thought you might want to try something new,” the nurse shrugged. “Thought it might ‘brighten your day.’”
“I hate it.” I dropped the bottle on the floor next to my cot.
The nurse scowled at my display. “I’ll go get you some water. I’ll be right back.”
“It’s fine,” I sighed. “I’ll get it myself. I need to stretch my legs anyway.”
I was not getting up. But I didn’t want her to come back. I felt like being left alone.
The nurse shrugged and moved on to the other two patients in my room. I flopped over on my cot, facing the wall. I hated that cot. Apparently, all of the hospital beds were full, so I got stuck with the cot in the corner of room twelve. That’s right. I wasn’t even going to get to die in a proper bed.
I hated this place.
Hated the hospital, with its stupid cot and its stupid fluorescent lights that hummed all through the night, keeping me awake unless I was on morphine again. Hated the nurse, with her stupid manecut and her stupid fake cheeriness that never failed to put me off whenever she entered the room. Hated the doctor most of all.
Hated him because he wouldn’t save me.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” he had said, “but even though the surgery was a success, your immune system condition means there is a high chance your body will reject the new heart.”
I had learned later that “high chance” meant above eighty-five percent. Which basically means I’m terminal.
Terminal, and stuck in this terrible place waiting to die. But at least I had morphine. Sweet, sweet morphine, for whenever my chest ached from when they ripped it open. Or for when it ached for anything else.
I glanced down at my bedspread—colored an ugly purple; I didn’t know why they made everything in this place so unbearable—to the button for the morphine drip that ran down an IV into my shoulder. I pressed it. Nothing happened. The machine wouldn’t let it; I had already taken a huge dose an hour ago and fallen asleep.
Only to be so rudely awakened by the nurse.
I rolled over, shut my eyes, and tried to get back to sleep. But it didn’t come. I opened my eyes again and stared down at the sarsaparilla bottle. I realized it was the same brand my grandmother used to buy. That sure brought back some memories.
Walking to her house from the schoolyard on those warm afternoons... letting myself in... cracking open a bottle of soda... Her voice calling from the garden, “Is that little Second Fiddle, come to steal mah sarsaparilla?” Giggling until she came inside... hiding my face in my hooves as she fixed me with a faux-accusing glare...
I missed her. She had died when I was, what... nine? Maybe? I couldn’t remember. I should’ve spent more time with her. And to be honest, what little time I had spent with her had probably been just for the free sodas. I was a selfish little kid. Never quite grew out of that...
Still, the memories were fond ones. I remembered how she used to ask every time I saw her, “Little Second Fiddle, what’re you gonna do when yer all grown up?”
And every time, the same answer, “I’m gonna play, gramma!”
And play I did. Every night, in my room, alone, sweating over a secondhand violin my dad had bought with two weeks’ pay because he “wanted to see his boy make some music.” He was so damn proud of seeing me play that violin—when he could get me to show him.
I, on the other hoof, wouldn’t be caught dead around the schoolyard with the thing. It was old and ugly, its wood tarnished and its fretboard tattered. One look at it, and it practically screamed “poverty.”
I remembered a couple of bullies kicking the crap out of me for owning it one day. I’d brought it to school for a talent show, put on a real sharp act in front of everypony. I remembered they were in the show, too. Can’t remember what it was they did. Neither would anypony else.
Looking back, I thought it might’ve been jealousy that got them after me. It was one of those things you didn’t really realize ’til later. At the time, I had thought it was for owning such an ugly violin.
Carrying it around, the way it made me feel when other people saw me with it, the shame, I grew to hate that violin. Which was unfortunate, because I truly loved playing it. Or any violin, for that matter.
And in the end, it helped me meet the love of my life.
Her, and also my wife.
Dear Princesses, my wife. What a piece of work. I didn’t even tell her I was in the hospital. She thought I was on a business trip. But then, why would I tell her? I wanted to die in peace, and that wouldn’t really be possible with ol’ Mud Blossom around.
The doctor would probably send a note to her with my body, explaining what happened. I doubted she would cry—unless there was some hitch in the payout from my life insurance policy. “’Til death do us part” indeed. Ugh, I couldn’t stand her.
I had loved her once, though. Well, thought that I loved her once. It was in that dark room down by campus, just before we got engaged and she told me she was pregnant. She’d asked if I would support her. Of course I would. Whatever it took. I loved her.
What a load of crap. Twenty-some-odd years I’d supported her, and then my heart gave out and I got stuck in a hospital, alone. I supposed my heart just couldn’t take all the love she was giving me. And by love, I mean nagging.
But, hey, under it all, I could be sure she still harbored something resembling affection for me in that rusted shell she called a heart. And I couldn’t think of a better mare to settle for.
Er, settle down with.
But who was I kidding? I settled. I always settled.
It’s just so hard aspiring for things. Why not just take what you’re given and be happy with it? No need to reach out, no need to strive; just take what you’re given. And if that’s not enough, take some antidepressants, too.
Okay, it wasn’t fair to think like that. I was being bitter. I didn’t have the right to be bitter. I’d lived a long and full life. Maybe even happy, by some standards. I never went hungry, or thirsty. I was never in pain, never unhealthy—well, until now. In fact, I had everything everypony always dreamed of.
I had a steady job, a somewhat-loving wife, a somewhat-loving child, a somewhat-decent house, even a cute little white picket fence. Okay, well, off-white fence. It was really more beige than anything, I suppose.
But still, living the dream.
Lived the dream, I reminded myself. It was a strange thing to do, thinking of my life in the past tense. But I would get used to it. I hoped. And if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have to deal with it for very long...
I sighed. I was tired of thinking like that. Of thinking in general, actually. I needed something to do.
I looked up from my cot, peering across the room. In the bed opposite me, was a rainbow-maned pegasus reading a book to herself aloud. “Daring Do and the Quest for the Sapphire Stone.”
What a terrible idea for a book. Utterly unrealistic. I found myself hating the book as I listened to her read it. It was all epic adventures, wild chases, fantastic heroes.
Stuff that never happened. If the author had wanted to write a book a pony could sympathize with, she should’ve written something more along the lines of “Daring Do and the Early Tax Report Deadline.”
I’d read that. I’d read the hell out of that. Because that’s the stuff that life’s really made of. Not heroes and villians and battles and glory. It was mostly cubicles. Staplers. A wife waiting at home. Things that like that. That’s what life is like.
Hot damn, I was being pretentious today. That’s what my life was like. Not everypony’s was as mundane as mine. Not everypony wasted time like I did. Still, nopony did stuff like that. And if I only had a little while left to live, why not be a bit pretentious? I’d lived an entire life; I had a right to pass judgements! And just how in the hay was I supposed to sleep with all that noise?
I gave a quiet cough, hoping she would notice my discomfort. She didn’t.
I coughed again, louder this time. Still no response. That irked me a little.
“Hey,” I said to her gruffly. “Could you please keep it down.”
She glanced up at me, then down to her book, face tinging a slight red, almost as if she felt guilty. “Heh, right. Sorry.”
“No problem, kid.” I sighed. “Say, how’d you end up in here, anyway?” I asked. Might as well get to know the new neighbors. I was stuck with them for the rest of my life.
“Broke my wing. You?” She looked me over. She caught sight of my head and gave a slight gasp. “You hair—is it—do you have...?”
“What?” What was she talking abo—oh. Oh! “No, of course not! I just shave my head, that’s all.”
“Why?”
Because otherwise I’d have a bald patch the size of Fillydelphia.
“Because I like the way it looks. I’m in here recovering from heart surgery. It’s nothing like that.”
Actually, it was about as deadly. But there was no need to go around spouting that off to strangers.
“How’d you hurt your wing?” I asked. I didn’t want to talk about me anymore.
“Practicing,” she replied.
“For what?”
“Oh, nothin’ special,” she said, a sliver of pride creeping into her voice, her chest puffing as a gleam crept into her eyes. “Just the Wonderbolts!”
“You’re a Wonderbolt?”
“Not yet,” she snorted. “That’s why I was practicing. But I might as well be. I’m the fastest pegasus in all of Equestria—and I’m getting faster! When I try out in the fall, they’ll have to take me.”
Something in my head popped, just then. I felt my temper rise a little.
“You really think you’re going to get to be a Wonderbolt?” I asked, a hint of condescension in my voice.
“Why wouldn’t I? I’m a shoo-in!” she replied, crossing her forelegs.
“Please,” I grumbled. “Every pegasus in Equestria wants to be a Wonderbolt. Do you really think you’re going to be the one pony who makes it? You think you’re that much better, that much luckier than everypony else? What makes you so special?”
“Uhh,” she said, pretending to think about it. “Because I’m Rainbow Dash, that’s why!”
I shook my head. “Trust me, kid, you’re better off just taking a job somewhere that pays the bills.”
“Why settle for that, when I can be a Wonderbolt?” she asked, incredulous.
“Because you’re probably not going to be a Wonderbolt. You’re probably going to be a failure. With no money. Out on the street. Begging. Unless you give up trying to be so much better than everypony else and just accept that you’re average.”
“I am way better than average,” she said, fixing me with a haughty glare. I started to open my mouth, but she raised the book again before I could say anything.
Didn’t matter to me. I didn’t like talking to her anyway.
But I had one thing I just had to ask her. Just to see what she would say. I had to know.
“It’s just...” I said slowly, trying to find a way to say exactly what I meant. I couldn’t quite think of anything. Oh well.
“Why?” I asked finally.
She looked at me pointedly, setting down her book and crossing her forelegs. “What do you mean, ‘why?’”
“Why risk it, y’know? Why take the chance—and there is a pretty good chance—that you might fail. That you might not be good enough to make it, and you might end up miserable.”
She rested her chin on a hoof, thinking for a second. “Well... it’s just that... It’s like, when I’m flying, I’m not worried about it. Sure, sometimes before like a competition or something, I might get just a little antsy, but... when I’m up there, ripping the clouds, wind in my face, flying faster than anypony else can...” her voice trailed off, her eyes glazing over slightly.
I recognized that look. It was like staring into a mirror.
“...with all that going on, it just feels right. Like I can’t fail—and even if I did, it would still be worth it.”
She sighed. “I dunno. I can’t explain it right. It just feels like, I dunno... like I’m a little bit more, uh... alive than usual. A little bit more... me.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain,” she repeated.
I nodded slowly. “I know the feeling,” I said, thinking. Remembering.
I knew how she felt because it was the same way I had felt...
A crowded auditorium, audience filling out the seats, a spotlight on me, so hot I’m almost sweating, and I play that first note and a chill runs up the sides of my neck, and my breath catches because I know it’s about to start... And then the next note, and the next, and the music builds and the orchestra starts behind me, but it’s not me anymore, on that stage in front of all those ponies...
I’m not really up there. It’s like... like I’m flying. I’m doing what I love, what I was meant to do, a violin in my hooves and sweat on my brow and the beautiful keening of the violin roaring in my ears...
Yes. I knew how she felt.
I snapped myself out of my reverie, another question popping into my head.
“But... why the Wonderbolts?” I asked. “I mean, even if you never join them, you can still fly. On your own time, sure, but at least there’s no risk.”
Her eyes didn’t mist this time. She didn’t stop to think. Instead, she just shook her head at me. “Come on, uh...”
“Second Fiddle.”
“Come on, Second Fiddle. Haven’t you ever wanted something before. Like, really wanted it? Needed it, even?”
Yes. I had felt that way about precisely two things in my life. But I wasn’t going to tell her about Ragtime.
“Well... yeah,” I admitted.
The mare cocked an eyebrow. “What? A mare? A job? Tickets to the Grand Galloping Gala?”
“A violin,” I said.
She frowned at me. “What, that’s it? That’s all you wanted? A violin?” She made a wild gesture towards the window, at the road leaving the hospital. “You can get that right down the street!” she said.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not just any violin. The Stradineighrius.”
She shot me a confused look, her rainbow mane almost falling into her eyes. “The what?”
“The Stradineighrius,” I repeated. “One of the best kinds of violin in the world.”
“What’s so great about it?” she asked flippantly.
“It’s perfect, that’s what!” I said, nearly shouting. Nopony questioned the value of a Stradineighrius while I was around. “The best wood, the best craftsmanship, the best strings, the best bow. Everything, absolutely perfect. They’ve got one in the music store in Ponyville, you should see it. They put it in the window, I swear it glows.”
“Well, if it’s right here, then don’t you just go buy it?” she asked.
“I tried already. When I was younger, before I went off to school. I saved up my money for two years, slaving away at a minimum wage job, and never bought it.”
“I thought you really liked it, or whatever.”
“I did! I loved that violin. I’d stop past the store every day on my way home, and look at it. Watch it shining in the window. Maybe even put one hoof on the glass, just so I could feel a little closer. Heck, it got to the point where I practically thought it was mine. I basically owned it—it was just on the wrong side of the glass right then, is all.
“Er, that’s what I thought back then. Seems kinda silly looking back on it,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn. I’d never told anypony about the Stradineighrius. Well, anypony but Ragtime. But then, I told Ragtime everything.
Almost everything. Everything but—
“What happened?” Rainbow Dash asked, breaking my train of thought.
“Well, after two years of working my tail off, I only had seven hundred bits.”
“Seems like plenty for a stupid violin,” she said brashly.
“It’s not stupid! And it wasn’t plenty. I had seven hundred. The Stradineighrius cost four thousand,” I said.
Her jaw slackened ever-so-slightly at that. “Four thousand bits?” she asked, incredulous. “For a violin?”
“For the best violin,” I pointed out.
“Well, if it was really worth it, why didn’t you keep saving?” she asked.
“Well, because there was this other violin, and it was pretty good. And I could afford it. So, I went in and bought it. A seven hundred bit not-Stradineighrius,” I said.
“So, you settled?” she asked.
“I didn’t settle!” I said. “Not really. It was a fine violin. It wasn’t a Stradineighrius, sure, but it was still a pretty good instrument.”
Rainbow Dash shrugged. “Pretty good,” she said, “but not the best. And you should always go with the best. For everything! Be the best, use the best. Best, best, best. The best is awesome. It’s why I wanna be a Wonderbolt. Nopony can beat them. You think I’d be nearly as happy if I joined the Sky-Streaks? Not a chance.”
“There’s something to be said for affordability,” I pointed out. “What good is ‘the best’ if it’s unattainable?”
“Everything’s attainable. If you really want it. If you don’t settle,” she said.
“I didn’t settle!”
“Really?” she asked. “Then where’s your ‘Stradineighrius?’” She craned her neck, looking around the room, mock-searching for something. “Because I can’t see one from here.”
I sighed. “Okay. I settled.”
“Yeah you did.”
“But that was a long time ago. What’m I supposed to do about it now?” I asked.
“Uh, I dunno, how about you stop settling?” she asked. “Go buy the really good violin or whatever.”
“Now?” I scoffed. “What good would it do now? I don’t even play anymore. Even if the store did still have it, it’d just be a waste of four thousand bits.”
“Why? Don’t you play anymore?”
“No,” I said, without thinking.
“Why not?”
I felt my stomach drop. I hadn’t meant to tell her I gave up violin. I tried not to mention that. Not to anypony. Because it might remind me...
“I just... don’t.”
“Tell me!” she pressed.
I felt a twinge of annoyance. “I have my reasons!”
“You don’t like violin?”
My annoyance heated into mild anger at that. Sure, she didn’t know any better, but still...
“No,” I growled. “I love violin. I lived for violin! You don’t know how something like that feels.”
“Uh, yeah,” she said emphatically. “I kind of definitely do.”
“You don’t!”
“Totally do!”
“No, you don’t,” I said, temper rising. “Not you, not anypony. What it’s like to feel something like that and lose it, to love somepony and have to leave them...”
“Somepony? I thought we were talking about a violin.” A small smirk formed at the edge of her mouth.
I blinked. I hadn’t realized I’d said that. “Just... just be quiet. Please. Princesses, I’m dying here, and I can’t get a little peace and quiet.”
Her eyes widened, her smile faded. “You... oh. I didn’t know that you... geez. I’m sorry, man, I wasn’t told—”
“I—just leave me alone,” I interrupted, bitterness and anger washing over me. “Just leave me alone and go back to your precious Wonderbolts. You don’t get it, kid.”
“Uh, I’m sorry—”
“Just... just leave me alone,” I groaned as I rolled over.
I stared hard at the wall, trying to get to sleep. It wasn’t working.
I felt my anger and resentment fade into a bitter regret. Why did I have to be so rude? So mean? Why should I get to try to crush her dreams? I’d tried to break her down, just like so many others had done to me. I remembered how much it drove me crazy, when they did that. And now I was just like them.
I had used to tell myself that I needed it, that everypony was just teaching me what I had to learn so that I wouldn’t get hurt, but had I really needed that?
Had I really needed my music theory teacher—old crotchety Professor Tri-Tone—to tell me that I would never make it into the Canterlot Royal Orchestra? Had I really needed Mud Blossom telling me that if I “really, really loved her,” I would give up my violin to support her? Had I really needed to hear—
What was I thinking?
Of course I had. I think. Somepony had to talk some sense into me, right? I mean, pretty much the only pony who ever thought I could make it was Ragtime and she was...
She was just saying that. Because she wanted to spare my feelings. At least, that’s what Mud Blossom had said. And in my life, Mud’s word was law. And Mud’s word was that I had never loved her. And Ragtime had never loved me.
I supposed I would never actually know. I had never talked to Ragtime about it. I should’ve said something the first day I met her. I should’ve walked up to her and asked her out and spent the whole night telling her how damn beautiful she looked and yes I would like to accompany you on violin, thank you for asking. But I didn’t.
I didn’t ask her out that night, or any other night after that. Instead, I had met her after my first night of practice with the Fillydelphia University Orchestra—which I had gotten into, despite everything Tri-tone told me—and I had been utterly breathtaken.
Right in the middle of a concerto, during a pause, she had suddenly burst into a crazy piano tune, syncopated and energized, swinging and lively enough that some of the older students set down their instruments to dance, and pretty soon we were all dancing. Well, I like to think I was dancing. I was really just jerking spastically in a way that vaguely synchronized with the music.
But between my head bobs and limb flails, I had caught sight of her at the piano, sweat on her brow, curly blonde mane flowing everywhere, hooves working furiously at the keys, and I fell in love. And afterwards, sweaty, disheveled, and utterly, fantastically alive, I had approached her, heart pounding, and opened my mouth.
I spoke no words. My tongue wasn’t working properly. I just walked up to her and stared. Like a madpony. After a second, she laughed at me and asked me if I wanted to come with her and a few friends to a few bars downtown. I stammered out something reminiscent of a “yes.”
We spent the whole night in town, I trying to get her alone, her trying to get into a piano seat at whatever dive we were currently patronizing. And somehow, by morning, we were friends. Nothing more. Just friends. And it stayed that way.
I let it stay that way.
Because I met Mud Blossom. She was all over me, right from the start. I guess I was so flattered, so tired of never being able to overcome my fears with Ragtime, that I just sort of... ended up with her.
And for a while, it worked out pretty well. With a marefriend to distract me from my feelings for Ragtime, the two of us forged a friendship that would never be broken. Or, it at least seemed so at the time. It seemed like a lot of things at the time.
At one point, it even seemed like it would become something more.
It was after a big recital one night, after we had blown a crowd away with a piano-violin duet that made the rest of the orchestra look frigid and passionless by comparison, that we sat together on a hill overlooking Fillydelphia. I had been through a rough patch with Blossom—she was upset that I was spending so much time with the orchestra and so little time with her—and we were... “taking a break” for a while.
I had looked in her eyes. Those big, green eyes...
I was walking up to the shop.
I had opened my mouth.
I was staring in the window.
I had stammered out “I love—”
I was pressing my hoof on the glass.
And then I gave in.
“Mud Blossom,” I finished. “I love Mud Blossom.”
Way to go, Second Fiddle.
Ragtime had... deflated, then. Her shoulders sagged slightly, her head slumped forward a little. She looked at the ground for a long, long time. And finally back at me, and said, “Well, if you really feel that way, I say do whatever you have to to fix things.”
And so I did. I patched things up with Mud Blossom. Because Ragtime told me to.
But we were still friends. And Blossom and I weren’t that serious. So there was always hope. I hadn’t settled. I was just biding my time.
There was still a chance. I was just on the wrong side of the glass right now. But as long as Ragtime still wanted to see me...
Turns out, that wasn’t all that long at all. Ragtime found us a gig, an exhibition that was supposedly being attended by the conductor of the Canterlot Royal Orchestra himself, that was going to be our biggest recital ever. Our big break, bigger than the one before the night on the hill. The biggest.
Only thing was, it was on my anniversary night. With Mud Blossom. I had told her to come to the recital, that it was important, but she had said it was even more important that I stay with her that night. Crucial, she said. I had told her it would ruin the recital, let Ragtime down.
And she had looked at me, with those beady brown eyes and asked me if I truly loved her.
Of course I did.
Dammit, Second Fiddle.
So I bailed on Ragtime. She was furious. She told me I was out of the orchestra. She replaced me with some other stallion. They did the recital without me. She got invited to join the Canterlot Royal Orchestra. She left for the capital without ever saying goodbye.
We hadn’t spoken since.
But I had more important things on my mind at the time. Mud Blossom was pregnant. It was mine, of course. And I needed a real job. I needed to support her, support my new family. So I switched my major. Got an accounting degree. Lined up a job in Ponyville and moved right back to the very same neighborhood I'd grown up in.
I sold my violin to pay for train tickets.
And now here I was. In the hospital. Dying. Happy as a clam.
Oh, Celestia, I missed Ragtime.
I missed Ragtime. I missed my violin. I missed music. How long had it been since I’d held an instrument? Decades?
My chest hurt. It wasn’t from the surgery. I pressed the morphine tab.
It worked. The machine let it work. Thank Celestia for tiny blessings.
I turned over on my side and stared at the blue pony on the bed. “Rainbow Dash.”
I hoped she became a Wonderbolt. I hoped she met an amazing colt while she was there. She deserved it. I wished I did.
I had wasted my chance. Stayed outside the window. I’d never tried. I hadn’t lived a happy life. It all made sense now.
Oh, sweet Princess, if only I could have one more chance. I would go in that shop. I would buy the Stradineighrius. I would leave Mud Blossom. I would tell Ragtime I loved her. I would join an orchestra. Please, please don’t let this be it.
I felt the haze of morphine begin to slip over my eyes, clouding out the pegasus on the bed.
Please... don’t let it be over yet...
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a different bed. A real bed. That pegasus’s bed, I realized.
Apparently I had been moved when I was under the effects of morphine. I was fairly sure I had woken up before, said something about slippers, then fallen back asleep. It was all pretty hazy.
Except for those last few things. Before I had fallen asleep, I remembered everything I had realized. I remembered what I had thought about Ragtime and the violin.
And even after the morphine, I still wanted it. Needed it. I craved it so badly my chest ached and—
The door opened. Doctor Stable stuck his head in and saw that I was awake.
“Mr. Fiddle,” he said, good naturedly. “How are you?”
“I’m...” I didn’t know what to say. I paused for a moment, thinking. “I’m awake,” I said finally.
“Good, good. Well, I have some great news for you: we’ve gotten some tests back and it appears that immune system is responding well to your new heart. It seems the immunosuppressants you’re on are working better than we expected, and thus far, no new tissue appears to be under the threat of acute or hyperacute rejection.”
I blinked. “W-what?”
Damn stutter.
“Your body appears to have accepted the heart, at least for now. It seems you’re going to be fine.”
My jaw dropped. I wasn’t dying?
“Oh.”
That was it. That was all I said.
The doctor began to say some other things, about risk factors and medicines I would have to take, about being discharged, but I could barely hear him.
All I heard was violin music and syncopated piano tunes.
I was going to live.
And this time, I was going to live.
Finally, the doctor stopped talking. I looked up at him, still in a daze. “So... can I go, now?”
“Of course! Just go see the nurse to get your medicines and fill out your paperwork, then you should be good to go.”
“O-okay...”
I got out of bed, shakily, and walked out to the nurses’ desk. I mindlessly chatted with the nurse, received everything she gave me, and then walked out of the hospital.
I knew what I had to do.
I arrived at my house, still in my hospital garb. Mud Blossom barely looked at me when I walked in. Until, that is, she noticed what I was wearing.
“What is that?” she asked. “Have you been in the hospital? Second Fiddle, what have you been doing? Why didn’t you tell me? What’s happened? What about work? Where have you been all this—”
“Mud Blossom, we’re through.”
“What?”
“We’re getting a divorce.”
She looked at me, surprised for a second, and then a look of acceptance washed over her face. I realized that she had been waiting for this for a long time. Probably ever since our son graduated from college. Possibly before that.
“Okay,” she said. That was it. That was all she said.
I walked out of the house without another word. I would sort out the divorce later. Right now, I had two letters to write.
I stopped off at the bank, withdrew a few thousand bits, and then dropped by the post office. I scribbled down the first letter quickly. A mail order request for a front seat reservation at the Canterlot Royal Orchestra, complete with advance payment.
Then I sat in the corner there for an hour, staring down at the other paper, trying to put each word perfectly, before I realized it didn’t matter precisely what I said. I was moving to the other side of the glass. Ragtime would understand whatever I sent her. Hopefully.
Even so, it took me a while. I was no writer. After I finished, I read it over. Twice.
Ragtime,
It’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me. Not since that last night with the Fillydelphia Orchestra. I just want you to know, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have my priorities in order back then. I really messed up. And I know I should’ve said something afterwards, but I just didn’t, and then enough time passed that I felt it would’ve been strange to suddenly send you a letter again.
But... something’s happened. It’s hard to explain exactly what, especially in a letter, but things are... different now. For me, at least. For you, I can’t be certain—we haven’t talked in decades, after all. But I heard the Canterlot Royal Orchestra is playing on Saturday night at the palace. I don’t know if you still play with them, but I’m going to go see them. I reserved myself a front row seat. Look for me.
I hope to see you there.
If I don’t, that’s fine as well.
I’m so sorry for how things turned out, Ragtime.
—Second Fiddle
There. That would work. Maybe she would find it strange, getting a letter from me after all this time, but I couldn’t screw up another chance. It just wouldn’t be right.
I mailed the letters, then left the post office, heading for the train station. I bought a ticket for the seven-thirty to Canterlot.
I had two hours left in Ponyville and one last thing to do.
It took me almost an hour to find that old music store. Turned out I had forgotten how to get around that part of Ponyville. I hadn’t been there in years.
When I did find it, though, it was almost the same as I remembered. All the records were still on the walls, though some were new, and different. All of the pianos were still out in the room, though I didn’t recognize some of the newer models.
But the violin...
The violin was exactly the same. Just as pristine, just as beautiful. Right in the same spot in the window. For a moment, I stood, stock still on the hot pavement, one hoof against the glass, feeling for all the world like the same colt who stared at this same violin two decades ago. I had my whole life ahead of me, then. And I had ruined the first chance.
I wouldn’t screw up the second.
I pushed open the door and walked inside. The air was cool, fresh. It smelled of wood and music. It smelled amazing.
The cashier came around from behind his desk and walked up to me. He was a young stallion with a bright green mane, and when he shook my hoof, I felt the telltale calluses of a cellist. I pointed it out to him, and he told me he had just taken up the instrument. He wanted something else to play besides just piano, he said.
I told him I used to know a mare who played the piano. I took the Stradineighrius off the wall and we talked about her as I tuned it. I told him the whole story. I didn’t see why not. Perhaps he might learn something.
It wasn’t long before I was done tuning the violin. For a second, I considered playing it.
No, I couldn’t. I wanted to wait. Wanted to play it alone. Wanted to savor it, the pitch and the timbre and the wonderful melodies flying from my hooves. The first time I played it needed to be as special as the violin was.
So, I bought it, and rested it firmly in my saddlebags. When I walked back out onto the sidewalk, I was nearly floating. Everything was going so perfectly, just as it should have been. I couldn’t wait to see Ragtime.
I couldn’t wait to play the Stradineighrius. Really couldn’t wait, actually. So, I opened my bag. I pulled out the violin. And, just in front of the window I had once so longingly looked through, I reared onto my hindlegs.
I played one chord. Just one. It was the most beautiful chord I had ever played.
It was the last sound I ever heard.
Something caught in my chest. Something was wrong. I stumbled back, crashed through the glass. The violin smashed into the floor. Everything went dark.
But in the back of my head, I could still hear that chord. It rang softly, beating in the blackness, vibrant and vivid. I listened carefully. It grew louder. Then...
Nothing.
That Saturday night, a pianist sat down to play before thousands. She scanned the front row with hopeful eyes, searching for a familiar face. There was one empty seat.
There was no Stadineighrius in the auditorium.
She cried as she played that night.
A/N: Thanks to Secondaryspine, Corejo, and Pascoite, who all helped to edit this, and to Filler, from whom I originally got the inspiration for the piece.
And thanks for reading, of course.
