The shop door closed shut behind Octavia, punctuated by a chime. She tightened the strap on her cumbersome saddlebag and tugged her scarf around her neck. The cold air outside was bitter and she longed to be indoors, beside her fire. While her scarf and saddlebag kept her body warm, her soul was set alight with joy at the prospect of trying out her new instrument: it was a cello, her usual choice in instrumentation, but this one was quite unlike the others. It was not the make, nor material, that attracted Octavia, but its designer: Royal Lace.
Octavia made her way down the streets of Canterlot, snow crunching loudly underhoof, and navigated her way through the crowds, constantly in fear that somepony would bump into her and damage her new instrument. The streets were quiet; the cries of birds were heard above any murmured talk between folk. The blanket of snow that had fallen down over the streets of Canterlot had been shredded by the usual city rush of hooves by the time Octavia had made it home. The streets were illuminated in a pale, monochrome light given off by the rising moon and even the towers of resplendent gold were rendered mute and dim.
Octavia set the cello upstairs in her study, which was soon to be part of her bedroom, given how many notes and music sheets she had strewn along the corridor between the two rooms; her personal life was a far cry from her professional one and the high image she maintained. The study was a circular room with four cellos fanned out against the wall and at the centre was a single musical stand crowded with music sheets.
Under the light of a lantern Octavia admired the craftsmanship of Royal Lace and took note of the intricate details in both the scroll and the bridge. She brought her bow to the string and failed to suppress a childish giggle; it was not often Octavia relished in playing an enchanted instrument. Royal Lace had, according to history, imbued the strings of his instruments with the same magic used in weather tuning machines.
Low waves of sound echoed out of the cello as Octavia began to play a simple piece of chamber music. The notes permeated the air and spilt out into the streets around her, creating a bubble of serene audio around her home. It was in this bubble that Octavia felt her safest and calmest; inside the bubble of music nothing could touch her. As the last note of the song faded, Octavia let out a pleasurable sigh and set the bow down on a pillow. She stretched and gave the cello another look over. Her eyes lingered on the strings before being whisked away to focus on the corridor leading to her bedroom. She let the fireflies out of the cage and the yellow illumination of the room went flittering out the window.
She tossed her scarf from the corridor outside up onto her dresser and unceremoniously dropped herself onto her bed. Just as she dropped to sleep she fancied she could hear a rapping sound coming from the window to her bedroom; with one eye open she turned her head and could spy a small silhouette at the window. Roused from her sleep by a second tapping at the glass pane, she pushed herself out of the comfort of her bed to investigate the sound.
Parting the curtains revealed a crow perched on the external windowsill. It silently looked up to her and tapped the glass with its beak. Octavia narrowed her eyes and thumped the glass once with her hoof; startling the bird into flight. It flew backwards, haphazardly, to the low roof of the building opposite. Her neighbour’s house faced away from hers as it was on the corner of the road and this meant that her window had a rather unsatisfactory view of the back of the neighbour’s house, which was just a sloping roof. It was on this roof that the crow perched and continued to stare at Octavia’s window. Content with the crow’s departure Octavia returned to bed.
The next morning ran like any other: Octavia rose bright and early, had a quick bathe downstairs, and fixed herself some breakfast with hot tea. It wasn’t until later that morning that her neighbour, Chestnut, paid his usual visit. The teal stallion presented himself at her doorstep in a dishevelled state: bags under his eyes, un-kempt mane and he was screwing his face up in defence against the light outside.
“Pardon for my rudeness last night,” he began, “but you weren’t trying to get my attention at all, were you? Sometime just before midnight?”
“Rudeness?” Octavia responded to his question with another question. “No, after coming home last night I never left my house. Is there something the matter?”
“Oh, no, not really.” The stallion waved a dismissive hoof and smiled. His expression brightened up when he caught scent of the tea coming from her living room; Octavia smiled at his change in demeanour and welcomed him in, pouring him a glass of tea. The two spent the next two hours idly chatting about the weather, Canterlot and Appleoosa. Octavia made no mention of her cello as, for now, she wanted to keep it a secret. Chestnut’s ears weren’t so accustomed to her range of cellos, so he probably wouldn’t appreciate the difference in the new sound.
Octavia bid Chestnut farewell and quickly retreated upstairs to take up the cello again, eager to sink deeply into her bubble of music. Octavia was already getting used to the heavier build of cello and its weight, as well as the strings that came with the instrument. With a full day ahead of her, she resided inside her study well into the evening, and it was only until the strike of six did she set down her bow. A cool wave of exhilaration coursed through her veins as the rapture of the instrument and song finally dissipated from the room.
As she lay in bed that night she fancied she could hear strange, whimsical notes, rising from the streets below and dancing up to her window. No sooner had Octavia arisen from her bed did the sounds stop. It was not an abrupt halt but rather, they just faded out. Octavia pushed open her front door a smidgen and looked out to the streets, half expecting to see some street performer with an out of tune instrument, but found she found the street to be empty. The wild sounds returned to her once she had climbed back into bed. She lay still and listened to the fey music that had sprouted up from some obscured location nearby. The song stirred her heart with a strange vibrancy of energy which drew her out of her bed yet again, only this time the music did not fade. Octavia made her way swiftly to her study and took up the cello, her heart beating rapidly in trepidation of joining with this anonymous maestro. She waited for her key, and as soon as it came she brought her cello into the piece. Her bow ran up and down the cello in pace with the music, that had become increasingly frantic as she attempted to join in. For the briefest of seconds Octavia seriously considered the possibility that she was being challenged by some musician, and that this was all a game of wits. She emboldened her resolve and continued to play at the fevered pace that was being set out, completely drowning out the world around her and letting the bow fly in perfect time and tandem with the anonymous musician, until the song reached its crescendo and ceased to be.
The following day, as she went about her morning rituals in her bedroom, she played over the events of last night: after the song had ended and she’d slumped up against the cello, no music played again for the rest of the night. Her body was still shaking, which she tried to calm with a glass of wine. Octavia found her visitor from the night before had gained companions: there were now four crows perched on her neighbour’s roof. She recalled how poor Chestnut had looked yesterday, so Octavia decided to pay him a visit. Donning her scarf, she trotted around to his home, lightly crunching through the fresh layer of snow that had fallen in the early hours of that morning.
“Hello dear Octavia, it’s probably for the best you don’t come in.” Chestnut stood at the door, shivering, and had a thermometer comically poking out the side of his mouth; its red marker was quite substantial, indicating a high body temperature. He was dressed in a comfy looking robe and looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Octavia rose up to hug the poor soul but he backed away from her, so in the hug’s stead she offered a consoling pat on the shoulder. The short trip home was plagued with the incessant cries of birds above.
Returning to her study, Octavia brought up the bow she had let clatter to the floor last night, in the wake of finishing that frantic piece. Putting bow to string she began to play; the notes drifted out of her study, through her house, and fell dead. Octavia stopped playing and recoiled away from the heartless instrument. She hurried out of the room, looking around her house for the source of the icy grip that grasped at her heart. She locked the windows, drew the curtains and bolted the front door. Even when bathed in the warmth of the day her home felt cold and dead. Octavia retreated back to her study and picked up the bow, attempting to flee into her bubble. She played for hours but at no point did her bubble reform; at no point did the chills stop and at no point did she ever feel safe and secure. As the sun fell into the horizon Octavia gave up and abandoned the study, forcing herself out of the room and taking each step away the cello with great effort. She dove into the cold, remorseless fabric of her bed, and fell asleep.
Her dreams were barraged with a confusing myriad of sounds and colours, tricking her into consciousness before plunging her back into the throes of deeply unsettled slumber. Dig as she tried, she could not burrow her way out of this somnambulist nightmare. All while she tried there played a vicious discord of sound that far resembled any melody or tune she had ever heard or could ever conceive of as being played. She awoke with a fit and threw herself from her bed, dragging with her the sheets, and curled up in the corner of her room, where she fell into a paralytic state.
Octavia awoke, for the second time that day, later in the morning. She emitted a low shudder as she managed to pull herself upright, shaking the bed sheet off her and leaving the corner she had curled up in. She fearfully regarded her bed and made great care to move around it and to not get close.
Driven by this deep-seeded fear she fled to her study and pushed away Royal Lace’s cello, taking up one she’d known for years. Each harsh sound produced by the cello bit into her flesh and gnawed deep into her bones. Octavia threw the cello back against the wall in disgust, only to quickly prop it back up, checking it over for damage. Her wild eyes and trembling body fell upon Royal Lace’s cello. She exhaled as the first note drifted out of the cello; the next few calmed her ragged breathing, and the rest washed all the tension away. Her bubble was no longer present but sound of the cello was hauntingly comforting and made an excellent replacement: a shield to weather the storm, for now.
From across the hall Octavia stared at her bed, tapping her bow on the strings of the instrument. She strung up a few notes but none of them matched what she’d heard in her dream. She failed a few more times to replicate them, much to her chagrin. She curled her lips inwards and stomped on the ground; bringing bow to string she tried yet again to play the song of her dreams. The wild tunes and ill-tempered notes were flung out of her study along with her grace and it was not until the day was nearly through that her assault upon her cello was over, ending in bitter defeat.
Octavia left her study and went downstairs to eat―something she’d neglected to do in the past twelve hours―and ignored the bitter cold of her house. She sat in her living room, watched the snow through her window, and threw off her blanket, letting the chill leave her pleasantly numb.
She hauled herself up to the crossroads between her bedroom and her study. Her heart took her towards the study but her weak legs forced her to her bedroom. She fell onto the naked bed and lay perfectly still there. A draft blew in through the house and ran up Octavia’s spine; she was unphased but her head was starting to swim, the whole room spun and contorted. She covered her eyes and heard a scraping sound on her window that quickly lead into a loud shunting sound of it being pulled open. Octavia leapt from her bed in startled fear; desperately trying to find her grounding she stumbled about the room as it continued to spin. There was nothing by her window, nor was it open. She dragged her vision about the room as she struggled to make anything out of her dizzying vision. She staggered; half dazed, over to the window and planted her hooves on the window pane, ready to open it for some fresh air.
The crows. A black wreathe of them hung over Chestnut’s home, perched like markers of his oblivion. A murder of them! A swarm of glassy black eyes, that now held vigil over Octavia’s room. Her avian guardians, or prison keepers, silently watched Octavia cower back into her bedroom and huddle into her corner, her vision still spiralling in and out of lucidity. Octavia made a strangled mewling noise but words wouldn’t come out, her dry throat clamped shut, and she gave into her delirium, passing out.
Octavia awoke, choking up some foreign body in her mouth. She rose too quickly and stumbled into her wall; looking around her bedroom she saw black feathers strewn everywhere, to which she added to by coughing up the one she had lodged in her throat. As she craned her neck up further she felt the same paralysing grip of fear as she had last night, for the crows that were once perched on Chestnut’s roof were now perched around her bedroom. Her chest raised and lowered in rapid succession; her legs were turning to jelly.
“What do you want from me?!” She screamed at the crows. They responded with a demented chorus of cries and caws, flapping their wings but never taking flight. Octavia found motion in her body and dove across her bedroom, making due haste for her stairs. The crows left their perches and dived down onto her, pecking and scratching at her. She screamed, tumbling along her hallway at the top of her stairs. The crows yielded and perched along her landing, down her stairs and on her steps, effectively blocking her escape. Octavia was cornered into her study; taking Royal Lace’s cello, she dragged it to the doorway.
“Is this is?! Is this what you want?!” She bellowed at the crows, which fell silent. Octavia looked to the cello; taking in its tempered beauty and holding its form close against her body. “You can’t have it,” Octavia spat, “it’s mine!”
The crows cried shrilly again and took flight. Octavia leaned right back, snatched up a spare bow and struck off a note just as the crows surged towards her. The effect was instantaneous the crows closest to her were blasted back and those who were gaining on them were sent reeling. The crows all took flight in a panic as Octavia sent out a second note. Beneath their panicked cries Octavia let out a dark laugh.
Dragging the cello down the steps and out the front door, Octavia looked up to the skies. The crows that had fled by bashing their bodies through her windows now circled above her. The display had caused quite a commotion and several city folk had gathered to watch the bizarre display.
“Away with you, carrion!” Octavia shouted up at the birds and struck off another note. The birds shot down towards her and the crowd exploded into shocked gasps. Octavia cantered down the streets, hauling the cello as fast as she could, all whilst fending off the murder of crows with notes struck off her cello.
Octavia was surrounded by the spires of the city square and a crowd had flooded from the surrounding buildings, streets and the crows circled above her. A light shower of snow fell down over the audience gathered. Octavia brought her numb body to a standstill, took her bow to Royal Lace’s cello and began to play. The journey she had taken with the cello was over, the journey she had taken in her dreams was over and now, the journey she had taken with her haunting of crows was about to conclude. The notes that arose from her playing filled her heart with joy and as she kept playing this burning sensation of bliss only amplified, for she was now playing the song she had heard from her dreams; it’s majesty was spilling out over the blood stained snow and into the senses of all those around her.
“Yes!” Octavia shrieked, “My opus!” Tears of joy streaked down her face and laughter rolled off her tongue. She swayed as she played, mesmerised by her own music and the cacophony of destruction around her. The crows slowly drifted towards the ground, watching the frenzied city folk below bit, kick, and strike and beat each other into the ground, the city square becoming saturated in their violence.
The last note rung out and Octavia cast her bow aside, falling to the ground. All around her she could see the broken bodies laid out in the snow, some with improvised weapons―chairs, canes and even glass―lying shattered on them. The crows landed on the bodies and began to feast, two even landed in front of Octavia and cawed at her before joining the others.
Surrounded by a field of the dead, Octavia knocked over the cello and curled over it, falling into a sweet slumber as the snow continued to drift down onto her.
