If These Strings Could Sing

by PonIver

1 - O - Art is Hard

Try,
And Fail,
And Try Again
Immerse yourself in rejection
‘Cause we all know

Art is hard

When we don’t know who we are
Young artists have gotta’ starve

- Cursive

***

Fame.

Fame is a drug. Fame is a cancer. Fame is fickle. Fame is a bee. Fame is fleeting. Fame is—

Blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t stand to hear it anymore. From every angle and every corner, they came at me. Ponies who wanted to be me. Ponies who wanted to use me. With cameras, with notepads, with lenses, with pencils sharpened to spear points, they came at me. Blinding me. Stabbing me. Robbing me.

I was “on top of the world” they told me, but that was the last place I wanted to be. I was born a musician, but they turned me into a commodity. Something to be packaged and sold to anypony ready to fork over their hard-earned bits for some manufactured album with my face on it.

Still, it sickens me.

I was, all at once, disillusioned with the glamour of the Hoofywood clichés, the Los Pegasus scene. It was nothing more than a myth. A soulless horde of zombies waiting to eat up whatever the suits told them to. Those cretins, they know nothing of art.

Music? Music is simple. It is but melody attached to rhythm. Audible arithmetic.

Song? Easier still. Just put the math to language. Make it catchy, and no one will notice if you lack any sort of skill.

Art? Art is hard. Art is the craft of taking this mundane, tasteless tripe and making it come alive. Art is to give those lesser forms longevity. Music lacks experience, and a song will get you known, but art will make you remembered.

That is why I am here.

Not ‘here’ as in ‘I am here on this planet to create art’, I remind myself, but here nonetheless. I came to this place to escape that prison, and separate myself from anything that I must insist upon referring to in metaphor. I hate feeling forced to contextualize my plight in such an archaic and cliché manner, but in my current state, I am unable to express myself in a more appropriate fashion.

I’m enraged and exhausted. I cannot recall the last time I played music. Yes, I have been on stage nearly every night for the last year, but I did not play. I performed. One does not play when there are thousands of eyes prying and preying upon you. They are vultures, and I, carrion.

Dammit, I said no more metaphors.

I hate how cynical my experiences over the last year have made me. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy, back when it was just me and the music. There weren’t always enough bits to go around, but I had integrity. I had self-expression. I had talent. All I want now is to reconnect with that former self that I miss so dearly. The gray coated earth pony on the C.D. covers and tabloid pages, she is a stranger to my former self. The pressure that came with fame was the worst of all, and it drove me to do things my former self would have considered uncouth and demeaning.

I can see my somber reflection in the window of the cabin, and I wish to pound on the glass with my hooves until it shatters. Something holds me back. Perhaps it is the small amount of decency that gasps for air within me, or just the fact that I would be too embarrassed to explain to the locomotive conductors the reasoning behind such actions.

I often wonder what would have happened if my former self and current form had crossed paths somewhere. I like to think I’d have received a stern lecture about my priorities and selling out, but that is not likely the case. The old Octavia would simply stare in shock and hang her head in shame of what the future holds for her. I owe it to her to regain my former dignity.

I recall passing through this town as a filly. Those were happier days, when the world was full of color and I could hear the music within every aspect of life. Past my reflection, I can see the sign that reads ‘Ponyville’. The mere name of this place would imply to most ponies of my high-class background that whatever residents inhabited this town were ‘lesser’ ponies, but from my recollection that wasn’t the case. Civilization still ruled the day here. These ponies found pleasure in simple lives, without the kind of backwards shenanigans most imagined were commonplace in such a town.

It was also home to a gorgeous forest, Cleverglee or something like that, where I find myself now as I gather my thoughts on what brought me here. I travelled with few possessions other than my procession of various musical instruments. What I did have with me, I left sitting in some claim area at the train station. I had no concern for my residence while I’m here, instead my focus centered solely on the craft. My traditional bass would have been too heavy for me to lug out into the forest after my long journey, so I settled for my cello. It is still a hefty instrument, but one with the versatility I required right now.

It isn’t long before I lose sight of the path through the forest. This is, at least in part, a conscious effort. I have never been good with direction, but I came here to separate myself from the rest of the world anyway. I wouldn’t be able to do that if I just followed the path some other pony had set between the trees.

This forest is quite dense, so lush and alive. There is so much color present; even if it is only shades of green and brown, with occasional accents of pastels. I never spent much time in nature as a foal, and I hope I can spend some time making up for that. I’ve grown too accustomed to forests of steel, where each building tries harder than the last to pierce the veil, as though it could pluck the sun from the sky. This place is different. The trees are large, but humble, giving back to the world around them.

My case shifts as the wheels snap off my cello case. The roots and dead matter along the ground are not what they had been designed for. I have always been a nimble mare, but over the years, my frame grew into a feminine curve appropriate for the shape of orchestral equipment. I am proud of my form and strength, and lift the case onto my back with ease.

I don’t have to walk much farther to find what I’m looking for. In fact, it is several minutes before I notice I’ve found it. Silence. The breeze still makes the leaves shudder, and there is the occasional patter of small feet that dash across the forest floor, but still, silence. No artificial pony-made sounds. This is a part of the land untouched by vehicles, construction, or technological advancement of any kind.

It’s perfect.

I am, of course, gentle as I lay my case down to obtain the treasure inside. My cello is one of many just like it, but it is mine. It is finely crafted, but still has minor imperfections along its frame. An unsightly knot here, a dent there, but beautiful nonetheless. It has been with me the longest of my trade tools, and I am lucky that it has survived the rigorous abuse and lack of care I put it through in my filly days. It still has a gorgeous sunset stain along the wood, and I am sure the surrounding trees are gazing upon it and hoping one day to be made into something as beautiful as this.

For the longest time, I had fashioned my own strings for the cello. Not because I thought I could make them better, but simply because I was too poor to afford anything of even mediocre quality. In those days, my craft went on the backburner financially, and food and shelter were priority. The neck of my cello still had some discoloration from the material I used for my impromptu strings.

String instruments have an awkward sentiment that sets them apart from anything else: they are born naked. Perhaps this is what drew me to them in the first place. Some form of familiarity. Trumpets. Clarinets. Tympanis. They are all beautiful in their own way, but one does not notice their nudity. A missing mouthpiece or reed or mallet, while still rendering the instrument silent, is negligible aesthetically. However, when one looks at a mandolin without strings, they take notice, and wonder how it came to being.

I set my nude cello aside, and pull a package of strings from the bottom of the case. They are long and slender, and uncoil ever so elegantly as I remove them from the envelopes. They seem so small in my hooves, and fit so well along my cello, pulling the eye away from its beaten and bruised appearance.

I can’t help but snicker when I see the tuning fork poking out from the velvet lining of my case. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I bought the damn thing in the first place. Celestia, or whatever power that be, blessed me with perfect pitch at a young age. Typically, as was my manner, I skirted this gift. Yes, my instruments were never a half turn of the key away from the right frequency, but I did not crave perfection.

To the ear of anypony listening, my performances were never out of tune, but they weren’t the ones holding the instrument. All instruments are tools of vibration, and while onlookers only feel the vibration in their ears, I feel it moving up the bow into my hooves and throughout the rest of my body. My penchant for perfect pitch conflicted with this feeling, as a perfectly tuned instrument doesn’t create the resonance one can feel while they play. The great artists did not hear music, they felt it. Even without having been alive to hear their greatest performances, I can tell this just by looking at how they drew their notes onto the staff pages. I let each string play as I turned the keys to pull them taut. I can slowly feel the vibrations cease as they approach the correct pitch, and turn each just past the point where all feeling of vibration leaves my hooves.

The waxy sheen of my bow glistens in the light that peers through the leaves. String instruments have one other quirk that separates them from the rest of the musical kingdom, this being their multiple tuning. The sound-pieces of brass and woodwinds need little adjustment once they are placed upon the instrument, but a bow is of equal importance to each string. If not wound with the utmost care, even the most talented of artists would fail to create anything of importance.

Like most orchestra performers, I lined my bow with ponyhair. Every other performer I knew used their own hair, as if it created some sort of bond with the instrument, but I differed in opinion from the masses. Instead, mine was lined with a sample from an artist I respected like no other. Little needs be said about Mezzo, other than that he was my only family, and Equestria has never seen an artist like him. Not long after he passed, I came upon a music box he left for me, with the sample of his hair inside. They say hair, while already a dead mass in the first place, continues to survive after we expire, and that was certainly true in this case. I didn’t even need to trim the hair, as it was already the perfect length for a bow, and the sound it produced was the only way I could measure up to him.

At long last, I find myself prepared for a temporary leave from this world, and ready to rejoin with the music. I can see a nearby stump that will be the perfect perch for my solitary form, and approach carefully, ensuring to not disturb the cello that I’ve tuned to my liking. I forgo the spike adorning the base of the cello, instead preferring to feel the leaves crunching beneath the instrument, and let my cello bond with the nature that once birthed it. I take a glance at my surroundings, reassuring myself that this is what I’ve been seeking for so long now. The weather, the forest, the creatures, they are all in perfect harmony, and I have come here to provide them a befitting melody.

Pushing the bow against that first deep pitch invokes so much power and raw emotion inside me. I close my eyes and drift away. I am not asleep, but the music commands my movements now, and I am simply surrendering to its urges. It’s impossible to resist something so enticing. It is something that I’ve missed for so long. I am separated from this world that robbed me of who I was, and with each note, I gain the old Octavia back.

The trees make a unique acoustic reflection, and play my notes back to me. I can hear them, but I am not listening. I am too engrossed in the vibrations that travel up the tips of my hooves. The shaking of my wrist as I pull back and forth on the neck to toy with the notes. I play with them as much as they play with me. We play an innocent game, pushing against each other as our harmony travels between the trees and throughout the forest.

With eyes closed, I can see the notes take shape, and I am chasing them through the forest and towards the ocean, past the desert, and back to the forest again. We pirouette along the beaches, and hold each other under the cotton-fluff lining in the sky. I want to stay in this place, but I know I can only spend fleeting moments here. My formless companion can only show me the way, but I must walk the path with my own hooves.

I am lost in this gorgeous landscape for quite some time. I am unsure of the span of real-time, but in the ethereal world my music creates, it seems that days have passed before I notice that my guide is not playing the same notes as me. The cloud of notes that make up its body have taken shape. I cannot say for sure, but I believe it looks like– a pegasus? The music it plays for me is beautiful, but is contradictory to what my hooves are creating against my cello.

My eyes part wide and I am pulled back into reality. My playing halts, and as the staccato sound fades off into the echoes, I hear nature again. The rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, the clip-clop of– hooves? Am I not alone? Did somepony follow me?

No. My trained ears have grown oversensitive. The sound is clearly of hoofsteps, but I am certain they are too far away for the stranger to be aware of my presence. I decide to disregard the far away stranger, and turn back to my cello. The sound is gorgeous, and I am quickly swept back into a world of music. I am surrounded by clouds now. Above me. Beside me. Beneath me? Where have the sands and leaves gone? I am high above, but I do not sense that I am falling. Is this flight?

Quite a few moments pass before I open my eyes to realize my hooves aren’t moving. I can feel the vibrations that can only come from music, but the strings on my cello are still. My right hoof hangs at my side with the bow in it, and as I stare at it, I wonder if I’ve truly gone crazy.

There is music around me. Beautiful, harmonious music, but I am not the sculptor. My eyes are pulled back into the trees, and I set my cello down as I walk back into the thick forest. All I know is the sound of music is growing amplified, and I am entranced by it. My hooves move on their own, but not to make music. They are pulled from the stump, leaving my cello behind, and marching towards the distant song. The further I go, the clearer it becomes, and somewhere in the distance between my cello and the source, I realize that what I’m hearing is art, and—

Somepony is—

Singing?

Comments

[Captawesome]

Looks interesting i shall add to my read later que

[MrRelevance]

Really nice first chapter, looking forward to see more of this.

[OC]

First comment

[Cobalt Glow]

And we can maybe expect Fluttershy describing singing and Scratch describing music.

[Cobalt Glow]

890043
i3.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/220/777/Nope.png

[OC]

890054
When I put the comment there no other comments where there

[Dusty Sage]

It's always the can't-be-bothered-with-this-sort-of-thing types who fall the hardest, right?

The Element of Kindness has her work cut out for her.

[BronyPie]

Like it so far

[Delicious]

That Vinyl Scratch in the picture scares me.

Hopefully the actual Vinyl Scratch is a little bit nicer than she looks right now, or else we're in for a wild ride!

[CircaCloud9]

You already know my feelings on this, but I thought I'd comment to let you know that it still looks pretty good. Looking forward to editing the next chapter.

[PonIver]

890979

Haha cute. Yeah, I just really wanted to explore Tavi, and I kept thinking how I could avoid writing a clone of every Tavi fic out there.

891949

Unfortunately, she won't be showing up right away, but the pic... Oh it's accurate. I didn't just want to write something outside of the OxVS fanon, I want to destroy it...

Well that's harsh, but I really want people to be willing to see characters in a different light. I want the reader to feel hatred for this version of Vinyl

[Book]

Near the end of the chapter is very serene and calming, I can really imagine Octavia drawing inspiration from the nature that surrounds her as she plays the cello. I look forward to seeing more *Good Job!*

[PonIver]

893384

Thanks for that. I have been around music for most of my life, but never played string instruments. I just notice that orchestra performers tend to take the bond with their instruments further. I play guitar and sing, did some tuba in middle school and piano as a kid, but I never felt that bond with an instrument.

[TheLastHeroOfInsertHere]

892515
So you are in theory trying to tear the Octascratch fannon a new one *hugs harder than should be pony or humanly possible* YOU ARE AWESOME cant wait to see more!!!!

[PonIver]

895680
Hehehe, not so much that brutal. However, I am writing this with the hope that there will be at least some TaviScratch fans who give it a chance and still enjoy something outside their fandom. I appreciate why they're paired together, but there isn't much I can do with the pairing that hasn't been done, and the last thing I want to do is write a story people feel like they've read before.

[TheLastHeroOfInsertHere]

898245
All the same its nice to see A fic involving the two that isn't a ship fic and funny enough this only the (sadly) second fic I have read with Vinyl in antagonistic light. It also is nice to get away from the beaten horse (or pony) that is opposites attract. My ship hate and grumbling aside cant wait for more as I really enjoyed your last fic so Goddess speed to ya bud.

[skysky2112]

From a string instrument player, that has to be the best way to explain how it is! even when i play and i feel something is off i have to make sure that string is perfectly tuned up!

Favorite and watching this!

[PonIver]

902140
That's good to hear since I've never played anything stringed other than guitar.

[Book]

I am really looking forward to the next installment of this story. The way you described octavia playing the cello was very good, It showed how passionate octavia is to play good music. It is stories like this that put octavia on my favorite background ponies list. Good job and hope to see more