Octavia sighed, she mentally rechecked everything. Her cello had new strings, the bow had plenty of rosen, the completed score was right there before her. It had been a month since Ludwig van Beethoven had returned to… wherever he came from, and the Philharmonic practiced the giant’s last symphony. Not to say that the interpretation was exactly simple since the composer left. There were disagreements on the exact tempos and phrases in some parts between the conductor and the musicians. To add to the stress… it was agreed upon that Beethoven’s final piece will be performed to both a live audience and on the radio.
The cellist was the first to arrive for last minute practice before the rest of the orchestra arrived. She could hear the theater being filled up from the other side of the ruby curtain as she went over some of the more difficult bars in her solos. However, she did feel ready.
“Three minutes until showtime, everypony,” Sea Sharp said to the orchestra. “We should start tuning now while we still can. Where’s Horseshoepin?”
“Here, ma’am,” the stallion’s voice said from across the stage. Although he wouldn’t be playing until the fourth movement, the grand piano was tucked nicely near the center stage between the second violins and the violas.
Soon enough, the Philharmonic tuned up their instruments, matching their harmonic humming to one another for what was to come. Then, there was silence as all they can hear is the idle chatter from behind the curtain. When the curtain was pulled aside, they were greeted to a roar of applause as their conductor strode to the center where a microphone stood waiting. It was then that Octavia noticed the glowing red light bulb in the balcony, which could only mean one thing: they were live.
“Good evening, Fillies and Gentlecolts,” Sea Sharp began. “Tonight we are here to honor a friend of the Canterlot Philharmonic, and a great composer, Ludwig van Beethoven. While it is unfortunate that Mr. Beethoven can’t be with us tonight as we premiere his last symphony, we can be grateful that we have a copy of this truly remarkable music in which you all are about to partake.
“Comparing this to his other nine symphonies that we’ve played, this one stands out. This is because the score that we were given is actually a story. Or to be more precise, it is a tale of an alternative history of classical music, through the imagination of Beethoven. He left behind a record of what music was in his world in the first two movements, how music is now in the third, and interestingly enough, what music could be in the fourth.
“So here on Equestria National Radio 100.7, we present to you here at the Royal Lunar Theater and at home, the premiere of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No. 10, a History of Music in A minor.”
Octavia took in a deep breath as the unicorn conductor hopped onto the stand, she lifted her bow to the strings and waited. Once the theater became quiet, Sea Sharp nodded to her to begin. The cellist looked at the score, and noticed that the marking was most unusual – it had no time signature. No beat to indicate how fast she was meant to play other than the instruction: “Adagietto, pianissimo. Gently, almost like a prayer.”
Looking at the notes on the page, Octavia began to play on the lower strings slowly. From her instrument, the sound of the melody was ancient, as if it came from before recorded time. It was a simple, humble, quiet little tune that her hooves guided so effortlessly. Before long, the double basses, cellos, and violas replied to her in monotone as it repeated the song. Octavia further developed the song for a short while before the bassoons, oboes, and violins repeated the theme.
Horns and trombones then took the spotlight with a tone that could be mistaken to have come from a lost civilization. When combined together, the orchestra spoke in a language that seemed simple, but exotic. Even more so since Sea Sharp still hadn’t lifted her baton, much to the confusion of the audience.
But when she did begin to finally count time, clarinets, flutes, and violins now turned the one voice of a melody into a duet. Harmonies came when high and low notes met, adding more rhythms into the voices of this ancient chant. From it, two voices became three as the violas and oboes joined together. Three became four when the horns, trumpets and double basses helped enrich the sound. For several minutes, it almost sounded like a choir singing in a forgotten language.
Yet, even with all of the humble tranquility, the opening of this movement was searching for something, carefully feeling for something. But what could it be? The brass provided the answer as it added a new, ever-increasing golden sound the symphony reached for its first crescendo. The strings seemed to have climbed over, the tone unexpectedly changed from this simple chant to the opening of a baroque concerto. Violins and violas were giving counterpoint of light to the darker notes of the cellos like brushing light and shade onto a painting. The melody was the same as the opening, but this time it came alive with trills and clever, dancing notes.
Then all went still as two violins wrestled with one another like colts – each one trying to outdo the other while the violas and cellos kept the beat. As one violin does acrobatic tricks with bombast, the other would counter it with borderline aggressive yet skillful attacks. The two of them would go back and forth in attitude, almost as if they were in an intricate dance for dominance.
However, it seemed like it was the end when suddenly the entire string section held long, whole notes, the two violins slowed down to change the tone of the piece. This time, it was as if the whole fight was in slow motion as the cellos brought the theme back, nearly ghostlike as the two violins now sang in heartbreaking harmony. As one note is held up high, the other would scale up and downwards before they joined together only to break up again. There was a hint of sadness when those two violins played together with the signature baroque trill.
But this stillness didn’t last long as the first violin resurrected the opening theme with fire. The bow took on double-steps to make the wooden instrument glow brightly like a phoenix ready for battle. The second violin’s bow rapidly bounced as if it were firing notes at the other. Somehow, the overarching theme was still there in those speeding violins that dueled with one another. It was thrilling to listen to as well as to imagine.
Still, the movement didn’t end there. Just when it looked like when the violins had come to a draw, the brass and winds reappeared to do something even more unexpected than the surprise mini-concerto. From the trombones and horns, they repeated the theme in its Baroque style, but as the winds came in to repeat the song, it became clear that it was starting a fugue. It wasn’t too long until the violins added another layer as the instruments continued on with their counterpoint. As the theme was passed along to the cellos and violas, the counterpoints worked off one another like an elaborate machine – each adding and contrasting layers that pulled and swapped on one another while somehow highlighting the overarching theme. Every so often, sections of the orchestra would be given rest as the sound spun around the stage with its fast pace scales and trills. For Octavia, it almost sounded like something that Buch would write as her bow sped along the strings.
At the final crescendo, where chords of strings and brass were played, the first movement came to an end. Octavia took a moment to wipe her brow as the audience applauded before she flipped the page to the next movement. In a sense, the Cellist was relieved of this second movement in which not only was it easier to play, but it was a warm-up for what was to come.
For Octavia, this second movement was familiar, almost Moztrotian in tone. The largo began with only strings, smooth, elegant and precise. If anything, with the soft horns, it was like the opening of a forgotten dance before a solo oboe lead the way forward. Her cello kept time to this slow movement, brass and winds were building a contrast to the waltzing strings, as if they were whispering sweet nothings to each other like lovers. In a way, for Octavia that is, it was like listening to a fantasy of a dance with the oboe being the star of this movement.
Although even she had to admit, while it was indeed pleasant to listen to, it wasn’t exactly like the Beethoven that she had been playing. If it weren’t for the name on the top of her copy music sheet, she would have easily mistaken this to be the work of some other composer. ‘He does a good job at imitating Moztrot,’ she thought, ‘and thank Celestia that it’s the shortest movement in the bunch.’
Indeed, a few minutes later, the dancing movement came to an end with polite applause from the audience. Octavia took one last look around at her fellow musicians, and judging by the looks in their eyes, they were thinking of the exact same thing: ‘Here we go, everypony.’
Sea Sharp cued for the strings to play the opening bars of the third movement. This time the music sounded much like Beethoven’s other symphonies as the horns carried it onto the winds to develop a peaceful atmosphere. Oboes and clarinets created a scene of peaceful countryside with its wood-like sound. For several minutes, the winds and strings carried on an idealistic day of a lazy afternoon.
Octavia looked out to the audience as they played, a few of them had a look of confusion on their faces as they had just played something tranquil and calm in the last movement and are now repeating it in tone in this one. In fact, most of them had a look of boredom, expecting something different to come around.
Luckily, nopony had to wait for long when at a still moment in the piece, the orchestra unexpectedly burst into a storm. Violins tried to gallop away while the cellos, brass, and percussion thundered through the tranquil landscape. It would seem that the violins were on the run for their very lives. To this, the audience was pleased as it bared the signature of Beethoven, the drama that they came to listen had finally emerged.
From the Philharmonic, this monstrous storm created mass conflict between the meek violins, clarinets, and oboes with the raging cellos, percussion, and brass. The way how the beat seemed to gallop into the audience, even when only the humble voices were heard, drove the intense pursuit further. At this point, nopony could guess where this music was taking them, nor have any idea how it would end.
For many tense minutes, this intimidating storm of a piece blew those who were listening into a hurricane where counterpoint and harmony fought for survival. Everything was up in the air and spinning like a twister while Sea Sharp tried as best she could to keep time. Trumpets and piccolos were swept up in this vortex like innocent bystanders. What was happening in this unpredictable music?
Just when things were turning for the worst, the long-held notes from the horns brought everything to a standstill before repeating the opening like a sigh of relief. As it did, there was a sense that order was finally restored, and the strings took a much more active role in giving this liberation a richer color. The strings rejoiced in this new found peace as the weary winds slowly set themselves to rest.
At the end of the movement, there was a burst of applause from the audience. While the orchestra prepared for the final movement, Horseshoepin, who was sitting in the wings of the stage, came out to take his place at the piano. By the time the audience died down, Octavia, along with the first and second violinist and the first violaists raised their bows, looking over to the conductor to play the last piece of Beethoven’s music.
The first thing that everypony heard was a chord of low notes on the piano, and high, smoky strings on the violins and viola. It began as a soft morning when the sun had yet to rise above the horizon. Octavia raised her bow to the higher strings of her cello and began with a melody that welcomed the sunrise. It was warm, yet the song itself had exotic trills as if the string instrument was an ancient flute from a distant culture. A piccolo softly came like a child that was just awoken by their mother to continue on the melody.
Then one by one, sections of the orchestra were added on as horns, then oboes and violas further developed the simple melody. On the piano, Horseshoepin played long, echoes of chords that paused the atmosphere of the piece. It was like a village of instruments was waking up to the sound of the morning song between cello and piccolo.
When Octavia finished her opening, the rest of the cellos and double basses beat out the rhythm of a single note drumbeat. The rest of the violins came forward to play a new theme, one that was wise and confident as the horns, trombones, and violas added an earthy tone to it. Flutes and the treble notes of the piano gave a lively, dance-like mood.
As this was going on, the piccolo would spontaneously laugh, like a playful foal. Octavia’s cello would take on the part of a watchful mother who would speak to the young one. In between the feminine violins and clarinets and the masculine horns and oboes, the solo piccolo and the cello would help transition from one part of this exotic movement to the next.
But then, all went still as a rumble sounded from the lower keys of the piano and the percussion. There was a sense of alarm from the horns, violas and double basses. Violins trembled as it rounds to a crescendo in which the cellos now gave a surprise battle cry. From there, chaos ruled, plucking strings came down like arrows, flutes screamed and bassoons groaned. This was a musical ambush in which everything, even the tempos, frequently changed.
Octavia’s cello took on a new song, one of desperation. In the nearly unpredictable rhythm, both she and the piccolo were playing together in order to try and escape the attack – notes galloped from the horrific battle as the violins were on the charge. Trumpets and bassoons clashed like warriors fighting to the death, Horseshoepin, meanwhile, took on the charge of beating the war drums with the lower keys and trying to keep harmony at the higher notes.
Then, one by one, each instrument in the Philharmonic became quiet. Each layer was stripped away. First the flutes and clarinets, then the violins, the trumpets, oboes, violas, horns, bassoons, double basses, percussion, cellos, all faded away until only the piano remained. As Horseshoepin played on, the opening theme from the very beginning of the symphony reappeared, only this time it was tinted with melancholy.
The piccolo returned in a new variation of what the piano was playing. It now sounded like a lost child, calling out for someone, anyone to find them. Octavia pulled her bow across the strings to play the morning theme to comfort the fears of the piccolo. When the single wind instrument too quieted down, only she and the piano remained, to which, the cellist played a new melody; one which sounded like a lullaby.
To Octavia, it was as if the whole world had stood still as she played. The heart-wrenching song grew increasingly quieter, her hooves played those exotic trills that sounded like the instrument itself was tired. ‘No more,’ it seemed to say with those sorrowful, low notes, ‘No more.’ The piano too faded away with its last set of chords that left the cello all alone. A few bars later, Octavia played as softly as possible to where it was nearly a whisper. The lullaby echoed in the theater as she played four, very slow notes to which she paused for the sound to resonate before she repeated it until at the very last whole note. She then lifted her bow ever so slightly off the strings, to give the whole theater a moment of silence.
When she dropped her bow to her side, it was over. The audience took the cue to applaud, standing up in their seats, stomping their hooves. Shouts of “Bravo!” rang throughout the theater. Even the orchestra too clapped their hooves as Sea Sharp insisted on Octavia to stand up. So she did, with her instrument to help support her, she stood on her hind legs, and bowed.
_*_
On a late April day, a poet was looking down in a grave. Shaking his head, he looked up at the gray stone that bore the name of his friend with the hundreds of flowers that encircled it. But no matter how many times he looked at it, he still couldn’t believe what he was reading:
Ludwig van Beethoven
17 December, 1770 – 26 March, 1827
“I still cannot believe that you’re gone, old friend,” the poet said as he shook his head in melancholy. “You still had so much to give.”
His ears picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, he saw a young man in a military uniform. He stopped a few feet from the grave. “Herr Schiller?”
The poet nodded, “I am.” He tilted his head towards the newcomer, “Who are you?”
“Karl, I am…” the soldier paused, “was Ludwig’s nephew.”
“Oh? So you were his adopted son? I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Schiller held out his hand to which the uniformed man shook it. “Though, out of curiosity, how do you know me?”
“Lucky guess.” Karl shrugged. “Uncle Ludwig wouldn’t stop mentioning you before they played his Ninth Symphony, and again a year later. So I just assumed that you were one of his friends, are you?”
“Indeed I was,” he nodded, looking back at the grave. “And he has spoken quite a bit about you as well. Please pardon me when I ask this but, is it true that you’ve nearly killed yourself sometime back?”
The uniformed man put his hand to his head. “Unfortunately, but I just couldn’t go through with it, not to mention how painful recovering from a bullet was.”
“I can only imagine,” Schiller placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry I brought it up, but it’s very rare to meet someone who is closely related to him. Truth be told, all I’ve heard about you came from him. Though, I can see from the uniform that it’s true that you’re in the military?”
Karl nodded, “Calvary actually. You know, Uncle Ludwig wasn’t glad I was making this choice of a career. It wasn’t until a couple months ago that I was able to fully join. Strictly speaking, I’m still in training, and the only reason I’m here is that of the news that he’s dead.”
Ludwig’s nephew stepped forward towards the foot of the grave, looking down at the black coffin that lay there. “Tell me, Herr Schiller; is it wrong that I don’t feel sad as I should be?”
The poet tilted his head, “I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“On the one hand,” Karl clarified, “Uncle Ludwig wasn’t the best father to have. Not just because he couldn’t hear anything, but he was too… unpredictable. He would be screaming at you one moment then be gentle before you knew it. He had too high an expectation of me, first of being the perfect son and being a pianist like him. But I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be, and I still can’t play the piano. I could hardly remember a time when he wasn’t criticizing me for something or another. And mother…
“But on the other hand…” he looked over to Schiller, “Uncle Ludwig had calmed down these past few years. I mean look, at least he gave his blessing for me to go into the army. He became a little bit kinder too, although not much, he really was trying to pay attention to me more. It’s not that he never loved me; perhaps it was just a bit too much. I know what he did was what he thought was for the best of me, but at this moment, I can’t help but feel free. Is that wrong?”
“No, I understand,” the poet said reassuringly, “Herr Beethoven has always been a difficult man to put up with. And you were right, he did care about your well being, so how are you now?”
“Well,” Karl stuffed his hands into the pockets of his uniform. “I think I will get by, now that I have a job in the army. Though, as of right now, I’m facing a bit of a problem.”
“That being?”
“A lawyer has come up to me this afternoon after the funeral and I found out that Uncle Ludwig has left me everything. His music, broken piano and all, I confess that I’m not exactly sure what to do with it all. I mean, he has a whole room full of scratch paper, some of which he told me in his last letter that he was planning on turning it into a new symphony, some string quartets, and… what was that last one again…? Oh! And he mentioned about doing something rather odd.”
This got Schiller’s attention, “Oh? What did he say?”
“He was thinking of writing another opera, but the subject sounded like a fairytale gone mad. I mean, he talked about a setting called… called…” Karl snapped his fingers in thought until it came to him. “Equestria! That was it! And his outline of the opera is really bizarre. It had talking ponies, princesses that were a part unicorn and part pegasus… it talked about sisters where one controlled the sun and the other the moon, and six friends being set on a quest to defeat a villain… I don’t know, to me, it sounded like he had really gone mad. And he was serious about it too, I mean look,” he dug into his pockets to pull out a letter, “this was the last thing he sent me, look on the back, there’s a sketch of the overture.”
“May I see that?” Karl handed over the letter in which he saw the notes on the back. It was indeed in Ludwig’s handwriting, the sheet music written for the piano. Schiller looked on at the overture which only took up about half of the page.
“Seems rather short don’t you think?”
Indeed, as the poet read the score, it had a grand opening before it follows into a pleasant, pastoral melody. As a sketch, it was light and it had an intriguing rhythm, with moments that had the sublimity of Mozart. The notes from the lower bar climbed upward as bright chords sounded from above, something like the fanfare of a trumpet.
“Perhaps you should hold onto that,” he said, giving it back to Karl. “If we’re lucky, perhaps something like that would be worth something.”
“Have you seen the funeral?” Karl deadpanned. “When my uncle had several thousand lining up the streets to see him as a war hero, I don’t think Vienna will be forgetting him any time soon.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Schiller said as he looked at the grave again. “Still, it is rather depressing that we never got to hear anything more out of him. He did say a few years back that he was thinking about working on two great symphonies, his ninth and tenth of course. The choral one was fantastic, but it’s a shame that we’ll never hear what his tenth may sound like if he actually finished it.”
“Remember, my Uncle did leave behind a room full of sketches,” Karl pointed out. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we might find some clues as to what it would sound like. But I’m afraid that I might have overstayed my welcome. If you wouldn’t mind, sir, I would like to have some final words with my Uncle before I leave.”
“Oh, certainly,” Schiller stepped aside.
Karl van Beethoven looked down at the coffin in the ground. For a long time, he tried to think of what to say as the sky was dimming. “Uncle… if you can hear me… We both know that things haven’t turned out the way we thought they would. I know you’re disappointed that I didn’t become a musician like yourself. And let’s admit, you were not the perfect father, as I was not the perfect son. Still, I am grateful that you let me go into the army; I still have a ways to go with my training.
“Now, with all that being said, I do have a confession to make. Uncle, I am envious of you. Even as I stand here talking to your grave, I can already hear that you might be wondering what I meant by that. Well, it’s just that after listening to your last symphony, you were able to create something so heavenly without having the ears to hear it. You showed us a new form of music that no one, not even I had thought was even possible. How could I compete with that? Especially knowing that when I too go to my grave, you will be remembered for doing the impossible, while I don’t possess the talent or the creativity to do anything like that.
“Still, we do have our lives to live. Many out there would say that it’s a tragedy that you are gone. And even though I will never admit it, I wasn’t prepared for you to go either. I’m sure that I can get by, though, considering the last time we met, I wish that I could have said goodbye better.
“Uncle, I know that you had a hard life, wherever you are, I hope that you could find some peace. Goodbye Uncle Ludwig.”
Schiller patted him on the back, “That was very noble of you. Would you care to stay for dinner? I know a tavern that has roast beef on Fridays.”
Karl shook his head, “I need to head back for training, I came to Vienna to say goodbye to my Uncle.”
“Very well,” Schiller started to walk away. “Until we meet again, have a good life, Herr Beethoven.”
“Good evening, Herr Schiller,” Karl said to him before taking one last glance at the grave, giving a military salute before he too walked away.
The only thing that i can say, is that you have written the story i always wanted to read in this fandom, i though nobody would since classical music is not the favorite of most people, in my case, is the only music i can hear and enjoy, so this fic was a blessing since i started reading it, so thanks a lot for it, thanks for granting me this wish
I personally think your story is very good and interesting to read. Not to mention it introduced me to the fantasy world of Classical music. Your interpretation of Classical pieces showed me the new way on how to view the Classical music.
Although we did not see how he reconciled with his nephew, we do know that Lugwig did something right in the end since Karl did not commit suicide. However, that might be a good thing since all those feels and tensions (Lugwig tends to make tensed conversation) might throw the balance of the story off. (again, this is just my opinion)
All in all, I do think you really made a very good story for readers to enjoy. Thank you.
So sad...but such a good ending to a huge story! This is probably one of the most unique and well-written "human-in-Equestria" stories I've seen. I actually enjoyed this, and I have a hard time enjoying displaced human stories.
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BRAVISSIMO!!!!
ENCORE!!!ENCORE!!!
And thus, the curtain falls on Beethoven's last true adventure.
This was a great story, mein comrade. This is Beethoven, almost as he was in life. You gave him new life. You let him walk in a world where, if only for a day, he could hear the birds and the bees and the rivers and the wind once more. He was, truly, a giant.
Strange, to think that it all started with an alcoholic father, an old piano, and a magical flute.
I wish for this story to be forever archived as a testament to Ludwig van Beethoven's legacy. May the beloved composer rest in peace, until the end of time.
1.- You started and finished an actually good story with a lovely soundtrack.
2.- Many has already said my opinion on this story: BRAVO.
3.- You deserve a break from this.
4.- You, not only, managed to finish this (there are too many stories that has a good premise but never end) and you did it in a grand way. Your ending made me feel well (for you gave us a true ending, where we get a conclusion and an aftermath of this story).
BRAVO, BRAVISIMO.
You have my respect, a favorite and a follwo you good sir.
Just....wow, you hit us really hard in the feels here Poor Karl, wishing he had gotten along better with Ludwig...
As for what I think of this story?
*Ahem*
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BRAVO, FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC!
sequel?
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7841293 Well, in that case. *Stands back a couple of feet*
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7841758 Not many bother with recognizing Ludwig van Beethoven in this day and age. He's barely remembered beyond 'wrote good music' and 'deaf'. In most popular culture that references him, that's the most of what you get, along with 'anger issues'. People rarely explore his past, the ramifications of it on his psyche, or even his nephew Karl. Most people don't even know he had a nephew.
You reminded us all what Beethoven's name was built on. Pain, sorrow, and tragedy, all while insuring that we're reminded how badass he is despite that. He didn't mope over any part of his past. He got shit done. More than I can say for most people in the modern age, but that's none of my business.
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Regardless, Ludwig van Beethoven is a true hero.
I'm kinda disappointed he didn't appear in the mobile game Fate/Grand Order, which, for those of you who don't know, is a game all about summoning the spirits of ancient heroes to kick monster ass. His mentor, Mozart, was in there, in the Caster class, because apparently music is regarded as a form of 'magic' in this series. But Beethoven, who is considered his (debatably) more popular student, didn't appear? I mean, Medusa's sisters appeared, and most people don't even know she had siblings. Hans Christian Andersen appeared (also as a Caster, because books are 'magic'). The fucking MINOTAUR appeared, and it didn't even have a name in its original tale! But Ludwig van Beethoven? Nope.
7841308 I really wanted to see the reconciliation. I felt a bit cheated. Not that it detracts from what was a brilliant story. I just wanted to see more of how he'd changed.
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Check out http://www.fimfiction.net/story/27280/march-to-the-scaffold
7841863 Also check out the anime Classicaloid.
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7843525 Holy fuck that is a beautiful image. It is now top priority on my watch list.
A finale worthy of a musical legend. Thank you for undertaking this project. >^_^<
A truly wunderbar story that made me appreciate Beethoven again.
I'm sad to see it end but I loved every word of it.
And now I leave you with some words of wisdom from the man himself...
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can't say much, as most has been said already by better commenters than me...
thank you for bringing Herr Beethoven for one last ride...
7846649 Well, everyone has doubts, but before that chapter, I knew that ponies wouldn't understand certain aspects of Christianity, and the underlying meanings. For instance:
The meaning behind having Jesus of Nazareth die was to show that the Lord was willing to let His only Son die, to show how much He cares for mankind and to show His forgiveness, and also that He accepts humanity's… violent tendencies. But ponies, who know nothing of humanity (barring Beethoven) don't realize that we, as a species, are constantly at war. On record, the world at large has only had about 7% of our time without any sort of armed conflict. In the Bible, it was only the second generation of humans (Cain and Abel, Adam and Eve's children) that started killing. Jesus dying to the Roman Empire's violent ways was a sign of the Lord accepting our sins and our tendencies. Ponies don't fight. They're… soft (not that that's bad), so they can't understand the meaning behind that. Another one;
He never intervened because He was letting Adam and Eve fuck it up for the rest of us. It wouldn't do Him any good to coddle His creations. A civilization cannot expand without making mistakes and learning from them. God didn't even have any prior experience, and He still managed to figure that out. Meanwhile ponies seem to have not invented anything beyond the train, despite one thousand years of peace.
But that's none of my business.
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Anyways, God inspires faith because He is a realistic and genuine God, who not only allows us to make mistakes, but accepts them and encourages them to be made. And He realizes that it's not a good idea to coddle a species, and that in order to develop, they must grow and expand without supervision. Luna obviously cannot understand such a concept, as she is a horse, a herd species by nature, who have to stay together. Herds always have an 'alpha' of sorts. One major domo, so to speak. Ponies need a superior entity out there directly hoof-holding them to victory. Humans, in contrast, flip off our guides, go wherever the hell (pun unavoidable) we want, and make our own discoveries. With us, it's like herding cats. Irritating, annoying, and nigh impossible.
So, in short, yes. Humans, the inventors of the religion, do question Christianity. But we are free thinkers by nature, and it is in our rights to do so. The ponies are a bunch of sheep and need something to push them. Hold them together. God's sake (again, pun unavoidable), they panic over rabbit stampedes, and unusual sights on the street! The concept of a leader that never directly intervenes is foreign to them, because deep down, they know they're practically helpless without leaders.
This all came from someone who is an atheist, BTW. Appreciate the irony. Someone who is supposed to reject all theology or divine ideologies is capable of understanding of the symbolism behind the largest theology on the face of the planet.
7841758 It was a wonderful tale, and one of the best historical fictions I've ever read.
Well done sir. Well Done.
One of the best fanfics I've read in a long time.
7846722 I'm a New Apostolic Christian and I'd say that was a good explanation.
7859716 Thanks. Mythologies and religions always have been a big fascination of mine. The underlying meanings and what those characters say about the cultures that create them are always interesting.
For instance, Cu Chulainn of Celtic lore. According to legend, he was a demigod child of the Sun God, Lugh. By the time he was 12 (not exaggerating), he'd already bedded several women.
What does that say about ancient Celtics? For one, it means that they realized how quickly they were dying off, and how they needed to reproduce rapidly. Cu Chulainn's Casanova tendencies being portrayed as a positive thing means that they were trying to teach their people 'fuck lots of people, have many descendants'. Of course, another major part to Cu Chulainn's character was how he was also extremely faithful to his wife. He was always there for her when she was tired, or scared, or felt lonely. So he inspired loyalty to one's significant other, and reproductive success. This is what the ancient Celtics thought of as an 'ideal character' in their time.
In contrast, looking at the character of Jesus of Nazareth, he is humble, kind, and compassionate. He went about barefoot (despite what modern artists say), and was always patient and very wise. While he never did have any relations with any women, he treated all humans kindly. The Jewish people, of whom the Roman Empire had been shitting on for quite some time by this point, saw this as an 'ideal character'. Kind, humble, and completely impartial in all his affairs.
And then… Gilgamesh of Mesopotamian lore. Oh boy. Humanity's first legend. He was protective of Uruk, the city he ruled, but also a really big asshole. He used the 'king's authority' to bed every woman on their wedding night. With or without actual consent. But at the same time, when the mud-man Enkidu had a fight with him, Gilgamesh grew to respect Enkidu because he earned it in combat, and they became die-hard companions. So the ancient Mesopotamians saw an 'ideal character' as one who respects others for actions, not words, and protected the people under them, but that protection came at a heavy price.
All of these give great insight into the cultures of various people. It's really fascinating.
Could you do the same thing with Mozart?
7846722 A real Christian. Found you.
So Beethoven still died even if he is cured of liver damage?
or did I misread something?
7922830 When Beethoven was in Equestia and got his appendix removed, the doctor told him that they've also discovered that his liver had too much lead in it. They told him that while they can help reduce the lead content, his liver had taken on too much damage, and estimated that Ludwig had about three to five years left to live. Remember, the composer was taken out of his time and given an extra year too.
7922924
I thought of that
Did you use Google translater for the german sentences?
Chapter 18:
“Ludwig,” a drunken voice said loudly that apparently came from a different room. “Aufwachen und uns
etwas Schönes für uns spielen!” => “Ludwig,” a drunken voice said loudly that apparently came from a different room. “Aufwachen und spiel für uns etwas Schönes!”
“Kein Papa.” A faint voice replied, although to Luna’s ears, it almost sounded like a colt’s voice. “Es ist
zu früh.” => “Nein Papa.” A faint voice replied, although to Luna’s ears, it almost sounded like a colt’s voice. “Es ist
zu früh.”
7938036 Unfortunately yes, it was the only way I could (try to) translate what I have in mind into German.
7938036 In fact, if you would have noticed at the very beginning of Chapter 18, I put this in the author's note in German.
Here's a gift for completing this story
From a technical point of view, this story has some problems. You often made mistakes with homophones (cleaver/clever, prey/pray), there are some grammar problems, we mostly see the characters move in in an indistinct environment, and so on.
And yet I adored this story. Aside from completing it, an achievement on its own, your passion and enthusiasm for music came through every time you described it. Your renditions in words of the symphonies, of the overtures, and of the sonatas felt vibrant and alive. You made me read through the description of a piece and enjoy it. Your characters were interesting, their arcs captured me and I cared for them.
So, thank you for having written this, it was a pleasure to read.
By the way, I was eagerly waiting for the reactions to the ninth symphony from the very beginning of the story. And when I arrived there I wasn't disappointed.
8074221 I mean, you are right with me. This story has been written without in editor (well, except for the last few chapters). I'm still waiting on a volunteer that would help improve this story. Nevertheless, I'mean thankful that you'received at least entertained by it.
8074244
Not only entertained, I loved it.
8128054 Thank you, as you can tell, I've put a lot of work into this thing. Of course, the music I use for this story goes above and beyond the Moonlight. Who knows, maybe you might find a few tunes you'll end up liking.
and so I have come to the end of a beautiful piece... oh, where shall this Eye begin...
simply put, i adored this. it makes for a wonderful walk of music in general- i even got a bit back into chants, Gregorian and native out of some of the links you provided. the descriptions of each musical piece are of special recognition in my eyes. Frequently I feel I'm never descriptive enough, but you really breathed life into this to level i wish i had control over. so many good times to note this, but ill make the easy point outs of the ninth symphony and the vivaldi piece in chapter 55.. but i lose track at how many were captivating. it became a tug of war to not become overtaken by the description and to pace oneself through the musical aide! a fight that i was futile to win, but i tried! but you brought to writing what i can only begin to reach at when i hear certain works.
others have already said it best- you dug so deep here. there little nuggets of what it can mean to be an artist, particularly in the earlier chapters. i quoted a few because they stood out so, but that fine line between Passion and discipline was something i had to speak to others about during my reading of this. perhaps some of what i read here will follow me to my own efforts...
and of course i must give credit to lending attention to Beethoven in this manner, where as others said, details have been forgotten- it feels as if i learned a thing or two. even if it brought him back for just a few, this was quite the journey to go on.
Once again- Thank you.
I found the entire story interesting and made me a appreciate Beethoven’s music even more.
I’m rarely active on this site anymore, but I will say this:
This story was one of the better reads on here. You did such a fantastic job describing his music in a way that made it feel like something I have never felt before.
To you, good sir, I say well done.
I had the urge to read this story again and I am glad I did.
Still haven’t finished reading the sequel story to this involving Moztrot.
Svengalop should have gotten his comupence.