The Sacred Sonatina

Octavia was on her way home from practice when the mare jostled her cello case.

It had been a long night for all of players of the Canterlot Classical Orchestra, and Octavia was no exception. She was looking forward to her nightly ritual and a good night's rest, and had little else on her mind until the mare had bumped into her most prized possession.

"Oh, hey. Didn't see you, babe," the mare said as she turned, revealing a little smile. She steadied Octavia's case with magic. Her voice had a fine rasping to it, and a breathy aspect; certainly not the voice of anyone with any breeding.

Octavia spit out the pullcord of the case. "Perhaps you should watch where you're going!" The indignity! Octavia got a good look at the mare now — white, with a cobalt mane that was a complete mess and had obviously fake cyan stripes running through it. Her eyes were hidden behind — behind tea shades? Octavia did not know what the unicorn was wearing, nor did she care.

The mare held up both forehooves. "Whoa, whoa. Don't blow a fuse, sugar." She had a cart of . . . something, it looked like old record players and electronics. "Your instrument's fine, my instrument's fine. Everything's cool."

"Your instrument?" Octavia's eyes fell on the mess of wires and devices on the cart again.

"The tables." She shrugged and trotted away. "I got a gig to get to. Catch you later."

"Why — why I never!" Octavia was sputtering still a moment later when Noteworthy trotted along. He'd come out later than everypony else, somehow. He was a functionally competent assistant principal violin, and the times he'd had to pick up slack he'd done admirably. Well, considering the amount of practice he gets, anyway.

"Tavi, what's got you going?" The night was turning from cool to cold. "C'mon. You can tell me about it while I walk you home, if you want."

She acceded by fuming about the unicorn with no manners or talent as she led Noteworthy along.

* * *

"She hasn't the slightest respect for the tradition of music, Note! And never mind that — she called me, a member of the Canterlot Classical Orchestra, 'babe'." Octavia boiled as she stormed around her apartment.

"Tavi, you really need to just relax. You'll probably never see her again, anyway!" Noteworthy seemed oddly . . . anxious? Something was off about him, although she couldn't pin it down. She wasn't going to dwell on that, either; she had bigger fish to mentally fry.

She turned her attention back to him. "Noteworthy, you can't tell me her kind doesn't offend you! You and I, we love music. Real music, not that awful filth that ponies like her 'mix' together!" She air-quoted the word. "If anything, that's a threat to the sanctity of a precious tradition of song and composition, bigger than you realize!"

"Tavi," he said, settling a hoof on her shoulder. "'The works of Ludwig Von Beethooven do not require defending.' Do you remember saying that to me?"

She had met Noteworthy when she was still playing the violin, some five years ago. Somehow she'd never noticed him before he introduced himself, even though he was auditing or enrolled in almost every class she had. It was the strangest coincidence — as if he'd just appeared in classes the day after meeting her. "Oh, Noteworthy, I remember it! But things were different then," she sniffsnorted. "This electronic house nightmare had not come to pass. And this 'dubstep,' it's practically anti-music!"

"Things evolve, Tavi. Everything does, doesn't it?" He was stumbling around for words; it seemed like Noteworthy frequently did so lately. She also swore there was some hopeful tone in his voice, but she couldn't imagine what he'd be hopeful about. He seemed evasive for a moment, and then kept going. "Tavi — that's kind of something I wanted to ask you about, actually. Something, uh, evolving."

"Not music, Note!" She felt tired somehow, now. "There's a purity there, Noteworthy! You know what I mean!"

Noteworthy wasn’t listening, as far as Octavia could tell. "Tavi, I was thinking about you and I, and — "

"I'm sorry to go on and on, Note. I think . . . I think I'm just tired." She sighed and rubbed her face, then sat next to him.

"Oh! Oh, right, I mean, it's late."

"Yes. I really should get to sleep, Note." She somehow felt exhausted; bed called, and her nightly ritual with it. “You're probably right. I doubt I'll ever see such an irresponsible, untalented 'musician' again!" Again, she air-quoted with her hooves, then shook her head. "I'm sorry to go on so much, it's just that she got under my skin, I guess." She was already leading him towards the door. "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow at rehearsal?" She opened the door.

He hesitated again, but then tucked whatever he was about to say away mentally, and headed out.

* * *

A week or two later, Octavia had, after a few days of nagging thoughts and fitful nights, filed away the offending unicorn under the category of things she no longer needed to worry about. Her life, her practice, had gotten back on track. She had returned to normalcy.

The rehearsal for the upcoming private garden show for Princess Celestia had gone well that morning. She requested the principals of the CCO for a garden show roughly once a month, in some combination. Occasionally, Celestia requested a solo player, but more often the princess asked for a small ensemble.

Even if there hadn't been the garden show, for Octavia, there was always a good reason to practice. If she missed a meal or two — well, as much as ponies liked to think they were above judging on appearance, she knew the truth was that her figure being a little slimmer would help her retain her position. Of course, if I were willing to sully myself and lay down in front of a backer, like the assistant principal violin Courante, I could probably be conducting the CCO by this point —

Her train of thought was derailed by her cello case tottering. She whipped her head around to see who had been so rude.

It was the same white unicorn who had jostled Octavia before.

"I'm sorry, do you have some sort of defect of sight or something?" Octavia snapped. She glared back at the other mare, who was looking her way.

The white unicorn lifted up her glasses, revealing magenta eyes, and a smirk tugged at her mouth. "Nah, I just liked bumping into you the first time," she chuckled, and then gave a wink.

A wink?!

"Excuse me?! You may think this is some sort of joke but I assure you the operations of the principal cellist of the CCO are anything but trivial!"

"Hey, whoa! I didn't mean anything like that by it." Vinyl waved a hoof. She seemed ready to keep going, but Octavia wasn’t going to give her a chance.

"I do not care what you meant! I do not care for you bumping into me!" Her words were shards of frozen snake venom. "Now, in the future, try to pay attention to where you're going, and feel free to stay as far away from me as you can manage!"

"Whoa," the unicorn said, and then that irritating smirk spread out into a provocative smile. "Feisty. I like it."

"Like?! You . . . you what — " Octavia could feel warmth crawling up her neck and developing on her face. Somehow she was having trouble making words come out of her mouth; she turned and took the pull rope of her cello case, going in the direction of her home. I won't be having any more of such a discussion! She’s a lewd, disrespectful, utterly awful equine being!

"Hey, slow down!" The unicorn called out to her, but Octavia was trotting faster in response. "C'mon, at least tell me your name!"

Octavia did not stop until she was inside the hallway to her apartment, where she found Noteworthy. "Note! Come in here with me. The streets aren't safe while that unicorn is out!"

He looked at her, uncertain. "Uh, sure. I'll come in."

Note had never been in her apartment before, but she needed moral support. Octavia pulled the cello inside and shut the door behind him. What was he doing here, anyway? Oh, never mind. I'm sure it was nothing important.

* * *

She brought the coffee out on a tray, and set it down, then shook her head. "I am never going to understand ponies like that! She is simply disgraceful!"

"Tavi, why’s this getting to you? You keep saying she's so awful but all she did the first time was bump into your cello — "

"She intentionally bumped into me this time!" Octavia was having a hard time keeping her voice down. "She said it herself, right after she jostled me! I asked her if she lacked sight or simply sense, and she responded thusly:" Octavia imitated the mare's manner of speech without difficulty. "Nah, I just liked bumping into you the first time," and completed it with an imitation of the wink.

Noteworthy seemed to pale. "She — wait, she winked at you?"

Octavia blinked at him. "That's what I said, Noteworthy! She winked after she said it!"

He chewed on his lip. "Well, uh — I mean, that — that certainly does seem disrespectful." He sipped at his coffee, but it was too hot and he yelped. He seemed more upset by the coffee burn than he really should have been, to Octavia's way of thinking, but Noteworthy had never exactly been a stallion's stallion. She'd wondered if he was a coltcuddler for a while when she first met him at Horseshoelliard, until one of the pianists asked him out. Note had stated unequivocally that he was absolutely into mares, straight as a crow flies.

"Of course it's disrespectful! She disrespects music, and now she disrespects musicians!" A sound came from the open window of Octavia's apartment, something that clearly had some sort of underlying rhythm but was otherwise noise, not music. "Ugh! Does nopony know what time it is? It — "

She cut off with a gasp as she came to the window.

The mare was down on the street, two stories below Octavia's home, and she'd arranged the things on her cart so she could play whatever that odious horror of sonance was. "Hey!" she shouted, over the din, waving a hoof at Octavia. The mare said something else, but it was lost in a particularly loud section of the cacophony.

Noteworthy trotted over, and the look on his face was horror. Well, of course it was! With that awful racket, who could possibly maintain a good mood?

Octavia turned away. I will not give that awful mare the satisfaction of seeing this, she thought. Anger seethed and boiled inside her. The sound was awful, pain given shape in her ears, melody tearing at rhythm tearing at lyrics mutated through electronic alteration.

"Tavi?" Noteworthy set a hoof on her shoulder, and she shook her head.

"No. No! I will not take this without fighting back! I fought! I worked! You saw, Noteworthy! I sacrificed years of my life to practice and composition! I have done anything that was ever asked of me by those more experienced than I! I . . . I sold band candy!" she shouted, shaking her head. "And this is what my life has come to? Disrespect from that — that vandal of melody?!"

Noteworthy just seemed to stare at Octavia for a few moments, then shook his head. "Tavi, please. Think about this, okay? Even if she is intentionally disrespecting you, she's not worth worrying over. Let's just close the window.”

"No! No, you leave it alone!" She was already pushing a giant speaker from the entertainment center towards the window. "We'll see who — mmph — wins this little game!"

She trotted over and nosed at the button, stabbing with her muzzle; Also Snorted Zarathrustra's opening horns flared into the night, and the unicorn on the street seemed confused.

"There! There! How do you like it?" Octavia shrieked.

The mare said something, but it was lost in the din. She pointed a hoof at herself, then up at Octavia.

"No! Please, Tavi, uh . . . " Panic seemed to leak into Noteworthy's voice. What on earth is wrong with him? He's all sorts of nervous these days. "We don't want to cause a noise complaint! Let's just lock the door and shut the window?"

Octavia shifted on her hooves. The mare in the street was saying something else, but it too was lost over the battle of music versus cacophony. Something about the mare made her more uncomfortable than she cared to admit.

"Tavi? Please, Tavi, let's just stop this, okay?"

"Certainly, Noteworthy." She glared for a few moments at the mare in the street, who seemed to look at her expectantly now, then shut the window and pushed the speaker back where it went. "I think you're right," she muttered. I learned to control my stutter. I learned to control my tremor. I learned to control my anger. I learned to control my life.

"I'm not about to let some mare destroy the order of my life," she said, before realizing she'd said it.

Noteworthy seemed somehow relieved by all this. "So, um, could I talk to you for a minute or two, Tavi?"

"Note, I really need some time to think." Control was the watchword. She had absolute control over her movements, she had to; otherwise, she could not play with the precision required by the Canterlot Classical Orchestra. The CCO was more prestigious, from a technical standpoint, than the Royal Canterlot Orchestra, and with good reason; the Royal was a modern orchestra. The CCO was, as some put it, “old school.” Simplicity of coordination led to the rich complexity of their produced work; there was simply nothing like the sound of the CCO.

Noteworthy babbled a goodbye of some sort, and Octavia listened to it enough to wave goodbye back when he was done. Her mind was on a new question, of a sort she hadn't been challenged with in a long time.

So how do I control my current problem?

The question was still weighing on her mind as she settled into bed for her nightly ritual, and then sleep.

* * *

She woke in the night, the stars outside her window telling her what the clock confirmed: Day had not come yet. Why am I sweating? What on earth was that dream? She had engaged in her nightly ritual, as always, but the sleep that had come was fitful and troubling. Like —

Like the nights after I first saw that mare! This was her fault, Octavia just knew it. Now her anxiety was rearing its ugly head and her sleep was suffering. If sleep suffers, practice suffers. Practice cannot suffer. She felt angry, but — something else. She felt outrage, but — but something else, underneath it. Something she couldn't place.

I need to get back to sleep. She rolled away from the window, so the darkness of the room would help convince her mind to close her eyes.

After several minutes, she decided the only way to get back to sleep was to allow herself the indulgence of her nightly ritual again. She had always been very, very careful about it. She didn't want to let herself become sexual in some horrid fashion, lest she find herself having to choose between practice and some irrational, animal relationship.

The nightly ritual, however, wasn't sex per se. And any reputable medical text clearly indicates that it is something almost all ponies do, she reminded herself.

Well, it is only twice in one night. It’s not like I'm becoming Courante or something. Or that filthy white unicorn mare she'd run into, whoever she was. The “instrument” she played no doubt put her in those dark, strange nightclubs Octavia had seen in the less refined areas of Canterlot, always from a distance, always with a line of ponies in front and deep throbbing “music” flowing from the building itself. I have no doubt that unicorn has all sorts of undignified acts performed on her on a regular basis —

She sighed and pushed the thoughts out of her head. Last thing I need is to think of a slut like that white unicorn before I let myself rub.

She put on music, with a sleep timer; a delicate composition called 'Slipper Soft’ by Philomena Grass, it was notable for being one of the few gentle, melodious works the composer had ever produced. Octavia would frequently use it to settle herself into sleep, along with the touch of her own hoof.

Octavia slicked her right hoof with her wet tongue, then brought it down between her rear legs; her left settled on her hip, and squeezed a little at it as she brought the hooftip down and drew a graceful, low-pressure stroke along the outer lips of her sex. The corresponding tremor that pulsed through her body grew in response to another stroke, slow and slick, along her labia.

Try as she might, anger seeped back into her thoughts as she performed her nightly ritual, as if her mind was working to contrast control and lack of control. Disrespecting me, disrespecting my life's work with that “instrument” of hers! She knows no shame, that awful unicorn. Octavia could still see that sneer of a mouth, those glasses hiding her eyes from the world, that shameful “instrument” of hers! She’s rewarded for it regularly with such hedonism, I’m sure.

Octavia's left forehoof slid up as her right applied more pressure at her sex, parting the lips with a gentle motion that left delirious pleasure rolling through her body and a soft vocalization rolling from her throat. She found that she was hugging the long body pillow to herself as she worked, and the strains of the music floated through the air.

The music itself was meant as background to her effort, and it lacked severe crescendo and bass; she had picked it for precisely that reason. Somehow, though, even with soothing music and the darkness, the anger would not drain from her. The rate of her breathing had picked up speed faster than usual, and she was sure, absolutely sure, that the furious thoughts of the mare were the reason. She’d never gone to bed this angry before.

Wink at me! It was disgraceful, simply disgraceful. Octavia could hear the faint schlick, schlick, schlick of her lubricated labia become audible, and her hips shifted without her intending to shift them; her hoof worked faster and faster as she lost track, bit by bit, of her senses.

She finally managed to push that damned unicorn out of her head just before she found herself at the doorstep of an orgasm, and she brought her tip — slick with her own juice as well as her oral lubricant — upwards, towards her nub, and nestled the tip between the folds to stimulate her clitoris.

Octavia arched, shuddered, and found herself releasing a loud cry. Immediate shame followed it, but it was washed away as the orgasm spread through her flesh in a flood of endorphins and a rush of blood in her ears. She swore could hear her heartbeat when she reached this point of the ritual, and it seemed such a strange thing to be conscious of, but with her mind soaked in bliss, she could hardly blame herself for a few illogical thoughts.

After her crescendo had finished, she felt sleep crawl over her mind as soon as the pleasure was dying, and she let it bring her to the morning.