Her Last Bow

Symphony in E Minor, Movement One

***

When my father turned twenty-five, he already was a leading pony. The leading pony. His word meant more than orders from Her Highness Princess Celestia. His single word was more than enough to grant life and death, to decide the fate of countless ponies.

And, despite all of his efforts to hide it, he enjoyed it.

He really, genuinely, sincerely enjoyed it. The feeling of absolute power - who wouldn't have enjoyed it in his place? He taught me a most valuable lesson: no matter how soft your heart is, no matter how kind you are, money is everything. I learned the lesson well.

I learned it by heart and repeated it in my head all the time my mother and I huddled together in a small hovel on the outskirts.

I repeated it in my head when I went to school for poor earth ponies because I couldn't afford going to magic school for unicorns.

I repeated it in my head when I sat in the open air, shivering due to cold wind, sipping tea, while my mother was selling her body to working stallions so that she could feed me and my brothers and sisters (who are very rich and successful as of now, big thanks to me).

I repeated it in my head when I stood behind the fence at the cemetery and watched my father receive his last honours.

And then I walked away.

I was twenty-five. I was ready to become a leading pony. I was ready to become the leading pony.

I learned the lesson well.

Thank you, Father.

***

I was lying on my back on the sofa and staring at the ceiling. The mirrors on the ceiling that had been conveniently placed there by a creative architect - one of my countless employees - were constantly luring my attention, as always. They reminded me of some place I could finally call home, some day when I am not alone, some world where money isn't anything - where wits, courage and honour reign as the only kings and queens.

My reflection on the ceiling reflected my own body; yet, I didn't fully realise that I was I. On the contrary, it seemed as though I was composed of millions of tiny shards, which made me complete - if I ever was complete in the first place. Why would I think of myself as of a complete being? Because I had consciousness? Free will? Does that really make a pony a pony?

Sometimes I like to think of myself as a great compilation of many souls, with their own feelings and desires, their thoughts and emotions. Maybe it is really so, in this time and space. Maybe it is not. When I feel I cannot speculate any longer, I get up and go for a cup of tea.

So I did that night. Sipping tea from a porcelain mug, I looked at the sofa. Her bow was lying there proudly, waiting until the moment I returned it to its rightful owner.

Rightful owner.

I chuckled at such an expression. If there was a single thing I'd learned throughout my life, it was the fact that the rightful owner of anything was the pony who could offer more bits than the others.

Yet, I felt a sentimental craving towards the bow. Her hooves touched it - and mine did, too. It was an indirect hoofshake - nothing special, though I felt warmness inside.

It is so funny how ponies forget important matters over such trifles. But who could say what was really important and what was not? I surely was not the one.

I looked at the old clock on the wall. I still had a few hours before the performance - before her performance. I shifted uneasily and lay back on the sofa.

But now I couldn't concentrate. My thoughts directed themselves to the field of philosophy but my head ached way too much to comprehend anything worth speculating about.

No free will?

Got it, just give me a pill.

No justice?

Fine, just give me a pill!

Constant uneasiness and unrest?

Amazing, just give me a little magical Celestia-damned pill!!!

I groaned in pain and rolled over. Seeing the desirable pill on the table, I held it tight in my magical grip and levitated it over with a glass of water. I swallowed the medicine and closed my eyes. Now I just had to wait till my pain was over.

My doctor had prescribed it for me, as well as a few other pills to kill my so-called "depression". I didn't take those. Never did, never will. I knew they wouldn't help; so knew my doctor. The so-called "depression" was nothing but tiredness. Exhaustion. I was simply tired of life itself. Nothing more, nothing less.

I felt the pain slowly fade away. I couldn't do without those pills - so I cannot now. Well, at least I know there is something I am addicted to. My pain was dealt with - but sadness was still left beneath.

It is at times like this when I feel most creative. I pondered a little and then levitated a pencil and a sheet of paper - I didn't trust quills back then.

Now I'm writing this with a quill - one of her gifts.

I placed the paper before my eyes and quickly started to write.

We live on two different planets,

The quill fervently scribbled in my laughable efforts to write something decent.

We live two different lives - all right.

I frowned at the strange, jazz-like rhythm of the poem I was writing. I wanted the poem to be romantic and slowly-paced, on the other hoof.

We're preachers who're always pretending

That life is great and the future's bright.

I wondered if I'd acted against my conscience here. Was I really sure that the future was bright? No, I was not. Yet, I resolved to leave the poem as it is - after all, it would end up burned in fire, as all of my previous "works".

We lack explanations or meanings.

We've no idea what's wrong and right.

Yes, that was true, at least. I wasn't sure about how Miss Philarmonica felt but I knew for sure that I had not a slightest idea what was right and wrong in this strange world that I, for some reason, ended up being born in. In this time and space.

Was there ever a reason? ...For anything?

My world is spinning and reeling

But when you're with me, I know I'll sleep well tonight.

Now this was totally getting jazzy. I read the so-called "poem" again.

We live on two different planets,

We live two different lives - all right.

We're preachers who're always pretending

That life is great and the future's bright.

We lack explanations or meanings.

We've no idea what's wrong and right.

My world is spinning and reeling

But when you're with me, I know I'll sleep well tonight.

I frowned disapprovingly and levitated the paper, directing it towards the fireplace. I saw the flame devour my work. I can't say I felt more sad but I totally felt like playing the piano.

It meant that my sadness was deep enough to make me play music. The piano was the only instrument I was able to play - quite ironic, for a cello seller, isn't it? I can't say I was good of a musician, yet I knew my skills were higher than average.

I was no composer, though. I just played what others had composed. Nothing more, nothing less.

I rose from the sofa again and placed myself on the stool before the instrument - an expensive concert piano made of finest redwood.

I placed my hooves upon the keys. My technique was strange for a unicorn - I didn't use magic at all, I played with my bare hooves. Ah, the benefits of going to school for poor earth ponies!..

I closed my eyes and suddenly I felt I couldn't play anything. Anything at all. All inspiration left me at once, and no power whatsoever could make me play. I sighed. It was a rare occasion; still, it was nothing new.

I rose and walked nervously across the room. I looked at the clock again.

Still, a few hours left.

I approached my gramophone - yes, I was a little old-fashioned; so I am now. - and pressed the button. The record started to spin and the needle began to bring music to life.

As the song echoed over the room, I felt more and more sedate with each passing second. The song spoke of calm humility and resignation, and I couldn't object to it. I felt very much a fatalist at that moment.

I couldn't change anything, and, to my deepest displeasure, I couldn't understand anything. I couldn't comprehend anything, and that really, really hurt me mentally.

The doctor said it was all in my subconsciousness - well, maybe it was, but nevertheless, I was the one to feel broken, not my subconsciousness. But again, who was I? Or, better, what was I? I felt the pain gradually return; fortunately, the song ended and I turned off the gramophone.

I decided it would be best to spend the time left before the performance outdoors. I put on my tuxedo and bow-tie. I looked at myself in the mirror. Sure, I looked good. But was I good enough for Oc- Miss Philarmonica? She seemed to hate me not for my looks but for something else - for what?

I sighed and brushed my mane before looking over the room and leaving the flat, taking her bow with me.

I had a concert to attend.

***

As I passed along the street, I tried to think over what exactly I would say to Miss Philarmonica after the concert. However, thoughts jumped and danced in my head, forming a tangled mass of nouns, verbs, adverbs and adjectives. Unable to unite them, I resolved it for the best to think on the spot.

And the spot was glorious indeed. The Royal Conservatoire looked magnificent, with its golden that reflected the moonlight and marble walls that had been enchanted to reflect sound perfectly. I was proud of the building - I built it. Or, better to say, paid to build it. Which is totally the same, in this time and space.

I tend to frequently use strange phrases, like In this time and space or Nothing more, nothing less or something of the kind. I think of them as of inevitable followers and companions of life itself: I like to think that in different time, different space, life is different as well. Maybe it is like the muddled impression of a perfect world which I see in the mirror on the ceiling. Maybe, in different time and space I could be something more than I am. Or something less.

I ascended the stairs and stood before the closed door. I remember that I still had some time to kill. I sighed and looked around.

Ponies were crowding in the small square before the Conservatoire, talking to each other or smoking or just standing lost in thought. Not far from the square there was a market - the place for poor ponies to buy food, warm clothes or other things - if they ever had money for other things. Usually, they did not.

I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The smoke covered my lungs, giving me the desired relief. Sometimes a cigarette or two was more than enough to make me calm and collected, in this time and space.

My hooves guided me to the market and I obediently followed them. I often just follow my hooves, whenever they direct me.

The market wasn't crowded in the slightest, contrary to the square. That was probably because poor ponies - the ones that actually work - were too tired to go outdoors. They needed their sleep to perform hard labour the next day. We, rich ponies, did not.

I passed the stalls with various food, despite all efforts of the sellers to offer me their wonderful hay, delicious apples and exquisite oranges. I went towards the stall with flowers. My gaze fell upon a magnificent bouquet of fifteen white roses.

"G'evenin', sir! Wanna buy some flowers?" a cheerful red mare behind the stall exclaimed, looking at me with a smile.

I smiled back. I loved such markets - most of the ponies there didn't know who I was and, more importantly, didn't care.

Neither did I.

"But of course!" I tried to mimic the cheerfulness of the earth pony vendor. By the changed expression on her face I could see that I failed the task - I looked fake, and poor ponies could distinguish fake the best.

"Ahem, anyway, I would like a bouquet of these wonderful roses," I said, pointing at the flowers.

"Oh, that'd be twenty bits for those flowers," the mare replied underscoring the "o" in "flowers" heavily.

I silently put the money on the counter and took the flowers. My mood swung and I was sad once more, in a matter of several seconds. The doctor gave me the pills to deal with mood swings as well. I didn't take them, in this time and space.

I turned around and walked away.

"Mighty thanks to ya!" the seller yelled at my back.

I left the market and almost reached the square again when I felt somepony tap my shoulder. When I turned to look at whom it might have been, I saw a little filly, a pink earth pony with no cutie mark.

"Um... sir?" she asked me, looking straight into my eyes.

"Yes, young miss?" I replied gently. "Anything the matter?" I wondered.

"Um... maybe you would like to..." the filly began and mumbled something indistinct in the end.

"Beg your pardon?" I asked politely.

"Maybe you would like to go..." she winked in a pseudo-seductive manner. "...for a roll in the hay?" she finally blurted out and blushed heavily.

"What?.." I said, dumbfounded.

"It's only five bits!" the filly whined. "Mum said we needed money and I decided to... to..." she began to sniff.

I stood in silence and watched her sob. Then, without saying a word, I took out five bits and put it before the little pony.

And then I turned around and ran away. I galloped away, without looking at the road, without fearing to get lost.

I knew that the world was like this, in this time and space. I knew that she wasn't the only filly to sell her body in the streets of Canterlot. I knew there were many poor ponies around. I was accustomed to it. I was used to it.

Then why did I feel tears streaming from my eyes, getting lost in my fur?

Why did I feel sorrow deep inside?