Chapter 1: Overture

“Oh please, all of you are still getting ready?” Rarity asked as she emerged from Carousel Boutique’s back room. She made a beeline for the front door and clutched the knob, a rear hoof tapping against the floor. “I thought everypony would be dressed half an hour ago! Our coach awaits!”

“Umm, could you…?” Fluttershy said. “Eep.”

“Aw, don’t pop nothin’, sugarcube. I just finished my chores. ’Sides, we’ll make it in plenty o’ time,” Applejack said. She tugged her hat this way and that before snapping a nod at her reflection.

Rarity’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “A lady. Doesn’t. Pop. I’m merely a bit—” she circled a hoof in the air “—flustered, as we simply mustn’t arrive late! The ushers won’t seat anypony after the curtain rises.”

“Uh, could somepony please…?” Fluttershy squeaked.

“No prob,” Rainbow Dash said, her forelegs crossed and her nose turned up. “I’ll zip ahead and make ’em hold off a minute. It’d look bad for them if they started before I got there, bein’ a celebrity and all.”

“Did somepony say ‘celebrate’?” Pinkie chimed in from her nonstop bouncing orbit of the showroom’s periphery. “Just give the word, and I’ll whip up a party like you’ve never seen, with cake, balloons, streamers, and pin the tail on the pony, or on the dragon! We’ve never done a dragon! Oh, that would be cool—no offense, Spike—but now that it’s in my head, it’s my most favoritest thing in the world, and—”

Rarity held Pinkie’s head in the viselike grip of her magic and stared her down. “The concert hall will provide a reception afterward,” Rarity said through clenched teeth. She leaned in even closer. “And it will be low key. Low. Key.”

“Okie dokie, low key!”

Rarity shook her head and sighed, but she couldn’t keep a smile from creeping into place. Something about all this just felt right.

“Please, if you don’t mind…” Fluttershy said. “That is, if you have the time…”

“Is that everypony now?” Rarity scanned the room quickly and frowned. Somepony was missing. “Where did Twilight Sparkle go?”

“Oh, she scheduled the coach to get here at six-thirty sharp,” Spike answered, brushing some lint off his tuxedo jacket. He hooked his thumbs into the lapels and puffed his chest out. “She’s been sitting in it ever since it arrived.”

Rarity glanced at the clock—ten minutes until seven. A frosty jolt shot up her spine. “Ten minutes until showtime! Out, out, everypony out!” she shouted, waving her hoof toward the door.

“Actually,” came Fluttershy’s voice from behind Rarity. And from considerably closer to the floor. “I need a little help. W-with my makeup. Or not… It’s okay. I can just go without…”

“Nonsense, Fluttershy, but in the coach, now, now!” Rarity jumped behind her and shoved her out the door. “I’ll do it on the way!”

“All aboard, y’all!” cried Applejack as she helped the last of the passengers up and through the narrow door into the carriage.

Big McIntosh groaned from his spot in the corner, wedged onto the end of a bench meant to hold only half as many ponies. “Aw, AJ, why you gotta drag me to this?” He gritted his teeth and tugged at his bow tie. “Not the kind o’ collar I’m used to wearin’.”

“Look, Rarity got these tickets as a gift for her help at the theater in Manehattan. It’s an honor to go, and you could use a bit o’ culture anyhow, you bumpkin,” Applejack said with narrowed eyes. Big Mac only sighed and shook his head.

Rarity pursed her lips while working on Fluttershy’s makeup. Maybe dragging him along wasn’t the best choice, but Applejack wanted him to come, and at least she could count on him to keep quiet. Pinkie, on the other hoof…

“These seats are right next to the royal box!” Twilight said as she examined her ticket. “I’ll get to see Princess Celestia!”

“Yes, yes,” Rarity said, fiddling with Fluttershy’s sleeve, “but we must look our best. Dresses adjusted, hats straight, shoes polished, everypony?” She felt like a mother hen trying to gather her chicks together, but fortunately she had a captive audience at the moment. Six eager faces nodded back at her. And one continued to stare out the window. “Excellent.”

“Sun’s still out,” Big Mac muttered. “Could’ve got another two hours’ work done.”

After a short ride to the earthwork amphitheater just outside Ponyville, the group disembarked from their coach with only moments to spare. The usher gave their tickets a perfunctory glance, then rushed them along to their seats without any of the meaningless small talk Big Mac would have expected. He’d hung back at the end of the line, and his gamble paid off—he got the aisle seat, in case the opportunity for a strategic exit came up.

He slouched sideways in his seat and propped his chin on a hoof, the waves of conversation washing over him and threatening to lull him to sleep. Glancing down the row, he saw that Twilight had of course taken the seat against the princesses’ box, with only a low divider between them. She leaned over it and waved furiously, and Celestia responded with a staid “yes, I see you, now please sit down and act your age” nod. And with a sheepish smile, Twilight settled back into her chair.

Big Mac had to chuckle. At least that was good for a laugh, and he might have to take entertainment wherever he could get it.

“Well, this is most unusual,” Rarity said with a frown. “Already ten past the hour, and they still haven’t begun! I do hope that nothing is amiss.” She stood and scanned over all the entrances. “These performances are always so lovely, and I’d hate to miss an opportunity this rare. They hardly ever play outside one of the large cities!”

She tut-tutted amid her other friends’ shrugs, and Big Mac found himself looking forward to the prospect of a quiet evening at home. A nice pot of coffee on the hearth, maybe a block of birch wood and a whittling knife, or better yet, the latest edition of the Farmers’ Almanac. Yeah, just another short trip back—

Mayor Mare strolled out on stage and cleared her throat, dulling the ebb and flow of voices. “There’s been a slight delay in the arrival of some of the performers, but we will begin momentarily,” she said. “Thank you, everypony, for your patience, and shortly the Canterlot Philharmonic will be ready to begin.”

Big Mac stifled a yawn and rolled his eyes. Fine. What would another thirty minutes matter when the evening was already in the outhouse anyway? He craned his neck right and left to see if he recognized any faces in the crowd as ones who might provide the company that misery loves. But no. Just the fancy types.

Before long, he could hear instruments tuning up behind the curtain. He wasn’t completely out of his element here—he knew a few basics. Some fiddles—er, violins—plucked and bowed, then a few trumpets, a flute or two, drums, and… he’d pretty much hit his limit. But he hadn’t heard quite that variety of sound before, not all together, anyway. They put on a nice light show that might keep him interested for a little while. He reckoned about twenty minutes.

The noise gradually faded away, and everything blended back into the orange sunset. And out of the intense quiet, a single instrument sounded, the one that always made him think of a duck, though… he’d never really looked at it before. It made a nice, rich brown-looking noise, like aged hickory. Soon enough, all the other instruments joined in, and… the curtain shimmered—he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

The curtain drew open, and an old stallion strode in from the right side and took his place at the podium without introduction. He immediately waved his hooves, and the orchestra started into… Big Mac didn’t know what. But the colors. Gold and red and blue and—he flipped through his program to see. An overture by Hoofgang Amadeus Mozart. The name rang a bell, he guessed, but the colors!

A low, bass brown, a high, tinny silver, all spilling off the stage. He’d seen… well, when he sang with the Ponytones, they made a nice blend of shades, but nothing like this.

And too soon, it stopped. The crowd burst into applause, but Big Mac couldn’t do any more than gape. Different instruments, blending into new combinations all the time, and lighting up the stage with changing patterns. The audience had quieted down before he could get in a couple of stomps.

The conductor bowed deeply. “Thank you, mares and gentlestallions. I am Maestro, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to the first stop on our traveling concert series. We always enjoy the opportunity to bring the music to the ponies. We have a diverse program for you, as well as a special treat after the second intermission. Please sit back and allow us to take you on a journey. For our next piece, we will perform the famous Third Brandin’ Burg Concerto by Johann Sebastian Buck.”

This one sounded more intimate, with a smaller number of mostly strings and higher brass instruments. It took a… regal tone, white veined with grey, like marble, then filling in the brown of fine furnishings and the sky blue of broad landscape paintings. Big Mac closed his eyes and weaved the colors into his mental picture. As the music switched to a slow tempo, he whipped up royal-purple robes, swishing and twirling in courtly dance, green palace gardens outside the windows, multicolored flashes of songbirds in the trees…

Before he knew it, applause rang out again, and he looked up at the stage. The orchestra dispersed and milled about, some of the performers greeting ponies on the floor below.

Rarity sidled past him, mumbling something about powdering her nose, and everypony else stood to stretch their legs. But Big Mac just sat there. Was this what he’d been missing? Twilight probably had a ton of records at the library, and he’d never even known.

He’d listened to country music with Applejack, and of course singing, but nothing this complex, with so much texture. He’d let the lyrics organize the colors into scenes for him, but these built their own, note by note.

All around Big Mac, ponies wandered this way and that, and then here came Rarity back from the mares’ room or wherever she’d gone. She wriggled by him, then tapped Twilight on the shoulder and pointed at him. What did she want?

Whatever she’d said got passed down the line—Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie started giggling, and Applejack shot them a glare and swatted them. Spike just shook his head. Maybe he was on Big Mac’s side. Of what, who knew? And why had he agreed to come here with a bunch of mares?

The ushers came down the aisles again and urged everypony back to their seats, and a quiet attention settled over everything.

In the renewed silence, Maestro took his place at center stage again. “For our middle section,” he said, “we will perform the Sixth Symphony of Ludwig van Beethoofen. Nicknamed the Pastoral, it evokes scenes from rural life and nature. We hope you will enjoy it.”

Now, Big Mac could see potential there. If he’d gotten that much out of a fancy palace scene, how much more would some nice country music speak to him? They had plenty of fiddles, but he didn’t see a guitar anywhere.

No matter. He closed his eyes, and… it wasn’t what he expected, but still. He could see it: green hillsides, tilled earth, chattering streams, and windblown grass, stretching out around him. The music slowed, and it changed to grazing land and fluffy white sheep. Faster again, a harvest celebration. Everypony cheering for a well-stocked barn and swinging around in the old dances Granny Smith used to do. Finally, a storm, with the rolling thunder and cracks of lightning, bringing life-giving rain.

This was his world. The farm he loved, the work that gave him meaning, somehow made into sound. And then it ended. He didn’t open his eyes until he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Why, Big McIntosh, I rather think you’re enjoying yourself!” Rarity grinned and cocked her head. “Aren’t you glad you chose to attend?”

“I didn’t exactly choose to, Miss Rarity,” he said with a squint toward Applejack, “but I gotta say, it ain’t what I expected. I’m havin’ a good time, so thank you kindly for the invite.”

Rarity held a hoof to her chest. “You’re very welcome, dear. What do you think so far?”

“So many instruments I never heard before.” He jutted his chin toward the stage. “I didn’t figure on so much color.”

Rarity glanced around at the crowd. “Oh, all the lovely outfits? Surely you’ve seen as much around my boutique before.”

“No, Miss Rarity, up over the stage, while they played.”

She turned to have a look, but no way she’d see it now, not while the orchestra was on break. She just shrugged, and with the ushers making their rounds again, she went back to her chair. Nothing, though. Everypony had quieted down, but… Oh. Here came Princess Celestia and Princess Luna back to their seats. Right, about time for sunset. And moonrise. With them seated again, the conductor took his place on stage.

Even with Maestro commanding everypony’s attention, an excited chatter roamed around the crowd. What had them all so worked up? Everypony was looking in different directions, so no way to tell. Big Mac leafed through his program again, and—yeah, the “special treat.” A few more pieces listed there, but he didn’t recognize any of them or the name of the soloist listed below them.

Maestro leaned toward the crowd, his eyes sparkling. “For our final section,” he said, breaking into a grin, “we will perform some special music for strings, featuring our own very versatile Octavia Melody. She will play the featured cello part in Tchaikhoofsky’s Rococo Variations, lead a suite for strings by Gustav Horst on viola, and play the solo part in Sam-Mule Barber’s Violin Concerto. We have enjoyed Ms. Melody’s talents ever since she was accepted into the Royal Canterlot Conservatory at the age of seven, and in her time with us, she has mastered all of the string instruments. We have no doubt she will soon conquer the rest.”

He extended a hoof to his right, and Octavia strolled on stage with a slight shake of her head and a faint blush to her cheeks. “And so, ladies and gentlestallions, I give you Octavia Melody!”

More applause sounded as she took her seat out front, by the conductor. Closing her eyes, she leaned an ear toward her instrument and plucked a couple of strings, then nodded. And… color. Big Mac had waited for the color, but none came. Not that he noticed, anyway.

Just gray and black. Nothing spectacular about gray and black, but his eyes never wandered from it. Charcoal mane, plain gray coat. She mostly kept her eyes shut, but when she occasionally peeked at Maestro’s waving baton, he might have seen a flash of purple. Always that faint smile, and her hooves, working with the instrument, not against it.

Black and gray, but so elegant. The way she wore her mane long, the way she brushed her forelock over—he stared forever. She swayed back and forth in her chair, playing from memory, feeling, living the music, and he could have sworn the orchestra stopped and started a few times, but he didn’t—

And then the colors hit him. Streaming from the strings, her right hoof drawing them out and her left adding the ripples. It hadn’t even occurred to Big Mac to listen, but now that he did, it grew loud and… ended.

Applause. She stood and bowed.

Big Mac swallowed against the dryness in his throat and paged through the program again. Still two more to go. He needed to hear this time. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rarity glance at him with a sly grin on her face.

At least nopony else was looking, and the next piece had started anyway. A fun little dance tune with bright summer clothes and golden hay bales. Next, on to blue. Other colors swirled on top, but the blue flowed underneath it all like a stream. Then Octavia picked up her violin and played a soaring line, rich in tan and turquoise to match its Arabian flavor. Finally, another dance, and then—hidden inside it, an old folk song he remembered hearing a couple of aunts and uncles sing when he was young, all green and deep red, like holly.

Too short, much too short, but he managed to join in with the applause. A quick look, and Rarity still had that smirk. Big Mac pursed his lips, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. What was she up to anyway?

No matter. More music and more color. Every hue, radiating outward, but he latched onto that most amazing gray-on-gray at the center of it all. He floated on it, lost, for a few seconds or an hour or a day or—

Everypony stood, and Big Mac staggered to his hooves. He stomped along with the crowd and earned a few odd looks from well-to-do ponies for his sharp whistling. He didn’t care. That’s how music worked, right? Put everything into it, and let the ponies who heard get it back out. He saw his singing that way, and no reason for cheering to be any different.

Murmuring started up in the crowd again, and ponies filed toward the exits. But Big Mac sank back into his chair. He vaguely heard Pinkie chattering about something, and then in her characteristic trill: “Somepony’s smitten, love-bug-bitten!”

No, he—

Perfect. At least Applejack shushed her and jabbed her in the ribs, but Spike was making gagging sounds, and now here came Rarity.

Perfect.

Rarity eased into the aisle beside his seat and crouched down low, but she wore a gentle smile and spoke softly. “Would you like to meet her?”

Black and gray and… “Um… I uh…” Thank goodness he already had naturally red cheeks.

“Our tickets include an invitation to the reception afterward,” Rarity said, touching him lightly on the shoulder. She waited for a moment, then cocked her head toward the stage. “Would you like to meet her?” she repeated.

He opened his mouth and stared back at her. A fancy reception? No way he’d fit in at one of those. No, no, he should just wait by the carriage and—

Rarity hooked a foreleg around his and tugged him out of his seat. “Come with me.” He didn’t resist. “We’ll enjoy some nice refreshments, and then we’ll get in line to—”

“Oh yeah, party time!” Pinkie said.

Rarity gritted her teeth. “Low. Key,” she said through her clenched jaw.

Most of the group had fanned out to sample the canapes, drinks, and conversation, but Rainbow Dash stayed by Fluttershy to pull her out from behind a curtain or potted plant or wherever she hid when somepony complimented her dress. And Rarity kept nudging Big Mac along the greeting line.

Big Mac scanned the room and wished he knew more ponies here, but nothing to do except stare straight ahead and take a few steps every minute or so. Rarity, though… she waved at every other pony who passed by and called them all by name.

And the closer he got to the front of the line, the more he wondered why Rarity wanted to help him, or if she just couldn’t resist meddling. First his baby sister on Hearts and Hooves day two years ago, and now this.

The orchestra members mingled with the crowd, and word after word he didn’t understand floated at him. Scherzo, double stop, coda. And still closer he got to the ponies he guessed were important enough to make everypony else wait for. Maestro, then a couple others he hadn’t noticed during the concert, and finally… Octavia.

He broke into a sweat. What could he say? He knew enough about singing, but everypony in line sounded like they could teach a music class. “I like your hair?” Yeah, real smooth. Might as well just grunt and save her the trouble.

Big Mac shook Maestro’s hoof, and the other few, whoever they were. While Rarity greeted them and made some small talk, he just nodded and smiled. Shake hooves. Nod. Smile. And then—

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Octavia answered. Her voice, at once red, but richer, darker. Something as simple as “red” wouldn’t fit the bill—he needed one of those fancy words Rarity might use, like carmine, or scarlet, or—

Burgundy. It felt warm just to say the word in his head. A little bit refined, a little bit exotic, and soft like a blanket. As much at home in an expensive restaurant as in a small-town market.

“Um…” Big Mac looked back at Rarity, who hadn’t finished saying whatever she wanted to Maestro. “Um…”

“Did you enjoy the performance?”

“Yes’m.” Why was it so hot in here? And finally Rarity circled around him and put a hoof on his shoulder.

“Octavia,” Rarity said with a flick of her hoof. “A pleasure, dear. I’m glad to see you getting along so nicely.”

“Rarity! I haven’t seen you in ages!” Octavia seized Rarity’s hoof with both of her own and gave it a vigorous shake. “I still love that dress you made me for my recital a few years back, but I’ve grown a smidge since then. Do you think I could bring it by and get it lengthened?”

“Of course! Come by tomorrow before you get back on the road. I’ll have it done in no time.”

“Thank you. And who’s your friend?” Octavia asked, leaning forward.

“I-I’m… Mac. Big Mac. McIntosh, that is. Big McIntosh.” Wow. Real smooth.

“That’s quite a long name,” she answered with a chuckle.

“Yeah, um…” Not just the heat, but that stupid bow tie felt like it would choke him. “I just wanted to say, ma’am, that what you did tonight was amazin’. Never seen or heard anything like it. You sure know how to put on a color show.”

She wrinkled her brow and opened her mouth to say something, but then shook her head and looked to Rarity, who only shrugged. “He said something like that during an intermission,” Rarity replied. “I assumed there was a reflection…”

“No,” Big Mac said, “from the instruments, ripples o’ color floatin’ up and gatherin’ above the stage, like clouds.”

Octavia and Rarity glanced at each other and raised their eyebrows.

“You mean y’all couldn’t see it?” he said. Plain as day, and even more visible in the dark. Right there, too, Octavia’s burgundy voice and Rarity’s silvery blue. Well… they probably couldn’t. He hadn’t thought about that in years, but he remembered being told he was different. Shame, seemed like half the point of the show.

“No, dear,” Rarity answered, “but if it adds to your enjoyment, then who are we to argue?” And then a throat pointedly cleared behind them, and Rarity’s eyes shot wide open. “Oh, we’re holding up the line. Nice to see you again, Octavia. Let me congratulate you on a fine performance, and stop by my shop whenever.”

“Thank you,” Octavia replied as Rarity hustled him off, but she was looking at him. His knees nearly buckled.

Alone at a small table, Big Mac watched Rarity try to dislodge Twilight from her conversation with Princess Celestia and round up everypony else to go. She’d probably have better luck getting Applejack to help. That mare’d never lost a stray in her life. Anyway, he might as well start heading that way.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder. “Big McIntosh, wasn’t it?” Octavia said.

Once his heart had started beating again, he moved on to the next problem: his voice. “Uh, um, yes’m,” he said with a jerky nod. “But folks call me Big Mac.”

“I found your comments interesting, about the colors. Do you mind telling me more?” She took the seat next to him and propped her cheek on a hoof.

“Yes’m, I—”

Her hoof shot up, and she bowed her head. “Please. Do I look old enough to be a ‘ma’am’? Just call me Octavia.”

“Yes, ma’am, Octavia, ma’am.” She laughed out loud, and he rubbed a hoof on the back of his neck. “See, the music makes me feel a certain way. It brings images to mind, and with a group this big, I got all the color I need to paint it. Like that there Horst one—in the second bit, it sounded like the creek that runs across my farm. I could pick out the blue from above the stage and imagine it as the water. A lot of other stuff was happenin’ over top of it, but that blue kept goin’ under it all.”

“Interesting,” she said. “It’s called an ostinato, and that’s the whole point of it. Impressive that you instinctively saw that.”

“And that symphony. I could see my farm, plain as standing there. The golden wheat, the white sheep, green grass, brown earth… It made me feel right at home. I never heard the like before, and really, Octavia, ma’am, it was powerful good.”

She leaned so far forward in her seat that he thought she might fall out. But she didn’t say anything. “I also thought,” he said, “it was a bit odd—between the last two things you played, a couple strings on your instrument changed color. They went from brown to a kind o’ dark green.”

Octavia gaped and held a hoof to her chest. “I… changed the tuning. We call it scordatura. You tune a string differently to alter the timbre.”

He stared at her blankly.

“You make it play with a different sound quality than it normally does.”

“Ah.” That made sense.

“The music didn’t call for it, and it’s tough to do on the fly, but I just thought it fit better. You seem to have a feel for these things.” She signaled a waiter to bring her a glass of punch, then squinted at him. “You’re a very interesting stallion, Big Mac. Do you play any instruments?”

“I…” He almost said it. But no. He wouldn’t tell just anyone. Mentioning the Ponytones would be enough. “I sing with a quartet. Well, quintet now. Still gettin’ used to that. And thank you, ma’a—” She’d forced a scowl over her face. All except the smile. “I mean, Octavia.”

“Listen, I’ve got to grab a little dinner before I do a short practice and get to bed. But I’d love to talk some more.” Octavia pointed her muzzle toward Rarity. “I have to go into town tomorrow to drop off my dress. Could I meet you for lunch?”

“Oh. Um… uh… yeah. I’d like that.” Suddenly, getting his chores done seemed less important.

“Great! I’ll see you around eleven?” She waited until he nodded, then patted him on the shoulder. “It was good to meet you, Big Mac.”

“Likewise, ma’a—Octavia.”

He’d kept everypony waiting.

Big Mac ran a hoof down his muzzle and shook his head as he walked out of the amphitheater. Having a mare hold things up, he could understand, but…

Every last one of them wore a funny grin. All except Spike, who just kicked a foot at the dirt, but the rest looked a little too satisfied with themselves.

“See, dear, that wasn’t so difficult,” Rarity said.

“Aw, y’all were watchin’?” he groaned. A bunch of big smiles answered him. So he just climbed into the carriage, jammed himself back in his corner seat, and prepared for the worst. But… either Rarity had told them to go easy on him, or they’d all lost their second wind this late in the evening. Didn’t matter. At least he had a peaceful ride back.

Even after they’d all disembarked at Carousel Boutique and gone their separate ways, he still faced a long walk home with Applejack. While she’d look out for him in public, she could be right vicious when she got him alone. But she followed along behind him and kept quiet.

Good thing, because he couldn’t wipe that smile off his face. And from the few glimpses he caught in the moonlight, she couldn’t, either.

Author's Notes:

I like it when chapter titles add a little meaning, but it can go over the readers' heads if they're too cryptic. I'll explain mine, and do all of them for consistency's sake, but the first couple are pretty obvious.

In its original form, an overture was an introductory piece that preceded a larger work, typically an opera, but the term also can carry a connotation of making romantic advances.

The pieces mentioned during the concert are all based on real ones, even down to the details. Beethoven's 6th Symphony does depict rural life, with each movement signifying the same things Big Mac saw in them. And Holst's St. Paul's Suite starts with a jig, then an ostinato, then a violin solo in an Arabian style, and finally a dance tune called "Dargason" with "Greensleeves" brought in as a countermelody, hence Big Mac seeing it in the red and green of holly.

Woo hoo, my first chaptered story in three years! Let's see how this goes.

Posted September 28. Coming October 5, Chapter 2: Crescendo.

Chapter 2: Crescendo

Big McIntosh took an early break from his morning chores and headed into the house to wash up a bit. Couldn’t show up for lunch all dusty and sweaty, after all. A quick rinse, then he combed his mane and looked at himself in the mirror. Not too bad, but… He held a hoof in front of his mouth, huffed a breath into it and sniffed.

He grabbed the mouthwash and swished it around for a minute, then glanced in the mirror again, and… yeah, about as good as it was going to get.

Out the door and down the road he went, at a swift trot for his lunchtime meeting. “Meeting.” That didn’t have a very nice ring to it, but he couldn’t presume to call it anything else. He’d actually left a bit early—he had a stop planned, if he had time, but…

One errand in town, that is, but he’d make time for another pause, right now. He couldn’t help himself. He stood motionless in the roadway and looked back at his home. Wind rustled through the golden grain stalks in waves, flocks softly bleated in the pasture, the stream gurgled its way past the creaky old mill wheel, and the chickens scratched around the yard for morsels of corn. Then, a quiet padding through the grass by the roadside.

“Winona, get on home,” Big Mac said with a shake of his head. “You gotta help AJ keep them cows together. Go on now.” She whimpered, but when he raised an eyebrow, she wagged her tail and darted off to her task.

As always, the miles blended together, and he didn’t know how much longer he’d trotted, but he could tell exactly how far to town from the feel of the dirt under his hooves and way the breeze echoed through the forest. He stopped again, watching the sun-dappled patterns on the ground. Overhead, a pair of squirrels chattered an argument as they scrabbled for footholds on the rough bark. Songbirds announced their territory to anypony who’d listen.

These were greater symphonies than a pony could create. But that mare had done it. She’d made him feel almost like this, right here.

At some point, he must have continued walking, because he soon found himself in the middle of town with a wide grin on his face. He checked the angle of the sun—not too much lost time on the way, so he could still run his errand before lunch.

He caught sight of Derpy winging away on her route and waved, but she didn’t notice. Shame. The one pony who got up earlier than he did. The last few years, that is, since she’d gotten married, had Dinky, and needed her afternoons free for time with her family. He’d known her since… really? That long already? She might as well have been another sister, but he rarely got to see her anymore. Always busy at home now, which he’d never in a million years begrudge her, but if only he could get more than five minutes to talk when she swung by with the mail. He’d love to tell her about meeting Octavia, for instance.

Octavia. Yeah, he needed to keep his mind on things. Schedule to keep and all.

Big Mac pushed open the door of the new library. He didn’t like that smell. He wanted old paper, a musty basement—things that brought to mind experience. A lot of town was like that. This smelled… just new.

He might never get used to the sight of a castle looming over a small place like Ponyville, but leave it to Twilight to make sure there was a library in town. Whether that meant a new tree, having one in the castle, or whatever didn’t matter. And of course she still found time to staff the desk once in a while. Good for her.

Her eyes shot wide open, but she managed to keep from gaping. “Big McIntosh! It’s… good to see you here. But we won’t get the new almanac in for a few months.”

“I wanted to look up something.” Big Mac pursed his lips and leaned in closer. “You ever assume a thing was normal, or leastways not unusual? ’Cause it’s always been that way for you? Only to find it ain’t so normal?”

Twilight shrugged and cocked her head. “Sure. I guess magic’s like that. I’ve had it most of my life, and sometimes I have to stop and think about how most ponies can’t do more than a few things with it. It—” she flicked her eyes down to the desktop “—makes me feel a little guilty sometimes.”

Guilty? He never would have figured on that. “Sorry, Twilight, but you’re just too nice for anypony to feel jealous. Anyhow.” He leaned even closer and whispered, “You got a book on head stuff? Y’know, mental issues and the like?”

“Yes, several. Did you want a specific subject or a general overview?” Thank goodness she kept her voice low. He didn’t need anypony else hearing.

“Well, you see, when I hear sound, I… kinda see it, too. Always have.” He gave a half-smile and shrugged. “Didn’t realize till last night that it must not happen for many ponies. Made me curious.”

Twilight gasped and held a hoof to her cheek. “Oh, so you’re the one—” She clamped her mouth shut. He didn’t like the way she stared at him. Or that faint smile.

“Let’s just say it’s been a popular topic this morning. Rarity stopped by earlier and asked the same thing.”

“Oh?” Big Mac raised an eyebrow. He had mentioned it to her, he supposed. “Did she say what she found? You could just tell me and save me the time.”

“I… have a feeling you’d enjoy it much more if you discovered it for yourself. I do have just the book you need, but yet another pony wanted to know as well. She’s still using it, but I don’t think she’d mind sharing.” With a smirk, she pointed toward one of the study desks at the back of the room.

Octavia sat there, poring over the page in front of her. Octavia. Here. About… that?

He shook his head and crept toward her, little by little. What would he say? “Hey, do you like stallions with weird brains?” Yeah, that’d go over real well. If only that weird brain could invent some reasonable conversation. Okay. He should just start with the basics.

“Howdy, Octavia, ma’am.”

She jerked her head up, tried to cover the page with her hooves, and finally blushed.

“I tried to come in early and look somethin’ up, but Twilight tells me you got dibs.” Well, if she was just as embarrassed, then he didn’t have much to lose.

“Oh… yes.” Her blush deepened, and she shoved the book closer to him. “I didn’t mean to pry—I only found it interesting.”

Big Mac shrugged. “I don’t mind. What’d you learn?”

She traced a hoof along the lines of text. “It’s called synesthesia. It’s not a problem—just the way some ponies are. They process a stimulus to one sense as other ones as well. In your case, you perceive sound with an additional visual interpretation. The most common kind is actually associating colors with numbers or words.” Her smile finally looked more genuine and less like a face cramp.

“Hm,” he said through his frown. “Well, don’t that beat all!”

Octavia shoved herself back from the table and shot to her hooves. “I think it’s wonderful! I-I…” She sputtered for what to say, but… she looked so cute being the one at a loss for a change. “In my line of work,” she finally gushed, “I’d love it if more ponies were like you. I try to provoke an emotional response with sound, and that makes it even more effective. In fact, I envy you.”

Big Mac took a step back and pricked his ears forward. “Envy me? Why?”

Another pony reading at a nearby table cleared her throat. Loudly.

“Oh!” Octavia said. “We should probably take this conversation outside.” She closed her book and carried it back to the shelf behind her, then glanced at the clock hanging from the ceiling. “It’s nearly eleven anyway. Let’s continue this over lunch.”

Halfway through his sandwich, Big Mac couldn’t remember tasting any of it. Too much to keep track of at once: look Octavia in the eye when she talked, sit up straight, don’t talk with his mouth full, don’t rest his forelegs on the table, don’t say anything dumb. Now, how was he supposed to know what was dumb?

He stilled his fidgeting leg when her eyes flicked toward the horseshoe clanging against his chair. He simply liked hearing her talk, but he’d gotten her started on something that obviously meant a lot to her, and the wildly gesturing hooves, the rapid speech… He hid his grin behind a napkin.

“Music is my passion,” she said. “I naturally experience it as fully as possible, but you feel it in ways that I can only imagine. I wish I could see what you see.” She shook her head and fixed her gaze somewhere past the horizon.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it is kinda wasted on me.” He wished she could see it, too, for her sake. Shame it didn’t go like cutie marks—ponies got what fit them best.

“No, don’t ever think that! You have a wonderful gift, a way for you to enjoy life more,” she said, shoving her empty salad bowl aside. “You should never regret it.”

Big Mac couldn’t help smiling. When she had that spark in her eye, got so animated… What was he doing, thinking like he’d known her forever? He’d seen that spark at the reception, at the library… and nothing more. He’d known her for less than a day. No, he’d known who she was for less than a day—he didn’t know her at all, except as a musician who made black and gray exciting, and who’d shown him a bigger world of music than he’d suspected could exist, but no need to play make-believe.

“Well, Octavia, ma’am, it just seems you’d get a lot more out of it than I do.” No use in beating around the bush.

“Who knows why some ponies get it and some don’t? The point is: half the reason I love playing music so much is because of what I can do for others. And if you get that much more an intense experience out of it, then it makes me that much happier.” No deceit in her smile. An Apple could tell.

Most ponies ended up in their careers because of talent. But some really deserved them, counted themselves lucky to do a job they’d have gladly done for free. Something else they had in common, it seemed. “You could see it like that, I s’pose. But what I wanted to say was… Well, it’s tough to explain. You did somethin’ that nopony’s done before.”

“Take your time,” she said between sips of her iced tea. “I don’t have a schedule to keep today.”

“Um… We have ponies around town who can play an instrument or sing. And like I said, I sing in a quintet, too. But we mostly do more… I dunno, upbeat stuff.” He shrugged and took a deep breath. How to describe it? It just… happened.

“Okay,” Big Mac said. “If I had my druthers, I’d listen to country music, ’cause it speaks to me. My home, my lifestyle. So I can take the colors from it—” he twisted his hooves together as if packing a snowball “—and mash ’em into a scene. But just whatever the words say.”

Octavia nodded and propped her chin on a hoof. The spark hadn’t left. “Those songs might take me to a field or a pasture, but not my pasture. That concert took me there, though. No words. I just closed my eyes, and I might as well have been standin’ right on my farm. The music itself made me hear the wind, the animals, a barn dance. And then you started.”

Her grin broadened, and she idly poked a hoof at her placemat. “And what then?” she said.

“You took me places. A fancy palace or some far-off land, but then always right back home, the one place in Equestria I love the best. Nature all around and workin’ the earth. I wanted you to know what that meant to me.”

“We chose the program on purpose,” she replied. “So much of Equestria is rural that we wanted to put together a concert that had that flavor, so I’m glad it worked.”

She opened her mouth to say something more, but her bottom lip wavered, and her eyes teared up. “But nopony’s ever paid me a compliment like that.”

Oh, no. What now? He’d seen mares cry about enough odd things that guessing why would be a shot in the dark at best. And if he guessed wrong, it could haunt him for far longer than he cared to consider.

Big Mac raised his eyebrows but stayed silent.

Octavia cleared her throat and finally found her voice again. “Connecting with somepony like that is the whole reason I became a musician in the first place. Most times, ponies tell me I played well or that they admire my technique, but those are just mechanical things. Even when they say it sounds beautiful, it’s still pretty generic. Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate their enjoyment. But this is the first time I felt like I’ve accomplished something beyond credentials, awards, or some other kind of trinket—the first time I did something that actually mattered.” She returned her gaze to him, and her eyes glistened.

If he could give back even a small part of what she’d given him… He smiled and cocked his head. Not a clear enough path forward yet to commit to saying anything, but she didn’t look like she expected an answer.

“Big Mac!” she said, reaching a hoof across the table to tap him on the foreleg. He almost flinched back. “I hope you don’t think this too forward, but… like I said, our program lately consists of a lot of music evocative of country life. It seems odd to say this, but I’m an earth pony who’s never visited a farm. I assume that’s not exactly rare, but it just feels like I’m missing something. Especially since my music is supposed to create that image. And you make your farm sound so beautiful. Would you mind showing me around? I’d like to experience for myself what my music is supposed to say. That can only make me better at playing it, right?”

His grin broadening, Big Mac left a stack of bits on the table and shooed her hoof away when she reached for her bill. “I’d love to show you.”

“I’d like to stretch my legs anyway—take my mind off our stringent rehearsal schedule.” She stood and slung her saddlebag on. “I’m free until after dinner.”

“One condition,” Big Mac said. She perked her ears forward, and he gave her a sharp nod. “You gotta do it my way.”

Octavia hopped up and down. Seeing her get all excited like that—it was actually kind of… adorable. “Of course!” she said. “I wouldn’t ask for any less.”

After dropping off her dress at Carousel Boutique, Octavia followed Big Mac down a dirt road that led into the forest—not a very dense one, but certainly away from civilization. And so quiet. She’d never heard so much of nothing, distant from the hubbub of the city.

She’d tried to strike up a conversation a couple of times, but only got monosyllabic responses. He smiled the whole time, so she must not have made him angry or anything. He’d seemed so eager to agree at first, but he trudged along now as if it were a chore. On her third try, he stopped and held up a hoof.

“Octavia, ma’am, don’t take this the wrong way, but just sit still a minute.” He took a deep sniff and let his breath out in a sigh. “Close your eyes and tell me what you sense.”

He wore a little smirk, so… not a chore, then. “Just quiet,” she replied immediately, but he shook his head, so she did as he asked. Eyes closed, breathing stilled. No voices, but… not exactly quiet either, now that she really listened. She swiveled her ears this way and that. “I hear a creek trickling in the distance.”

“Good. You notice anything about it?”

“No, just that it sounds not too far off, but… it changes.” She wrinkled her brow. “It’s rougher back in the direction of town. Rapids? Or a waterfall?”

“Close. Keep goin’. And not only with your ears.”

Octavia drew a slow breath through her nose. “I smell wood. Fresh, like at the unfinished furniture shop. But I didn’t see any logging trails or hear any saws.” Big Mac didn’t guide her anymore; she must be on the right track. But what did those two things have in common?

She gasped. “A dam? A-a beaver dam?”

“There you go!”

She cast about again, the thrill of her new vision running up her spine. “Lots of birdsong, something small nibbling on an acorn, hoofsteps in the dead leaves somewhere—maybe a deer?”

Big Mac chuckled in the pronounced non-silence. “Now look.”

She opened her eyes. Birds perched on nearby branches. A chipmunk finished its meal of a hickory nut and scampered away, then scolded her for her scrutiny from the safety of its burrow. Far off through the trees, a white tail bobbed as its owner browsed the foliage, and even further away, gnawed, sharpened ends of crisscrossed logs poked up from behind a low knoll.

She stared open-mouthed at Big Mac. “You’re right.” If only she could come up with some pithy, eloquent way to sum it all up, but she’d never had to use words to describe any of this. “You’re right.”

“Symphony’s all around you, if’n you care to listen,” he said, sweeping a hoof past the scenery. “But not just the sound. You gotta take it all in. C’mon. There’s more to see.”

He resumed trotting down the road, and while she hated to leave this spot, she didn’t take long to fall in step behind him. But no more watching the dirt and rocks go by—she noticed the different textures of bark, the shapes of leaves, the sound of the wind rustling through the boughs. And around her, the forest thickened, hemmed them in from overhead, darkened, until it seemed rather like a tunnel, with a bright light at the end obscuring what lay beyond.

When they’d emerged from the woods and Octavia’s eyes had readjusted to the full sunlight, she saw for the first time the fertile emerald fields of Big Mac’s home. Hired hooves worked at tilling, watering, planting. Behind a split-rail fence, a group of cows quietly cropped a pasture full of tender grass, and down the road, an old mill on the stream’s edge emitted a low, rumbling noise.

“This is so peaceful! I love it!” Octavia gushed.

Big Mac let out a hearty laugh. “Peaceful? Ha! Not sure I’d call it that, what with all the trouble that goes on ’round here. But it’s my home all the same.”

She followed him up to the house, and his gait changed again—he’d started out rather stiff-legged in town, but gradually eased up on the way, and now he practically bounced. Through the front door, and… exposed ceiling beams, the smell of ashes in the hearth, worn quilts on a rack by the couch. All so charming! She’d bet there wasn’t a warmer place to spend a cold winter evening.

“Den in here, kitchen over there. We prefer the old cast-iron, wood-burning stoves, as you can tell.” Big Mac shook a hoof toward the window. “Bunkhouse is out yonder, for the seasonal help we take on. I’d show you, but a few o’ the field hooves might still be resting after the mornin’ shift.”

To the stairs next, and on the way up, she peered at all the photographs plastered across the wall. She’d be lucky if she could name half a dozen of her own extended family, but he could probably recall every single pony in those pictures, along with how to trace the family tree between them.

Big Mac pointed out the doors in turn. “Granny Smith’s down there, then Apple Bloom. Applejack over here, and the guest room at the end o’ the hall. This here one’s mine,” he said nodding toward the room beside him.

Octavia peeked around the door jamb—rather spartan. Just a straw-filled mattress, a lamp, a rack with a large work collar hanging on it, and a dresser with yet another batch of family photographs. And something else sitting behind them…

“Why do you have a doll there?” Octavia asked. Maybe he blushed, but his coat hid it well.

“Oh, uh… that’s just Miss Smarty Pants. That’s… a long story—say, why don’t I show you around outside?” He herded her back toward the stairs, and did she catch him rolling his eyes at her giggling?

This time, the back door, and a freckled mare with an obvious family resemblance and a big hat met them coming the other way. “Well,” she said, stretching the word out like taffy. “Who’s your friend, Big Mac?” She wore way too big a grin for an innocent question, but she had a warmth behind her eyes as well.

“This is Octavia,” he said, maybe a tad brusquely. “Octavia, ma’am, this is my sister, Applejack. Octavia wanted to see the farm, since she’s never visited one.”

“I see.” Applejack tipped her hat. “Well, don’t put her to work or nothin’. Good to meet you, Octavia.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Octavia replied. “This is a beautiful farm. I can see why it means so much to Big McIntosh.”

Applejack snapped a nod. “Thank you, ma’am. Not to be short, but I got more work to do, so I won’t keep you. Y’all have fun.” At his sister’s smirk, Big Mac rolled his eyes even more than he had about Miss Smarty Pants.

She really hated for the day to turn into a roast at Big Mac’s expense, though he was rather adorable when he got embarrassed. At least he was leading her past the barn and toward an empty orchard where nopony could make fun of him. Thank goodness.

Behind the barn, the hilltop looked out over acre after acre of green and gold and… She gasped. All the colors! Was this how it felt for him, even a little?

“Grain fields to the south there,” he said, jutting his chin in their direction. “Vegetable patches out west, and apple orchards to the north and northeast.” A glimmer returned to his eye. “Say, you ever taste an apple fresh off the tree?”

“No,” she answered, shaking her head, “in the city, they’re usually a couple of days old before they get to the markets.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. C’mon.” He waved her along. “This is my favorite spot in all of Equestria.” They wandered down the slope and through the edge of the grove. When they emerged in a clearing at the base of the hill, he kicked one of the trees, which dropped exactly two apples into the grass. She guessed she couldn’t have expected any less from somepony who’d worked these trees all his life, but she still caught herself snickering at the unlikelihood of it all.

Only a narrow strip of grass separated the bottom of the hill from a pond. With a brief grunt, he settled himself to the ground and reclined against the hillside. “Have a seat,” he said.

Mowing around all these trees probably was difficult, but… She cast a wary eye over the weeds sprouting up. Who knew what those things might do to her coat?

Right. An earth pony afraid of some dirt and plants. She chuckled despite herself and knelt, then rolled onto her back. And an apple appeared in front of her face.

“Here. Try it,” Big Mac said as he bit into his own.

And so she did. Crisp, tart, sweet… No taste of cardboard boxes, wagon wood, or road dust. Just… apple. Pure and simple. “This was good,” she said as she set the core down in the grass next to her. He unceremoniously heaved his across the pond, so with a shrug, she followed suit, but a small splash told her she hadn’t quite got the distance. “This is part of it too, huh? Part of the color and smell and taste that make this place special?”

“O’ course. You’re startin’ to get the big picture.” Some of the taller stalks of grass had gone to seed and looked rather wheat-like—he plucked one and left it dangling from his mouth, then folded his forelegs behind his head and shut his eyes. Octavia watched him for a minute and waited for him to say something, but… he had, in a way.

She lay back as well and stared up at the endless blue depth of sky. What to watch, though? “Take it all in,” he’d said. So she did.

High, wispy clouds drifted to the east while the puffier ones down low sailed lazily northeast. Different wind directions at those heights… Some manner of scavenging bird circled in the distance, and red and gold apples dotted the branches all about her.

She closed her eyes. A couple of hills away, wind-bent oats whispered dryly, and the breeze rustled the leaves overhead, sending a play of shadow and light through her eyelids. She could count at least ten different bird calls, some of them from multiple directions, and they ranged from sweet melodic lines to insistent chattering to raucous croaking. A low, guttural sound preceded the splash of a bullfrog as it abandoned its watch along the shore. From both sides, crickets argued back and forth in an alternating cadence, while cicadas chanted from the branches.

In her mouth, the sharp taste of that apple still lingered, and it contrasted wonderfully with the slightly bitter scent of wood smoke wafting over from the house, where they’d probably started preparing dinner already. Blades of grass pressed into her back, burrs in her mane, the soft zephyr tickling individual hairs of her coat…

She’d never experienced this before, the full richness of her senses. The music! She needed to add the music! She’d played it so often that she could recall every strain of it, even in her sleep. She brought it back now, hearing the flute solo from the birds, the oboe bleating from the pasture, a torrent of violins rushing with the stream. Her grin buckled as she wiped a few tears off her cheeks.

Next to her, slow, steady breathing—she looked to see if Big Mac had fallen asleep. “Big Mac?” she asked quietly.

He opened one eye and resumed chewing his stalk of grass. “Eeyup?”

“Thank you for this. I’ve had an amazing afternoon.” She rolled onto her side to face him. “I almost feel like I’ve had the opposite experience as you—while I’ve focused on all the sights, sounds, and smells, I brought in the music. I know it’s not the same, but you helped me make that connection. I hate that it has to end, but I do have rehearsal this evening.”

“After dinner, right?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, but I’ll just pick up something in town, like I usually do.”

“Nope. A home-cooked meal is part of the deal.” Big Mac stood and shook the loose grass off. “I saw how you wolfed that apple down. Always eating on the run, ain’t you?”

True enough. Grabbing something before the train pulls away, doing without before a concert, even visiting the take-out restaurant near home several times a week during the off season. She gave a guilty smile.

“Stay for dinner. Always plenty of extra seats. I can get you back in time,” he said. And that little crease to his forehead… Was he actually scared she’d turn him down?

“I’d like that.”

It took his whole face to hold his grin. “Good. We’d best head back now. Grub’s almost ready.” He gave his mane a tousle and picked out the last few brambles.

Octavia rose gingerly to join him and brushed a hoof over her own coat. No telling what state her mane was in—she pulled it around as best she could and swiped at the debris caught up in it. “I wish I’d brought my brush,” she said.

“I got it,” Big Mac replied. And before she knew it, he was nibbling softly at her mane, down at the roots, and working his way up her neck.

She nearly went weak in the knees, but then… “Um, do you normally do this?”

“Eeyup. We got no wings or horns to do it for us, so might as well help a friend out.” A lopsided smile crept across his face. “Not to mention it feels pretty dang good.”

“Mm. Yeah,” Octavia said, stretching her neck out. “Feels like a massage. I didn’t know anypony did it this way. I’ve always just gone to a salon or used a comb. Sorry to see what I’ve been missing.”

Big Mac picked out the last of the thistles and twigs, inspected his work, and gave a sharp nod. “That should do it. Just another one o’ those earth pony things that gets lost in the big city. C’mon, let’s get to dinner. We’ll have fresh roasted vegetables tonight from today’s pickin’. Everypony’ll love havin’ a guest. We don’t get too many, ’cept family.”

Her spine still tingling, Octavia followed the tempting aroma and the very interesting stallion back up the hill.

“Thanks again for a wonderful day, Big Mac,” Octavia said as she stood on the front porch, her mane catching the setting sun’s orange.

Applejack must have been busy; they hadn’t seen her at dinner. He could probably do without her teasing right now—no, it wasn’t fair to form that impression of her already. At least Big Mac had seemed more relaxed. And Octavia had put away seconds and even thirds of nearly everything. Absolutely delicious, and actually something healthy for a change. The workers hadn’t known quite what to make of the city mare, but they peppered her with questions anyway, and it turned out she’d visited many of their hometowns on previous tours.

His green eyes gathered up the evening’s peace and shone it back at her. “I’ve never had a better time in my life!” she said. “But I need to get back for rehearsal—I only have half an hour.”

“I got you covered. Come with me.” Big Mac galloped off, leaving her staring after him. Did he really—? “I promised I’d get you back on time,” he shouted over his shoulder.

She chuckled to herself, gritted her teeth, and took up pursuit. This she could do. Well, used to do—she’d run cross-country three years in high school. But she didn’t get much time to run anymore.

Before long, she’d caught up to him. He didn’t exactly have a racer’s body, but he wasn’t going all out, either. This wasn’t a race. She watched him dig his hooves into the dirt and kick up a lot more than he really needed to.

Why? Everything he’d done today had a purpose to it. She squinted at him and gave it a try herself. She flicked her hooves back with each step, scooping soil up behind her horseshoes. The temperature, the texture… the smell. Warm mud, with a sharp acidity to it, then back into the forest, with the cool, pleasing smoosh of loam just off the path. A few stretches with a soft cushion of sand or the crunch of gravel. Her mane streamed back, and her nostrils filled with the evening’s musty aromas.

Somehow, she’d known this before, but forgotten. Only generic road dust and pavement for so long had made her lose touch, but this feeling of blending in with the ground, becoming part of it… She found a second wind and surged ahead, her neck straining forward with each hoofbeat. “Another earth pony thing?” she panted as she passed Big Mac. He nodded back—and now it was a race.

It didn’t matter that she made it to her hotel first. He’d won. He’d already won. And when he cantered up a few seconds later, she plopped onto the cool stone of the sidewalk outside the lobby and matched his grin. Sweat ran down her sides, but no matter—she still had plenty of time for a shower before rehearsal.

“Thanks for the extra lesson,” Octavia wheezed.

“Seems you taught me somethin’, too.”

“I used to do something like that, but with a different focus. For the track team.” She swallowed against the dryness in her throat.

“I remember my first real run, when I wasn’t just playin’, and what it meant,” Big Mac said. “I wanted to make sure you knew.”

She stood again and touched his shoulder. “I’d better go inside, but… can I see you again? We leave first thing in the morning, but I’ll be back in Canterlot in a couple of weeks. It’s a short ride from there.”

“Yeah, Octavia, ma’am. I’d like that.” He ran a hoof down the back of his neck.

“Me too. And Big Mac?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Eeyup?”

“My name isn’t ‘Octavia, ma’am.’ Just Octavia.” She laughed quietly, but he probably didn’t hear her over his hoof scuffing against the ground.

“Yes’m, uh… Yes, Octavia.”

Bits of fog still clung to the rooftops as Big McIntosh made his way to Ponyville’s train station. Porters scurried about on the platform to help commuters on their way to work. A lot of yawning faces and coffee cups among the crowd—he had to laugh. He’d already been up for three hours.

And then he spotted her: Octavia, staring intently at a baggage handler while tapping a hoof on her cello case, her head bobbing with each sentence. He could imagine what that conversation involved.

She hadn’t seen him approach, and she jumped when he cleared his throat behind her. “Oh!” she said, holding a hoof to her chest. “It’s you!” And then she saw the bag draped over his back.

“My dress! Thank you, Big Mac. I completely forgot about it.” She slid it off him and added it to her pile of suitcases before the porters could take them all.

“You’re welcome, Octavia. I’d forgotten, too, and it was my fault, so I got Rarity to open her shop early today so I could get it.” He sidled a little closer to her. Never before had black and gray seemed so exciting. And with the amethyst eyes and burgundy voice… “I also wanted to see you off.”

“That’s awful sweet of you, and it wasn’t your fault at all.” She jerked her head around at a short blast of the train’s whistle. “Oh, they’re about to leave. I’d better get on board.”

Trotting toward the nearest car, she called back, “Two weeks, and I’ll come for a visit!” And then she stopped, rushed up to him, gave him a peck on the cheek, and dashed for her seat. Seconds later, she hung out the window and waved, a huge grin plastered across her face.

Big Mac waved back and stayed rooted to the spot until well after the train had gone out of sight. He took a deep breath, shook the jitters out of his nerves, and started for home. But after only a dozen paces, he took a detour toward Carousel Boutique so he could deliver some well-earned thanks to its proprietor.

Author's Notes:

Another fairly obvious chapter title—"crescendo" means building in volume and intensity. It refers not only to the growing relationship between the two, but also how Big Mac has taught Octavia to hear beyond the silence, and what was previously undetectable to her has moved to the forefront.

Coming October 12, Chapter 3: Divertimento

Chapter 3: Divertimento

Big McIntosh arrived back home and found himself not wanting to do anything but lie in his bed. When had two weeks ever sounded so long? And when had he ever wanted to sit in his room alone and stare at the wall instead of getting a good day’s work in? Only one thing to do when he’d rather mope around than work: work anyway.

He rolled off the mattress, gave Miss Smarty Pants a squeeze, and wriggled into his collar. Plenty of chores needed doing, and torturing himself with… whatever this was wouldn’t get them done any faster.

Moments later, he trotted out the back door and past the barn, on to the apple orchards. And that pond glimmered up at him from its little dale, down there where they’d taken in all the afternoon had to offer. Her mane smelled of… a curious mix of things, come to think of it. Earthy rosin, for one. He recognized it from the couple of cousins who played the fiddle. Also sweet perfume, crisp linen, and musty antique wood. If only he could smell it now.

“Well, good mornin’ to you, Casanhoofa,” Applejack said as she emerged from the trees. “Golly, I think you said more words to that mare than you’ve said to me ever since I came back from Manehattan. What’s got you so talkative?” She leaned against a sturdy trunk and rolled her eyes up at the almost-ripe apples above her.

Big Mac shrugged.

“Back to normal, I see.” A chuckle floated away from her, and she nudged the brim of her hat up. “Look, Big Mac. I’m here if you wanna talk. I’m not sure how this’ll work, what with her on tour and livin’ in Canterlot. But I’m plumb happy for you.”

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe I’m gettin’ ahead o’ myself, but y’all seemed awful chummy.”

Yes, and no, and… Ugh, why did it have to feel like this? He opened his mouth to speak, but only a croak came out. Sisters made for risky confidants, but who else did he have anymore? Maybe he should get up early tomorrow and wait outside the post office. Whenever Derpy found him sitting on the front steps before sunup, she knew… and she made the time, schedule or no schedule.

“I—I walked her down by the pond. There and in the woods. I made her stop and listen and smell and everything.” He finally smiled. “She’s a quick study. Then after dinner, I took her for a good run back to town.”

Applejack slid down the trunk and closed her eyes, a faint smile on her lips. “Yeah.” He knew that look. If anypony appreciated feeling the earth under her hooves and the day all around her, it was Applejack. Even as a filly, she’d disappear sometimes for an hour around sunset and come back sweaty, dirty, and grinning like she’d found some juicy secret. One the entire family knew, though.

“You sure she was ready for that? City ponies don’t always get that sorta thing.”

“She got it,” Big Mac replied. “She already knew, in a way, from her music. Just took somepony to help her find it.”

“Good.” Her eyes jittered a bit behind their lids. Still out galloping through a stand of trees or a dry creek bed or something.

“Down there, in the tall grass and weeds by the pond—” He pointed, even though she wasn’t watching. “It surprised me when I groomed her mane for her that she said she ain’t ever had that done.”

Applejack nodded. “Yeah, them burrs and thistles can get crammed in there real bad.” And then her eyes popped wide open as she grimaced. “She told you to stop, didn’t she? City folk ain’t always agreeable to that.”

“Naw, she liked it,” he said, shrugging. “Said it felt like a massage. Why?”

“Let’s just say I learned from my time in Manehattan that most city slickers’d take it wrong.” She cocked her head and tousled his mane. “But good on her to see it as the gift you meant it to be.”

“She understands a lot more than you’d figure she would.” Enough said on the matter.

“So, y’all had a nice date, then?”

Big Mac winced at that choice of words and let out a sigh. “Eeyup.”

“I gather I’ve hit your word limit for the day,” Applejack replied through her laughter.

“Eeyup.”

“See you at dinner, Big Mac,” she said, shaking her head.

Tugging an irrigation wagon through an oat field, Big Mac figured he must be sweating enough to double up on the watering. That meant he could move twice as fast, he supposed, but that would only leave him with more time to think about how those grain stalks swayed in the breeze, just like Octavia’s tail.

He shook the notion from his head and continued on at a slow, steady pace. Work to do, nothing else. He stared at the dirt and watched one hoof after the other kick up dust. Soft from the recent rains, and it molded up nicely behind his horseshoes, too. Had Octavia gotten that satisfying a sensation from—?

Forcing out a snort, he pulled the wagon from the final row of the field and into the shelter beside the barn. Next, on to the corn field. A few of the scarecrows needed repairing. Plus he had to move them around every couple days, or the crows got wise and started ignoring them. To the first one, then. He stuffed some straw back in where the shirt had come unbuttoned, then closed it up. After taking it down from its pole, he carried it a few dozen paces and leaned it against the split-rail fence, its new home for a little while.

And one of the birds that had gotten brave enough to try stealing a meal suddenly lost its nerve at the apparent signs of life. It took one last hop and eyed Big Mac, its wings halfway spread. Nice, shiny, overlapping black feathers, like Octavia’s hair.

He stomped a hoof, and the crow launched skyward. This wasn’t working.

Working wasn’t working. He chuckled at the thought, even forced it out a bit longer, for whatever distraction it might provide. After tying the scarecrow to the fencepost, he trudged back to the barn and hitched up the steel plow.

Off to another of the hayfields this time, and the sharpened blade tore through clods of dirt, the occasional rock, and the thatched remains of last year’s crop. He could practically do this with his eyes closed—why not? Just the rhythm of his hooves hitting the dirt, the sound of his own breath echoing in his ears. It could hypnotize him, if he let it. Thud, thud, turn, another eighty-four paces, turn. Thud, thud, over and over again.

Rather like a drumbeat. A little music to go along with those drums—he conjured up a slide guitar. Oh, and a fiddle—

Big Mac would have fallen to his knees and beat his head against the ground if he thought it’d do him any good.

Just two days ago, he’d been his old self, happily laboring in the orchards and dreading a pointless concert that his sister found important for some reason. Had she—? No, Rarity’d been genuinely surprised to see Big Mac’s reaction. Not a set-up job. Just dumb luck.

Not even two days! He’d gotten tired of the tightness in his chest, feeling at loose ends, caring a whit about wherever that train had gone. Now to convince his smile of that.

The metallic clang of a triangle rang out over the farm, and Big Mac’s first thought was of the one that those stupid drummers had at the concert. But his stomach soon reminded him of the more immediate need. He took a deep sniff—carrot stew and… apple crumble for dessert. Granny Smith’s recipe, but a little heavy on the cinnamon. Apple Bloom must have helped her cook.

He headed upstairs to hang his collar and wash up, then he patted Miss Smarty Pants before returning to the kitchen. Peering into the stew pot, he gave it a stir. Not bad. Not that he expected bad—Apple Bloom wasn’t exactly Sweetie Belle. Still learning, though Granny Smith’s watchful eye had guided her well. Same as it had for Applejack and Big Mac years ago.

Making sure Apple Bloom wasn’t looking, he added a few shakes of pepper and ladled up a big helping. He slid into the seat next to Applejack and took one of the biscuits from the tray in front of her. “Evenin’,” he said.

She pursed her lips and made a show of shaking her head at him. “You’re absolutely miserable, ain’t you?”

“Eeyup,” he replied, raising an eyebrow toward the hired hooves at the next table. One of them had the others’ attention with an animated retelling of some yarn. “You ever feel like this?”

Applejack drew a long breath and looked out the window. “Once, or at least I thought I did. Just a schoolyard crush, years ago, but that didn’t make it any easier. So… kinda?” She laughed and gave his shoulder a little shove. “You love every minute of it too, dontcha?”

“Eeyup.” He flashed her a self-conscious smile and tapped a hoof against his bowl.

Her neck puffed up like she wanted to say something, and once she got that itch, it rarely went away. So he waited. “I hate to be a downer, but how much do you really know about her? She might have a coltfriend, for all you could tell.”

“Well, I don’t reckon she’d’ve given me that kiss, then.”

Applejack’s jaw dropped. “Kiss? What kiss?”

“Aw, just a peck on the cheek, AJ!” Big Mac rubbed a hoof between his eyes—the conversation at the other table had gone quiet. “Consarn it, you’re a busybody,” he muttered. And then Apple Bloom and Granny Smith joined them at the table.

“What’re y’all talkin’ ’bout?” Granny Smith said. She nudged Apple Bloom with an elbow and winked at her.

“Ooh! Is Bag Mac’s fillyfriend still here?” Apple Bloom blurted out, shooting glances around the room.

For the first time in a while, he seriously considered having dinner away from the family.

Applejack smiled, but then shook her head slightly. “Alright, ease up now, y’all.”

Granny Smith, the picture of innocence over there, and Apple Bloom pouted the same way she always did when adults needlessly stifled her fun. Applejack leaned in closer to him. “Look, I’m only tryin’ to watch out for you,” she said under her breath. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“AJ, I’m the big brother. It’s my job to take care o’ you.”

Applejack put her mouth up to his ear, and he didn’t like that smirk. “Naw, it’s your job to take care o’ Miss Smarty Pants.” Big Mac shoved her hat down over her eyes.

One day. Only one day since Octavia had left. One down, thirteen to go. He picked up his biscuit and wondered if she’d like them plain or with honey.

Maestro stopped waving his baton, and instead tapped it against his music stand and waited for everypony’s silence. “You okay, Octavia?” he asked. “It doesn’t seem like your heart’s in it tonight.”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head.

“You played so beautifully in Ponyville. Just do whatever worked for you there.” Maestro smiled warmly and reached down from the podium to touch her shoulder. “It’s still in there.”

Yes, Ponyville. That performance had gone well, but what had happened afterward held sole responsibility for her current mood. Far be it from her to admit that to anypony here… Still, she’d made an even deeper connection with the music as a result. No time like the present to see if she could put it into practice. She set her jaw and nodded to Maestro.

All of the sights, sounds, smells, tastes… colors flooded through her, and she barely heard her own instrument. She’d be left to her own devices for some of the pieces, she supposed, but for the folk song themes of the suite she had in front of her, it all fit. She stared through the page and remembered every bit of that feeling, when she’d listened beyond the silence of the woods, heard the stream’s ostinato that he’d so readily identified without knowing it. The stream wasn’t enough—she added in the deer, the chipmunk, the birds. A tingle ran down her back.

She’d stopped. No music playing around her, and her hoof dangled by her side. When… when had it ended?

“…Octavia?”

She blinked and looked up at Maestro, her jaw slack.

“That was extraordinary!” It was over? “Whatever muse you’ve found, hold on to it!”

Muse. That was an interesting way to put it. She vaguely heard Maestro dismiss everypony for the evening, so she packed up her instruments and music, then trotted back to her hotel room. Lying back on the bed, she pulled a small novel out of her toiletries bag and slid the bookmark out, but after the third time through reading the same page again, she gave up. A radio sat on the bedside table—surely Fillydelphia had a classical station. After a few tries of sweeping the dial back and forth, a bit of staticky piano came through, but it sounded closer to elevator music than anything else. Maybe she’d just passed over the signal because of a commercial break, but she couldn’t imagine sitting still while listening right now, anyway. She took her room key and trotted out into the moonlight to find somewhere with a little more… character to it.

Muse. Yeah, her time yesterday had given her the vision to improve her artistry, it seemed, but there had to be more. She’d hate to feel like she’d used Big Mac. He was so sweet, after all, and that wonderfully shy smile…

There it was. She blushed, not that anypony could see. But she had her answer. Sure, her new perspective had helped her play better, but it hadn’t necessarily made her want to. And it wasn’t why she felt this restless.

She came to the open gates of a city park and went in. Nice and quiet, nopony there. The soft feel of pliant grass and earth under her hooves instead of that ever-present concrete. Darkness, trees, and pale light from a half-moon high in the sky.

A bronze statue glinted in its glow, with a foreleg reaching up toward it. Shallow steps around the base and a group of benches offered plenty of places to sit, but she settled into the grass and closed her eyes at the coolness of the blades against her belly. Well, they apparently kept it mowed short enough that it was a bit prickly, which also made it a little bland for a snack—not tall enough to have the lovely crunch of seeds in it. But she probably wouldn’t find anything better somewhere else in the city.

Laughter and conversation floated to her from some of the nearby restaurants, and the occasional wagon rumbled by, even at this hour. Urban noises everywhere, and that formed a music of sorts, too. The occasional piece certainly called for that language, one she knew well. But now she craved a new one. New to her, but old, primal even.

Octavia closed her eyes and let the moonlight filter through them. Crickets chirped in the bushes, and a soft, leathery flapping marked the swooping of bats through the clusters of moths that the gaslights out by the road attracted. In the branches, nightingales called back and forth. Even here, she could find that peace. Something was missing, though.

She’d barely spent a day with Big McIntosh. A very memorable day, granted, but… why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

Glancing down the fenceline, she estimated that the park must cover a few acres. Big enough. Despite muscles still sore from yesterday, she stood up and ran. She ran as hard as she could through the dirt and trees and grass, her room key clicking in her teeth all the while. Scents gathered in her nose, and her ears pricked toward any minute sound. And through it all, she ran.

After four nerve-wracking days, Big Mac had at least settled into some form of routine again: get up, don’t think about Octavia, work without thinking about Octavia, have lunch, work some more without thinking about Octavia, and have dinner. Then stare out the window all evening, most definitely not thinking about Octavia. It was all going perfectly, except for the “not thinking about Octavia” part.

He’d stopped at the house for a quick drink of water before going to replace some of the siding boards on the barn when Derpy flapped up with the day’s mail. “Thank you, Derpy,” he said as he tossed her a fresh apple from the bin inside the front door and caught the bundle of letters from her.

“Can’t stop to talk today,” she said. Her eyes ran him up and down once, and then she shook her head. “If I didn’t know better… Tell me later, okay?”

Of course she’d notice. And of course he’d tell her. But if not for her overflowing calendar, he wouldn’t even have to consider confiding in Applejack. He raised an eyebrow. “You have to ask?”

“Saturday. Come over for breakfast with the gang. Then we’ll go for a walk, just you and me. Okay?” Her left eye wandered up, and she rubbed at it as if it itched—a nervous tic she really didn’t need to use with him.

Big Mac smiled up at her. “Thanks. I’ll bring the grits.”

“Yeah, and you can take them right back home with you,” she said, which drew a hearty laugh from him.

“If I gotta endure such insults…” He held a hoof to his wounded heart, which still jostled with laughter. “Go on, then. Back to work with you!”

She snapped a smart salute and zipped off, leaving a single envelope fluttering to the ground. He bent over it—an advertisement for a personal injury attorney, addressed to “Postal Customer” at an address down the road. Not likely they’d miss it, but he’d carry it there later, anyway.

So, through the stack, then. “Bill, bill, bill,” he muttered. “Regrow bald mane patches, bigger what in five days!?” And one last thing: a glossy photograph of a city scene. He flipped it over and saw a Fillydelphia postmark, from two days prior. A postcard from Octavia! Derpy’d already seen it, too, the varmint.

Hello, Big Mac!

Performances have been going very well this week. I was getting a little down, but I imagined myself back on that hillside, feeling so peaceful, and it’s really helped me find my center. Maestro says he’s never heard me play with more intensity and passion, and I couldn’t have done it without your help. Almost halfway there! Manehattan next week, then back home to Canterlot. Looking forward to visiting!

Octavia

Turning to the photo on the front again, Big Mac peered at it more closely. It showed an ornate building, with big pillars and windows. “Fillydelphia Concert Hall,” the caption said. He could see it now: Octavia on a large stage, carved stonework arching high overhead, decadent chandeliers winking in the spotlights, and a whole passel of ponies wearing fancy outfits and hanging on every note. At least he pictured it that way—he’d never gone to Fillydelphia in his life.

On a whim, he held the postcard up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Mostly mailbag canvas, but he found a faint trace of perfume where she must have held it. Not Derpy’s—one of the other mail workers’, maybe? No, definitely Octavia’s, just because he wanted it that way.

Big Mac gave it another sniff, then tossed the junk mail in the trash and put the bills in the incoming letter slot on the old oak desk in the hallway. Then up to his room, where he propped the postcard up among his photos.

Fortunately, today promised a full slate of very mind-occupying tasks. The barn first.

He spent a good hour measuring, re-measuring, and cutting lumber, then nailing it into place. For the first time in nearly a week, the sun had crept across the sky far more than he would have guessed. He’d nodded at a job well done, put up his tools, and found the red paint when he heard the shout he’d been anticipating from over the hills: “Big Mac! It’s time!”

He shoved the paint back onto its shelf and galloped at top speed to the sheep pasture. One of the ewes was expecting, and it seemed Fluttershy had figured the due date smack-dab right. Big Mac found the sheep already lying on her side, with a small knot of workers and one dog gathered around. By her side, Applejack gently stroked her head with a cool cloth. “You’re doin’ great, Woolamina.” Two more workers rushed over from the house with some clean towels and a tub of warm water.

Immediately, Big Mac shouldered his way through the workers and knelt down. “I see legs!” he announced, and he wrapped his lasso around the infant’s hooves. One mighty tug on the other end, but Applejack hadn’t put her cloth down yet.

Big Mac nodded at her and pulled again. “Push!” Applejack urged at the same time, but only a little progress—they hadn’t gone with a contraction.

Up by Woolamina’s face, Applejack watched and waited, and she must have seen something. “Push!” she called again, and Big Mac gave another haul on the rope, and then… the lamb lay on the ground, shivering and bleating softly.

“Bring that tub ’round!” Applejack barked as she rushed to grab a towel and bathe the new arrival. Once clean, it stood on wobbly legs and staggered over to nuzzle its mother. Big Mac grinned the whole time, but soon Applejack broke the silence. “C’mon, folks. Let’s give ’em a while alone.”

The workers started back to the house, and Applejack gathered up the towels. “You got the tub, Big Mac?” she asked, and he nodded back after sharing a smile with her. Such a great experience every time. If only Octavia could have seen it. Yet another way this place always renewed itself.

Big Mac could have watched for an hour, but Applejack was right. They needed some alone time. “Winona, you stay nearby, and don’t let any harm come to ’em, y’hear?” Winona barked, wagged her tail furiously, and took up her post, casting a wary gaze toward the distant forest.

One rope dirty—time to get another. Big Mac wandered down to the barn for a spare and eyed the bucket of paint again. Not enough time today, he figured, so push that until tomorrow. Then back to the orchards to snag all the insect-eaten fruit off the trees. Next to the chicken coop to gather eggs, and finally dinner. A long day, and he’d made it through without thinking much about…

Good thing he’d worn himself out. After dinner, he didn’t have much to do except get some sleep, but before he turned in, he had one last piece of business. “Manehattan next week, then back home to Canterlot. Looking forward to visiting! Octavia.” He sighed and returned the postcard to its spot on his dresser. “Gettin’ close to the halfway mark, Miss Smarty Pants! You see the nice picture of Fillydelphia?”

He just might have heard some snickering and retreating hoofsteps in the hall.

Almost bedtime.

Five days since the last note from Octavia, and Big Mac had saved the new one all day long to give himself a nice treat when he’d finished all his work. Now he rubbed a bath towel through his mane one last time, lay back on his mattress, and held it up to the light.

Hi, Big Mac!

Our train arrived in Manehattan last night. This is my second-favorite city after Canterlot! The pasta here is legendary, and I always go to the same restaurant for their wonderful cheese and spinach lasagna. I’m actually having fun performing again, now that I found a way to put my heart back into it. Every night, I look for a quiet spot to meditate, then go for a run in the dark. Thank you for teaching me to feel the magic in the earth again and draw strength from it! I hope you’re doing well, and I can’t wait to get back home.

Octavia

The picture showed yet another impressive city building that he knew absolutely nothing about. The Metroponitan Museum of Art. He could see her playing on the front steps or in a courtyard or something, but he knew they wouldn’t have a full orchestra performing there. Just a bunch of fancy pictures hanging on the walls. Some old ones, nice enough landscapes, and a lot of portraits of ponies whose names he’d never recognize. And then a bunch of really strange ones that’d make his head hurt.

He couldn’t imagine making a point of visiting just to look at all the art, but he’d heard Rarity say how great it was, and she’d been right about the music, so maybe he’d give it a shot sometime. Later, though. For now, sleep.

Big Mac got up and placed the postcard next to the first one. “Another fancy place to put around you, Miss Smarty Pants, courtesy o’ Tavi. Gettin’ to feel like a high-class city mare yet?” No answer, as usual.

He patted her head and turned out the light.

Five more days, and the endless weight tugging Big Mac downward had turned into an energy that had him bouncing on his hooves toward tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow! Octavia should have gotten back to Canterlot last night, and tomorrow, she’d take the coach to Ponyville.

He clutched the newest postcard in his hooves. Derpy had practically flown loops around him when she’d brought it, and ever since their talk that one Saturday, she’d peek through her mailbag for them. Since he didn’t have long to wait anyway, he didn’t see any harm in reading it now. For a second time.

Greetings, Big Mac!

By the time you get this, I should already be on the train back to Canterlot, and then on my way to see you the next day. I’ve had a great time, and we’ve played to sellout crowds, but I’ll enjoy having some time off. I’ll arrive in Ponyville on the ten o’clock coach. Please give my regards to Applejack!

Octavia

With a huge smile, Big Mac added a photo of the Trotborough, Bucklyn, and Lipizzaner Narrows bridges to the collection on his dresser. “There you go, Miss Smarty Pants. Took a lot o’ hard work to build those. Not like some stuffy art.” Well, no. He’d changed his mind about music, so he should give art a fair shake as well.

A few chores left to do before dinner still—he fixed a gap in one of the stone walls, trimmed some dead branches from the apple trees, and checked on the new lamb’s health before the familiar clanging rang out from the triangle on the front porch. Then he took his usual seat beside Applejack and dug into some standard vegetable casserole. Familiar, usual, standard. Tomorrow would be anything but.

“So, big day comin’ up, huh?” Applejack said.

“How’d you know?” he answered, squinting at her. Not like he hadn’t heard her sneaking around in the hallway outside his room, but he wanted her to admit it.

She shrugged. So she got to play both sides of it? Fine. He couldn’t exactly stay mad right now, anyway. “I’m meetin’ her coach at ten.”

“Then what?” she said between mouthfuls of casserole. “Got any plans?”

He took a bite of his own dinner and mumbled at her. “Nope.” Let her scold him about bad manners. He’d just hold his tongue and starve her of information in that case. “Spend some time together. Hadn’t thought much ’bout it. Didn’t figure that was the important part. By the way, she said to tell you hello.”

“Oh, that’s nice o’ her. Y’all been correspondin’ ’n’ such?” She turned her nose up and smirked just enough so that he’d notice but she could deny it if he said something. That used to get his blood boiling when they were little, but they’d both grown up since then. At least he had.

“Got a few postcards,” he said, sure to give her a good view of half-chewed squash, “but she was on the move so much that I didn’t have an address to send anything back. ’Sides, she was so busy, she prob’ly didn’t mind.”

“You think so, huh?” Applejack had lost the glint to her eye, and she leaned over. “Look, I know you don’t have much figured out about mares, but if she likes you half as much as I think she does, she was mopin’ somethin’ fierce for two weeks solid.”

He straightened up from his slouch. “You—you reckon? Really?” He didn’t wish that on Octavia, but it would be nice… “What have I got to offer a pony like her?”

Applejack curled a foreleg over his shoulders. “Whatever it is, it was worth sendin’ you three postcards in only two weeks and makin’ another trip right after she’s been out o’ town a long time.”

She had a point. He tried to think of something nice to say, but he could only muster a “thanks, Sis” as he gave her foreleg a squeeze. Derpy, more of a listener, and AJ, more of an advice-giver—he was lucky to have both of them. And then he frowned.

“Wait, how’d you know there were three postcards?”

The first coach from Canterlot jostled its way down the well-rutted dirt road to Ponyville. Despite the bumpiness and constant racket, Octavia could have been floating on air. Her mouth fixed in a permanent grin, she craned her neck to see if she could tell how far they still had to go. Not that she’d recognize any landmarks around Ponyville. From her one trip there, no early warning signs popped up. Just wilderness one second and civilization the next.

An old mare beside her reached over to pat her hoof. “Going to see your sweetie, dear?”

“Oh. Well, uh…” Octavia blushed and clutched at her small pack. “I’m not sure if it’s quite like that…”

The mare clicked her tongue. “Oh, young love. It’s always a joy to see. Trust an old pony—you’ve got it bad.”

Letting out a sigh, Octavia scrunched up her face into a sheepish smile. “I still don’t know, but… is it that obvious?” She peeked out the window again in case she might see anything but trees.

“I wish you two all the best,” the mare said with a knowing nod, then returned to her knitting.

What had she gotten herself into? Nopony in her right mind could want to spend the last two weeks—rooftops! Carousel Boutique, the train station, town hall! Her heart leapt into her throat as the carriage ground to a halt.

And when she stepped out—Big Mac! There to greet her with a cluster of flowers! “I picked these for you, Octavia, from our best flowerbeds,” he said, holding out a bouquet of daisies.

She smiled her thanks and took them, but… were they decoration or breakfast? She debated for a moment and finally tucked the largest one behind her ear before eating the rest. He didn’t seem to mind. “Thanks, Big Mac. That was sweet!” She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. His eyes widened, but he didn’t object to that, either.

She took her violin down from the coach, then strapped on her saddlebag while Big Mac stowed her instrument in his own bag. That earned him a wary eye, but she supposed he knew how much value it held for her. He’d be careful. “Is there an inn where I can rent a room for a few days? The hotel where the orchestra stayed is more than I’d spend on my own.”

“Nonsense. You’ve seen the spare room at the farm. No reason for it to sit there empty.” His eyes glimmered, and he took a half-step toward the road home. “House like that is meant to be full. You’ll stay with us. How long do you have free?”

“About three weeks until our rehearsal schedule starts up again. Other than that, I hadn’t really given it much consideration. I just thought I’d play it by ear,” she said, falling into step beside him.

“Works fine for me,” he replied. After a few minutes of silence, he leaned into her, just a little. “I’m glad to have you back. I was right miserable without you.”

Octavia sagged her shoulders and let out a sharp breath. “Oh, good. I was hoping I wasn’t the only one. Not that I wanted you to feel bad, but…”

“I know,” Big Mac said with a nod. “I’ve got a good sister and an old friend to talk some sense into me. I feel the same way.”

And then back to silence. She didn’t mind. She merely took in all the sights, sounds, smells, and sensations around her. Just like he’d taught her to do. Watching his easy gait, she relaxed into the same quiet confidence. Sometimes, she didn’t need words. When he had that tacit, peaceful smile—that was when he said the most.

Author's Notes:

A divertimento is a fairly loosely defined work that often has a light tone and semi-connected parts, somewhat similar to a suite at times or a symphony at others. Its original use was for incidental music during or after a meal.

Here, it reflects how Big Mac and Octavia feel at loose ends, and how their lives seem kind of piecemeal at the moment. It also plays at similarity with the English word "diversion," which Big Mac constantly seeks during Octavia's absence.

Coming October 19, Chapter 4: Elegy

Chapter 4: Elegy

Octavia walked side by side with Big McIntosh down the same road that she’d firmly etched into her memory. Past the log dam in the stream again, hearing the same birds and squirrels and deer… feeling the same soil gather under her hooves. She’d even brought a stack of sheet music, in case inspiration struck as hard as it had last time.

The same sounds, the same colors, the same smells, through the woods, down the dirt road, and on to the farm, unfolding like a flower again as she emerged from that tunnel-like forest path. Just as before. She could—

Stumbling, Octavia caught herself on a low branch by the roadside. Her. What she could see, what she could hear, what she could get out of being with him. Her! At his questioning look, her heart froze, but she just swallowed hard, nodded, and trotted on. No place to have a crisis, no, no, why now?

Even with that wonderful view spread out in front of her, she closed her eyes and pictured Big Mac’s face. Sweet, earnest, nothing hidden. Nothing.

If she could never play music again, would she choose—? No. Not fair. Not yet. But she had written those postcards to him, and she meant every word.

Octavia opened her eyes and took in the entirety of the farm. All of it, what made Big Mac who he was. That’s what she’d find, not the music. Not how that first evening run had affected her playing, but the look on his face when they’d both stopped, out of breath. Not how the colors added meaning to the music, but how they added meaning to her.

She added a nervous little laugh, and there went his eyebrow, but her heart thawed as she dragged it up from the ground. She still gritted her teeth. Good questions. Good because she cared about the answers, and that at least drew a weak smile from her.

Up the path she followed him, into the house, and upstairs. “Spare room’s here, same as last time you saw it. Washroom across the hall. I’ll give you a moment to get settled while I put my work collar on.”

He stepped past her and swung his door around behind him, but it remained cracked—she could see her three postcards propped up among the photos on his dresser. He’d kept them! She blushed and had to stifle a laugh when she figured that he’d probably arranged them so the doll could see.

Octavia went in the guest room and set her saddlebag on the bed, then unpacked it. She’d picked up a few more… rustic grooming tools, in case something out here demanded them, though she had to admit she didn’t really know how to use them. Her standard hairbrush, soap, shampoo, toothbrush, blanket, out onto the dresser, and then the currycomb and hoof pick she’d had a devil of a time finding in Canterlot. Those had gotten her an odd look from the cashier.

Her ears pricked toward a squeaky hinge in the hall, and she trotted out to find him waiting. “All set?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered. “So what do you have in store for me now?”

“I just appreciate your company.” He cocked his head toward the staircase. “You can walk along while I do my chores.”

“Oh, I intend to help!” she said, giving his shoulder a shove. “I can’t live off your hospitality without contributing. I’m going to earn my keep!”

Big Mac stopped halfway down the flight. “Well… uh… I s’pose I can find somethin’ for you to do. Um… I gotta plow a hayfield today. No way am I gonna hitch you up to a plow, but you can help push from behind, if you like.”

She nodded hard and hustled down the stairs, beating him to the door. “What are you waiting for, slowpoke?” With a chuckle, he just led her toward the barn at a slow, rolling gait. Halfway there, he paused to wave at a gray pegasus who’d swooped past the front porch. The mare did a double take at the sight of the two of them and nearly dropped out of the sky before grinning and flitting off again. Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”

He broke into a small smile, one which was clearly much bigger on the inside. “Yeah… you ever have somepony who’s just always… there? You don’t even realize it, but when you look back, they’ve been beside you all along? Pretty much a sister, ’cept we don’t fight.”

“I… I guess. My mom had a friend like that.” She might not like where this was going…

“Met Derpy when I was three, I think,” he said quietly. “Last couple years, though, she’s doin’ the family-’n’-a-kid thing, and I don’t see her as much. Needless to say, she’s gotten an earful ’bout you.”

Maybe Octavia did like where this was going. Either way, he’d resumed his walk to the barn, so she trotted to catch up.

Big Mac hitched himself to the traces and dragged the plow out to a nearby field, then turned the steel tip down to cut into the earth. “Now come up on it easy,” he said. “Just push it along, not too hard.”

Keeping pace with him, Octavia edged forward until her chest rested against the back of the wooden frame, then leaned into it with her weight. The harness did slacken a bit—maybe she was helping! Though she had to tilt her chin up to clear the plow’s top, so she had a hard time seeing where she was going.

More than once, she stumbled, but she got right back in place each time. Big Mac was right—the plow didn’t really accommodate this kind of help. No way to see where to place her hooves on the uneven furrows. She kept kicking the back of the blade with her forelegs, and she could already tell the jostling would leave a good number of bruises on her chest.

So of course the smile never left her face. Up and down the rows they went, almost halfway done now, and—Octavia tripped on a clod of dirt, and a rear hoof buckled under her. “Ow ow ow!”

In a flash, Big Mac had wrestled free of the harness and rushed around to where she’d crumpled. “Octavia! Are you alright?” He looked like somepony who’d just realized he closely resembled the face in the wanted poster on the wall… at about the same time the officer next to him did.

“Yes. Please, it’s not your fault.” Octavia rubbed her pastern, but that only made it worse. “Only a sprain.”

She pounded the dirt with a foreleg. “Oh, I’m so clumsy! I feel so useless!”

“No, no, you just ain’t used to it,” he protested. “C’mon. Let me get you set up on the front porch. You can lean back in a rocker and take your weight off that hoof.”

Octavia stood and gingerly took a few steps. Manageable for now, it seemed, but mostly because it had gone numb. She didn’t look forward to how it would feel in the morning. “I think I’m good. Let’s try this again.”

“Nuh-uh.” Big Mac shook his head. “I ain’t takin’ the risk. Hang on a minute.” He ran off to the house, then to the barn, and returned with a brace and a basket of grass seed.

With an apologetic smile, he fastened the brace just above her injured hoof. “Now, follow along and sprinkle some seed in the ruts, if you gotta help. You will be savin’ me time—otherwise, I’d have to go back over it all.”

Octavia shifted a little more weight onto her bad leg and nodded. “Okay. As long as I’m doing my part.”

“See?” Big Mac said. “Finished early, with your help.”

No way. He’d taken a much slower pace, obviously so she could limp along without falling behind. Sweet of him to say, though, and it did feel good to make a contribution.

“Wanna retire down by the pond till dinner?” He leaned a shoulder toward the orchard, as if she could ever forget the way there.

Octavia’s eyes lit up. “Yes, that would be perfect! Hold on, though—I need to get something.”

“Whatcha need, Tavi?” She whipped her head around, and he froze, his eyes wide and his face ashen. “I… I-I mean, Octavia, ma’am. I didn’t mean…”

He swallowed with some difficulty. “It’s just the name I used in my head the last couple weeks, a-and…”

“Oh, we’re back to ‘ma’am’ now?” Despite her broad grin, he’d broken into a sweat and looked as if he awaited imminent destruction. “Big Mac. ‘Tavi’ will do fine. That’s what my friends call me.”

His chest deflated like a balloon, and he swiped a hoof across his forehead. With a chuckle, she made her way back to the house, then returned with her violin case. “This way?” she said, pointing past the barn.

“Eeyup.” Big Mac raised an eyebrow and followed her into the trees, down the hill, and to the pond’s edge.

Octavia took a long drink from the cool water, then lay back against the hillside, the same way she had before. She even wriggled into the long grass a little to make sure she got a few thistles buried in her mane.

He kept a careful eye on her as she unpacked her bow and slid it over a block of rosin. “Cello’s my best instrument,” she said, “but it lacks a little in portability out here.” His eyes did flick toward the dark-stained maple for a second, but they quickly returned to the bow’s hair. A rich charcoal color—did he notice?

“Is that…?”

She guessed she had her answer. “Yep. From my own tail. Turns out I have good hair for bows.”

“Y’know, that works out just right,” Big Mac said with a broad grin. “Tavi, it’s like you’re made o’ music!”

And a full laugh escaped her throat. “I never thought of it like that. You have an interesting way of looking at things!”

“Wind chimes,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

“Your laugh.” Big Mac closed his eyes and sighed. “Reminds me of wind chimes. ’Cept the color, kind of a burgundy red.”

Octavia smiled back, then licked a hoof and rubbed a mark off her instrument. If she couldn’t repay him in labor, she’d repay him in entertainment. Of course, she would have anyway. She’d have played for herself, and she’d certainly play for a friend.

“What am I gonna hear?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged, even though he still had his eyes closed. “I just thought I’d run through some exercises, then try a few pieces that seem appropriate to the venue. I’m curious to see if they turn out any better, right here at the source of my inspiration.”

Octavia played half a dozen scales, then glanced at him again. He hadn’t budged an inch, except… he’d found a stalk of grass to chew on. Next, a nice Roamanian dance tune. It had been in one of her oldest practice books, and by now, her hooves could play it on automatic. But… it absolutely flowed from her violin. She could feel the swaying, the high-stepping, the invitation to a partner, the nodded acceptance, the dizzying twirls.

As the last note died out, she panted for breath. When had that ever happened before? On this simple a piece? Her tingling spine practically begged her to create that sensation again. Had she been standing, her knees might have given out.

“Mmm, I liked that. Sounded foreign-like,” Big Mac remarked.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice distant, still off in her scene. “I should try something more local.” Octavia waited a moment for her mind to free itself of the cottony web of wherever it had gone. One of his eyelids twitched as if to open, but it stilled as she started into something new.

She played a lilting mountain air, and behind the music, she heard him muttering. “Waterfall… hawk nest up in the rocks, creek winding through a valley…” A rear hoof tapped along with the beat.

Something sounded off, though. She couldn’t put her hoof on what, but—of course! Something sounded too on, not off. Octavia stopped and stood her violin in her lap.

Big Mac looked over with a small frown. “Why’d you quit? I liked that.”

“I just remembered something from the folk music class I took a couple years ago. Hold on.” Octavia gave each of the tuning pegs on her instrument’s neck a fraction of a turn in alternating directions. “It gives the music more of a folksy sound if you detune it a bit.”

She’d only gotten halfway through the melody again when she heard him sit up. Stopping again, Octavia went pale at his open-mouthed stare.

“That was… perfect,” he said. “An old brown cabin on the gray mountainside, dark apples, almost black, in the green orchard…” His jaw worked as if he had more to say, but he only shook his head.

“What’s wrong, Big Mac?”

“I haven’t thought about that place in years. I-I’d forgotten.” He held a hoof to his forehead and wrinkled his brow. “How could I forget?”

Octavia set her violin back in its case and rolled onto her side to face him. “Big Mac, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“N-nothin’. Fine, fine,” he replied with a wave of his hoof. “I just haven’t thought about my Granny in ages. I really loved her—how could I forget?” His jaw tensed, and his breathing sped up.

“You mean Granny Smith? She’s just up at the house. Do you need her?” Octavia struggled to her knees and started to crawl up the hill, but he gave her good hoof a tug.

“Naw, don’t go! You’ll hurt yourself!” Rolling onto her side, Octavia propped up as best she could and winced. “No, not Granny Smith. It’s just…”

Big Mac let out a sigh and wrinkled his nose as if somepony had slipped a sour cherry into his apple pie. What could have made him so miserable? She slid back down beside her instrument and put a hoof on his shoulder. “You can tell me,” she said, peering into his eyes.

“Granny Smith’s from the Apple side of the family.” Gulping, he brushed his forelock to the side. “My mama’s side. Daddy’s family did grow some apples, too, but they were a minin’ family, up in the Apple-lachian Mountains. Used to spend my summers up there till I was ’bout seven, when Granny Stone… She…”

Octavia gasped quietly and hugged him, the poor dear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Naw, Tavi. It’s only that I shouldn’t forget. It’s like losin’ her all over again.” A fragile smile shook on his lips.

“Don’t say that.” She gave him a weak swat on the shoulder, but at his questioning glance, she nodded. “She’s still with you, in your memory. She doesn’t have to stay on your mind all the time. We have constant distractions. That’s life, a part of being a pony. You haven’t done anything wrong. Okay?”

After a moment, he gave a tentative nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. You played that so well, it put me right back on that mountaintop.”

“Well, tell me about it. What was she like?”

“Big McIntosh, c’mon in the house for a minute!” Granny Stone called. The old brown mare leaned against the frame of the cabin’s front door.

“Yes, Granny! Comin’!” A scrawny red colt trotted out of the noonday sun and into the shelter of the porch’s tin roof.

She cast a critical eye up and down his wiry frame. “Big McIntosh. Hm. Don’t know why they named you that. Such a skinny thing.” With a high-pitched titter, she dumped the ashes out of her pipe and stuffed a fresh wad of leaves in. Not too many mares could get away with smoking a pipe, but Granny Stone could.

“Maybe they know somethin’ I don’t,” she said, winking her bad eye at him. “Don’t matter. C’mere and give your ol’ granny a hug.”

Big Mac curled a foreleg around her neck. “Whatcha need, Granny?”

“I’m gettin’ ready to bake bread for the week.” An unsteady hoof waved toward the forest. “Be a good colt and gather me some kindlin’ wood. Couple o’ logs from the woodpile, too.”

“Yes’m, Granny.”

“Finish your chores this mornin’?” Settling into a rocking chair, she reached for the pack of matches on the egg crate that served as an outdoor table, then struck one and took a few puffs on her pipe.

“Yes’m,” Big Mac replied, carrying his head high. “I helped Moonstone and Smelter work the iron vein, then we scoured the rust off the car in the number three mine. Then we loaded a wagon with samples from the new silver prospect for assay. I think that’s it.”

Big Mac puffed out his chest, but then his eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, we shored up that old rotten support beam by the entrance.”

Her milky left eye drifting halfway closed, Granny blew a smoke ring. “Good day’s work! You’ll get a pickax cutie mark before long.”

Glancing at his blank flank, he had to smile. But covering where a pickax cutie mark might go—he tugged off his saddlebag and dropped it beside her on the porch. “Got a few garnets and emeralds from the waste rock, too.”

“Heh!” What would she even buy with them? She didn’t want for anything. “Just fetch me that there firewood, and then tell your cousins to take you to the swimmin’ hole. Back in time to buck apples for dinner, though, y’hear?”

She jabbed the stem of her pipe toward him. But even he was old enough to recognize a real softy when he saw one. She’d send those gems off to her great niece at college so she could get some new clothes and “show them city folk they ain’t any more sophisticated than us Stones.”

“Don’t forget,” Granny continued, “it’s a little different buckin’ these here mountain trees. Shallower roots in the rocks.”

“Yes’m, Granny.”

“She sounds sweet!” Octavia said. “I bet you were her favorite.”

“Yeah.” Big Mac blushed and rubbed his nose. “I was the youngest of all the Stone cousins. Least until Applejack came along. But even then…”

Letting the silence close in around them, Octavia watched a fluffy cloud drift by. “Then what?” she finally said.

“We shared somethin’ special.”

“Oh?” She waited until the cloud had sailed behind the barn, then poked him in the ribs. “What was it? If you don’t mind my asking…”

In the cool evening air, Big Mac watched the cooking fire dance against the backdrop of the dark trees. Smelter had brought out a bag of marshmallows while they waited for the vegetables to roast, and after sliding a few of them on skewers, he propped them around the fire’s edge.

The browning, crunchy crust and gooey center… Big Mac licked his lips. Granny Stone wouldn’t yell about spoiling dinner. As long as she got a couple of them, too.

Crackling and popping, the flame sent glowing red flecks of ash spiraling up into the night, and somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted. Every one of them, all outside and crowded around, even some of the neighbors. He had to smile. Just like home, only different. But the same.

He’d rather just watch and listen, so he sat a short distance away, where he could see the firelight on everypony’s faces. But one moved—Granny Stone walked around the ring of stones and plopped down next to him. “Somethin’ wrong, Big Mac?”

“Naw, Granny Stone. Just enjoyin’ the view. Granny Smith’s been teachin’ me to soak up nature all ’round me, back at Sweet Apple Acres, and find that connection to the earth.” He took a sniff of the rich hickory smoke, but not too close—he made that mistake once, and spent the better part of half an hour coughing. “Thought I should keep it up while I was here.”

Granny Stone gave a sharp nod. “Wise mare, that Granny Smith. She knows what’s important. You take heed, now, and you’ll be stronger for it. The magic comes from the earth, y’know.”

“Yes’m.”

“Now c’mon over with the rest of us. Moonstone’s gonna get out his fiddle.”

Mom and Dad hadn’t gotten a lick of musical talent, even though it carried through both sides of the family. So aside from a couple of clumsy lullabies, Big Mac had never heard any music to speak of, not close up. So he absolutely hadn’t expected what he saw.

Threads of color wafted up into the sky from the fiddle, twisting and looping like Granny Smith’s darning needle. They gathered around the instrument, too, and hung there. Mostly brown, and kind of hard to see against the forest, but when Moonstone played up higher, some blues and reds flitted around. One even came near him, and he reached out to touch it.

He didn’t know when Granny Stone had left his side, but she came back out of the cabin with an old hammer dulcimer. Last year or the year before, he’d seen it in the closet and asked about it, but he’d never heard her play. But now she joined in, as smoothly as if she did it every day. A nice harmony, all playing together. Some of the colors clashed, but he didn’t care. Just because two colors didn’t look good together on clothes didn’t mean they couldn’t go side by side on the farm. All those flowers and vegetables and fruits and grain. What went together depended on the context. Sidling up to Granny Stone, he followed the lines of gold and orange and green as they floated up from her dulcimer.

When Moonstone started the next song, Granny Stone sat it out. She bent down to Big Mac’s ear and cocked her head. “You can see ’em, can’t you? The colors?”

“Well, yeah.” Big Mac shrugged. “Hard to miss.”

“You’d be surprised,” she said with a chuckle. “I was wonderin’ where it might show up next. Great aunt o’ mine had it last.”

Big Mac squinted and scratched his head. “Had what last?”

“Never mind. You wanna learn to play?” Granny Stone tapped a hoof against her instrument’s wooden frame. He immediately nodded. “Good! We’ll start tomorrow.”

While she began again, Big Mac leaned into her side and watched the music and the firelight swirl together. Song after song, his eyelids drooped further down. He never did get any marshmallows. Or dinner, for that matter. But he had very colorful dreams that night.

Octavia sat up abruptly, then grimaced and held her injured leg. “She had it, too? Synesthesia?”

“Eeyup,” Big Mac said with a nod and shrug. “Though she didn’t tell me, exactly. I didn’t know it was that unusual till, well, a couple o’ weeks ago. I didn’t catch on to what she said about her great aunt.”

“Genetic, huh?” Octavia grinned. From what she’d seen of him so far, he’d take great pride in inheriting something so unique from family.

“Who can say?”

Octavia had settled into the grass again, but she jerked her head toward him once more. “Wait, you can play an instrument? Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’m gettin’ to that…”

Granny Stone hummed a note over her pipe stem while tapping one of the strings on her dulcimer with a hammer. “Y’see? It’s the same pitch, but they got different colors, ’cause my voice ain’t the same sound. You won’t even see the same color I do. It’s personal-like.”

Nodding, Big Mac stared at the strings. The one she’d hit had a light tan, like fresh-cut oak. But it had set a few of the other strings vibrating a bit, so some other colors clung to their strings as well.

“You gotta learn which strings are which colors,” Granny Stone continued. “That’ll never change, as long as you keep the same instrument. Get another, and, well, good luck. ’Less you wanna go the boring way and learn to read sheet music.”

Big Mac chuckled. How many times had the traditional way butted up against the practical way of doing things? About a daily occurrence in the Apple Family, he reckoned.

“Here,” she said, pressing one of the hammers into his hoof. “Run it up the whole thing.” He did as asked, drawing the hammer from one end to the other, over all the strings—he gasped. A perfect set of stripes, right inside that frame!

“Do that as often as you need to, till you can picture it in your head, every color.” Taking the hammer she still held, she played a simple tune, and he knew what’d come next, so he stared intently at the colors and the pattern of strings. First one, a grass green, then over three strings, kind of a summer-squash yellow. Over two strings, blue, the same yellow again, too many strings to count, but a darker blue, and so on.

And then his turn. He could only remember the first dozen notes or so, but when he hesitated and looked up at her, she guided his hoof over the rest. And then she whirled her hoof in a circular motion, so he started through again. This time, she played, too, but over a little. Usually four strings to the right, but sometimes only three. He couldn’t figure how she knew when to do three, but it sounded nice.

“That’s harmony,” she said. “We’ll tackle that later, but for now, we’ll leave it that you have to learn which colors go together. Makes for good music, but it’ll mess up your fashion sense.”

He grinned in reply and glanced down at his lack of clothes. “Not like I’ll need it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Granny Stone answered as she tousled his mane. She pointed at the dulcimer again, and Big Mac played a third time. But now she’d added words—the ones his parents couldn’t exactly sing.

“Hush, my sweet, now, and don’t you fret…”

“Interesting way of learning music,” Octavia remarked. “Good thing you can sing, or you’d have trouble calibrating the pitch.”

“Yeah. Granny Stone started me on voice lessons, too. She said I couldn’t get one without the other.” He flashed a half-smile and raised an eyebrow.

Octavia shot him a smirk. “Multiple instruments. I’m liking her better already.”

“Yeah…” His smile slowly faded, and he let out a sigh. And something returned to his eyes. She’d thought it was only nostalgia before, but now… Her heart sank.

“You don’t play anymore, do you?” She softened her smile.

Big Mac shook his head. “My fourth and last summer there. And Applejack’s first.”

Big Mac hadn’t gotten his dulcimer lessons for the past five days. Each morning, he unpacked it from its case in the closet and set it up. And then waited. But each morning, Cousin Smelter would say Granny Stone wasn’t feeling well, and he’d have to wait until tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

She hadn’t come out to cook dinner or ask him to do chores or anything. Moonstone and Smelter both just sat at the table and flipped through the newspaper or stared out the window. Weren’t they even going to work the mine today?

Shoving out a sharp breath, Big Mac set his hammers down and strode toward Granny Stone’s room, but Moonstone blocked his path. “Not now, Mac. The doctor’s in there with her. Let them be.”

He hadn’t seen a doctor come in, and he’d gotten up at first light. Did he show up during the night? Sneak in the back way?

If nopony else wanted to keep this place running, at least he would. He stalked out the door, and with a curious glance, Applejack put down her dolls and trotted after him. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Gonna do some minin’.” He held his pace steady and didn’t look back. Maybe she’d lose interest—four-year-olds didn’t exactly belong in mines, anyway.

“Can I help?”

“You ain’t strong enough.” Big Mac winced at a loud crack and turned to see the tree she’d bucked over. Trees had shallow roots up here in the rocks, but yeah, Granny Smith had made quite an apple bucker out of her…

“Am so.”

He ran a hoof down his muzzle. “Don’t matter. You’re a girl.”

“So?”

Without answering, he trotted on, the rhythm of a short stride behind him the whole way. Six miles through the woods, then into the mine. Who knew how far down—the shaft spiraled, making it tough to gauge distance. He peeled off after a short while, though. Without help, he didn’t want to work any of the deeper veins, or he’d never get a full mine car tugged back out again. So he turned at the first branch, grabbed a torch off the wall, and followed the passage to the end.

Empty mine car, rack of tools, all left where they should be so a pony could get right to work. He stuck the torch in a wall bracket, grabbed a pickax, and took a mighty swing at the wall. Not so scrawny anymore. Granny Stone used to call him that, but always with a gentle smile. Not this year, though. A fresh cutie mark, and he’d even grown almost as big as Dad already.

Applejack scratched a hoof at the wall. “Can I help?” Strong legs or no, she wouldn’t be able to swing a heavy ax with her mouth.

“You’re doin’ fine. Just keep at it.” When he had enough rubble dislodged, he gathered up the small boulders and dumped them in the mine car, then went back to work. And beside him, Applejack carefully scooped up the small dust pile she’d made, stretched up as high as she could, and poured it into the car’s bin. If he wasn’t so determined to stay in a rotten mood, it would have been one of the cutest things he’d ever seen.

“What do you do with this?” she asked, peering over the steel edge and pulling herself up for a better view.

“Get the metal out,” he muttered through the pickax’s handle.

Applejack shoved her hat back so she could see again. Way too big for her, but Mom had made her bring it. “How you know there’s metal?”

“Test for it in town. Plus you can see silvery bits in it as you dig. Lose sight o’ those, and you gotta dig in another direction.” She only wrinkled her brow. Always more questions with that one. He’d come up here to work and learn music, not to be a foalsitter.

“How do you get it out?”

Sighing, Bic Mac set his pickax down. “You gotta bake it, real hot.”

Her face brightened, and she clapped her hooves together. “Oh, in the oven?”

“No. We ain’t got one that goes hot enough. Takes a special kind.” He wiped the sweat off his brow, and then—he didn’t like the way she squinted at the car. He took a wild guess as to what she’d say next.

“Why?” Bingo.

“Look, you said you wanted to help.” She gave him a vigorous nod. “Talkin’ ain’t helpin’.”

Within a couple of hours, he’d filled the car and towed it back to the entrance, but… no way he could get it down the mountainside without one of his cousins’ help. Too steep and too far. So he set the brake, threw a tarp over the top, and tied it off. Finally, he put the torch head-down in the sand pile just inside the mine. Might as well go back home. Long past lunch now, and a small miracle that Applejack hadn’t gotten cranky about it.

He didn’t mention food on the trot back home, and if she heard his stomach growling, she didn’t let on. But when he came within view of the front porch, Smelter shouted to him. “Where have you been?” Smelter looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“Workin’ a bit at the mine. Seems I wasn’t gonna get anything useful done otherwise.” He shrugged and shooed Applejack on toward the house.

“Big Mac, I…” Smelter only shook his head.

The next day, the family buried Granny Stone in the family plot, not far from the house, on a pretty overlook of the river winding through the valley below. Against the darkening sky, Big Mac watched the little filaments of color float up from Moonstone’s fiddle. The tune—that old family lullaby that Big Mac’s parents used to sing before he outgrew it, and that Granny Stone had taught him to play. Kind of an odd choice for a funeral, but… it kinda fit, too.

Applejack sang along, far too loud for the occasion, but everypony only smiled at her. Quietly, Big Mac walked the short distance back to the house and returned with the dulcimer. Moonstone was still playing, and soon the tender sound of hammer-struck strings accompanied him.

Big McIntosh looked away. “I haven’t played since.”

Frowning, Octavia shook her head. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have pried.”

“Naw, you didn’t do any harm.”

“It’s just…” Octavia gulped. She hadn’t gauged how to handle this well yet. “Don’t you think you should? Play, that is. It meant a lot to her, to teach you that. You shouldn’t keep it hidden.”

He shrugged and pursed his lips. “I know. I tried once, a few years back. Couldn’t do it.”

“Those kinds of things need to be appreciated, Big Mac. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with somepony else there. I’ll play with you.” He looked at the ground and blinked. If she pushed too hard, he might shut the door. Not hard enough, and he’d brush it off. “That is, if you have the dulcimer here. I assume you brought it back with you—nopony else deserved it more.”

“Yeah, in my room.”

Octavia waited another moment to watch his posture. Nothing signifying that the conversation had come to an end. “Can we go and get it? I’d love to see…”

He sighed. “Sure.”

Immediately, she rolled over and touched his shoulder. “Only if you’re certain you want to share that with me. You don’t have to.”

“Only fair. You shared so much with me, through your music.” He covered her hoof with his own, then led the way back to the house and up to his room. She limped along with her violin—she doubted it would get stolen here, but it still didn’t sit right with her to leave it out in the orchard.

From the bottom dresser drawer, Big Mac pulled out a richly stained dark walnut case and opened it to reveal a trapezoidal instrument in a light birch hue. A pair of matching hammers lay next to it.

Octavia gasped. She reached out a hoof and tentatively plucked one of the strings—what a wonderful resonance from such a well-worn and chipped antique! “Wow, that’s a lovely sound. You should rub some oil into it to moisturize the wood. I bet you could get it looking beautiful.”

Nodding slowly, Big Mac shut the case again.

“Come on. Let’s go back out by the pond. Nopony will hear,” she urged him as she took his hoof. “Give it a try.”

“I dunno.”

“I won’t make you.” She smiled softly and looked at the floor. If she didn’t watch him, maybe he wouldn’t feel pressured.

Big Mac nodded and took the stand out of the drawer as well. They slowly made their way back to the hillside, as much for his unwieldy cargo as her injury. But when they’d returned to their shady spot, he just sat in the grass, with one of those “what do I do now?” grins that she’d often see on beginners’ faces.

“Play me the lullaby, if you would,” Octavia asked gently. He gulped and nodded, then set up his instrument on its stand while she got her violin back out. And then he ran a hammer up all the strings and stared intently at them. Of course—he had to refresh his memory of the colors after all this time. He hummed some tones and adjusted the tuning of a few strings.

And he played.

A simple melody, but musicality comes through independently of a piece’s difficulty. Rusty, yes, but he was no beginner. Very pretty, enchanting even—not a tune she’d heard before, but she picked it up quickly. By the second verse, he’d added a skillful harmony. And on the third, she joined in as well, on the melody at first, but then she branched out into more rustic ornamentations.

Big Mac had closed his eyes, and he swayed along with the tempo. A few missed notes, but nothing serious. He was picking this back up amazingly well. She kept watching, and the tightness in his cheeks gradually lessened, leaving only a gentle smile. To think that he would share something so personal with her… It made her nose tingle, and she had to brush at it with a hoof when she had a brief moment. At her eyes, too…

And then her ears pricked at a new sound. His, too, toward the house. Applejack? She must have heard them, and over the breeze rustling through the branches, Octavia detected a fine alto.

“Hush, my sweet, now, and don’t you fret,
The day is gone, and the sun has set.
Lay your head down and say good night,
Till you see bright mornin’ light.

“No more sorrow, no more pain,
Stay in my arms till you wake again.
Go to sleep, cast off your fears,
Dream of me and dry those tears.

“Darlin’ snug, all bundled in tight,
Moonbeams bathe you in heavenly light.

“Hush, my sweet, now, and don’t you fret,
The day is gone, and the sun has set.
When you see the new sun appear,
Know I’ll always love you, dear.”

Applejack knew it too? Of course, their parents had sung it to them.

Big Mac was right—it just fit for Granny Stone, even at a funeral. What a beautiful song! Octavia would have to file that one away for later. In fact—her mind boggled with possibilities. She loved the folk music class she’d taken, and if she could collect music like this, promote it more…

And him, sitting over there. He sniffled a little, but he wore a warm smile. She’d never felt such a connection with another pony before, had somepony let her into his life like that. He was staring at her, and a blush had overtaken his face.

And the dinner bell rang.

Octavia didn’t want to move, but she knew how things had to run on a schedule around here. Now wasn’t the time to push Big Mac further out of his comfort zone. She stood and brushed a bit of the debris from her mane. Oh yeah, she’d deliberately gotten some burrs in there…

Without her having to ask, he stepped over to pick through her mane, working his way up her neck again. That wonderful feeling, all the tension draining from her withers. She could stay like this forever, but yes, dinner was waiting. And so it stopped, like it had to.

She turned her head to thank him, but he just stood there, so close. Blushing.

Octavia closed her eyes, leaned in, and kissed him. She hoped he’d spit out the burrs already, but really, she didn’t care. She pressed in and felt his warm breath on her muzzle, smelled hay and apples on his coat. She shifted her weight off her throbbing pastern, but she didn’t stop.

The dinner bell rang again.

Author's Notes:

An elegy is a sad, pensive, or thoughtful piece, often written in memory of someone who has died. And that's it for this one. Short and simple.

Coming October 26, Chapter 5: alla Rustica

Chapter 5: alla Rustica

Octavia had to chuckle as she looked over the plates on the table in front of her. She and Big Mac would most often join in the big family meals at Sweet Apple Acres, but on a few occasions, she’d convinced him to let her buy lunch in town, especially if he had to run an errand there anyway. And so they sat at the same cafe where they’d had their first date, what, three months ago already? She wouldn’t have called it that at the time, but now…

On her plate, a watercress and cucumber sandwich. On his, black-eyed peas, butter beans, collards drowned in vinegar, fried okra, and some variety of corn he called “silver queen.” She had to admit, the corn tasted rather sweet, but she found the beans and peas pretty bland, the collards too bitter, and the okra just plain slimy. He’d made her try every one—part of her education, no doubt—but some things about the city would never leave her. A nice sandwich, a seaweed and rice roll with some pickled ginger on the side, a scoop of basil ice cream… that’d suit her fine, thanks very much for asking, though she couldn’t exactly find that kind of fare here in Ponyville.

Two ponies a couple of tables over shared a hushed whisper and pointed. Octavia merely went back to her sandwich, but not Big Mac. He never failed to notice the surreptitious glances, and just like every other time—she braced herself. Soon enough, he hooked a foreleg around her neck, pulled her into a hug, and flashed a broad grin at the spectators. She did appreciate the spontaneous and heartfelt attention, except… how spontaneous was it, exactly? She’d meant to talk to him about it, but the right time never seemed to come up. Maybe later. Always later.

“So, remember I have to go back to Canterlot again tomorrow,” she said once he’d released his death grip on her withers. “That three-week concert series.”

“Eeyup,” he replied. “Least you ain’t travelin’ this season.”

Yeah, good thing, that. If she thought two weeks last year had been torture, she didn’t relish the prospect of spending nearly four months away. And that had only been an infatuation. Now… well, she could visit nearly every week. And somehow, that little thrill that ran up her back every time the Ponyville train station or carriage depot came into view hadn’t ever diminished.

“Your room’ll still be waitin’ when you get back,” Big Mac continued. As usual, he said an awful lot with few words. In fact, he often said the most in silence.

“My room? The guest room, you mean.” No use arguing, but she liked the definitive head shake he always gave her for that one.

“Nope.”

She laughed out loud, which invited a few more glances and whispers from the other patrons, then kissed him on the cheek before draining the rest of her lemonade. “Shall we? Still have some chores to do.”

“You know you don’t have to, Tavi. You’re our guest.” Big Mac said that every time without fail. And every time, he didn’t wait for an answer, since he already knew it.

“Pastern feeling better?” he asked as he flinched toward the stack of bits she left on the table. He used to protest, but he already knew that answer, too.

“That was months ago.” She could say that, at least, but she couldn’t hide her slight limp.

He smirked and rolled his eyes toward her. “Just checkin’. Takes a while to heal sometimes.”

A beige pony stepped in front of them, forcing Big Mac to stop short. “Trouble you for a photo?” he said. As always, Big Mac nodded, donned his massive smile, and pulled Octavia to him in a hug. No need to play the spoil sport—she went through her usual instantaneous debate: Hug him back? Smile with him? She hated to accommodate those leeches, but she didn’t want to appear unhappy with Big Mac in whatever pictures they took.

She wasn’t quite sure what expression had settled onto her face by the time she heard a few rapid clicks. Not that it mattered. She hustled Big Mac along until they’d gotten out of town and on the road back to the farm. “You don’t have to do what they ask, you know.”

“Hm? Just some traveler wantin’ a picture of a happy couple, I expect,” he replied, adding a little extra spring to his step. Sometimes, she wished she could turn off her cynicism like that. He always said it made him proud to be seen with her, after all.

“No, he was one of the society page photographers from the Canterlot Times.” Big Mac could feign ignorance, but no way he really didn’t recognize the guy, mugging for the camera like that. Let him have a bit of fun, but it did start up that little voice in the back of her head. “You’ll be in the newspaper again.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say?” And then a shrug. “Why’s that?”

So insightful about some things and naive about others. “Do you know how famous I am? In certain circles, anyway, but enough to garner the occasional tagalong.” She really shouldn’t let them get to her like that—it put her in a bad mood, and she didn’t want to take that out on Big Mac.

“Really?” he said, wrinkling his brow. “I s’pose Rarity knows you, and that ain’t small potatoes.”

Great. And now she felt like an idiot. It’s not like she’d even care that much if he was a little starstruck, but… True, when they’d first met at the concert, he didn’t know her from the next pony. So she’d spent the last few weeks worrying about nothing, and now she felt like a great big idiot to boot. Perfect. “You’re better than I deserve,” she said as she leaned into his warm side.

“Couldn’t be,” he replied. She didn’t even remember when they’d started up that little exchange, but it was their thing now, and it always brought a sparkle to his eye.

“So what do you have left for the day?” Octavia bumped a shoulder into his ribs.

“Standard fall stuff. Winterize the gear, chop firewood, stow the hay bales. That sorta thing.” Most ponies wouldn’t have smiled about that list. She chuckled and fell into silent conversation with him, watching where his ears pricked, listening herself, and nodding back. If he savored a step in the dirt, she lingered half a second as well and read what she could from the feel of it. Without him, she’d miss so much.

She nuzzled his neck and continued trotting along beside him. For a moment, she considered breaking into a full gallop and grinning back as he tried to catch up. But only for a moment.

After a nice afternoon in the garden, Octavia stood by the barn and swirled her currycomb over her coat. Durned if she didn’t find it working out dried-on mud better than her brush would. And durned if she didn’t find herself using the word “durned.”

As much as the Apples prided themselves on hospitality, she’d finally worn them down into letting her take responsibility for something around the farm whenever she visited, and they let her manage the flower garden and small vegetable patch for the family’s own use. It turned out she was pretty good at it, but not nearly as fast as Applejack. Still, if it meant saving Applejack the trouble, it was well worth it. In this fall weather, she didn’t have many flowers to tend anymore, but quite a few new vegetables ripened each day.

Octavia gave herself a good hose-down and turned the spigot off, then jumped when she saw Applejack slink around the corner. Why the stealth? It was her garden, after all.

Applejack flashed a weak smile and glanced around. “Hey, um… Nice day, huh?”

“Yeah…” She’d never known Applejack as one for small talk. So, torture her a bit or throw her a lifeline? “Alright. Out with it.”

Her eyes flicking around again, Applejack pursed her lips. “Look… it’s been months now. Big Mac kissed you yet?”

“Applejack!”

“S-sorry. I…” Applejack shook her head and turned to leave.

“Yes. Well… actually, I kissed him. But yes.” She sculpted her smile carefully. Warm, reassuring, but not triumphant or playful. “A while ago.”

Applejack scratched her head. “Well, I thought so, but…”

Gathering up her tools, Octavia stayed quiet. She just needed to give Applejack space to work out what to say. She sure was a lot like her brother sometimes.

“I ain’t ever seen y’all kiss.” She wrinkled her forehead, and then her face turned bright red. “Not that I wanna. I mean…”

Applejack stamped a hoof, and it was all Octavia could do to keep from laughing. “I don’t want y’all to feel self-conscious,” Applejack finally said. “We’re all plumb tickled ’round here that y’all found each other. Don’t go thinkin’ you gotta act a certain way to avoid makin’ us uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, Applejack!” Octavia waved a hoof at her. “I don’t—”

“Look, I know it’s prob’ly Big Mac more’n you, but I can’t exactly talk about this stuff with him.” She craned her neck to see around Octavia, but Big Mac had actually come up behind her.

“Talk about what?” he said, and the color drained from Applejack’s face as she fought for something to say.

“Nothing,” Octavia replied. “Just girl talk.”

“I can go…” Big Mac pointed a hoof back the way he’d come.

Octavia started toward the barn door to put her tools away. “No, I was just finishing up. You want to play some music by the pond today?” Big Mac’s eyes brightened, and Applejack let out a held breath.

“Eeyup.” She was probably the only pony who could coax him to do anything other than work while the sun was still up.

Nodding to Applejack, Octavia hooked a foreleg over Big Mac’s neck, at least as high as she could reach, and planted a kiss on his cheek. And winked. Maybe at him, maybe at Applejack. Then she started toward the house to get her violin.

“You ever hear of Percy Ranger?” Octavia said.

Big Mac paused for a moment to scratch his head, then continued playing. “Can’t say as I have. Why?”

“Austailian composer. He wrote down a lot of folk melodies.” Big Mac gave a thoughtful nod but didn’t respond. “He’d hang around taverns, streets… wherever ponies gathered. They’d sing whatever local tunes they knew. Of course, your average bar patron doesn’t have much of a sense of rhythm or pitch. But he wrote it down, exactly as they sang it.”

She hummed back the last line he’d played to herself, then scratched out some more of the song on her sheet of paper. Next time through, she’d ask him to add the words. “It makes it a lot more difficult for the performers, what with all the quirks he had to accommodate. But if not for him, a lot of those songs might have gotten lost to time. He wasn’t the only one, of course, but it just made me think of him.”

It had started about a month ago. The more music she’d teased out of him, the more she realized he had a wealth of it in his head that may well be so specific to that little patch of Apple-lachia that nopony else would know it. She’d never heard half of the songs herself, and while most sounded like children’s rhymes—no surprise, given when he learned them—a few were hauntingly beautiful and rather sophisticated. And of the ones she did know… well, “Simple Gifts” had always sent a chill up her spine, but never quite like when he sang it. When somepony really put his soul into the words because he believed them to his core…

One or two more times through to get the words right, then she’d pick up her instrument and join in. They’d even go past dusk, what with the sun setting earlier and earlier these days. In fact, she’d better get these verses down while she still had enough light to see the page.

The last period stabbed into the paper, Octavia leaned back against the hillside and rubbed some rosin into her bow. It was getting a tad frayed—maybe she should clip some more hair from her tail soon.

“Big Mac, have you ever noticed that most musicians are earth ponies?” In the rapidly darkening orchard, she couldn’t read his face, but she did see him turn toward her.

“Hm. Naw. I guess I’ve met ponies of all types who can sing, but instruments? I s’pose you’re right.”

“Seems unicorns would do better at manipulating the strings, keys, or whatever. But they don’t, for the most part.” She shrugged, not that he’d notice.

He hadn’t stopped playing, and she joined in quietly. “Pegasus ponies got weather to worry ’bout,” he replied, “and unicorns got fancy stuff to do with their magic.”

“Yeah, but we have our own unique demands on our time. And all ponies would have to have the same questions about the world that music helps to answer. There’s no shortage of unicorn sculptors or pegasus painters, for example.” He didn’t answer. She actually wondered if he had some deep-seated wisdom on the subject. “I mean, those unicorn sculptors use stone, bronze, whatever. So it’s not related to a connection with the materials. Earth ponies would know stone better.”

“I always thought,” he started, but then took a long pause. She silenced her instrument and turned toward him. The dinner bell would ring soon, anyway. “Art’s s’posed to represent somethin’ else, right? Like you see a landscape painting, but then you gotta figure out what the artist meant by it. Or you read a novel, but then you gotta figure out what ain’t written. Music… gets right at it. No middle step. Direct. Kinda fits the earth pony mindset. Singin’s different, ’cause it’s still like writin’. But instruments…”

Deep-seated wisdom, alright. He sure had a way of seeing something trimmed down to its basics. “I always thought,” Big Mac repeated. “That don’t make me right.” Octavia grinned in the darkness.

She packed up her instrument, stuffed her music sheets in one of the case’s pockets, and felt around in the grass for her pencil. The whole time, he’d sat up, but she’d lain back in the grass. Not too long, since somepony had mowed it, but with any luck, she had some burrs stuck in her mane. Right on cue, she felt him grooming her. So she gave him a minute, then she turned to intercept his mouth with her own.

And right on cue, the dinner bell rang.

“Any more songs floating around in your head?” Octavia asked. They’d sung through a couple of their favorites, but no instruments today. Big Mac didn’t like the prospect of setting up that wooden stand in the snowdrift, and he couldn’t imagine she’d want her violin out here, either. Thing was probably more expensive than a year’s apple harvest, and air this dry didn’t do wood any favors.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Might have a few turn up later, but you got the last one I could think of yesterday.” Her singing voice actually surprised him a bit. He’d always figured somepony who could play an instrument could sing, too, but he guessed there wasn’t really a reason to assume that. Different talents, after all. And she had a thin voice that struggled to stay on key at times.

Didn’t matter, though. Still that beautiful burgundy color.

“Thanks for those,” she said, leaning over with an invitation for a kiss, which he accepted readily. She tapped him on the forehead. “You never knew you had such a wealth of music up there, did you?”

“Nope.”

She took his forehoof in both of hers and kissed him again. “I’ve been thinking, Big Mac. I’d like to organize a folk music festival.”

Octavia had been on about that lately. The music, anyway, but he hadn’t reckoned she’d want to make a big event out of it. He just watched and waited for it to pass. A sophisticated artist like her? No way she’d give up the time from her real music. He liked a good hoedown as much as the next yokel, but it was comfort music, not… impressive.

“Don’t you give me that look!” she said, the twinkle in her eye at odds with her scowl. “Folk is such a beautiful art form, and it’s the root of all the music you’d call fancy, too.”

He wished he could figure out how she did that. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know. I’ll never give up my classical. But I want to add this to the repertoire.” She rolled against his side and raised an eyebrow at his snickering. “What?”

“You’re a beautiful art form,” he said. He gave her mane a tousle, but not too hard—he knew better than to mess up a mare’s hairdo.

She jabbed a hoof at his ribs. “Oh. Big Mac, you know I love you, but I’m serious.”

Big Mac froze, and his nerves buzzed. Did she say…?

He gulped and forced a smile. A pony couldn’t just leave that hanging out there. Answer too fast, answer too slow, shrug it off… any of those could spell disaster, and he cared too much to make a false step—

Don’t overthink it. If any piece of advice had served him well, that was it. She liked him for it, and it’d run the Apple family for generations. He closed his eyes and pictured the elegant gray and black, with the burgundy voice. And he knew. Down under all the complications and distractions, he could just sit here with those colors—that mare—forever. He’d already thought it anyway, thought it without thinking, a reflex action: he cared too much.

Why did it feel like such a surprise? Always there, underneath it all, the warmth that said he belonged right here, beside her. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t opened his eyes.

Big Mac hugged her closer. “I love you too, Tavi.” She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed the kind of sigh he might on the last day of the harvest. All the work done, all the effort paid off. Time to let all the good things roll in from it.

For all he knew, they stayed there for hours. Hours, under the gray sky, with little white clumps of snow plopping out of the trees around them. And black and gray in his hooves. All the color he needed.

A right pretty shade of burgundy finally cut into the silence. “So, about the festival… What do you think?”

“Couldn’t hurt. How many ponies you think’d really come, though?”

“You’d be surprised.” She raised her head up to look him in the eye. “All types—those that live where it’s the predominant kind of music, ones who see cultural value in it. And of course the crowd who finds it the trendy thing to do this week.”

Big Mac wrinkled his nose. “Yeah…”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on them. A lot of art succeeds because of them, even though there’s a lot of luck involved.” Octavia brushed a hoof across his cheek. “You didn’t go to my concert with any nobler intentions, as I recall.”

He scowled at her and shook his head. “Not the first one, no. But in all the ones since…”

“I know. And if a few of the uppity types learn to appreciate what they hear like you did, then isn’t that a good thing?” She cocked her head and grinned like she’d won, which of course she had. “So, who can we get to perform?”

“Well, you.”

With a snort, she glared back at him. “Thank you, Miss Smarty Pants.”

“You said you wouldn’t—!”

“I’m sorry,” she answered, a sheepish smile dangling on her face. “Of course I will, but I don’t want to overshadow everything. I’ll only play one or two things, and other that that, I’ll just emcee.”

Whatever suited her. “Sounds fine,” he replied, shrugging.

“Back to the question of who we should invite to perform, then.” Octavia rubbed a hoof over her muzzle. “I can probably ask a few of the ponies from the orchestra, but that creates the same problem where the public might find it too highbrow and inaccessible. It’s that first crowd I want, the ones who live this music daily.”

“Sweetie Belle’s a helluva singer,” Big Mac said, but he shook his head. “Naw, never mind. You’d never get her to. Um… Applejack plays banjo, and she taught Spike some. He can also play drums a little. Granny Smith plays washboard—”

Octavia broke in with a little squeal. “That’s perfect! Spike’s the librarian’s dragon, right?” Getting a nod back, Octavia clapped her hooves together. “Who else?”

“Let’s see… Pinkie Pie can play about any instrument, but don’t ask her for much more’n a polka on it.”

Octavia giggled, but caught herself and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’ve met her before. She takes a little getting used to.”

“Wind chimes.”

“Huh?”

Big Mac smiled broadly. “Wind chimes. Your laugh always sounds like—”

“Like wind chimes.” She returned his grin. “Yes, you say that all the time. But don’t stop.”

“Uh…” Big Mac continued, rolling his eyes up. “My cousin Fiddlesticks plays fiddle, o’ course.”

“Oh, she’s your cousin?” He nodded, and Octavia scrunched her face up. “Yes, I’ve played several engagements with her before. Good musician. She’d be a great one to have around. Any more?”

“Cousin Braeburn plays guitar. Oh! And—” he leaned into her and tapped her nose “—you gotta hear Derpy! I mean, I don’t know how such a happy pony can do the blues so well, but she’ll have tears pourin’ down your face.”

Octavia’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I didn’t realize! I still haven’t met her, you know. A pegasus musician…”

“Yeah. Unless you wanna be the one who tells the roosters to wake up, you’ll miss her. It’ll happen. Give it time.” His smile curled back a decade or more. “She’ll play if we ask her—if she knew what it meant to you.”

The light danced in her eyes for a minute, but he couldn’t tell what had silenced her. “What’s her instrument?” Octavia finally said.

Big Mac flicked a hoof toward town. “She blows a mean harmonica.”

“Really… Hold on…” She jerked her head away from him and let loose with a sneeze. An impossibly cute, high-pitched sneeze, in a nice pale blue. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. That was adorable.” Giggling again, she scooted back against him.

He caught himself staring at the sky, then noticed her squinting at him. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

“Naw, just… Derpy and I have an unusual kind of friendship, I guess. Hard to explain.” Her squint narrowed, and he waved a hoof at her. “Not like that, though. You shoulda seen her grin whenever she’d bring one o’ your postcards in the mail.”

“I know. You’ve told me that before. You don’t talk about her much, though.” And she’d stopped looking him in the eye…

Big Mac brushed at the grass. “Yeah. I kinda miss her.” When Octavia didn’t say anything, he looked up to find her watching him closely. “No, no—”

“You’ve told me that, too,” she said with a chuckle. “I know, ‘like a sister.’ It’s alright.” She smiled, but she had her jaw set. Still in business mode, then.

“Should prob’ly have some ponies from the Crystal Empire play flugelhorn,” he said. Better get back on topic.

“Yeah, good idea.” Octavia’s face lit up. “Hey what about the Ponytones?”

“More of a pop sound, but I s’pose we could. I think we know a couple o’ barbershop quartet tunes.” One came to mind immediately, anyway, and he started whistling it through his teeth.

Octavia frowned. “Wait, I thought you were a quintet.”

“Well, y’see… How big an audience you expectin’?” Big Mac asked, scratching his head.

“Couple thousand, anyway. Maybe more.”

Fluttershy. In front of a couple thousand staring faces. “Nope. Better make it a quartet.”

Octavia shrugged. “I think we’ll have plenty of acts, then. Only thing left is to decide where to hold it.”

She might as well have told him the world was flat. “Right here at Sweet Apple Acres. I can build a stage in one o’ the empty fields, and we can have smaller stuff goin’ on in the barn. Meet the musicians, and the like. I hear tell good things can come of the audience gettin’ to talk to the performers…”

Octavia batted a hoof at him and shook her head. “Folk music festival, not matchmaking service. Anyway, I was hoping you’d want to have it here. You’re better than I deserve.”

“Couldn’t be,” he said as he curled his neck around to kiss her. He never got there—

“You’ll play your dulcimer with me, too, of course.”

“Huh?”

Big McIntosh paced around behind the stage, his nerves only twitching more with each act that went on. Pinkie’d gone first with… whatever it was she played, followed by the Ponytones. Then Spike, Applejack, and Granny Smith had performed three or four great bluegrass tunes. And he didn’t just think that because they were family—the whole crowd got into it. Big Mac had even forgotten about his impending doom for a minute to sit down and tap a forehoof against his knee. Who knew Spike had gotten so good? Applejack gave him lessons right after lunch, when Big Mac would usually be working, so he rarely heard them.

So proud of his little sis… He’d have wrapped her in a hug when she came off the stage, but then he remembered—he had an hour at best.

Braeburn played some kind of nice ballad, but Big Mac couldn’t really listen. And the Crystal Empire had sent a whole flugelhorn choir! Seventeen of the dang things, in a bunch of sizes! He didn’t know quite what to make of it, but the crowd seemed happy. And the clock ticked on. So, maybe more than an hour to go. The acts were taking longer than he’d expected, so he sneaked away for a bit of a breather.

Too bad he missed the next few: griffon yodelers, a minotaur playing a great big war drum by dancing on it, some Saddle Arabian music that sounded kind of like a chant, and a wonderful group of zebras singing in the prettiest harmonies.

But he didn’t see the colors. A little for AJ, he guessed, but not for the rest. He knew they were there. They had to be. They had to. But everything had gotten so knotted up in his head that he couldn’t pay attention, couldn’t see.

A sharp, reedy sound rang out—Derpy’s harmonica. Big Mac was on next. He wandered back in, sat behind the stage, and closed his eyes. “I won’t make you,” Octavia had said. “You have a gift that deserves to be shared, but it has to be your choice.” Yeah, his choice. He didn’t blame her. Heck, he didn’t know if she even understood.

He sang all the time with the Ponytones. Stagefright had nothing to do with it. He just didn’t know if he could…

Up on the stage, Derpy rocked around on her stool, worked up a sweat, even got airborne as she flashed through a frantic passage, only to end it on a mournful wail that left everypony in silence. Even that bright green sound hanging in the air barely cracked through the fog in his head. Then the applause broke out, and he added his own, but it didn’t last near long enough.

His turn.

He stepped up on stage, carried his instrument to the middle, in full view of everypony, and glanced to the side. Octavia came over from the podium after announcing them—he hadn’t even heard the burgundy—and got her violin back out.

And they played. “Simple Gifts” first, because she loved it so much. His own simple gift to her, he guessed. But he couldn’t enjoy it, not this time. He just kept his eyes fixed on his strings, tried to remember the colors. They looked a little dull, but still there. He could do this.

Walled off, black all around. Only his colors in front of him, and some seeping over from Octavia’s violin. She started to move, too, kind of like Derpy had. Angling her nose up with the high notes, hoof sawing back and forth on those strings as she got more and more elaborate, making it up on the fly. He added a few flourishes as well, but it didn’t seem quite right to go overboard on a song with that title.

Before he knew it, they’d finished, and a murmur started up in the crowd, but Octavia held a hoof up to quiet them. Big Mac gulped.

And she bowed the first verse of that old lullaby. He knew it was coming, but he couldn’t have prepared himself. In the crowd, two or three ponies sang along softly. AJ, maybe Braeburn. A couple others he didn’t know. But their faces—like unexpectedly meeting an old friend they hadn’t seen in years. Applejack even wiped at her cheek.

On the second verse, Big Mac took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and joined in. By feel only. He could remember where to strike each string, even without looking. Sure, he missed a couple notes, but it didn’t matter. Like the last song, Octavia took up a soaring countermelody, and Big Mac obliged as well. He added a harmony and embellished the melody, exactly like Granny Stone had taught him.

He didn’t know how many verses they’d played, but the few in the audience who knew it had run out of words. She slowed up, and he knew what that meant: bring it to a close. And rather than end the whole production with a bang, she’d chosen this song. Send everypony—everyone—home in peace.

Big Mac stood there faintly trembling as Octavia made her way back to the podium. “I hope you all have a restful and serene night. Thank you for attending, and I’d like to make this a yearly thing.” With a gentle nod, she packed up her violin and came back over to Big Mac. He hadn’t budged.

“C’mon. Let’s get over to the barn for the reception. You know what good things can happen at one of those.” Her eyes flashed, and a grin finally cracked the stone of his face. She waited for him to put away his own instrument, then corralled him toward the barn, but as they got near, she tugged him around to the side, in the shadows away from the quarter moon.

“Thank you,” she said, then planted a kiss on his muzzle. “You did great. I know what that meant to you.”

Did she? Maybe. He wasn’t sure he could play that in front of anypony. It was Granny Stone’s song, something for her and him and Applejack. Not for an audience. But he’d done it. He’d done it for her.

“Granny Stone would be proud of you.” She kissed him again, then pulled him toward the front of the barn. “Let’s go. Time to meet your adoring public.”

Adoring, yes. Public, not so much.

“And I’ll finally get introduced to Derpy!” she added. “For real, I mean. We barely had time to say hello to each other during rehearsal before she had to rush off.”

True. And Derpy might even be more excited about that. He’d seen the apologetic looks as she hustled over to Miss Cheerliee’s schoolhouse or home to a family dinner. Not an issue—family came first for him, too.

He tugged Octavia to a stop, wrapped her in a hug, and held her in the darkness for a long time. She didn’t seem to mind. Then he nodded and followed her inside.

Author's Notes:

The phrase "alla Rustica" (capitalization pattern is intentional) means "according to the country fashion." It's pretty much the same idea as the "In the Country Style" part of the overall title. It refers to Octavia really burying herself in folk music during this chapter and doing her part to catalog what examples Big Mac knows.

The Austailian composer Percy Ranger is a reference to Australian Percy Aldridge Grainger, who collected folk songs in the way described here. He spent a significant portion of his composing career in England, jotting down whatever the common folks sang, exactly as they sang it, and many of them had never been written down before. Octavia admires Ranger's efforts toward this goal and takes that mantle on herself.

Originally, I just had the griffon group as a generic band, but I wanted to go for something very folksy and regional, and yodeling fit well with the fandom's tendency to consider the griffons Germanic.

The minotaur playing a war drum by dancing on it is a reference to the ballet Belkis, Queen of Sheba by my favorite composer, Ottorino Respighi. I'm not a ballet fan, but this is one I'd actually watch, though it's obscure enough that it's rarely performed. The War Dance features exactly this: warriors dancing atop giant drums. It's a very short but very intense part of the ballet suite, and I'll listen to it with the volume turned way up.

For the zebra singers, I had the group Ladysmith Black Mambazo in mind, who have performed South African isicathamiya- and mbube-style music for decades. They are contrasting soft and loud, respectively, a capella forms with intricate harmonies. It's actually interesting how the African harmonies sound quite similar in some ways to Appalachian ones. Music isn't all that different after all, no matter where you go. Along the same vein, East Asian music can sometimes sound similar to early European music, like Gregorian chant, since they both often employed pentatonic scales.

Ah, and I forgot to say that "Simple Gifts" is a real song, one of the best-known Appalachian traditional tunes. Thanks to Cowbrony93 for posting an example in the comments. And on a dulcimer, no less! A strummed one, not hammered, but it's still a similar sound.

Next week's it! It's been a great ride, and I hope it's been a memorable journey as well!

Coming November 2, Chapter 6: Toccata
and Epilogue: Encore

Chapter 6: Toccata

Octavia leaned over her baked ziti and took a bite. Of course, the cheese wouldn’t break. It stretched and stretched and stretched, so she bit off a few more of the noodles and tried her chances again. But all she did was reset the process.

Big McIntosh reached over and broke the string with his hoof, then wiped off the bit that had stuck to her chin. Out in public, at a restaurant, a celebrity like her, with cheese on her face. She laughed along with him, then took another sip of her wine. A nice bouquet, paired well with pasta. And she didn’t care.

He didn’t hold it up to the light and swirl it, didn’t savor it for a while before swallowing, didn’t inhale the delicate odor. Just a big slug of it, then wipe the back of a hoof across his mouth. “Pretty good, but I still like cider better,” he said. And she didn’t care.

It had come to this. Never before had she felt so comfortable in her own skin, so detached from what everypony else might think. This was the moment. She’d told him before, and she’d even felt it, for real. But this moment, she knew, not like a little fleeting fact, but an enormous truth that settled over her, wrapped around her like a blanket.

“I love you, Big Mac,” she said.

“I love you, too, Tavi,” he answered. Then he raised his eyebrow as she kept staring. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Octavia shook her head. “No. I just wish you could realize how amazing you are.” She ran her gaze over his strong jaw and broad shoulders. “You’re better than I deserve.”

Like every time she complimented him, he looked down at the table. “Couldn’t be,” he replied. Behind him, she saw some of the regulars about town watching them. She’d learned a few of their names—over by the front door, Lily, Daisy, and Rose enjoying a girls’ night out; near the kitchen, Mr. and Mrs. Cake getting out for a rare date without the kids; at the next table, her friend Rarity giving Sweetie Belle some sort of lesson in etiquette; and at the bar, Lyra and Bon Bon nursing a couple of ornate cocktails. All of them kept glancing over and grinning. Rarity, especially, the same way she’d smiled at him so long ago, at the reception where Octavia had first met him.

“Somepony really ought to record Derpy.” She wouldn’t embarrass him anymore. “I’ve never heard such a soulful harmonica player.”

Big Mac just waved a hoof at her. “I tried barkin’ up that tree. Only a hobby, she says. No amount o’ talkin’ will ever budge her. But she’ll play for friends, ’specially around one o’ the bonfires we have in the town square every few years. And she used to, if I was on break when she swung past the farm on her mail route.”

“Thank you for playing at the festival with me, by the way,” she said. “How did it feel, in front of everypony?” He chewed another bite of eggplant parmigiana and tensed his jaw. Answers never came quickly with him, but time mattered so much less than it used to.

He sucked at a bit of oregano between his front teeth. “Different. Not scary, like stagefright. More that I was puttin’ my heart on display, for all to see, y’know? I don’t know if I liked it.”

“That’s what music is, Big Mac! It takes the raw emotion of the composer and performer, and shines a spotlight right on it.” She propped her chin on a hoof and directed a dreamy smile at the darkening sky outside. “You want the listener to feel exactly like you do. You share your passion with her, give her a little piece of your life.”

When she got her thoughts back into her head, she noticed him staring again. “I love that about you,” he said. “You feel like music is a responsibility, like it’s your duty to bring it to everypony.”

Octavia blushed. “Well… don’t you feel the same way about apples?”

“Eeyup.”

“You know, it’ll get better.”

Big Mac wrinkled his forehead. “Huh?”

“That feeling of baring yourself in front of everypony. The more you do it, the less scary it gets. Then you see that they accept you for it and applaud you for it. I think you could learn to like it.” He didn’t answer. “I hope you’ll consider doing something like that again.”

He gave a half-shrug, and she supposed she’d have to settle for that. For now.

She scooped up her last bite of ziti and snatched the bill away before he could take it. “You think that ice cream cart in the park is still open?”

Octavia leaned against the hillside in her usual spot, playing her usual music and letting the usual twigs and grass collect in her mane. She’d washed off her forehooves in one of the water troughs before coming here, but her rear hooves still had topsoil caked on from her gardening chores. Next to her, Big McIntosh lay with his eyes shut, his dulcimer’s hammers hanging limply from his hooves. She’d close her own eyes, too—she knew the music well enough—but she wanted to watch him. Over the months, she’d learned to anticipate which notes, which chords, which inflections would make him smile, laugh, frown… or settle in a little harder, into the grass, into the couch, into her side.

She grinned as she kept on playing. “What colors do you see?” A lot of blue, she supposed. She’d picked this piece on purpose for that—blue was his favorite.

“Burgundy,” he said as his smile intensified.

“I know that.” Octavia nudged him with a shoulder. “I mean, what else?” Maybe that had surpassed blue as his favorite. He never failed to mention it as her voice’s tone, and he always got that faraway look when he did. When his eyes were open, that is.

He snorted. “Mostly blue.”

Only by occasional coincidence did a piece’s color actually match its theme—the composer had intended this one to evoke a forest scene, for instance. She could compensate a bit by playing in a different key, but still… hit or miss. Full orchestral works gave him so much color that he could reorganize it into whatever scene he chose, or at least she understood it that way.

In any case, it still lent her that spark in her playing to know that he experienced the music in such a personal way, that she could make that much of a connection with an audience. She finished with an impromptu flourish that she guessed he’d call a greenish tan, khaki maybe. “How’s that?”

“Dark red, maybe a purple.” Hm. Missed that one. Still, he gave her the answer she wanted. Normally, he’d just say, “Good.”

“Big Mac, I was thinking.” That got his eyes open. “You didn’t have such a bad time performing at the festival, did you?” He didn’t answer. She’d asked him some form of that question every couple of weeks and gotten a variety of noncommittal responses. But not today.

“I mean it,” Octavia said. “You’ve never really told me. Except for the one time.” She looked over at him and waited while he picked at a few weeds.

He only grunted.

“You told me how it felt that night, but has it gotten any better? Do you think you could play again if we hold another festival in a year or two?” He sighed and gave the kind of smile he might show to a foal who’d asked for the same bedtime story five nights in a row. Still, she waited. If she didn’t have to worry about one thing, it was getting an honest answer.

A few times, he seemed ready to speak, and then he finally met her gaze. “Friends and family. Yeah, I s’pose I could.” The tension in his cheeks said he knew what would come next.

And so she asked. “Do you think you could play for strangers, too?”

“I dunno,” he said immediately.

“You know folk music means a lot to me. And that I started featuring a little in the middle of my concerts.” He nodded slowly. He’d even attended a few, whenever she performed in Canterlot. “I’ve played a lot of the songs you taught me, and the crowds have enjoyed it. Gives them a nice slow-down between the showpieces and mixes up the flavor a bit, y’know?”

He hadn’t done anything more than blink. “I’d like you to come along to one and play the lullaby with me. It’s one of the most beautiful, heartfelt melodies I’ve ever heard, and I think everypony else deserves to hear it, too.”

Big Mac opened his mouth—

“First,” she said, “I want to reassure you. I can’t make you, and it’s the last concert of the season, so I’m not trying to rope you into multiple times. Just once. Try it once and see what you think.”

Already, his smile had turned into a faint scowl. “First,” he echoed, “I trust you not to pull any tricks like that. You didn’t have to say so.”

Octavia’s own timid grin fell. That was a fair point. “I’m sorry.”

“As to the rest… I dunno. I told you that before. I still don’t know if I’m okay with how it felt.” Gently, he touched a hoof to her chin.

“But you didn’t hate it. Even if you weren’t enthusiastic, ponies would love it. Please just—” He sighed and shook his head. She took his hoof in hers, more to get it out from under her chin so she could look down. “I won’t push.”

After a few minutes of listening to the wind rasping through the bulrushes, he sat up straighter. “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you.”

By now, she’d gotten pretty good at reading time from the sun, especially during these summer months. Not long until dinner. She rolled onto her side and got to her hooves. It wouldn’t feel right to ask him to groom her mane today, not after what she’d already asked of him. But he’d do it anyway.

“When is it?” he asked.

“Three weeks from tomorrow. It’s a three-day booking, but we’d only do the folk music performance on opening night.” She allowed a smile to creep onto the half of her face away from him.

And then she closed her eyes as she felt him picking the debris out of her mane.

Big McIntosh gazed at the tall granite structures all around him. At least the cast iron table reminded him of the cafes at home, but nothing else about this place felt familiar. He’d promised himself he’d give the art museum in Manehattan a chance, if he ever got the opportunity. Mostly because Rarity had proven herself right—and how!—about the music, he figured she deserved the benefit of the doubt. Well, since Octavia was doing the asking, he’d have agreed anyway.

“Do you like the coffee?” Octavia said. She held hers with both hooves and beamed at him over the rim of her cup. Something about her, that black and gray framed by the immaculate scenery behind her—steel and glass, chiseled stone, columns. It fit.

But this coffee… Lots of whipped cream, cinnamon, a couple other powders he couldn’t identify. And it was cold. On purpose. Better than hot coffee in the middle of a summer day, he supposed, but still. “Not bad,” he answered. True enough, but weird.

“If there’s anything else you want to see, our tickets are good for the whole day. I’m glad we got to see the exhibit of landscapes, though.” That same smile adorned her face, the one she got whenever she asked him about the colors he heard. She knew he liked farm scenes, so why not paintings of them? And then quite a few questions about whether it worked in reverse—did he hear music when he looked at the pictures? He endured them all patiently, and no, it didn’t happen that way.

He took another deep breath. Food everywhere, cloth, wood, metal. The city had its own smell. Not bad, just different. And leave it to the big town to have a restaurant right in the museum. Well, outside, but in the museum’s courtyard.

For the umpteenth time, he reached up to adjust his work collar, only to find it absent. No use for it here, so he’d left it at home.

Octavia must have noticed how lost he seemed. He bet she looked the same way on her first trip to Ponyville, but he wouldn’t have paid attention to how she acted at the time, just the black and gray and wonderful colors. As he took another drink, she scrunched up her nose. “Welcome to my world, Big Mac.”

“Yeah…” He glanced around uneasily at all the tall buildings again.

Octavia bent forward over the table and kissed him. She really didn’t mind the whole public thing—he made sure to smile, so he’d look good for her. And on cue, a camera clicked, somewhere on the other side of the fence. He might never get used to that.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging him out of his seat as he gulped down the rest of his coffee. Strange or not, no sense in letting it go to waste. “What else would you like to do today? I know you’re not much for shopping, but there’s so much out there. Go see a play, ride the subway up to the Broncs to take in a Flankees game, I think the Orangers made the hockey playoffs this year. Say, any connection to your relatives here?”

Big Mac rubbed the back of his neck. He never liked discussing the… well, the rich side of the family. “Um… yeah, some distant uncle owns ’em. Never met him, ’cept the one time he flew in for the reunion in his airship. Granny Smith pointed him out to me.”

“Oh! Did you plan to visit with any of them? We could go—”

“Naw,” he said with a flick of his hoof. “I wrote ahead. Gonna meet the ones AJ stayed with tomorrow, for breakfast. Before I head back.” A chill ran down his back. Yeah, tomorrow. After tonight…

She must have seen him tense up. She frowned and curled a foreleg around his. “Why don’t we try Central Park. Ponds, trees, nice big open spaces. I think you’d like it.”

She’d been game when she first visited his farm. No holding back, no gussied-up version of it—only the real thing would do. He couldn’t rightly skip out on this. “Sure, but only for a bit. You wanted the whole farm experience, and I want the whole city experience. Like you said, this is your world. Show me what you want me to know about you.”

“You’re better than I deserve.” She broke into a broad grin, kissed him again, and reached for the tab, but he beat her to it. Not cheap, but he’d better start learning to live like this.

“Couldn’t be.” She always scrunched up her nose when he said that.

“Alright, after Central Park, I’ll show you this great jazz club I know—think of how much Derpy would love it!—then I’ll take you to FAO Horse. Trust me, you’ll have a ton of fun there. Next…”

Chuckling to himself, Big Mac fell into step beside her and followed her out into the busy street.

Looking into the mirror, Big McIntosh straightened his tuxedo jacket and adjusted his bow tie. A perfect match with Octavia’s, he noted with a grin, but he hated having something so tight on his neck. Made it a little hard to breathe.

The concert had gone well so far, with a nice, bright overture full of yellows and oranges, and then a scherzo with just about every color in it. Scherzo. Listen to him—had he really picked up that much of her lingo already?

He’d come backstage at the intermission to get ready, and Octavia kept filing back and forth, out on stage to announce the next act, in to have a hushed conversation with Maestro, grab one of her instruments and go play something herself. He even recognized a few songs he’d taught her, and she returned from a rendition of “Simple Gifts” with a particularly blissful expression on her face. Through his bouts of wishing he’d skipped lunch, he couldn’t help smiling. And before each performer took her turn in the spotlight, that same burgundy voice introducing the pieces, but muffled closer to an orange by the door. He would have expected a curtain…

Burgundy and black and gray. Never before had his world seemed so colorful.

“Alright, Big Mac.” He jumped—he hadn’t even seen her walk up to him. “We’re on next.” She gave him a critical gaze, adjusted his lapels, and licked her hoof to rub something off his cheek. “There.”

“I… I dunno,” he said as his stomach made another twist. “W-we never really practiced.”

She smirked at him and winked. “Well, then you’re the rare soul who’s gotten here without it.”

“Huh?” He knew that look, but her joke had gone way over his head.

When his gape didn’t go away, she finally shook her head. “Nothing. An old gag about a tourist asking how to get to Carneighgie Hall, and the pony answers, ‘Practice, practice, practice!’”

“Oh…” His mouth had gone dry, and the little gap at the edge of the door had never looked so close.

“Besides, what do you call all the time we spent playing by the pond? You know this stuff by heart. Don’t think about it—just play it.” His gaze kept wandering over to the sliver of light lancing through the cracked door, but she took his chin in her hoof and forced him to look her in the eye. “You can do this. They—” she waved a hoof toward the audience “—are not the enemy. They genuinely want to hear what you have to tell them, like… like Apple Bloom, when she asks you for one of your stories.”

His lips in a taut line, Big Mac nodded. For that matter, he’d caught his littlest sister sneaking away from her chores to listen to them on more than one occasion. Out of the corner of his eye, and he’d never say anything to chase her off. So, ignore the audience, as ponies say. Just a private run-through with Tavi, and Apple Bloom happened to overhear it. Or hundreds of Apple Blooms…

She gave him a kiss, then wiped a little smudge of lipstick off his mouth. “C’mon,” she said, angling her head toward the applause coming from the other world on the far side of that door. “Our turn.”

With a heavy gulp, he followed her through, out to the wooden planks of the flooring, into the haze of spotlights. He couldn’t see anything past their glow, just… it almost looked like frost. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see why.

The room, done up in a white or cream color. Carved wood all over the place, above the stage, on the fancy boxes, even with gilding. He’d expected… stone, darkness. Black and gray. And burgundy. But this room, those boxes, balconies, seats… full.

Every space in the concert hall, packed with ponies, taking up the aisles, too. All those faces, all those eyes. But he sang with the Ponytones! Audiences didn’t bother him!

Big Mac shut his eyes and concentrated. Just the sound of her voice. That’s all he needed. Block everything else out but the burgundy.

Nothing.

His legs stiffened, and his breath rasped inside his head. No burgundy. No—no burgundy. What else did he have to hold onto? His ears flattening against his head, he stared hard into the darkness. It had to be there! He couldn’t just turn the colors on and off. It was there, and he knew it, so why couldn’t he find it?

A soft pressure on his shoulder.

“Ready?” said a whisper in his ear.

“M-my hammers.”

“Already out there. With your dulcimer. The stage workers set it up.”

Everything, done for him. They probably thought he’d appreciate it, but… he didn’t get to carry his own instrument? Granny Stone’s instrument. Her—her dulcimer, her song.

A little shove in the ribs, step by step, eyes still closed. The wood and strings, right in front of him now. He could smell them.

“One, two, three, four.” Softly, next to him. Not burgundy.

He was late on his entrance, but his hooves jerked to the right notes automatically. No watching the strings by color or position, only playing like he had hundreds of times now. She was right. All those days, in the orchard, they’d rehearsed enough. Don’t think, just play, she’d said, back when her voice had color. She was right.

On the second verse, she added the words, but he didn’t know if he sang with her. Her violin rang out, in a key she’d chosen for its blue, but none of that, either. Not even her pleasing shade of charcoal—only a featureless black. Featureless, impossible, wrong!

Her bow slid across her violin and soared up to the high notes, once she’d run out of words. He might have added a few of the flourishes he sometimes used. Whatever his hooves felt like doing, he let them have their way.

And he stopped, and applause sounded all around, and a hoof draped over his shoulder.

“Are you okay, Big Mac?”

Octavia’s voice sounded like it came through cotton stuffed in his ears. He stared at her for a second before nodding. With the undone bow tie dangling from his neck, he could finally breathe.

“The audience loved it. You did great!”

He watched her chin carefully, where the words spilled out. A few were red, he guessed.

“You want to go out and chat with the audience or orchestra? Or do you just want to head back to the hotel room and get some sleep? You do have an early carriage to catch tomorrow, and breakfast before.”

As near as he could tell, she was leaning against the wall near him, but the bright light behind her washed it out. Go? The orchestra still had another few things to play after the intermission, didn’t they?

“You don’t look up for a big dinner. I can just reheat some of the leftover spinach souffle, if you want.”

For lack of anything better to do, he nodded again. A little food and some sleep. Maybe he’d feel better in the morning. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so… empty. Empty and raw and—

Octavia waved a hoof in front of his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

He blinked and stretched a foreleg around her neck. “Yeah, just—I’m just tired.”

“I don’t wonder. You’ve had a long day.” She kissed him on the cheek and steered him toward the back, through all the parts of the concert hall nopony sees and out the loading dock.

The nearby buildings rose around him like a gorge. Over the top of one, he could just make out a skyscraper he recognized. The back door had actually left them heading in the right direction to go… home.

It didn’t seem right to use that word. Home. The city had its own smells, its own life, its own beauty. But now, after dark… trash in the alleyway, no stars visible overhead, no breeze rustling the trees, no crickets answering each other from the grass.

At least Octavia loved the farm so much. She could live there. It only added a little to her travel when the orchestra went on tour—she didn’t exactly spend that much time at her Canterlot apartment anyway. Wherever she called home, she’d still spend a lot of time away.

Big Mac hugged her closer. On their early dates, she would have chattered away, anything to fill the silence. More often now, she kept quiet. Not talking, that is, but she’d hum something under her breath, in a nice burgundy. As if on cue, she started. He thought he recognized it as one of the solos she’d spent a lot of time practicing the last few months. The one he must have missed—the piece it came from should have come after the folk music performances.

Yeah, a little food and a little sleep. Maybe he’d feel better in the morning.

Big Mac huffed the smell of garbage out of his nostrils and listened to the burgundy. It really was burgundy again.

A subdued good-bye—Octavia would head to Ponyville after the weekend anyway—an uneventful breakfast with the Oranges, a boring coach ride to town, and then the long walk home. Through the woods, with all its sounds and rhythms, then to all the colors of his farm.

It didn’t feel right without burgundy. Or black and gray. Three colors that made the rest mean something. Was that how Rarity saw the world? He’d need to remember to thank her the next time he saw her. Plus, she’d want to know all about his trip.

Through the front door, up the stairs, and he dropped his overnight bag on the floor. He could deal with that later, but he did carefully put his dulcimer away in its drawer. “I’ll show you pictures later, Miss Smarty Pants,” he said, “but I saw it in person this time. I’ll give you the rundown.”

Big Mac droned away, his mouth on automatic. Every so often, he squeezed his eyes shut against the dry sensation. Then he opened his eyes. He remembered getting to the part about going to the jazz club, but… he must have fallen asleep. The sun hung low in the sky.

Consarn it! He hadn’t slept well last night, but no excuse for missing out on chores. Especially not when that meant leaving them all for Applejack to do. He rolled out of bed and put on his work collar in case she’d left any for him, or maybe to get a head start on tomorrow. It felt odd, though, after going a few days without wearing it. Not a good kind of odd.

A soft knock sounded at the door. “Big Mac?”

“That you, AJ? ’S open.”

His sister walked in, still a little damp from her bath. It must’ve been hot today for her to take a second one in the evening. “You alright?” She sat on the bed and watched him. For once, she didn’t jabber on and try to draw him out. She just waited.

“Eeyup,” he finally said. But he’d waited too long to answer—she wouldn’t believe him.

“Didn’t sound like you had much fun.” Applejack rubbed a hoof at her nose, then acted like she found something interesting in the bedspread’s pattern.

Big Mac glanced up at the stack of postcards on his dresser. He’d bought a few at a gift shop in Manehatten but hadn’t unpacked them yet. They’d go in a different stack, though—not the ones that he’d read and hear the burgundy in his head. “I had fun. It was just… different.”

“Well… yeah. That’s city life for you.” She patted her hoof at the same spot on the bedspread and looked up at him. “I mean the concert. I… I heard you talkin’ to the doll.”

Oh. He thought he’d fallen asleep well before getting to that.

And then his face started turning red as he clenched his jaw. “AJ, why you gotta—?”

“I ain’t gonna bug you about it. Just… I’m sorry.” She leaned over to put a hoof on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy playin’ on that stage. Can’t say I didn’t expect it.”

Big Mac narrowed his eyes at her. She didn’t mind the occasional gossip, but she drew the line at anything harmful or meddlesome, so at least no need to mistrust her. She wouldn’t blab. But he still couldn’t quite tell what she was getting at. “Huh?”

“Look, I know it might be weird for you. But you can talk to me if you need to. I promise, I only want to help.” After a small shove against his shoulder, she stood to leave.

What did she think she heard? He didn’t like standing in front of that huge audience. Big deal. A lot of ponies didn’t. He just wouldn’t do it again. Problem solved. Singing somepony else’s song with the Ponytones was one thing, but leaving his heart on stage for all to see… he couldn’t.

He couldn’t. Oh, Celestia, he couldn’t.

Big Mac’s breath caught in his throat, and he whipped his head toward the door, but Applejack had already left.

Two days. Two more days, and he’d hear that burgundy voice again. It’d make everything alright. Maybe he’d go sit on the front steps of the post office before dawn tomorrow and try to catch Derpy on her way into work.

The same landmarks, the same ruts in the road. By now, Octavia could nearly predict which way the carriage would bounce and when, especially that one thick tree root just before Ponyville came into view. And as always, her heart quickened with each mile. That rock on the edge of the forest, with the white vein running through it—about ten minutes to go.

She always made sure to take the earliest departure, and at least half the time, that same old mare would give her a knowing smile—the one who’d read her so accurately the very first time she’d made this trip. And there she sat again, grinning back at Octavia.

“Good morning, Miss Magnolia,” Octavia said.

“And to you, dearie,” she replied with a nod. “Off to see your beau again?”

Octavia smiled, then looked back out the window. “Yes, ma’am. I have the next three months off, so I’ll probably visit a lot.”

“Mmhmm.” More trees went by, and then the old oak with the twisted branch. Eight minutes to go. “Still visiting?” the old mare asked.

Octavia didn’t answer right away. Visiting. Big Mac had long since referred to the guest room as her room. Even Applejack had called it that, on occasion. Come to think of it, she hadn’t spent much time with Apple Bloom or Granny Smith. That one, in particular, always seemed to watch her with some sort of suspicion. Narrowed eyes and a stare that lingered a bit. She’d never brought it up with Big Mac, though. She didn’t live there, and she didn’t know if she—

“Something wrong, dearie?”

For a moment, Octavia kept an eye out for the little bridge over the creek. Seven minutes. She shook her head slightly. “No, just… I hope I didn’t ask too much of him. He played at a music festival with me, and I pushed him to try something with a larger audience. I think it was too much for him.” She sighed and leaned her cheek against the glass. “He seemed different when he left the next morning.”

“Oh…” Magnolia tut-tutted and pursed her lips. “Sometimes that’s what a relationship takes: pushing each other to be more than you were. Then knowing when to back away and leave well enough alone. Sounds like you have a good handle on things.”

“You think so?”

Magnolia grinned again. “Take it from somepony who enjoyed sixty-one years of marriage.”

Funny… she’d never mentioned a husband before. But at Octavia’s questioning glance, Magnolia immediately replied, “Gone four years ago. But it’s never over—I still love him.” She rolled her eyes up to the sky.

Octavia patted Magnolia’s hoof. “Thanks.”

She rode the rest of the way in silence, counting down the minutes until her heart leapt at the wheels hitting that tree root and the first buildings on the town’s outskirts coming into view. Ponyville! Her body practically shook, and she strained toward the carriage’s door, just waiting for it to open, and when it finally did… she motioned Magnolia to the exit first, of course. No need to show disrespect in her eagerness.

But when she stepped out, there stood Big Mac on the platform. “Howdy, Miss Magnolia,” he said on his way over, and the old mare nodded back. Octavia took her violin case and overnight bag from the porter, then ran up to him and flung her hooves around his neck. He wrapped one of his own about her. Nice and warm against him, and… Smiling. Smiling but not smiling.

“It’s so good to see you, Big Mac! I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I felt bad about…”

“Eeyup.”

Her heart leapt again. But in a different way.

They walked in silence back to the farm. They always did—she’d watch his ears swivel to catch every fleeting sound and listen in herself to see if she could pick out what had caught his attention. But this was silence. Mile after mile of it.

Big Mac didn’t lead her to the house—straight to the pond where they always played. He’d do that about half the time as well, but something didn’t sit right. Not this time.

Once again, he took his spot on the hillside, closed his eyes, and sniffed at the air. She might as well join in for a little nap before the day got too hot, except she had to do something to work off this tension. She reached over to brush a hoof across his cheek. “Hey, would you mind playing something with me? I need to blow off some steam, and nothing relaxes me quite like that.” With her other hoof, she pulled her instrument case closer and undid the latch.

“I… I’m just not in the mood right now.”

An icy bolt shot up her back. Her hooves trembled, and she fought the tingle in her nose. Propping up on a foreleg, she watched Big Mac, his eyes closed against what he couldn’t say. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he held a breath.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” she said softly. In a bit of a quaver, too, but he probably didn’t hear that. His ears folded back, but he didn’t say anything. “I shouldn’t have pushed you—I won’t ask again, I promise. Please.”

He opened his eyes and bit his lip like a parent would the first time they really had to explain death to a foal.

“Please, I won’t ask you again, ever.” Look at her. If the photographers could see her now… “I promise!”

“I ain’t mad,” he said.

“Then what? What did I do wrong?”

He rolled onto his side and finally met her gaze. “Nothin’.” That intense stare. “Nothin’. You have to believe that. You did nothin’ wrong.”

In her throat, words gathered, but none would come out. Why? Why?

Big Mac let out a heavy sigh. “I stood out on that stage and let everypony see my heart. I… I can’t do that again. For friends or family, yeah, but all those ponies, lookin’ down and seein’ me, the real me. A-and I couldn’t see the colors. I know they were there, but… I couldn’t see ’em. N-not even the burgundy.”

She didn’t wait half a second when he paused. “But I won’t—”

“I know,” he said, holding up a hoof. “That kinda thing’s not for me. But for you… You love doin’ that. You love standin’ under the lights, puttin’ your all into every note you play, and lettin’ perfect strangers see—” he shook his head and swallowed hard “—see what makes you tick, what you love, what gets you to cry, what makes you Octavia. That’s why you love it—because music brings out that truth. You share everything you are with the audience, and without that, music wouldn’t interest you half as much.”

Octavia held a shaky hoof to her mouth. She didn’t realize how much he actually understood about that. Still, it didn’t mean—

“I can’t do that,” Big Mac continued. “For you, for family, friends… The folk music festival was pushin’ it a bit, but I can’t play on tour with you like that.”

She felt like she might float up off the grass. After holding her breath that long, she had to inhale deeply a few times. Not so bad. She could live with that. After all, they’d started out that way. If only her body would stop shaking, but at least none of the nightmares flitting through her mind had come true. “I shouldn’t have prodded. I’m sorry.”

“I know. I said I ain’t mad.” Still, he frowned at the grass. He had more to say. Octavia’s shoulders knotted up again.

Quickly, Big Mac muttered something under his breath. She didn’t quite catch it, but if it was the word she thought she heard, she wouldn’t have ever expected him to use it.

“What would we do? I mean, really, what would we do?” He huffed out a breath and stared up at the clouds. “I can’t go with you, taggin’ along here and there, in a city life that don’t suit me. I… I gotta have dirt, I gotta have chores, my farm, my family. I can’t leave it all for AJ to do.”

She knew that. She already knew. That’s why she—

“And you? Livin’ here one weekend a month?” Big Mac picked a stalk of grass, chewed on it a few times, and let it fall from his mouth. “I know you love the farm, but think of how much longer it’d take to get anywhere on your… your concert tours. And still, one weekend a month…”

Octavia leaned forward on her forelegs. “And three months off in the summer. But no, Big Mac, I-I don’t know.” She shook her head hard. She had to get those horrible thoughts out, the ones that said she should have seen this coming, that she never should have started something she couldn’t finish. And leaving him behind in the wreckage, because she had to visit the farm with the nice stallion who saw pretty colors. “I don’t know. I could just do half the schedule, or none of it, or-or…” Her quavering voice died away.

No way he believed a word of that. Even she didn’t. She shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have pushed him, shouldn’t have… She shouldn’t.

He swallowed hard. “Tavi, I once told you somethin’. I said you felt like it was your duty to share your music with everypony, all across Equestria. ’S the truth, and it’d drive you nuts if you gave that up. I won’t do that to you. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

He was right. Here she sat, next to the stallion she loved more dearly than anything, and she’d never felt so… empty. Hollowed out, her heart, her happiness, just nothing.

“Either I go for a life that ain’t mine and resent leavin’ all this behind”—he waved a hoof at the trees surrounding them—“or I anchor you here and hate myself for keepin’ you from givin’ the world what you think you owe it.”

No tears. She couldn’t even cry. Her throat knotted up until her breath wheezed out.

“Stick it out or call it off—no matter which one I choose, it’ll be the worst mistake I ever made,” he said. He tensed up a foreleg and made to pound it in the dirt, but at the last second, he put it back down gently and let out a sigh. “Only one would be the worst mistake you ever made, though.”

Even if he was wrong about her, even if she quit without a second thought, he’d never forgive himself. She could see him forcing a smile every morning as he wondered what she might have done with her life, if not for him. Her telling him not to worry, that she’d chosen to stay, and him nodding back because he was supposed to. Either way, one harboring regrets, the other suspicions, maybe both. And no amount of reassurance would dispel them. Or spending—she ran a few quick figures in her head—less than a third of each year together. A choice between her love and her music. Not a fair choice for him, not a fair choice for her, and she could rant and rave all she liked about it, but it wouldn’t fix a damned thing.

The emptiness only worsened, but… what had Miss Magnolia said? “It’s never over—I still love him.” She needed to say it. She needed to hear herself say it. “I love you,” she said, more firmly than she would have expected.

“I know. I love you, too, Tavi.” He stretched over to hug her, but she wedged her muzzle in between them, closed her eyes, and kissed him on the mouth. She needed to make that point. After lingering with those warm lips against hers for a gloriously long time, she felt him pull back. “You’re my best friend. That don’t change. Agreed?”

Octavia held back the tears that suddenly decided to come and nodded quickly. “Of course. I would never want that to stop.”

“I hope you’ll still visit. And I hope you’ll still do your folk music festivals.” At the sound of a sniffle, she opened her eyes, but not too quickly. No need to make him feel self-conscious. “And I ’specially hope you’ll still play your fiddle with me, down here, where it’s quiet. Not so many other colors, just the black and gray and burgundy.”

She smiled, but for once, she didn’t laugh when he referred to her voice that way. “Yes to all three,” she said. Her violin case lay there next to her, unlatched for what seemed like hours now. She took out her instrument and plucked one string to make sure it hadn’t gone too far out of tune. “One more time for good measure?”

He nodded, and she played. Right there, on her back in the grass. Not the best position for it, but it didn’t matter. She played the lullaby and sang along, all the while imagining a wash of colors in her mind, until she paused. Not a flurry of them, just a few. Black and gray and burgundy. And red and blond. What about his voice? Green. She decided it would be green.

Octavia picked up again at the last line. “Know I’ll always love you, dear.” As the final note faded, she let it out. She cried quietly, and with a shuddering breath, he held her.

It hadn’t taken them long to walk back to town in the evening light. And neither had spoken along the way. No burgundy. He supposed he’d have to get used to that.

They had ten minutes yet until the last coach left for Canterlot, and they sat on a bench, waiting for the signal to board and staring at the knotted wood of the platform’s worn planks. At the sight of a few blades of grass stuck in her mane, he leaned over to pick them out, but she waved him off, so he returned to waiting. “You don’t have to leave, y’know,” he said. “You just got here.”

She blinked at the ground with her red, swollen eyes. “I-I need to reset. To get everything sorted out in my head, how things are now, how to love you without… without doing anything about it.” Her lips pursed, she looked over at him. “Don’t worry—I’ll come back. In a few weeks, maybe.”

Nodding, he scooted a little closer to her. Her hoof dangled limply by her side, but he didn’t take it. With most other ponies, he’d have considered her words an empty promise, but not Octavia. Not her. “Good. I’ll polish up my dulcimer so it looks real nice for you.”

A sparkle returning to her eye, she smiled. An honest-to-goodness, genuine smile. “I’ll look forward to it. And I’m not going to stop sending you postcards.” Her mouth hung open for a moment. “You’re better than I deserved,” she said.

“No. You deserve so much more, and I’ll make sure you get it.”

He grasped her hoof and held it until the ticket attendant whistled sharply. “Boarding now for Canterlot, last call!”

“I do still love you,” Big Mac whispered. “I always will.” She squeezed his hoof back and opened her mouth again, but no words came. With a sigh, he stood and passed Octavia’s bag and instrument case to the porter. Big Mac pulled her toward him, into one more hug, and he could feel her heart beating against him. But in a matter of seconds, she’d climbed the ladder, taken her seat, and gone. Just a muted wave out the back window, and before long, too far away to see her anymore. Their duet—“in the folk style,” as the fancy Canterlot types liked to phrase it—back to a solo act. With occasional accompaniment, he hoped.

Octavia hadn’t noticed, but when they’d left the house, Applejack had peeked out of the toolshed. By the way she’d gone ashen, his sister could tell from how they’d acted, how they’d walked. She must have. Maybe he’d take her up on that offer of a sympathetic ear. And on his way back, he’d stop by to thank Rarity again for introducing them, if she hadn’t closed for the night. He always did, whenever he had occasion to come to town, and he’d never change his mind about that. His mouth bowed into a smile, but it soon fell.

If Derpy was still awake… He hated to impose, but he was definitely going to knock on her door anyway. She’d understand.

His Tavi, gone, and with her, the promise of black and gray and burgundy every day. But better this way, better for her. Gone, but not for good.

He dragged his leaden hooves along with him as he turned away from the distant mountains and the city built into their rocky slopes.

But not for good.

Author's Notes:

A toccata is a piece written to show off the full capabilities of both musician and instrument. None of the music here is particularly difficult, so it refers more to how Octavia is pressing Big Mac to make the most of his talents.

I also need to give credit to commenter Isaac The Red here. When Octavia wants to play a good-bye song, it makes thematic sense in the story for it to be the lullaby. But the song he posted really fits the mood. It mostly has a melancholy sound to it, and I like how the cello stays in a supporting role. Though Octavia's easily the better musician, she doesn't really seek the spotlight. It embarrased her to have Maestro make a big deal out of her at the first concert, and she doesn't want to take much of a role beyond organizer in her own folk music festival. I can totally see them playing this in that penultimate scene, before she leaves. And I kept torturing myself by listening to it this week and imagining them sitting in that orchard playing it.

I love this chapter. I love it and I hate it. It wasn't hard to write, but it's been a beast to revise and edit, because it leaves me an emotional wreck. I feel so bad for the characters. But I'll talk about the process of making this story more in the epilogue's notes, since that's part of it.

So I'll just go into the little references here. When I decided to have Derpy as a good harmonica player, I had the song "Spokey Dokey" from the Cowboy Bebop soundtrack running through my head. I wrote this well before any Rainbow Rocks clips came out, and believe it or not, I actually thought about having her play saw, but I wanted to have her as somepony of understated and surprising abilities, not as somepony silly and outre.

There are the obvious puns on the Bronx and the Yankees, but when trying to come up with another, I set on Orangers for Rangers, which made for a nice family connection. And then there's FAO Schwarz.

In the description of the concert venue, particularly of there being a door rather than a curtain, I'd started writing it as a more standard setup, but decided I'd better look up a photo of Carnegie Hall to get it right. Glad I did.

His mouth bowed into a smile, but it soon fell.

Yes, that's a double meaning, a play on Octavia's string instruments.

Epilogue: Encore

Big McIntosh grinned as he walked over the creaky old floorboards of the kitchen. Three or four foals weaved around him, under his belly, and through his legs as they chased each other about the house. He brushed his graying forelock out of his eyes.

Full. This house had always been better when full, and these days, it certainly didn’t disappoint. One of Applejack’s children still lived here—the next generation to take over the farm, once Big Mac and Applejack had retired, in name, if not in actual refraining from work. And it seemed like at least a dozen of either Applejack’s or Apple Bloom’s grandchildren would rule the place on any given day. Exactly as it should be.

The old Cutie Mark Crusaders clubhouse on the edge of the property still stood, but more as a curiosity. They had an actual building. A whole building now. Apple Bloom’s construction company had put it up a good twenty years ago, and she’d started a national organization, all official-like. Similar to the Filly Scouts or something.

Big Mac flipped through the mail and left the bills on the small desk in the hallway, then broke into an even wider grin at the last item: another postcard. No wonder Derpy had smiled so big. She’d swooped in with her six-year-old grandson on her back and paused a minute like she wanted to say something. From the smile alone, he’d figured on a note from Tavi, but what else? They came regularly enough—Tavi had kept that promise. She’d kept all her promises. Years later, he still didn’t count anypony as a closer friend, not even Derpy. But the mailmare had bitten her tongue and flown off.

He checked the postmark, but it was too faint for him to read. At least the front had nice, big words on it. From somewhere overseas—he had no idea where Maretonia was.

And so he headed for the stairs. He loved having all these kids around, but sometimes he needed a bit of quiet. Once in his room, he swung the door shut, mostly anyway. They didn’t usually close doors in this house. Not surprisingly, he heard a tiny knock just a few seconds later.

“Uncy Big Mac, can I play with Miss Smarty Pants?”

He turned and patted the small filly on her head. “In a minute, Honeycrisp. I got somethin’ to do first.”

She nodded and tore off back down the stairs. With a chuckle, Big Mac walked over to his dresser. He’d tell her when he went down later that she could come get the doll. If she even remembered.

On top of the dresser, his growing array of family photos sat. So long ago, he used to have postcards propped up amid them, but not anymore. Not enough space—instead, he’d kept them all in a binder on the dresser’s corner, and it had grown pretty heavy over the years. Tavi sent one nearly every month, all this time, and he’d write back when he knew she’d be in Canterlot. She’d even stop by for the occasional weekend to catch up and play some songs with him, and every year or two for another week-long folk music festival. All promises kept, and not because she felt obligated. She really wanted to. No deceit in those eyes—an Apple could tell. Even helped out with the gardening.

He took the book over to his bed and paged through it. Those first few that he could recite by heart. Then about a year’s gap before they’d started up again. Pictures and messages from every corner of the world.

The one where she’d told him she was getting married—he wouldn’t read it again, not today. The one only seven months afterward, where the shaky writing said it had ended already. She’d come back to visit not long after, but kept mostly to herself.

Another, where she’d tried to comfort him after his own broken engagement. Seems like they’d both given up after that. The one that got away, that was never meant to be, but that he’d never equal again, so why try?

With a sigh, he pushed through a couple of decades, all in one clump, and found the next empty spot near the back. “What do you think, Miss Smarty Pants?” he said, holding up the picture. “Maretonia. See all the pretty costumes and the old castle on the hill?”

And with the postcard’s back toward him, Big Mac finally saw the writing at the top, in big letters.

“I’m done.”

He blinked, held the card closer to his face, and felt around on the bedside table for his reading glasses. He read aloud to Miss Smarty Pants.

“I’m done. I got it all out of my system. There’s only one thing in my life I never accomplished, and it wasn’t fair to have to choose between my music and the only authentic love I ever found. If only I’d known that then, but as you said at the time, I always felt like the music was something bigger than me, something I owed the world. But I’m done. I’ve retired, and it’s time to do something for me. In two weeks, I’ll ride the carriage in from Canterlot, and my heart will skip a beat, just like it always has when I’ve made that trip. Now, maybe I’ll be the wise elder musing to a young mare about first love. But this time, I won’t have a return ticket. I just want to find a quiet corner of Ponyville where I can ply my simple gifts. And maybe I can finally find that last piece my life has been missing for so long. I hope I’ll see you there. You know I still love you. You’re better than I deserve.”

Big Mac stared at the writing a minute longer. Why would she even doubt it? “Couldn’t be,” he said. He shut the book again. This postcard wouldn’t go in there—he propped it up with the photos and put his binder back on the dresser.

Derpy had read it as usual, not that he minded. She’d always done that, with his okay. But the varmint knew his routine well enough to figure things’d play out exactly as they had. Him, in his room, nice and private. He owed her a muffin for that.

“Honeycrisp!” he shouted down the stairs. “You can play with the doll now!”

Two weeks. It had all started with two weeks, so why not? Maybe it’d just mean his best friend living nearby, maybe more, but either way, he’d love nothing better than to spend the time with Tavi. Black and gray, always with that sense of wonder and wind chimes of laughter. And the burgundy. The beautiful burgundy.

Like every time he’d gotten a postcard, he planned to stop by Carousel Boutique. He couldn’t find Rarity there too often these days, but within a week or so, at the shop or at a Ponytones rehearsal, he’d catch her. And he’d thank her, then she’d ask why, but her smile would say that she knew.

He opened his bottom dresser drawer, looked over the old walnut case inside, and rubbed a hoof across his mouth. Not lesson day until tomorrow. He’d taught two of those foals for a couple years now—Applejack’s third grandson and Apple Bloom’s oldest granddaughter.

The filly even saw the colors. So voice lessons for her, too. Just like Granny Stone said, can’t get one without the other, at least for somepony with that particular family inheritance. For a minute, his mind drifted to a cabin on a mountaintop and fiddle music by firelight.

No. No lessons today. But like he did once or twice a week, he’d enjoy an afternoon for himself. Not necessarily by himself—friends and family were always welcome to listen—but playing just for fun. For the love of it.

Then, humming an old lullaby, he took his dulcimer out and headed for a small pond at the base of a hill in a quiet orchard.

Author's Notes:

Another obvious one, but an encore is when the audience cheers the performers into extending the program, either by repeating something they've already played or adding to the playlist. It simply describes how there's a little extra to the story here, though it does recontextualize the ending.

The character Honeycrisp isn't defined in a definite way. I see her as Apple Bloom's youngest child. In any case, she's the same one I used in "There Will Never Be a Last Laugh," thus she later marries Pinkie Pie's son, which would require both Apple Bloom and Pinkie Pie to have children rather late in life, but not so late as to be unfeasible. Present Perfect accused me of starting a 'verse. I like subtle links like this, but they're so minor that I wouldn't consider them as such.

ply my simple gifts

Yeah, a reference to the song Octavia had always loved.

Now a word about the story as a whole. I'll try to keep it as brief as possible.

I started this story almost three years ago, when I'd only published two or three fanfics. My first story was one of very moderate success, but it was chaptered. Only five chapters, though. A lot of the stories I admired at the time were quite long, and the only other chaptered concept I had would run a mere seven installments, which I later cut down to five (and, incidentally, another one I put down and still haven't revisited yet).

So this one started as a very open concept, one of those you hear authors go on about where you "let the story write itself." I figured I could ramble on for thirty chapters or more off nothing but the premise of shipping Big Mac with Octavia.

I got stuck after chapter four.

For one thing, I've come to believe that "letting the story write itself" is an excuse for having the seed of an idea but no plan. And if you have no plan, how can you get the story to go anywhere? Maybe that works for some people, but not for me, and I ended up with something directionless.

I put the story down, and after a year and a half, finally started getting ideas of how to wrap it up in another chapter or two. The thing is, I'd wanted it to be a happy story. But it's such a cliched thing for a romance to lead up to a first kiss, a wedding, whatever. What then? That's the easy part. What happens after is tough. That's the real story.

Anyway, I couldn't come up with anything other than a pat, worn ending, because I had no goal for the story besides getting them together, and I couldn't force one on it after the fact. Plus, I actually liked what I'd written so far and didn't want to alter it much. So my plan for closing it out went to having the romance fail.

So two years after I'd written those first four chapters, I finally picked it back up. Being so old, they needed a good rewrite just for quality, plus I added in some subplots and thematic elements. Then I wrote chapter five, leading toward the intended breakup. I already knew how it would end, already had chapter six plotted out. But then I got a great idea for the epilogue and wrote it first. I just had to get it out.

Then chapter six. The story had originally been solely optimistic, and I hadn't written any material yet to change that. So chapter six still felt separate. I can get too emotionally attached to my characters sometimes, and it did cause me some difficulty to write it, but it wasn't until editing that it hit me. Hard.

That's when it really sunk in, and I felt so bad for my characters. The story takes on an entirely different tone on a second read-through, once you know how it ends. It was tough to do the editing rounds, and while I'll often get used to a story with each pass, this one continued to get worse. I dreaded doing the final check this week, and I only made a couple dozen changes to phrasing and word choice, but I had to blow my nose about five times and wipe away tears.

I don't know why this one affected me so much. And unlike many authors, I usually like going back to read my old stories, most of them, at least. But I can't do that with this one. Maybe parts of it, but not chapter six. It's had me in a funk for over two weeks now. Damn this story. It's what I want it to be, but I can't enjoy it.

Even so, I'm sad to come to the end of the journey, and I'm glad I could end it on an upbeat note, at least. As Present Perfect put it when pre-reading for me, it's important to realize that "a failed romance isn't the end of the world." I think it's a point worth making.

Thank you all for reading, and take care.