Violet

by psp7master

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 3467

A true artist never quits.

18+ A true artist never quits.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-01-20 20:10:02 UTC

Violet

Violet

Cold.

Octavia woke up as a frosty bite of cold assaulted her legs, causing her to shiver beneath the thin blanket. The morning sun was smiling at her through the frost-covered window, its rays falling onto the bed through the lopsided prism of the stained glass. She pulled the linen blanket in an attempt to cover her legs, but the piece of cloth was way too small. Realising that she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep in such a condition, the grey mare sighed and sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes with one hoof and covering her mouth with the other as she yawned, her lavender eyes shifting to the small wooden desk that crowned the corner near the window. Countless papers that covered the desk contrasted with the lonely cup of tea that was standing nearby, far enough not to spoil the paper.

Octavia got up and trotted towards the wardrobe, jumping from hoof to hoof as she tried to get warm vainly. The only piece of furniture, save for the aforementioned desk that also served as the table, and the bureau, didn't exceed her expectations, nor did it fulfil them in the slightest. As usual, the grey earth pony was greeted with a scant variety of clothing to choose from, namely, a grey woollen scarf, two pairs of boots, and an old hat, so worn out that would have fit a scarecrow better than it would have fit a pony.

The mare decided on the scarf and the hat, worried that, shall she wear her boots often, their condition would quickly become poor. Poor. That's what she was. That's what she was now. Octavia sighed, tossing her long black mane back, and walked away from the wardrobe, up to the desk. Thinking about her state wouldn't help, she mused as she took a sip of cold, disgustingly cold tea, wincing as the liquid slid down her throat. Electricity was off her limits till the end of the month, when, if her calculations were correct, she would have saved enough bits to pay the bills, so she had to roll with what she had. And there wasn't much: her small, miniature flat, the desk, the old wardrobe that screeched lamentably each time she opened the door, and her cello. Her most prized possession.

She approached the instrument that was propped up against the wall, the bow lying nearby. Running her hoof across the strings, she smiled weakly, patting her instrument as if it were her friend. Well, maybe it was. At least, her cello had never betrayed her. It had always been there for her, sharing fame and fortune, and pain and misery, always providing the invaluable comfort that only music can ever give.

Octavia took the cello, plucking the strings with her hoof. The sound was dull, but she couldn't really afford a spare set of strings. Tuning the instrument by ear, she took the bow, playing a few scales, abiding by the perfectly linear routine she'd established all by herself. Once - long ago - she'd been asked if she had any advice for aspiring musicians. She'd told the interviewer that the only advice she had was to practice. Practice makes perfect, she'd said; and she had a concrete belief in her words. Everypony had to start somewhere, and scales were the essential part to mastering the instrument, whatever it was. Many aspiring performers had improved, and received their spotlight since then. Not her, though. Fame and fortune were dying shadows of the past glory. She would take the centre stage, and play, and the audience would go wild with excitement; she would receive countless letters from fans, and bouquets of wonderful red roses; ponies would throw flowers to her hooves as she took a bow, tossing the crowd a restrained smile, ready to return to her once spacious flat in the city centre and relax after the concert. But that was all in the past.

She sighed, holding a note as she stood in the middle of the room, leaning against her cello, her bow placed against the strings carefully. When did it all happen? One day she was a music icon, the leading cellist in all of Manehattan - and now she had to live off scraps, hoping that one day, the glory would return, and she would proudly occupy her place on the stage, giving the audience a small wave as she would prepare to play her music, play it to those who would really appreciate it... Those were the days long past gone.

She reached the table and looked at the nearest piece of the paper that was covered with notes and little remarks as to how the piece should be played. The cellist took the quill and added a few bars, filling them with the passage that had just entered her mind. The little dots lay on the paper obediently, bringing the symphony closer to completeness. Eleven months. Eleven months of rough drafts, and countless notes, and torn paper, and starting over again, and changing keys, and modulation, and tempo adjustments. Eleven months of her life spend on the one and only goal in her life - finishing the symphony. It was the only thing that kept her sane, and the only milestone that she strived to achieve. Maybe, just maybe she would be able to play it in a concert hall. Maybe, just maybe, this melody would be a rebirth of classical music, a rebirth that right now seemed oh so distant. Maybe, just maybe, she would at least be able to sell this piece and once more become well-to-do, able to spend money without counting every bit, saving for food, ink and more paper.

Some day...

Dreams were nice, but each dream left unrealised must fade into day eventually. Octavia turned her head towards the window. Manehattan was waking up from its slumber, if it ever slept completely. The ponies' chatter reached her ears from the outside. It wasn't snowing yet, and she had to grip at every opportunity to perform, and possibly get a wider audience. Few ponies adored snow the way she did. Most would just speed up, looking at the ground, covering their faces with scarves, trotting towards the comfort of their cosy homes post-haste, without paying attention to the lonely cellist who would stand firm, shivering from the cold, covered with tiny snowflakes as she would play her cello into the day, and into the night.

Octavia opened the window, letting the chilly breeze into the room, and placed the inkpot on top of the papers, lest they be blown away. Taking her instrument, she put her hat on and tugged the scarf tighter around her neck, leaving the flat.

***

The street was crowded and lively, filled with colourful ponies trotting by, each one subconsciously adjusting to the fast, hectic pace of life. Octavia could never see them as a crowd - each pony had their own story, their very own background that guided their actions.

A grey unicorn in a business suit passed by as the cellist walked down the street, his face scrunched in a frown, his lips moving instinctively. Who was he? Where was he heading? Maybe he was a lawyer, rushing towards a court of law, reciting his well-prepared speech on the way? Or maybe he was a businesspony, mumbling a possible response to an offer? One way or another, he passed, disappearing round the corner.

He was a one-time encounter. Those kind of encounters were the only ones Octavia had faced, for quite a long time. Ponies came and went away, just nameless dots on the trail of life. But they were milestones, too. Each encounter was a bond; each gaze, fixed for only a moment was a look worth waiting an eternity. Each encounter was a relationship, vanishing in an instant, but built to last in the cellist's mind.

Did they remember her? No, of course not. They had their lives to tend to. Octavia placed the cello on the ground, balancing against the instrument as she occupied a spot near the old brick building - her spot. She would come here every day, and play. Nopony seemed to take this spot, near for her, and it was always waiting for its hostess to come.

Wishing she hadn't sold her cello case, she took off the hat with a sigh and placed it on the ground. She winced every time she performed this gesture: it looked like something a beggar would do, sitting down onto the asphalt and placing their hat before them, relying on the pedestrians' pity, hoping that they would toss a bit or two... No, Octavia wasn't a beggar. She tried to think of her current position higher; she was a street musician. She played for the passer-bys, and she received due payment, as any performer should. She was an entertainer, trying to grip at the listeners' heartstrings. Just... the scene had changed, that was all. The concert halls were replaced with the dirty street; the lights were replaced with the sun, and the decorations were different. The actors had changed, too; the audience was no more a company of sophisticated ponies, but a bunch of strangers, some of whom would occasionally stop and listen to her. And, well, pay for her services.

She closed her eyes and started off with Vivaldi's Winter. The piece wasn't intended for a single cello; if anything, a violin would be more preferable. However, Octavia had altered the composition, arranging it in such a way that the beauty and the power that the composer had blessed his work with was still present, even though it was performed using a single instrument. Powerful, fervent passages filled the street as the cellist began playing the first part - Allegro non molto. Her eyes closed, she could still see the snow-covered streets of Manehattan, feel the icy bite of frost on her cheeks, hear the sounds of hooves clopping against the ground, smell the baked apples that vendors were so eager to sell. The piece wasn't called Winter for no reason - it gifted the musician with the ability to fully experience winter at any time of year.

Octavia opened her eyes as she rested after a few minutes of emphatic and emotional playing. She cast a side glance towards her hat, noticing several shiny coins at the bottom. That was good; only one piece played, and she had already earned a few bits! She looked at the street, noticing that some ponies had stopped, looking at her curiously. She smiled at them. Now she had an audience. And she wasn't going to fail them.

Slow, elongated notes came out of her instrument as she started the next part - Largo, the part that was also titled Rain for some reason. She didn't really get it; if anything, the composition was very fitting for what was happening right now - snow. Snow was falling from the sky, resting atop her mane and shoulders, sending shivers down her spine. The melody was warming and soothing, filling her from the inside as snowflakes turned into small droplets of water upon reaching her body. Yes, maybe that was the reason behind the title. Snow was rain, in some way. It was rain taking a majestic, grandiloquent structure; and rain was snow, warm, melting snow that had been renewed, eager to break free from its slumber, vigorous and young.

She ended the piece on a long trill, taking her bow away from the strings with a sigh. She opened her eyes again, without actually realising she had closed them while playing, and saw a bright orange mare approach her, placing a couple of bits into her hat. The cellist was really moved at how she did it. She didn't toss the bits, taking the music for granted; no - she put them there carefully, paying the musician for the act. Octavia lived for moments like this. Any artist - any true artist - lived for moments like this. Even though she had fallen from grace, with new, electronic music being the trend, replacing classical wholesale, she knew she couldn't quit. Not only because she needed money; she just... couldn't. Parting with her instrument, parting with doing what she loved would be plainly unbearable. Impossible.

Octavia took a polite bow, but the mare had already left. Smiling softly, the cellist started to play the final part - Allegro. The piece followed the same tempo as the first one, but was entirely different. It wasn't the fervent show of emotion, filled with rough, mighty passages - it was the lament of a dying season, the last breath of winter that tried to grasp at its reign to no avail. Yet, there was a constant feeling that winter wasn't just going to give way to the young and cheerful spring; it wanted to prolong its reign as long as possible, showing its true face of a Nordic being, a strong, frost-hardened creature. At some point, the slow, weak passages symbolised the meek submission of winter; but the last part of the piece came out ferocious, and loud, and determined. Before dying, winter was going to make the best of its reign over the world.

Just as Octavia finished the composition, a strong, ill wind started blowing from the East, making the snow-covered trees bend to the ground, creating whirlwinds of snow that rose from the ground, spinning all about the place. Ponies hastened their pace, almost breaking into a gallop, eager to run to the nearest building to avoid a possible snowstorm. In a few moments, the street was empty, the last pony whom Octavia saw being a young white colt, who was running down the street, bobbing his head to some music that was flowing from his headphones. It was most surely dubstep, or Drum and Bass, or some other kind of music ponies listened to nowadays. Octavia exhaled, shaking her head as she placed the cello on her back with a grunt. All because of trends - trends that always changed - she had lost her job, lost her friends and admirers. Nopony wanted to listen to classical music anymore. It had become old.

With a deep sigh, the mare braced herself against the powerful breeze as she made her way home. She hadn't earned much - only fifteen bits - but she couldn't perform in such conditions. And even if she could, there would be nopony to listen to her. Without the audience, an artist ceases to exist.

Suddenly, somepony tapped her on the shoulder. The blood in Octavia's veins ran cold as her brain speculated upon what was going on. Nopony had ever stopped her before. Maybe it was a mugger? Oh Celestia, no, please, don't let this be a mugger! Without this money, the only money she had, she wouldn't be able to make ends meet!

As the cellist turned round, she saw a young stallion; a colt, even. His coat was perfectly white, resembling the snow that was covering it, and his mane was dark brown, the colour of an oak tree as it blossoms in spring. His eyes were green, the young, cheerful kind of green, the colour of fresh grass and newborn leaves. But right now, his gaze was nervous, and those eyes of his were shifting uneasily. The magical aura around his horn gave away that he was either levitating something or preparing a spell.

"May I help you?" Octavia wondered softly, taking a cautious step back, just in case. She didn't want to be assaulted, and she found herself subconsciously shielding her instrument with her body, protecting her cello, her partner, her only friend.

The colt mumbled something indistinct, blushing fiercely as he levitated some object, almost propping it into Octavia's hooves. The cellist blinked and grabbed the item, taking a look at it. It... was a bouquet of flowers. A bouquet of beautiful violet roses that resembled her own lavender eyes perfectly. Violet roses were extremely rare; they were an unusual sort, and few ponies could afford them. But there was something special about them, too. They were her favourite flowers. When she was rich, she would always buy a bouquet after every performance. Her fans would never get it right; nopony had ever bought her violet roses. Ever. She had to provide them herself, to marvel at the flowers as she sat in the armchair in her old flat; she would never tell her admirers about her preference - she wanted them to realise it themselves. But they never could. And now...

Now she had just received the most wonderful present she could ever receive, and from a total stranger at that. Octavia had no words to express her gratitude, and honest surprise, and positive astonishment. She looked up, only to see the colt long past gone, having vanished in the empty street. For a moment, the cellist cherished the idea to give chase, but decided against it.

She smiled, cradling the flowers, and turned round, walking up the snowy street, home.

***

Entering the flat, Octavia placed her cello in the corner of the room carefully, letting the instrument warm up, and trotted into the small kitchen, the only room save for her bedroom that also served as her working place. She carried the flowers to the tap gently, taking a tall glass. Even though she couldn't afford a real vase anymore, the glass was a suitable replacement. Cold water filled the glass as Octavia pressed the tap - there wasn't any hot water for those who couldn't pay for it, and Octavia couldn't. Soon, the flowers made their way into the glass and the cellist carried the hoof-made vase into the room, counting the roses on the way there. There were five; she used to buy seven roses, back then, in the good old days, but five were really nice too.

She thought about the white colt as she placed the flowers onto the table, closing the window, lest the storm break into the flat and damage the delicate roses. Was he an admirer? Just some passer-by who liked her music? How did he know about her favourite flowers? Was it a wild guess? The cellist sighed. She would never know. All she had now were these roses. She looked at them, violet queens of beauty, prim and majestic, so fitting her, so... classical. Suddenly, she noticed something black on the wooden surface, just near the improvised vase.

A... stain? Octavia's eyes immediately shifted to the inkpot that was now lying on the table, wet ink covering the table surface, forming a huge frozen stain that was soaking the papers. The papers! The cellist grabbed the sheet music fervently, tossing the inkpot away; it landed onto the floor sadly, accepting its punishment.

The wind must have rushed in, overturning the inkpot! Octavia looked at the stained papers hopelessly, trying to comprehend what had happened. Her work - almost a year of work - was ruined! Ruined by a stupid accident, by the mindless winter breeze that just couldn't avoid her humble abode!

The cellist groaned and sat on the floor, still holding the papers in her hooves. There were some spotless sheets, sure, but they weren't enough to reconstruct the entire symphony. The grey mare started to cry, throwing the paper on the floor. She cried for the lost time, the time she'd spend on writing this piece. She cried for the money that she had spent on the paper, the money she'd been saving so meticulously. She cried for the effort she'd invested in the project - sleepless nights and long hours of writing, and playing, and editing. She cried for her lost glory, for the times when she was rich and famous. She cried for the death of classical music, the only kind of music that was worth listening to.

She cried because she had been gifted with such wonderful, beautiful, inspiring violet roses. She cried for the colt who'd run away, and whom she would never see again. And then she heard music. The music wasn't coming from the outside, nor was its source a neighbours' radio. The music was playing inside her head, an elaborate, magnificent symphony. A symphony worth dying for.

She jerked up to grab the quill, eager to write down at least a few bars before the music faded away, but settled down immediately, eyeing the flowers with a smile. The music wouldn't go away. It would never go away. The new music would always remain in her head. And the symphony she'd spent eleven months on... Octavia smiled warmly and glanced at the destroyed sheet music.

It was just paper.