He stood at the window watching the bustling of the city below. The clop of the carriage horses, the buzzing of the voices of hundreds of people playing a deep harmony to the muttering of the river beyond.
Or at least that is what he presumed it sounded like. What he remembered it to sound like. With an inarticulate growl he threw the glass against the wall. Watching in satisfaction as the fine crystal shattered into a thousand pieces. A crimson drop stained his white shirt when a shard laid open a small cut on his cheek.
He cursed, his fingers going to the cut. His words lost to the quiet void of his world. It had not always been so.
A slight movement caught his attention. The lifting of the curtains on the breeze. But then the window was not open. Inexplicably, there she stood. The only door to the room was behind him, she had not entered there.
Her gown flowed behind her as she walked, sheerest white. A few shades paler than her hair that seemed to have been kissed by the moon. Her eyes were dark as midnight.
His conversation books, where were they? He cast about looking for them. There on the piano he found one. Hastily he flipped past the pages that lamented his hearing loss. The pages that suggested it would be easier not to go on, and past the pages that detailed all the various ways to accomplish such a deed.
She took the stylus and wrote one word. Aoide. Her name. She took a step forward and ran her fingers through his wild tangle of hair and kissed him. As her cool lips touched his, he heard music. Layers of octaves, crescendoing notes that spoke to him, and made his fingers twitch.
He gasped, though silent to him, it was true music to her, and she smiled. He laughed, and stopped, unable to remember when the last time that had occurred. Deep into the night he wrote. He wrote until the music in his head, if not quite vanquished, was content to be still for a bit.
As he recorded the last note, he looked up. She was gone, as he knew she would be. She was not of this world. He had accepted that moments after he saw her. The admission of her name labeled her Muse. But no matter what history had called her, or would call her, she would always be his Immortal Beloved.
Author's Notes:
For those that do not know, or in the case where I have not been skillful enough to show you, this story is about Ludwig von Beethoven.
He was born able to hear and began to go deaf later in life. No one really knows why, though causes from a simple ear infection to syphilis have been suggested.
He had over 400 conversation books scattered around his home. They were sold after his death in auction. Some were kept by his assistant and then altered to try to cover up his suicidal ravings over the loss of his hearing in an effort to protect Beethoven’s legacy.
After his death, stuffed in a drawer, they found a series of letters. Love letters to a woman known only as his “Immortal Beloved”. No one knows who the woman was and the letters were never mailed.
He signed each one….
Forever thine
Forever mine
Forever us
Or at least that is what he presumed it sounded like. What he remembered it to sound like. With an inarticulate growl he threw the glass against the wall. Watching in satisfaction as the fine crystal shattered into a thousand pieces. A crimson drop stained his white shirt when a shard laid open a small cut on his cheek.
He cursed, his fingers going to the cut. His words lost to the quiet void of his world. It had not always been so.
A slight movement caught his attention. The lifting of the curtains on the breeze. But then the window was not open. Inexplicably, there she stood. The only door to the room was behind him, she had not entered there.
Her gown flowed behind her as she walked, sheerest white. A few shades paler than her hair that seemed to have been kissed by the moon. Her eyes were dark as midnight.
His conversation books, where were they? He cast about looking for them. There on the piano he found one. Hastily he flipped past the pages that lamented his hearing loss. The pages that suggested it would be easier not to go on, and past the pages that detailed all the various ways to accomplish such a deed.
She took the stylus and wrote one word. Aoide. Her name. She took a step forward and ran her fingers through his wild tangle of hair and kissed him. As her cool lips touched his, he heard music. Layers of octaves, crescendoing notes that spoke to him, and made his fingers twitch.
He gasped, though silent to him, it was true music to her, and she smiled. He laughed, and stopped, unable to remember when the last time that had occurred. Deep into the night he wrote. He wrote until the music in his head, if not quite vanquished, was content to be still for a bit.
As he recorded the last note, he looked up. She was gone, as he knew she would be. She was not of this world. He had accepted that moments after he saw her. The admission of her name labeled her Muse. But no matter what history had called her, or would call her, she would always be his Immortal Beloved.
Author's Notes:
For those that do not know, or in the case where I have not been skillful enough to show you, this story is about Ludwig von Beethoven.
He was born able to hear and began to go deaf later in life. No one really knows why, though causes from a simple ear infection to syphilis have been suggested.
He had over 400 conversation books scattered around his home. They were sold after his death in auction. Some were kept by his assistant and then altered to try to cover up his suicidal ravings over the loss of his hearing in an effort to protect Beethoven’s legacy.
After his death, stuffed in a drawer, they found a series of letters. Love letters to a woman known only as his “Immortal Beloved”. No one knows who the woman was and the letters were never mailed.
He signed each one….
Forever thine
Forever mine
Forever us
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