The Sweetest Music

Chapter Five

One Way Ticket (to the Blues)

***

Snow in Ponyville wasn't so different from snow in Canterlot.

That was the first thing Lyra noted as she stepped onto the train station in the quaint town she'd bought a ticket to so spontaneously. Well, maybe not quite: she wasn't sure that this snow, patch-like, leaving some place for rusty grass to peek through, wasn't any different from Canterlot's blanket-like, omni-covering snow; but, in many ways, it was just the same.

At least, she wanted to think it was a little different. Pretend that it could be different; that something - anything at all - could be different. Hope that there was a better place, somewhere. Somewhere in Equestria.

As she walked across the train station, further differences struck her eye: one-storey, village-looking houses replaced the Canterlot skyscrapers; the paths were straight and narrow; Canterlonian orderly parks gave way to secluded trees making up shapely forests, and the number of ponies Lyra could see was as close to none as she had ever witnessed: apart from the lonely stallion with his belongings, and the pegasus guard, and the cashier in the ticket office, there was positively nopony at the station or the surrounding area.

The just-arrived stallion moved swiftly in the direction of a somewhat tangled track leading into town; the station was on the far outskirts, as it seemed. He sure looks like he knows what he's doing, Lyra mused, noticing the no-funny-business attitude of the unicorn, his straight determination towards a goal known only to himself.

She was lost. What else could she do?

She followed him to the narrow path.

***

Having got used to solitude - most often self-inflicted than not - Lyra wasn't one to give in to unease, but the current situation seemed awkward even to her: two ponies on a narrow road, walking towards town, in complete silence.

At first, Lyra had directed her attention at the surroundings, taking in the magnificence of snow-covered trees - They're better than those in Canterlot, right? Right?.. - and the marble-tinted stones scattered all about the place, and the white-blanket-covered sleepy fields of green, and the farmland conquered by winter - just for a few months, till it could spring back to life, and bring forth life, and provide life and nutrition.

But now her gaze was fixed on the town ahead. Her eyesight being far from perfect, the lyrist couldn't make out more than mere shapes of the buildings ahead. She was sure there was a clocktower. And a windmill. By her estimations, it would take her - them - about fifteen more minutes to reach their goal; if their goal was mutual.

What was her goal, though? Having come here off the hat, just for the sake of coming here, Lyra wasn't really sure what to do next. Of course, she could always buy  a ticket and hop on the train to Canterlot. She could; and this was probably the best course of action. But the 'best' didn't necessarily mean the one that she would follow.

She couldn't leave just yet, without seeing the little town itself. She wanted - she needed - to see if it was any different. She wanted - she needed - to tell herself it was, just so she could know, always, that there was a place that was something else; a place that, despite following the same law and moral, was still somewhat contrasting to the fake glory of the capital. And if it was not...

Well, she would just hop on the train to Canterlot, then. After all, there wasn't much to lose.

Sometimes, Lyra had this nagging feeling - firm certainty that she had already seen it all, that it couldn't be any different, ever. Sometimes, she would think that it all didn't really matter; at least in the way that, should she die - just cease - it would still be the same. Maybe it was so. On one hoof, it gave her an apathetic outlook that really told her to stop trying; stop even bothering to try. And she had stopped long ago. After all, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Or so she assumed.

But on the other hoof, with this certainty also came its dialectic counterpart - the thesis to the antithesis, the night to the day, the sky to the ground (or was it the other way round?) - the clear, solid uncertainty in the future, the kind of uncertainty that bore art. Music.

Yeah, because, apparently, blues sounds so amazing when played on a lyre. Lyra looked at the unicorn stallion. His coat, grey as it was, was only accentuated by the snowflakes that descended slowly, one by one. The mare could only marvel at how individually the snow fell upon Ponyville, so contrary to the stately, orderly fashion of the many snowflakes of Canterlot. Or she just wanted to believe in that. Yeah, 'cause the sky is the same over the whole country. ...Was it, though?

She raised her head, but the sky was covered by the same grey cloud curtain as in Canterlot. Lyra averted her eyes. The unicorn stallion was gazing off in the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Still, it was evident that he wanted to make conversation: the spring in his right hindleg, the way his eyes drifted around for a mere second, from time to time, the way he would slow his pace, allowing Lyra to catch up.

Never one to start a conversation - or, almost never - Lyra just smiled politely (and a little encouragingly) at the stallion as his eyes lingered on the mare for a moment. She didn't want to talk, but she wouldn't mind. Besides, she could get some information, whether she really wanted it or not; she wasn't sure: not the musical kind of uncertainty, probably - just uncertainty.

That seemed to do the trick.

"Your first time in Ponyville?" the unicorn wondered as he turned his head towards the mint mare, quickly adding, "ma'am." Lyra didn't mind the form of addressing.

"Yep," Lyra nodded. She didn't feel the need to elaborate; still, the simple outdoor winter conversation was utterly pleasant - maybe even more so than Lyra would admit.

"Sightseeing?" the stallion carried on in - at least as it seemed - a totally non-infringing tone, the kind of tone you use on a train ride, or with a stranger over tea in a cafe, or a golf course.

"Kinda." The claim almost made the mare shiver. Sightseeing - but of course. It's not like she was stuck to Canterlot, forever; if anything, her cage-liness was mostly self-inflicted, if not absolutely. They were all allowed to travel within the country freely - and who needed to ever go abroad? Yes, technically, she was sightseeing. Maybe she was just exaggerating the state oppression, taking it on a personal level. But how could she not, when the law was directed against her?

No. Lyra almost slapped herself on the cheek. The law can't do shit to me. Never broke it, never gonna. I may be a filly-fooler inside, but I'll never show it. And not just because of the law: she didn't want to lose what she had, because of the ponies' opinion. Yeah. What I have. Because, obviously, it all mattered so much for her.

Her mother, Lyra immediately reminded herself. She couldn't abandon her mother. But... Wasn't she abandoning her now, just by being here?

Lyra would have shaken her head if it weren't for her companion, just to get rid of the thoughts. Usually, it would help, if only for a short while. "You're on business here, aren't you?" she wondered, if only to cleanse her mind.

"Nah." The stallion shook his head with a smile, and this smile - or maybe it was the quaint, simply-dropped 'nah'  - was all the disposition needed for Lyra to relax just a little and let out a smile of her own; a genuine one. "I'm visiting my family down here. Had to leave town when I got married," he explained. So, that was his wife, Lyra concluded, remembering the mare on the Canterlot station - a place that seemed so distant, even though it was close, an event that seemed already worn out by time, even though not a day had passed since then. He's married. Somehow, that fact made her feel just a little safer in the company of this smiling, talking stanger.

"It's still nice to escape the rhythmic din of Canterlot once in a while," Lyra's companion observed. The mare nodded. "Where are you staying, if you don't mind my asking?" the stallion carried on, omitting the "ma'am". Because, apparently, we're such good acquaintances now. As if reading the lyrist's thoughts, the unicorn added, "I'm Crimson Flake."

You don't look crimson, buddy, Lyra thought, eyeing the very not-red stallion. But then again, when Mom called me Lyra, she didn't actually expect me to play the lyre. "I'm Lyra." She didn't offer her hoof. "Lyra Heartstrings." She paused for a moment. "And I don't have a place to stay yet." It was getting dark, and the sun was ready to wink away for the night, with the crimson - real crimson - sunset preparing its glorious show. It would be reasonable to look for a place to stay overnight. "Any suggestions?"

"Well, you won't find a Ritz hotel here, if that's what you're asking." The stallion laughed. Lyra found mild disturbance welling in her chest, spiced by irritation. That ain't what I'm asking. Why did ponies assume things so easily? "Still, there's a nice inn called Happy Inn. It's near the windmill, not far from my parents' home."

Lyra inhaled the evening frost of the early winter. "Lead the way."

***

Lyra dropped on the bed with a heavy sigh.

Her head felt sore, hazed, drunk on the air itself. Lyra lit up a cigarette. The last time she'd smoked was on the train and her lungs were already craving nicotine. Breathing in the soothing chemical, strong, biting at the insides of her nose and throat, tickling her lungs, caressing her mind, she looked around, taking in the simple interior of the room: the bed, and the wardrobe, and the desk with a weathered chair, and the little round table next to the bed, filled with papers and magazines.

"It's not much, but it's cosy," Lyra mentally reiterated the young registry mare's claim. She had reminded her of the ticket office stallion at the train station in Canterlot. Canterlot. She had to go back there, didn't she? Her mother was probably worried sick about her now...

Lyra groaned and put out the cigarette. She would think about it in the morning. Now she just wanted to tuck in the blanket, roll over, and fall asleep.

And so she did.