Octavia's Adventure

by DrakoGlyph

Rating: everyone
Tags: Adventure
Length: 7474

Join Octavia on one of the worst days of her life, as she chases down her beloved bowtie, and makes some friends along the way.

Octavia was living a nice life, playing at Galas with Frederick's orchestra, but when she loses the bowtie she loves so much, she must go on an epic adventure to retrieve it.

Sorry guys, I can't work on this at the moment, so I'll call it cancelled… it's just not coming to me the way I wanted.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-03-14 03:30:01 UTC

Nothing Goes Right

The warm sun rose in Canterlot, illuminating the flat of the premier cellist in all of the Royal City. She would never admit it herself, but her talents surpassed all those of her peers in the orchestra business. One thing she had never understood, though, was why of all musical cutie marks she had a Treble Clef. After all, her specialty was playing cello, and all cellists read from the bass clef.

This was too early to think about it, though, she thought as she reluctantly climbed out of the nice, warm, and soft bed. She picked up her signature bowtie from the night stand and wrapped it around her neck before turning to her bed. She felt naked without it, which she giggled to herself as she thought of how silly an idea that was to her. How could a pony who normally wore nothing but a bowtie feel naked? Unlike most of her Canterlot peers, she didn’t tend to wear saddles, dresses, or fancy shawls. They all tended to get in the way of her profession.

The bowtie was stylish while not invasive, and that was why she chose to wear it, day after day. She smiled as she remembered the day that her father gave it to her. It was Hearth’s Warming, the first one after she had become lead cellist at the Young Musician’s Orchestra. She had been so excited for the chance to lead the cellos in the Hearth’s Warming concert. Her father had given her the bowtie to wear to the concert.

It was made of a soft silk, one that felt exquisite across her skin. Certainly it had to some from somewhere magnificent. She thought about it, then considered maybe it came from Saddle Arabia. She had been to a shop that sold all kinds of wares from the region, particularly after Princess Celestia held the ambassador’s conference. Since then, that had become one of Octavia’s favourite stores to purchase rugs and tapestries, though she had noticed that they had various fabrics and garments woven from them. One, in particular, was a bowtie with shockingly similar characteristics as hers. She refused them, though, because of how much this bowtie meant to her.

She had never spent a day without it. Sure, she had been to at least three different tailors to resize the strap so that it fit her growing neck as she was maturing, but the bowtie remained the same. She had worn it so often that it became her trademark, as it were, more so than her own cutie mark.

Snapping from her musings, she gracefully spread the sheets back over the bed before tucking them neatly in the corners and along the sides. This was certainly the prim and proper way to make a bed. She scoffed sometimes to think how others made their beds. She had once gone to a hotel while on tour with the orchestra through Manehattan. The hotel seemed nice; the lobby, elevators, and even the hallways were elegant and graceful. When she entered the room, however, it was a different story. The bed, for goodness’s sake, the bed was atrocious. She had to pull it completely apart to make it if she were to bear to sleep in it.

It was just how she was. Things had to be just so. If they weren’t, it just didn’t feel right. Especially when it came to her two biggest comforts while away from home: bed and tea. As she trotted through her flat, she made way for the kitchen. Tea sounded perfect to liven her mood and get her ready for practicing for tonight’s event. She went over the songs she was going to play in her head while making a graceful, pleasurable trot to her destination. She had just finished thinking of Beethooven’s Fifth Symphony as she placed the kettle under the sink to fill it with fresh water.

As she filled the pot, she looked out her kitchen window over the street to a quaint little shop she had always been meaning to visit. It vended wares ranging from teacups to entire tea sets. While she had passed by this shop every day for the last few months, she had never the time to stop and visit it properly. She had twice stopped in front of the windows to gaze at the various tea accessories, but never once had she ever summoned the courage to go inside.

And the reason why just stepped out of the shop now. It was a blue stallion with two beamed eighth notes for a cutie mark. He was a regular patron of the store, and one Octavia had always admired. She had read somewhere that his name was Noteworthy.

She stared at Noteworthy for a while. She didn’t know why he gave her this feeling, but she knew that she wanted to hold onto it. It wasn’t until she could feel the tea kettle overflowing that she snapped back to attention.

Come on, Octavia, she thought, this is unbecoming behaviour of somepony of your aptitude. This is certainly not how your parents taught you to conduct yourself! Why, if father were in the other room he would have scolded me and given me a talking-to.

She shook her head and closed her curtain. She needed to keep focused for tonight’s event. As she began thinking about how she would caress her bow and pull it across her cello’s strings to play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, she placed the tea kettle on the stove and turned it on. She gazed at the pictures that decorated her wall. There was one that her father had taken at her very first concert, with the tiniest of cellos. She considered herself adorable, but she also considered that vein and rude to assert to any other pony.

Farther to the left was a photo she had taken when she was in the Royal Castle, particularly, last year’s Grand Galloping Gala. She shuddered to think about the previous one, where that particularly obnoxious pink pony had invaded her personal space. And she had attempted to ‘help’ her play her cello. If she never saw that pink pony again, it would be too soon. She shook her head. Octavia! How uncouth for you to think of another pony like that! That is certainly uncivil, and you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking that!

As her eyes wandered farther to the left, she saw the picture of Fancy Pants. Again, those ruffians from Ponyville had been present. Though Fancy Pants enjoyed their company, it was certainly unbefitting of anypony at a Canterlot Garden Party to behave in such a manner. And... yes, that pink pony had been there too. Octavia gave another involuntary shudder.

The rest of the wall had other picture depicting various concerts and events she had played since the garden party. It certainly had kept her busy this year. She had been invited back to play Fancy Pant’s Garden Party, she was with the orchestra for the usual playlist at the Gala. The big event she was preparing for, though, the one tonight had to go off without a hitch. It was imperative that she play without a flaw in her rhythm, without a skipped beat or rushed note. Tonight was too important because tonight, she was playing for the Coronation Ball of the new Princess Twilight.

Wait, she thought to herself, Twilight Sparkle... why do I know that name? She placed a hoof to her chin as she pondered. I know this, but then again, I don’t. I feel like I have met this Twilight before. She was interrupted by the sound of the tea kettle whistling.

She turned it off and waited precisely thirty-three seconds as measured by her grandfather clock in the hall, before pouring the tea in a delicate pink cup and pulling out a box of assorted teas. This morning felt like an Earl Gray morning, and without further ado, she pulled out a bag and placed it gently in the cup. The dark colour of the bag dispersed into the clear water, spreading without provocation. She let it steep for specifically 305 seconds before pulling out a spoon and retrieving the tea bag from the water. With a stir, whatever irregularities to the consistency and colour were solved. This was pleasing to Octavia, as she picked up the cup and set it on the table.

She would need something for breakfast, and as she thought about Für Elise she looked through her cupboard. She contemplated a bowl of porridge, but dismissed it. This was not a porridge day. She needed something... more. Her typical breakfast was eggs and fried hay, but as she checked her refrigerator, there were no eggs present. This simply would not do.

She adjusted her bowtie and walked out the door, checking twice that she had her key on her. With a graceful spin, she trotted down the stairs and into the street. She gave a glance at the shop she so coveted a look at, but there Noteworthy was, sitting joyfully, seemingly enjoying a cup of tea himself. She thought back to the article in the Canterlot Reporter about him.

It was a “Pony of the Week” column that ran every Sunday. She remembered several of her friends, and herself, featured in the column, but this stallion, Noteworthy, was featured in it not too long ago. It mentioned that he played double bass for the Canterlot Royal Symphony. He came from a little town, Octavia could hardly remember the name; she thought it started with a ‘P’. That wasn’t the first time she had seen him.

He had been at the Grand Galloping Gala at least two years in a row. When she saw him, she began having these feelings. They were less of the platonic admiration she tried convincing herself it was, and more of, could she dare say to herself, love? No, Octavia, that is a silly notion. You haven’t even talked to the stallion and here you are daydreaming that you’re in love with him. How did you ever lose your focus? Octavia berated herself mentally. As she trotted over to the open air market, she couldn’t help but give a backward glance toward Noteworthy, who seemed, Octavia was grateful, unaware of her attention.

She made a bee-line for the farmer’s market, her eye caught on the one egg she would need for her breakfast this morning. She readied her bits, drawing them out of her mane, and trotting up to the farmer.

“Good morrow,” she said in her most formal address.

“Morrow? What’s that mean?” The farmer simply looked at her incredulously.

“I do believe you might call it morning,” Octavia said, with a bit of disappointment. She was raised proper, and to bid somepony ‘good morrow’ was the proper greeting. ‘Morning’ just seemed so... so... improper.

“Well, then, good morning to you too, Miss.” He took to readjusting the display while she judged which egg she definitely wanted. When she had made her selection, she placed her bit on the stand and turned.

“Thank you, kind Sir,” Octavia said, ready to go back and make herself breakfast.

“Thank you much, Miss.”

With a smile on her face, she started to trot off. She hadn’t made it one step when something caught on her bowtie. There was an immediate expression of panic and she stopped to unhook it from whatever rough surface it was sure to have come in contact with, but no matter how she tried, she simply couldn’t get unstuck.

This is certainly a fine situation you have yourself in, Octavia thought to herself. Many Congratulations on making successfully yourself appear ungraceful and improper.

The farmer simply looked at her. “Are ya stuck?”

Octavia could only handle so much. This was certainly annoying her, and the further provocation from the ignorance of this farmer was almost too much to bear. She stopped herself before she could lose her composure completely. Her bowtie was her signature, and if she didn’t have it, she would feel as incomplete as if she were at a concert without a bow. She could still make beautiful music, certainly, but it wouldn’t feel or sound as beautiful if she didn’t have that bowtie.

She pondered taking it off, but with the cart in the way, she couldn’t manoeuvre her hooves to unfasten it. This was certainly not a great start to her day. The farmer came around his booth and helped her off whatever catch the bowtie was on. Her eyes dilated as she heard a tiny ripping sound come from behind her head.

Immediately, she slipped into a shop’s bathroom, into a stall, and took off her bowtie. She still had the feeling of nudity when she took it off, and to be such in public? There was simply no allowing that thought into her head.

She inspected every inch of the fabric, first in the bow itself, then in the soft silk strand that wrapped around her neck. She was appalled to find a small tear in the back, next to the hook. Her day was filled with practice and preparations, a lunch with the orchestra at a charming café, and of course the performance tonight. She wouldn’t have time to take it to her tailor. This was disastrous.

Calm down, Octavia, calm down, she thought to herself, but this was her one and only bowtie. It meant more to her than everything she owned except her cello. In fact, Octavia would say that between her cello and this bowtie, they were both her most prized possessions. This is not a time to panic. A proper lady does not panic at something so… simple. But Octavia knew this wasn’t simple. If she didn’t get it repaired, and she went on with wearing it, she knew there was a significant chance that it would be lost. That was a risk she did not want to ever take. With how much she loved this one piece of cloth, it almost seemed silly—almost.

To any other pony she had told the story of her bowtie, they would often wonder why she still wore it, as opposed to storing it and wearing one that she didn’t care for so much. The truth of the matter was, though, that this was a part of her. This was a much a piece of her as her mane, her tail, her ears and eyes. This was her. Her own father, whom she loved and adored, gave it to her. And since then she had taken such care of it that it had grown to be a piece of her.

She had worn it through the awkward years when she was in high school; she had worn it through the tough years when she was struggling to make her name in the professional orchestra cliques; and she had worn it when she was finally on top of her game. Even if her father wasn’t able to be there for all her performances, she was able to keep him there in spirit by wearing the bowtie. It was her connection to her father.

And now, it was in a state of distress. Her other option, besides wearing it despite the tear, was to take it to the tailor on the way to practice and, dare she even contemplate it, not wear it all day. The thought was also unbearable. While growing up, her father had been to all of her practices, and when she needed him to help, he was always there. He was the one who helped her discover her talent in orchestra.

He was himself an orchestra player. He played viola in the Royal Canterlot Orchestra for a good while before he retired. She would need to visit him this weekend if there was no practice.

She pulled herself from her reverie to contemplate the options at hoof. Option A: She could wear it today despite the tear and risk losing it, possibly forever. Option B: She could take it to the tailor and leave it there today. Certainly Mr. Horseshoepin wouldn’t understand a sudden need to take a day off for something so… ‘impertinent’ he would call it, but to Octavia, it was immensely pertinent.

She fidgeted a little as she thought of each option, and the risks each would have before remembering where she was when the sound of hoof steps echoed to her ears. She put on the bowtie for now, and stepped proudly out of the stall, trying her best to hide all the worries and anxieties that might come across her mind as she trotted home with the egg. Her stomach was beginning to ache from the hunger it was experiencing.

She made it back down to her home street, checking with her hoof every few seconds to make sure her bowtie was still there, despite feeling it on her neck. When she rounded the last corner, she almost made an audible gasp when she nearly bumped into Noteworthy. Luckily, he was facing the other way, conversing with a mare about some town Octavia didn’t care to think about. She kept her eye on him to make sure he didn’t notice her as she began to feel the blood in her cheeks rush to the surface. Once in the stairwell, she climbed the stairs as quick as she could and fumbled around with her key until finding it. Her hooves were shaking, partly from the anxiety over her bowtie, partly from the near miss with Noteworthy.

What is wrong with you today, Octavia? This is certainly not how you normally act! Compose yourself, have a fulfilling breakfast, and the solution to your dilemma will be worked out in time. With a resigned sigh and a couple of deep breaths, Octavia managed to calm her shaking and put the key in the lock. With a twist, she was granted access to her home again. The familiar lavender walls were calming, but her mind was racing.

She tried to calm her mind, to act with grace and dignity. This was a problem she could solve. It wasn’t like the world was coming to an end. But if she lost the bowtie…

She quickly reassured herself that the kitchen window curtains were closed, took off her bowtie, and rested it on the table. It was delicate in this state. She was fearful of what damage she might have caused on her way back from the market. This is certainly not the day I had expected when I woke up this morning, she thought to herself. Though, who really expected a day to go wrong in just such a way as this? How had she even caught herself up on the cart?

This was quite the mystery. One she would have to solve later, though, her stomach made the most unruly sound, reminding her than she hadn’t eaten anything this morning. She took the egg to the skillet she skilfully placed on the stove. She fired it up and cracked the egg into it. With a sizzle that ignited Octavia’s senses, the egg white began to cook. She let it cook until the white was the precise consistency, then flipped it and covered it with the lid. If everything else was going to go wrong, at least she had her breakfast.

She let her gaze drift over to the table while she let the egg cook to a delicious perfection, only to notice her untouched tea on the table, probably cold by now. She had completely forgotten it in her desire to grab an egg for her breakfast.

With a resigned sigh of defeat, she put her finished egg on a plate and set it on the table. At least she could eat her breakfast in peace. She pulled a fork and knife from the drawer next to the sink, cut out a piece of the egg and was lifting it to her awaiting mouth when her doorbell rang.

With a disapproving feeling, she set down her fork and walked gracefully to the door. She peered out the spy hole and was greeted by the image of none other than her orchestra leader, Frederick Horseshoepin. Putting on a smile to defy her feelings of anxiety, frustration, and now annoyance, she opened the door. The look on Frederick’s face was stern, and fairly disapproving.

“I thought I told you an early practice session, Octavia,” Frederick said. “And this is unacceptable!” She looked at her Grandfather Clock to discover that it was now nine o’clock.

“It has been the most unstable of mornings, Frederick, you must understand. First, I was out of eggs, then I…” she stopped in mid-sentence and put a hoof to her neck. Her face grew bright red as she realized she didn’t have her bowtie on. With dilated eyes, she nervously backed up from the door.

“Then you what, Octavia?” Frederick was less than pleased with the way his star cellist, well, in fact his only cellist, was behaving.

“Then I…” she turned her gaze nervously to the table, where she had left it. “I mean, I…” The glare that Frederick was giving her was enough to freeze anypony in their tracks. Knowing that he controlled her fate as a musician was only that much more intimidating. She tried to keep her composure, but there was nothing she could do to escape that stare. Even when she closed her eyes, it felt like she could still see it, penetrating her eyelids and piercing straight into her soul.

“Finish your sentence! For Celestia’s sake! The Coronation Celebration is this evening at five o’clock. We must all be prepared, and we must make nary a mistake!” Frederick was standing so aggressively at the door to her flat. This was not the kind of day she expected to have at all.

Hoof still covering her throat, she had reached the table, fumbled with her other foreleg, and picked up her bowtie. “I ripped my bowtie, Frederick!” she confessed with tears in her eyes. She had damaged the one thing that had always meant so much to her. It was her connection to her father, no matter the distance between them.

“Is that what you’re so worked up about, Octavia? Is that all? I swear! You should just go get a new one from that shop I always see you in!” She could only stand there, fur soaking in all the tears that were leaking from her eyes. “I want you to show up at lunch since you’re not ready for morning rehearsal. Use the rest of the morning to pull yourself together!”

Good going, Octavia, she mentally scolded herself. You’ve really done it this time, old girl. Now we’ll see how Frederick tolerates you, or rather, how he decides to eject you from his merry orchestra. And then we’ll see how you do without a steady income, a lovely life, or any sense of security at all. This only worsened Octavia’s mood. It had gone from hopeful and cheery, to anxious and worried, to frustrated and irritated, and now, now Octavia was sad and lonely. Frederick had closed the door and gone, but the disapproval he left in his wake was tearing into Octavia.

How could things have gone so sourly? This morning started out so beautiful and grand, but now… now it was just a mess. She needed to compose herself. This is how a filly might go about things, Octavia. You are a fully grown mare! You don’t need to be behaving like this! She began to wonder where these feelings came from. Her father was fully supportive; he was the best father she could ask for. He taught her everything she knew about playing her cello, and she was ever so eager to learn what he had to tell her.

Growing up in his household was a wondrous time. They spent plenty of time together during the day, and when he was gone at night, off playing with the Canterlot Royal Orchestra, she was safe and sound, listening to bedtime stories from her foalsitter. Her father was always there for her. He attended every practice, every concert, and every event from the day she picked up the cello, to the day he retired. She had honoured his wishes on letting him move in to the home with all the other retired Canterlot Symphony players, much to her protest. That was the first fight they had ever really been in.

With all those years of steady devotion, not a single disapproving look ever came from her father. She could see in his eyes that he was always happy to see her, even when she had made a mistake. And when she did make those mistakes, which come ever so often in adolescence, he was there to make sure she learned the proper correction for her error. He was never disapproving; he was never rude or mean. He always used love and caring to look after her.

So, then, where did these feelings of inadequacy come from? What sort of thing happened in her past that caused her to feel this way? While she found herself smiling about the memories of her father, she quickly dropped the smile when she returned to reality, tethered back by the bowtie that was now carried in her hoof.

“Oh, father, I…” she said. “I really wish you weren’t so far away.” With new resolve, she went back to her breakfast, determined to make this day better than this morning.

Losing Herself

Octavia finished breakfast and drank her cold tea. Something had to go right for her today, it just had to. She didn’t feel comfortable leaving her flat without her bowtie. She needed something on her neck, and this bowtie was all she really had. Without it, she felt naked, she felt… well, she supposed she could wear one of her shawls. This would cover her up, at least. Perhaps it would fix her feelings of nakedness.

Wrapped in a lavender shawl decorated with a plethora of music notes, rests, and other various symbols, she set out with her bowtie in the pocket tucked inside the shawl. She still felt very nervous, as though she was purely naked. This, as she thought about it more, was a silly thing to think, since she count at least five ponies with no saddles, dresses, or even saddlebags.

She had grown up with the notion that not wearing anything was improper and certainly not a sign of her sophistication. She wore dresses when she was younger; then when she started cello, her father had got her a cloak. Then, of course, she received the bowtie. Since then, she had worn it religiously, day in and day out. It was just something she did. She never really questioned it, nor did she really determine that it was odd or strange. It was just that she needed to wear something.

The shawl was modest, but it wasn’t the kind of modest she had grown accustomed to over the many years she had been a professional cellist. She was used to there being something around her neck, specifically that bowtie. She pulled it out of her pocket as she paused on the stairs down from her flat. She just couldn’t go out there without something on her, without this bowtie.

She nervously looked at the tear in the soft fabric. Perhaps it would hold until she got to the tailor’s. She just couldn’t bear to walk out of the stairwell into the public eye without it on, though. She had to risk it if she was ever going to leave her apartment again. She needed this bowtie fixed. And she needed it before lunch.

She put it on, despite all the feelings in her body telling her not to, but this was her bowtie. Her only neckwear. She sighed as she finally realized, this bowtie had been her only love. She felt so lonely and pathetic. If this bowtie was her only love, what could it possibly mean? She only ever spent time wearing it. She didn’t really have any friends outside her musician colleagues, and they weren’t quite a lively bunch for harbouring grander feelings than friends. And even they were fairly dry by Octavia’s standards. She had to admit it, though, that she had always wanted something grander than the ‘friends’ she had in the orchestra.

Frederick was certainly not her friend. If that wasn’t clear before, it was clear this morning. In fact, Octavia considered him the rudest, most inconsiderate piece of… Come on, Octavia, that’s not how a lady talks about somepony.

Harpo Parish, the harpist, was very finicky about who he spent time with, and seemed too snobby for her. She tried to spend some time with him to get to know him, but all she was given in response was a scowl and a quick turn.

Octavia didn’t even know the tuba player’s name, but she tried befriending her once, but to no avail. She had been cast aside without a word, and how the tuba player did it, she was never really sure. She wasn’t a unicorn…

She was left without a friend. She had really only two loves, now that she had given it more thought. She loved her bowtie, and she loved her music. She felt ridiculous acknowledging, even if it was to herself, that these were her only two loves. She took a deep breath, hoof held to her bowtie, and walked out into the street to head toward her tailor. This could work, she thought. I could make it.

She started to smile, and as she turned to go down the street, she nearly walked into Noteworthy for the second time today. The difference was that now, he was actually paying attention to her.

“Hello there,” he said, with a smile on his face.

“Uh, hello there,” she said, putting a hoof on the back of her neck.

“What would a mare like you be doing out on a day like this?”

“I’m—I’m just heading to the tailor to get my bowtie repaired…” she said, feeling across her neck for the article of clothing she had grown so attached to over the years. She grew more and more nervous as she didn’t find it on her neck. It occurred to her that when she moved her hoof around to the back of her neck that it had fallen off. She blushed a deep scarlet and looked down on the ground quickly to see if it happened to be there.

It wasn’t. Just your luck, Octavia, it would have fallen off and gotten lost. This is just horrible! She backed up from Noteworthy, now that she resumed her feeling of nakedness. But she couldn’t go home now… how could she ever hope to find her bowtie if she did? This is important, Octavia thought to herself, trying to keep her calm, you have to find that bowtie!

She gave a nervous look at the stallion in front of her. This was her perhaps one and only chance to talk to him. She could never work up the courage before, and he was already talking to her now. The fact of the matter remained, she didn’t have her bowtie. Without that, she may as well not even be wearing the shawl she had wrapped around her. She looked all around, hoping that her bowtie was somewhere on the ground. She saw it, not four lengths ahead of her. She charged past Noteworthy to get it. Just when she was about within reach when the wind picked up and the bowtie drifted off. With a curse to the Pegasus who was in charge of the winds on this street, who only could shrug in response, she dashed off after her bowtie.

The prevailing winds carried the neckwear through the streets of Canterlot, and Octavia failed to take notice just where the winding streets and cobblestone walls were taking her. She only followed the bowtie that she had so loved for all these years, her one connection to her father. She didn’t care what happened right now, as long as she could recover her pink bowtie.

She tried to ignore all the stares and glances from the ponies who watched her gallop through the streets of Canterlot, pursuing this whimsical chase. She felt the blood in her cheeks, heated and at the surface. She was, in her mind, running through the town with nary a thing on, and without any form of decency.

You need to press on, Octavia, she thought as she could feel herself slow down from all the stares and the realization that she was, once again, naked. While she was wearing a very modest shawl, her neck was bear, and that was her biggest fear. Come on, Octavia! You’re acting like a filly now! What possibly would these ponies think if they saw you without the bowtie? She was trying to convince herself that the feelings she had inside were silly. They were the culmination of habit and diurnal routine being broken, that was all. At least, that was what she was trying to get herself to think.

This was serious in her mind. That bowtie, which was now drifting higher and higher, almost out of her reach completely, was her connection to her father. With it slipping away, it almost felt like her connection to her father, and by proxy, everything she knew and loved about music, was gone. She watched as all the Pegasi simply carried on about their business.

“Excuse me,” she said, barely summoning up enough courage to talk to one of them. It was a mare with a Rainbow-streaked mane.

“What?” she said, started. “Oh, hi. Another fan come to get an autograph from the Great Rainbow Dash?” She had a smile as wide as it could be on her blue face. Octavia felt the presence of several eyes on her and she retracted further into her shawl.

“I was… just…” Her words were failing her. She couldn’t speak with all these ponies staring at her. There were fillies and colts, mares and stallions, unicorns and Pegasi, all turning their gaze to her. She gave a small yelp then turned and fled. She slipped into a shop, through the door to the Mare’s Room, and locked herself in a stall for the second time today.

She was breathing hard not from the exhaustion of all the running. That was a different kind of pant that Octavia was unfamiliar with. No, this was a very common panting that had come across her mind several times when she woke up from nightmares that happened to be just like today was playing out.

“Why, oh Princess Luna, am I having such Nightmares!” she said out loud. She wrapped the shawl around her and began shivering. This was her nerves. It was a rather strange sensation to not be half-asleep when she felt them. Normally, they only got to her when she was woken from a peaceful slumber by images she dreaded to think about. She had long gotten over stage fright.

Pull yourself together, Octavia, this is not becoming of such a proper mare! She scolded herself again. Oh, who am I kidding? She felt tears well up in her eyes again. She had lost the bowtie that her father gave her. How could she ever replace it? The truth of the matter is, she couldn’t. It was a piece of her that she was never getting back. She felt this emptiness in her heart.

As the first few tears dropped from her face, she began thinking about how she was losing touch with her father. She worried that she would forget all those wonderful times that she always associated with him, and that bowtie. That bowtie, that one single piece of neckwear, that one ribbon of pink cloth that had adorned her neck every day for the past 25 years… it was gone.

The next few tears dropped, starting to form a pool at her hooves. She began wondering if she would ever feel comfortable enough to leave this bathroom stall, let alone go somewhere, and Celestia forbid play in front of a crowd again. She was nothing now, if she didn’t have her bowtie. It was her connection to her inner musician. Without it, she felt dead inside.

More tears fell from her eyes, making a sizeable pool of themselves beneath her. She began sniffling as the salty liquid drained into her nose. This was her life now? On what was to be the most important day of her life? When she played at a celebration of a coronation of all things? And now, she was just a failure. She had lost everything.

She could hear the clock bells toll from inside the bathroom. It was ten o’clock. She didn’t think that she could will herself to leave this bathroom. Not now, especially when she was this… discomposed. She was startled when she heard the door open, and somepony walk in.

All Octavia could hear besides the echoing of her footsteps was the rhythmic drumming of some sound that came from the direction she was in. Octavia held her breath to keep from sobbing and drawing any more attention to herself.

There was a knock at the stall door.

“Yo! You almost done in there? I kinda need the thing… fast!” That voice… it was so… improper, so, so uncouth. This certainly had to be a visitor filing into Canterlot for the Coronation Celebration.

“Is-isn’t there another stall open?” Octavia asked. Her body heaved nearly sobbing from her continued sadness.

“Nah, man! This is the only one!”

Man? Did that pony just call her a man? What in the hay did that even mean? ‘Man’? “Pardon me, but I do believe that I am a mare, and I always have been.”

“Well, well,” said the pony behind the door. “I do so humbly apologize.” There was an air of sarcasm. The sadness Octavia was feeling vanished completely at this display of sheer disrespect. Surely this pony knew better than to treat a lady like that! Particularly since she was a lady herself! She threw open the stall door to find herself face to face with a stunning white unicorn with bright blue hair, purple glasses, and a wide smile on her face. Across her ears were headphones, and that was the source of the rhythm Octavia could hear.

“Well,” Octavia said, facing her insulter. “I do believe you owe me an apology.” Octavia couldn’t see anything through the purple glasses that the unicorn before she wore. They were relatively opaque from this side, and there was no telling how she was able to see out of them at all. She studied the unicorn before her. The mane and tail were clearly not well-maintained, and the atrocious noise that was emitted from those headphones was ghastly and vexing. Her cutie mark was a beamed pair of black eighth notes. The blue in her mane was toned down a bit by the body of it being darker, but the first thing that caught Octavia’s attention still stood out to her.

“Me? Owe you an apology? For what?” The pony before her was obviously confused, so Octavia would have to explain.

“I think you owe me an apology for calling me a ‘man.’ Whatever that means, I don’t suppose it’s any good.”

“That? That’s just what I call everypony, calm down!” The intruder gave a look down Octavia, then noticed the tear pool on the floor. “Dude, seriously, there’s a toilet there for a reason.”

“What—“ Octavia took her turn to be confused, then she followed where the white unicorn was pointing. “That? Those are tears if you must know.” At this moment, the unicorn before her did something she didn’t expect. She took off her glasses to reveal rose-colored eyes.

“Why have you been crying?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Octavia pronounced.

“You’d be surprised,” she said, “My name’s Vinyl Scratch. If you let me use the stall real quick, I’d love to talk to you some more.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I do apologize,” Octavia said, noticing the look of anticipation on Vinyl’s face. She stepped delicately out of the stall, letting Vinyl in. Octavia went over to the sink and washed off her face, but the tearstains were still visible. After a flush of the toilet, Vinyl came out, washed her hooves, then put a hoof around Octavia.

“What’s your name?” she asked, with a soft tone that didn’t really fit all the previous experience that Octavia had with her.

“I’m Octavia Philiharmonica,” she replied. She had regained some of her composure, but she was still distraught about her missing bowtie.

“Well, then, Octy—“

“Please, do not call me Octy,” the gray mare insisted.

“I’ve gotta call you something, and that seems like a great nickname to me,” Vinyl said.

“I would still prefer if you didn’t call me that.”

“Well, Octavia,” Vinyl said, understanding that this wasn’t about her right now. “Why were you crying?”

Octavia turned her face to the floor. She simply couldn’t admit her shameful obsession with her bowtie. It was embarrassing when she tried to think about it herself, let alone when she was going to talk about it with another pony. “I don’t really wish to speak about it,” she said.

“If you don’t wanna talk about it, then you don’t wanna talk about it. But I don’t think that it’s going to do you any good just sitting around in that stall crying.” Vinyl was a bit abrasive with her approach, but she was entirely right. Octavia wasn’t going to complete anything in her life just sitting here moping about losing her bowtie. And there was something about Vinyl that she trusted, something that made her feel comfortable even though she didn’t have her bowtie.

“I suppose I could tell you,” Octavia said, feeling Vinyl’s hoof rub comfortingly against her side. This simple action reminded her of her father after one of her practices. She had been scolded by her maestro, and her father was there immediately after the session, with a hoof around her like Vinyl was doing now. This sense of comfort, this sense of familiarity, both sent chills down her spine, and made her more comfortable.

“I’m listening,” Vinyl said in a caring tone. This was nothing like Octavia’s first impression of her, this was unexpected and pleasant.

“I’m so distraught because earlier… I lost my bowtie,” she said, her volume dropping off at the end. She was so nervous about it that she nearly didn’t say it at all.

“That,” Vinyl said before pausing. Oh dear princesses, this was the judgment. This was Vinyl’s time to tell her how stupid and silly, how improper and fillyish this was. When Vinyl opened her mouth to complete her statement, she closed her eyes and prepared for the worst. This mare, who had seemed so genuinely concerned for a fellow musician, was going to pass her down-talking and lectures on to her. What did come out of Vinyl’s mouth, though, was to her great surprise: “That is horrible! If I ever lost my sunglasses, I don’t think I’d ever want to leave my home in Ponyville again!”

The look on Octavia’s face must have spoke volumes, because Vinyl only gave her a nod. “Is there anything I can do to help, Octavia?”

“Well,” she said, “I don’t think so. I mean, the weather Pegasi pretty much cleared that one up.”

“I figured it was awfully windy out today.” Vinyl gave Octavia a small smile. “Listen, we can go looking for our bowtie If you’d like. I know this mare who can locate gemstones. Perhaps she can help us with a location spell on that bowtie.” Vinyl was offering all she could, and she knew that her new friend was going to need it all.

“I-I can’t go out there!”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have my bowtie! I feel so naked!” Octavia said a little louder than she first intended. This was sure to garner some criticism. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and she hid herself behind the shawl some more.

“I’d feel that way without my glasses, but in order for us to find it, Octy, you need to be brave.”

“I suppose you’re right, Vinyl,” Octavia said, ceding her point. If she was ever going to move on with her life—and if she was going to make that concert tonight—she would have to leave this bathroom sooner or later.

“Come on, we need to go find Rarity,” Vinyl said.