If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph:

THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED

FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD

WAS MUSIC

                                                                                                                                                - Kurt Vonnegut

The Snow on Her Cheek

Chapter One

Conception

***

White snow was falling from the sky. White snow erupting from dark clouds above, to fall onto the dirty streets of the sombre city of Manehattan and cover the dull ponies. The whole life had been dull recently, Octavia mused as she trotted along the streets, looking around, eyeing the ponies around her. Their muzzles were lowered, as if each one of them were expecting something on the ground. They didn't talk to each other; they didn't wave. They didn't see anything around them. They were hidden behind their invisble mental walls, concealed in cells of their own device.

Octavia herself was no different. She had learned to hide her feelings and wear a smile at her practice and performances. She had to establish hope in those who came to listen to her, although she very well knew she had no hope of herself at all. She'd managed to live, day by day, counting the hours she was awake, only to come home and lose herself in the uneasy night. She was lonely. Everypony was lonely. The whole city of Manehattan was one huge castle of loneliness.

War was coming, they said. The Griffins had a new emperor and he, contrary to the previous one, had established firm support in his nation using anti-equine rhetorics. The Empire had already occupied a part of Coltland and was aiming at Zebrica. But that wasn't the reason why Octavia's heart was aching of hollowness. The thing is, she wasn't sure what to live for. Life wasn't worth living for; but just as much it wasn't worth dying for.

Sometimes Octavia thought that it was all meant to be like this. Sometimes she would stand before the mirror, eyeing her dischevelled mane falling onto her grey coat and thought about what she was to do. What she was meant to do. In the past, it had been easy to anwer: she was meant to play the cello in the Royal Orchestra, as classical music was her calling in life, supported by her treble clef cutie mark. But now, she didn't know what to believe in any more. To be completely honest with herself, she didn't even want to think about it.

Sometimes she would consider simply moving on, until the war or something else would take her life.

Her parents would always tell her to find a special somepony, a stallion who would brighten up her existence. Para la Familia, they always said, and thought that Octavia was bothered by living alone, far from her family. She was not. Sure, her parents and brothers were really kind and caring, but they were... different. They were into business, while Octavia was into music. And, well, in all honesty, she wasn't that sad to move to Manehattan and live alone. Alone, without a decent mare by her side...

Octavia quickly blushed and looked around. To her relief, nopony seemed to have even noticed her presence. No, such thoughts couldn't be tolerated. Fillyfooling was a crime, and a serious one, at it. Equestria needed population growth, not love. But... the poor cellist couldn't help it. She liked mares. Like, liked mares - was sexually attracted to them. Of course, she had never told anypony about it. All the failed dates with stallions that her family had tried to set her up with resulted in suspicion; but she shrugged it off, pretending to be only interested in her music.

And her music, to her dismay, was a hypocrisy as well. Classical music just didn't do its job. She had always believed that the music must come from the very soul of the performer, and not from the cold, heartless, heedless sheet music. Sure, she played it strictly; she played it carefully; she played it as it was meant to be played. But...

Octavia reached the tall skyscraper and smiled at the doorkeeper, who bowed respectfully and opened the door. The cellist marched through the wide hall towards the lift. She readjusted the cello case on her back and pressed the button.

If only she could find a mare, a mare like her, a mare who... liked mares... and a way to play her favourite kind of music. Music that was new. Music that was fresh. Music that screamed of youthful vigour and disrespect.

She entered the lift and exhaled. She was almost there. Almost home. Just a few seconds till she could finally throw off the mask that she'd been wearing.

She left the lift and trotted towards a wooden door at her left, inserting the key. With a click, the door opened and she came in, turning the lights on and closing the door behind her.

There. She was home. She eyed the only room with some love and warmness: the sofa, the writing table, the gramophone... The room was huge but there wasn't much furniture, not that there were any unneeded items. And there was a reason for that.

Octavia marched towards the kitchen and began making tea. As the leaves floated at the surface of hot water, soothing her nerves, she sat down on the stool and closed her eyes. The evening performance had consumed much of her energy. It was hard to play it cool when she was  broken and empty inside; but she had managed - the audience greeted her with a cheer and bid her farewell with flowers. She didn't take any. She didn't need any, as long as those weren't coming from that very special somepony, a very special mare...

The cellist opened her eyes, taking a sip from the mug. The hot substance slid down her throat, enveloping her insides in a pleasant cocoon of warmness. Yes... She needed that warmth, to keep her away from the grim and cold reality, to keep her mind from reeling into dangerous directions...

An image of a mare - not a particular mare, just a subconscious projection of the blind desire - appeared before her eyes, kissing her, pinning her to the sofa and then...

Octavia immediately stood up, shaking her head violently, just to get rid of such thoughts. It was a crime. It was a sin. She trotted into the room and opened the window, letting the chilly evening wind inside. She stood by the window, inhaling the vernal breeze coming from the west, every minute particle of it reminding her of freedom, which she, in reality, had never had.

Feeling significantly better, the grey cellist approached the gramophone, not forgetting to close the window beforehand. She didn't want anypony to hear... this. With a swift motion of her hoof, she grabbed a vinyl record, which had been lying atop her collection of Coltbert's works. This one was different. She lowered the needle and turned the knob, feeling her heart beating faster and faster, as if she were doing something... dirty. Well, in fact, she was.

Laaaaadies and gentlecolts, please welcome.... Mister... George "Old God"... COLTRING!

The sound of hooves stomping in approval - a lewdy sign, as opposed to gentle clapping at classical performances - drowned the voice of the compere but ceased immediately as the first notes came to life, supported by the pleasant rustling of the record.

A smile found its way to Octavia's lips as she began tapping her hoof against the floor, eyes closed in bliss. Coltring surely knew how to play jazz; he knew how to feel jazz. At that particular moment, as his hooves swung across the keys, breaking all possible rules of classical piano playing, he was jazz.

No longer able to restrain herself, the grey mare began dancing, shifting in a swing-mannered bebop, moving around the room. That's why she needed all this empty space. To break free.

As she kept dancing, on and on, a sudden realisation dawned upon her. She smiled, this time very consciously, for the first time in many weeks.

She knew where she would spend next night.