When Braeburn and the rest of the orchestra finished the last note, the theater erupted into applause. But even with the stomping of hooves, even the cowpony heard a mare’s voice in the balcony yelling, “Way ta go Brae!” For the violinist, he merely chuckled before he bowed low, relieved. He has done it, though he was sweating as he gone through an Iron Pony Competition, he managed to do pretty well what few ponies have done. The yellow Apple looked up to see what the composer’s reaction was, he was clapping.
“See,” he heard the conductor say as she shook his hoof, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“At least Ah didn’t mess up,” he smiled. “Good luck with the rest of the concert.” Braeburn then left to take a rest backstage.
When the applause died out, the orchestra flipped over to the overture. Octavia glanced over behind her through behind the curtains where Vinyl was adjusting some dials. ‘So far so good,’ she thought. Returning her attention to the conductor, she raised her baton to which she along with her fellow members readied themselves. The sound they produced was an odd one.
At the beginning, where the strings, horns and the entire wind section held out a whole note, the strings opened the Overture with a rather dark, noble but a serious melody. The clarinets and bassoons paint a backdrop of serenity to this nocturnal like music, but this didn’t last as the strings walked back into repeating the opening theme as before. After that, the strings balanced this night music with a balance of tranquility and uneasiness, as if something dreadful was bound to happen.
In her seat, Octavia paid attention to the notes on the page and the rhythm of the Philharmonic. In her mind’s eye, this strange beginning was the equivalent of a prison. It was restrictive, confining in the cold minor key. Rhythms that was so limited that it was as if the music was suffocating. The Cellist looked out into the audience, their eyes and ears were paying close attention to them. As she wondered for a moment of what all of them were thinking, came the real fire of the piece at its first crescendo.
The ponies that sat there, they heard struggle among the beauty. Noble actions with dark intentions, the music of the violins spoke whispers of storm brewing among the calming wind instruments. For some, it was almost like listening to an imitation of a hurricane in Horseshoe Bay as violas and cellos thundered.
In the very back, Ludwig was counting out time from what he could pick up. In his seat, he was getting restless as every so often at the really exciting parts, he would wave his hand around, even his fingers would move as if he were playing every instrument at once. At the louder moments, he was humming along with the strings.
Up in the balcony, Rarity whispered, “It really does sound like the soundtrack to an epic film, doesn’t it?”
“Ah’ll sa-” Applejack began but she was quickly shushed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “Ah’ll say, can ya imagine it like a ship out at sea that’s caught in a storm? With all them sailors goin’ about ta haul down everthin’ while the winds blow about?”
“And with the captain giving orders to everypony,” Twilight nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”
Near the very end, the Overture’s waves of the strings and horns turned onto a different course as if suddenly they found a way out of the hurricane. Strings, horns, and winds tossed and turned as they unfolded the sails towards their destination towards their sunny exit. On stage, Octavia ended the piece on a rather abrupt but hopeful note. There were cheers from the audience this time with the avalanche of stomping hooves.
The conductor turned around, “We will resume after a short intermission,” and with that, the curtain was drawn. “Alright everypony, fifteen minutes before we get onto the symphony.”
Octavia slumped in her seat, her forelegs felt as if they could just fall off. “Good Celestia that was brutal.” She heard the clopping of hooves as the orchestra moved about, setting their instruments aside to take a break into the backstage that has water bottles. But the gray mare didn’t feel like moving at that point.
It was then that her roommate came up to her with a cold bottle of water in her magic. She offered it to her, “Thanks Vinyl,” Octavia took hold of it to take a drink from it. “I hope you're not boarded by our playing.”
Vinyl smirked and shook her head.
“Judging from the look on your face, I would say that you might have a few new ideas coming out of this concert.”
The DJ unicorn shrugged.
“You know, since we have a moment to breathe,” Octavia set the bottle on a nearby chair. “I think I do owe you from dragging you around to these concerts, not to mention having to put with Mr. Beethoven’s behavior. Something fun when we’re not doing work,” Vinyl raised an eyebrow. “You know, after this quartet shows off Ludwig’s newest pieces in Canterlot next month, how about after that, we go on a trip to Los Pegasus and just have some fun for a week?”
Vinyl frantically nodded her head with a smile before she hugged her. Her roommate hugged back, “You’re quite welcome.”
_*_
Braeburn had already put away his violin backstage. He looked out between the curtains as the Philharmonic were tuning up to play the seventh symphony. Knocking a water bottle back, he was suddenly blindfolded by a pair of wings.
“Guess who,” the cowpony heard two voices behind him say. Breaking from the wings, he swung around and was surprised at who was there.
“Soar! Spitz!” the yellow Apple embraced both of them, “Hey you two! Long time no see! What are y’all doin’ in Baltimare?”
“We’re here for you,” the yellow Pegasus, Spitfire told him. “We’ve read the news that you’ll be playing for the first time.”
“And playing for Beethoven,” the sky blue Pegasus, Soarin grinned. “How can we pass up on something like this? How you’ve been brony? Neither of us has seen ya in a while.”
“Jus’ keepin’ mahself busy,” Braeburn said. “Makin’ a livin’ in Appaloosa, maintainin’ relationships between us settlers and the Buffalo tribe, harvestin’ apples, practicin’ hoofball, rodeo, fiddlin’ around on the fiddle, jus’ givin’ mahself somethin’ ta do.”
“Sheesh, and here I thought we were busy,” Spitfire replied.
Soarin laughed, “Yeah, but as for us, we’re just doing the same old stuff. Screaming at recruits, training, performing, paperwork, traveling around the country, you know those kinds of things. But anyway, let’s get down to what we’ve really come back here for.”
There was applause as the curtain on stage was parted to which Sea Sharp came walking on stage. “Oh shoot,” Braeburn looked over, “Do Y'all wanna go back to yer seats or…?”
The pegasi mare shook her head, “Not yet, we haven’t gotten to let ya know a couple things. So how about we go ahead and address the hydra in the room,” on stage, the orchestra began to play Ludwig’s symphony. But Spitfire went on. “First of all, that was some really good playing back there.”
“How did you get a violin to make it sound like that?” Soarin stepped in.
Braeburn laughed embarrassingly, “Oh ya know… years of practice.”
“You know bud,” the blue stallion playfully swats the cowpony on the back with his wing. “With that kind of playing, I’m rather surprised that you’re still single.”
“Tell me about it,” the Wonderbolt captain chuckled. “Maybe after tonight, you’ll be practically swimming with fanmares.”
“Eh… sure…” Braeburn looked away. “Still, do ya think that what Ah played was good?”
“It was great,” Soarin said. “Whoever knew that you can play like that from all the time we’ve known you?”
“Maybe you should play your violin a little more often,” Spitfire nodded. “What we’ve heard back there, you’ve got real talent here.”
“Uh shucks,” Braeburn blushed, “it’s only a hobby.”
“You really should keep it up,” Soarin added.
“So what’s the other thing ya tell me?”
“Oh!” both Spitfire and Soarin looked at each other. “Well,” the yellow mare said, “Since you’re here, we’ve figured that we have an announcement to make that we want you to hear first before anypony does.”
The yellow Apple tilted his head, “What do ya mean?”
Both Wonderblots looked at one another with a smile, “Well,” Soarin started. “You know that me and Spitz knew each other for a couple of years.”
“And that we’ve been working together,” the mare continued, “that eventually, we’ve started dating for a while.”
Braeburn could feel his heart drop to his stomach, “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Soarin nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve been going out whenever we could. Just little things, you know like coffee, flights, going to concerts.”
“You might say,” Spitfire blushed, “That one thing leads after another and…”
“Eventually we’ve decided to take a huge step…” Soarin trailed off.
“We’re engaged,” both pegasi said in unison.
For a solid minute, while the orchestra played on as youthful winds and energetic strings played on. The music swelling up and making even more complex sounds, for Braeburn, it was as if time was suddenly frozen. He could do nothing but look on at their happy faces after they said them. All that the cowpony could think of was only one sentence: ‘I’m too late.’
“Uh, you okay?” Spitfire asked.
The Violinist put on a lying smile, “Yeah, yeah. But congrats you two! When are ya planin’ on gettin’ hitched?”
“We were thinking,” Soarin told him, “that maybe not this spring but the next that we’ll go through it. Just with all the things we have to do, we have to push the big day back somewhat.”
“Ah see… Ah see…” the cowpony said softly, “If yer both happy about this.”
Spitfire chuckled, “Oh we are. As we said, we just wanted to stop by to tell ya that you did great and that we’re planning on getting married soon.”
“Until then,” Soarin patted him on the back with his wing, “maybe when spring break comes rolling in, maybe we should play a couple rounds of hoofball.”
“Yeah…” Braeburn nodded, “sounds good.”
“Great, we’ll head back to our seats then,” Soarin told him as he and Spitfire started to make their way out. “Later brony.”
“Wait!” Braeburn objected. When the two ponies looked back at him, he hesitated. With his mind going blank of what he wanted to say, his mouth automatically said, “Ah hope Y'all enjoy the rest of the show.”
“No problem,” Spitfire waved back at him as she and her fellow Wonderbolt exited out.
For the rest of the first movement, Braeburn felt numb. He felt empty. Even when the music swoon and sway to a youthful, warm summer’s sound, where clarinets and violins bounced in happiness, the stallion only felt a wintry cold shock. The very pony he was unknowingly playing for, has told him the very thing he feared.
Leaning his back against the wall, he sat there, his ears folded back but he could still hear the music of Beethoven’s music.
When the Philharmonic finished with the first movement, much to the delight of the audience, there was a moment of silence before they moved onto the second movement. It began with the opening of the winds and horns before the double basses, cellos and violas began marching out their rhythm. It started out as quiet, grim, but steady as it moved forward.
Then the violins added onto the layer, from the simple rhythm, a counterpoint began that Braeburn was now really listening, because it somehow sympathized with him. The stallion held himself, his head sunk low; he felt the first of many tears to silently drip down.
The music started to build up bit by bit, violins gaining strength in this odd sort of a march. While the opening theme never went away, the building crescendo as more instruments joined gave a sense of hope from this slow, mechanical beat. When the horns came, it was as if hope and despair were now interlocked with one another.
Out in the audience, this contradiction made the folks of Baltimare reflect on their city. The industrial, steam driven, compressed beat and the lyrical, richly dressed melody were woven together to form a kind of unified harmony. In their seats, factory workers and well-to-dos were hearing a kind of reflection of their own city in this music.
For Ludwig, as he tries to listen on, his muse was whispering through his headphones. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out his composition book as he flipped over to the unfinished first movement. The remaining fugue that has been scratched out several dozen times still remains unconquered. From what he was picking up, Beethoven was playing in a new theme that he was inspired by what he was hearing. Of course, he didn’t want to do the exact same theme from the Seventh, but his mind was rearranging, stretching and squishing notes until he could focus on something he can work on.
Taking off his headphones, the giant was left into his own world as the audience applauded, calling for the music to be played again.
_*_
Later that night on the train home, Ludwig carefully went from car to car until he got to the caboose where the quartet was in. The four ponies looked up at him as he entered, “From what I can gather,” He said, “that was a good performance. Herr Apple, you’re playing was an excellent effort.”
Braeburn didn’t say anything.
“Herr Apple?” Beethoven took out the magic scroll, “Did you not hear me? I said your performance was very good.”
“Ah guess so,” he said softly.
Ludwig raised an eyebrow, “What is wrong with him?”
Octavia shrugged, “He wouldn’t tell us.”
“He just suddenly got depressed,” Alto stated.
“We don’t have a clue what’s going on,” Bow concluded. “So did you come all this way to congratulate us?”
“Not entirely,” Ludwig informed, “Rather, I came by to give all of you the proper frame of thought for that fugue the four of you are having trouble about.”
“Oh?” Octavia raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”
“I want all of you to be frank with me, what do you all really think about the great fugue at the end?”
The four of them looked at one another, “Terrible,” the cellist said.
“Difficult,” said the second violinist.
“Confusing,” said the violist.
“Ugly,” said the first violinist.
Crouching down, Ludwig had Braeburn look at him in the eye, “Ugly you say? Do you think the fugue is ugly?” the yellow cowpony nodded gingerly. “Well, of course, it’s ugly, but is it beautiful?” All four gave him puzzled looks, “I can tell you don’t understand. You see, this fugue is not meant to be understood, but experienced. From it, I am putting the ugliness of thought, feeling, and memory onto a pedestal because I’m perusing a new form of music. I am opening art to the ugly.” He pointed at Braeburn; “You say that you are depressed?” he nodded. “Good, you might need it as a tool of inspiration.”