Bluebell would never have spent a warm summer’s night inside a seedy bar like Salt Lick Lounge. Loudness and violence were two things Bluebell liked to avoid, particularly the latter. But she was here with her harp, and that was enough for him. Thank Celestia for Starshine, he’d have never have found the harpist if not for her. The harpist set out onto the rickety bar stage without a sound, dim spotlights cast down upon her, reflecting her slightly matured face and beautiful harp to all. Whoops and hollers filled the room. He scoffed. Charlatans. Placing the golden harp between her hooves, she began playing.

The delicate strumming of her harp ensnared his ears, captivating Bluebell as he sat at his own shoddy table, away from the others. Such a sweet melody, the kind that carries in the ears for weeks. As each chord was struck, the irate patrons calmed, all eyes on her. The usual bar sounds were drowned out, nothing but the harp’s song remained.

But she, with carnation hair and rose coat, never returned the crowd's gaze, focusing solely on the harp. Time seemed to slow in the bar, and everything but the harpist seemed to fade from Bluebell’s mind. He had to meet her. Breaking his trance on the music for a brief second, he could tell the others were thinking of doing the same. However, the music was on the forefront of everypony's mind. Nothing could hope to match the lovely chorus of strings that the harpist played—it was food for the ears, and particularly good food at that.

Before he knew it, though, the performance was over. Cheers and shouts of encore followed, but the harpist did not play. Instead, she returned the crowd’s lustful gaze, and beckoned a manly-looking unicorn onto the stage with a wave of the hoof. Bluebell sighed, how he wished that stallion was him. Today was not his lucky day, but each day there was a chance of victory. Tomorrow, she’d ask for another, like she always did.

“You wouldn’t leave a little lady to carry this harp all by herself, would you?” she asked in a candied voice.

The unicorn was quick to respond. “No ma’am!”

And that was that. As quickly as she came, she was gone, gone with that stallion. Disappointment swelled within Bluebell, a malignant void of which he had scarcely felt: heartache, a particularly severe case. He would try again, tomorrow perhaps. No sense in giving up now.

---

He went home, briefly glanced at and left the many letters in his neglected mailbox—probably taxes anyways—watered his plants, and went to sleep, dreams consumed with thoughts of the harpist and her beautiful music. What he would give for a private performance. If only he were a bit older. Perhaps then she would see him as he saw her. In the depths of his sleep, he hummed a few bars from her song.

---

A persistent knocking at Bluebell’s door woke him. He stumbled out of bed, noticing with dismay the time on his clock as it tumbled to the floor, batted away with a stray hoof. He had missed his breakfast appointment with Starshine.

“Hello Bluebell,” Starshine said when he opened the door. “You seem to have forgotten something besides combing your mane today. What, so busy with your plants you don’t have time for your friends anymore?”

“I’m sorry, I was up late watching the harpist play. You—”

“Again? What’s so special about this harpist? I mean, I’ve heard her, she’s good, but not worth seeing every night for three days!”

“She’s just amazing, you know? You should see her,” he said, hoping to defuse the situation. He hadn’t noticed how wistfully he said “see” until it was far too late to change the inflection. He immediately regretted his choice of phrase.

Starshine stared back at him, her frown deepening. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just that she’s very talented.”

“Whatever.” That wouldn’t be the end of it. Starshine had very creative ways of holding grudges. Particularly when she figured out Bluebell was eyeballing mares.

“Here, I’ll make it up to you. How about we go for lunch? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I suppose.”

Bluebell only tripped twice on their way to the Horte Cuisine. He considered himself lucky.


After a lunch full of kicks under the table, magically created spaghetti explosions, and multiple expensive purchases around the time Bluebell tried pinning down the equally desperate-to-escape waiter for a check, Bluebell was almost so exhausted that he didn’t even feel like going to Salt Lick Lounge to see the harpist. The keyword being almost.

He ordered a cheap grain of salt, and sat himself down at his usual spot, still empty despite the crowd. The Lounge was packed full of stallions waiting to get a glance at the mystical harp-playing mare. In turn to the recent influx, the Lounge had upgraded that stage, spotlights replaced with ultra-bright new bulbs, stage repainted with the glorious red of a zinnia, and orchid curtains. Bluebell wasn’t completely sure he was sitting in the same bar anymore.

The harpist seemed more beautiful than ever. Creative application of make-up and hair dye, Bluebell was sure, but that didn’t detract from the allure one iota. Bluebell fancied for a moment, that the harpist glanced over to his lone table on the way to center stage. Maybe today was the day. Whoops and hollers were things of the past, now the lesser stallions were openly salivating, some of the more restrained whistled to themselves. Though, like before, all was silent when she caressed the opening arpeggio.

The music’s presence dominated the bar, even stronger than before. Twin melodies of a fugue entwined into one single harmony, almost calling out to Bluebell. It was as if every time she struck a chord, it hit a string in his heart. He loved every second of it. He wanted to be forever hers and nothing more.

When the music ended, the harpist locked eyes with Bluebell, out of chance, maybe out of fate. At this point, it didn’t matter. He almost flinched back; her gaze inspected him, disassembled him, and rebuilt him all at once. His eyes met hers, and he knew she had made her selection for the night. Bluebell blessed his lucky stars. All the days of hopeful waiting would not be for naught.

The harpist beckoned him as she did with the unicorn before him, and the pegasus before him, and the red earth pony before him. He knew what to do on instinct, no explanation was needed. Bluebell immediately stood from his seat, knocking the chair he sat on over. He paid no head, nor did the others.
Scampering up the stage, he stood before her, openmouthed and awestruck. She was even more beautiful up close and personal.

“Would you like to help me with my harp today, young man?” she said in a honeysuckle voice, emerald eyes shining like freshly polished gems.

“Of course!” he responded.

“Then you may do the honors.”

He lifted the harp with his front hooves, being careful to balance it. The harp was deceptively light-weight. The crowd cheered as the harpist and Bluebell exited stage right. Leading him down a short hallway to her dressing room, the harpist instructed him to place the harp on a round table.

“I’d love to see a private show,” Bluebell said. “I have bits if you want.”

The harpist’s eyes narrowed.

Bluebell began to understand why. “Oh no, I mean I love your music. Play a song, just for me.”

“I don’t need your money, sweetie.”

She had called him sweetie. Was it a sign? Bluebell was almost giddy with excitement, but kept himself restrained on the outside.

“I’m sorry. Please, I just want to hear you play.”

“Very well, I will give you the performance of a lifetime.”

She hoisted herself up on the round table and began to play. This time, however, she didn’t focus on the harp, her eyes solely on Bluebell. Smitten, Bluebell could not help but keep his eyes firmly focused on the harpist. She seemed to get even more beautiful as the song progressed, full of life and energy.

The song, a sonata in C major, rang triumph in Bluebell's ears. Euphoria rushed through his veins, happiness absolute within him. He could spend the rest of his life, sitting here with the harpist, listening to her godly songs. He reached out to touch her, but drew back at the last moment. Patience. A gentlepony would wait until after the song was over, and Bluebell was a gentlepony, after all.

She blushed at him, knowing full well what he intended. He returned the blush with one of his own, flattening his ears against his temples in embarrassment. Lost in the music, Bluebell sat back watching in awe.

She seemed different from the harpist that had started playing a song on the bar stage a forgotten time ago. Bluebell couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was for the longest time, until something caught his eye. Her mane and coat. They seemed even more glossy and bright than before. Had she managed to sneak some special dyes while he wasn’t looking?

His focus was taken back by the music, which had moved into the development phase. The tone of triumph transformed into a theme of love, a slow melody that warmed the crevices of Bluebell’s heart. He had never felt like this before. Feel-good music was one thing, but this was another ballpark entirely. The rest of the room faded into the background, his eyes were only for the harpist.

Lust overtook him, almost causing him to reach out and grab the impeccable harpist. He managed to contain his urges, however, and sat himself back down. The harpist took almost no notice this time, intent on finishing the song.

On a whim, Bluebell decided to take a look at his fetlocks to make sure they were in prime condition for what was to follow. Unclean hooves would risk imminent failure for him. Upon looking down, however, he was met with an even greater shock than dirty hooves. The limb he saw was not his. It was dull blue, not the lovely cyan coat he sported. He tried moving it and it moved as if it were one of his own. He looked at his other hoof, dull blue as well. He realized, with horror, that these were actually his hooves, aged.

“Stop,” he managed to croak out his suddenly dry mouth. “Please.”

The harpist did not hear him, or if she did, ignored him. The movement had progressed downward into a A minor recapitulation of pity. Bluebell tried to run, but found he couldn’t abandon the music, not for even his own life. He struggled regardless.

“Calm, sweet child. It will all be over soon,” the harpist said in her honeysuckle voice. “You will have no more concern than dust in the wind.”

She had stopped looking like a near-middle aged mare. She couldn’t have been older than adolescence, and by Celestia, was she even more beautiful. He couldn’t even look away. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t but see his own reflection in her primrose harp, which seemed to gleam with its own life. Even in the poor reflection, he could see his jet-black mane had balded, little was left of his coat’s sheen, and his face had an innumerable number of wrinkles.

He tried to groan, but it was too painful to go through with. He was vaguely aware that his hooves could no longer support him, and he collapsed onto the floor.

The music deafened him, the sounds of his collapse muted. The song was beginning to resolve back into its C major routes. Bluebell dragged himself forward, trying to grasp the harp. His aged mind still tried to race, still tried to save him, and the only way was to take that harp away. Even in his weakened state, he was sure he could grab it and end that lovely song. His survival instincts overrode the hypnotic state he had been placed into, and he began to notice the objects in his peripheral vision: bones, lots of them. Stallion skulls holding scented candles, mirror frames formed from bones.

He managed to squawk out a brief yelp of surprise.

“Hush, sweet child. You were strong to resist, but you’re too weak to stop me now. Just stop and listen, it’ll all be over soon.”

“Screw you!” Bluebell yelled with one of the few ounces of determination he had left.

He stuck out a hoof, a mangled mess of balding hair and nearly putrid flesh. Pieces of bone bled through his arm. Aging was not an issue now. He was rotting. His heart pumped a beat that filled his ears with determination, an arrhythmic tempo that created dissonance with the progression of the harp. He staggered another step forward, looking for all the world to be a walking corpse. His feet could carry he no longer, the bones beneath him liquidified, and he tumbled forward. With a final attempt, he managed to tap the harp with one hoof, which was more bone than flesh, swatting the harp out of the harpist’s arms.

The harp clattered to the floor, bending the frame. Several of the strings broke as it collided with a side table. Success. Bluebell looked at the remains of his arm, still dissolving despite the stopped music. Bone turned to dust along his forearm, painless, but Bluebell knew it was over for him. He hadn’t expected anything better; if he lived through this, he’d just be a freak.

“You! You’ve ruined everything for me!” the harpist shrieked, the honeyed voiced changing to a bird-like squawk of rage, bringing a hoof down on Bluebell’s fragile skull.

Bluebell died with a smile on his face and someone special in mind.

---

Starshine finally took her letter out of Bluebell’s mailbox. It was something she couldn’t bear to do for the longest time, because that would finally lay the rumors to rest: Bluebell was dead. And he’d never know about the letter. The letter revealing the truth that she had hidden for years. She didn’t know what happened to him, but it had happened as soon as that harpist disappeared. She would find that mare, no matter how far she ran, no matter where she hid.

There was one thing left to take care of. Starshine moved to the backyard, where the garden was. Bluebell had always loved his plants. She took out a hose and watered them appropriately. These plants would live full lives, just like Bluebell wanted.

“I’m sorry,” she said to the plants. “I should have never told him about that wench. I thought it’d be good for him, what I fool I was, huh? I hope you can accept my apology.”

The plants said nothing.

“Well, I don’t mind it if you hold it against me.”

The plants said nothing.

“I’ll get her back, I swear it.”

Somewhere, in the corner of Bluebell’s garden, a Blue Orchid wilted.