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For longer than he can remember, there has been a river in his consciousness.
Ludwig van Beethoven finds it reminiscent of the mirror atop his mother's dressing table; smooth, undulating waves moulding the elegant slenderness of the mountains, streaking the bold defiant strokes of sunset, drawing from the depths of his eyes brilliant light that is bent ray by ray to reveal radiance alien to those eyes themselves. He finds it reminiscent of the windy evenings where he would sit on the steps of his porch, streams of fallen leaves lifting off into the distance, carried away purposefully by the breeze, rustling in a manner that mirrors the gushing of the river's waters. It appears again when he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he knows it reflects not his irises, but the brilliance with which the world is cast in them.
Ludwig van Beethoven recalls that river again on a snowy night, a day into his journey into foreign land; it remains no different than he remembers, even as the ranges beyond turn pale and the heavens dull grey. Water cascades in from all directions, shattering ice at the first sign of freezing, and yet, he can still gaze past the chaos and foam, upon the streaks of light at its very bottom that fly down the winding river, blurring into glowing lines. When he sits alone in the chariot that is constantly rattling on potholes, cocooned in a thick coat, he reaches out to find the river's surface is receding from him; from now on, he realises, the river will live in his heart, bustling with determined passion like blood in his veins, still young.
***
"For the last three years, my hearing has been in decline..."
For the last three years, Ludwig van Beethoven has not dreamed of the river once; he wonders if he will again, as the river's depth seems to shrink along with his hearing. He remembers the evenings on the steps of his porch, set on the brink of winter, when he rubs the dead leaves to powder between his fingers before dusting them off into roadside gutters; he remembers them now, because these dead leaves cannot be brought back to life, because his fate cannot be defied. In the abyss of despair, where he sinks, lies only ugly corpses of childish hope.
The window is thrust open with a creak. Blinding sunlight stumbles onto the cracked wooden floor, casting little dots on the ground for each grain of dust. Childhood memories come stumbling into his mind with it, the umpteenth time this week; he recalls sitting on the steps of the porch on windy evenings, watching—watching what? The memory is gone again, he is grasping at air; he lowers his hand, slowly, hesitantly. Somewhere in the mind that roils with incoherent emotions, that childhood—his music—is there, he knows, but he will never find it again.
Pearlescent tears rolling down his face, he yanks out the drawer.
The hand holding the pistol is shaking. Tracing his gaze over the gun's exquisite carvings, coldly imagining the swish of boiling blood in his ears when the bullet pierces his head, he closes his eyes, grips the handle tighter—
And then smashes it on the floor with a roar, the pistol shattering into countless flying pieces just like everything he has lost.
***
In the depths of sorrow, a touch like water rushes without warning into his ear; Ludwig van Beethoven wakes up with a wondrous start. A glow seeps in from under his bedroom door, so bright that the bottom of the door is engulfed in colours of gold. A musical radiance alien to his ears pools into the room; rubbing his eyes in throbbing pain from the brightness, he suddenly realises that a tear is flowing down his hand, into the music, out the door, into that river of his heart.
He throws the door open. Where is that sound? He shall find it!
The child in him dives through the lush forest following a stream, spots of sunlight sifting onto him through the canopy, in fervent search of that melody pounding in his ears; likewise, he charges without regard through packed alleys against the crowd, clutching his notebook, in fervent search of the melody that is enveloping him like the wind—seamless, unchanging. The intricate harmony woven from an orchestra permeates his chest, the nooks and gullies of his heart, enveloping him in his entirety, like the tight cradle of his mother's loving arms, or the evening breeze on the steps of his porch—
He stops.
He stands alone in that river amidst lush mountains, sunlight and music showering him; crystalline water laps at his bare feet, its foam glimmering more brightly with every gush. Liquid light approaches him, piercing the water surface a golden music note. Hundreds—no, thousands more—follow in harmony, rising from the brilliant depths of his soul, flowing towards the sky like the rain splattering on a parched earth.
He opens his arms; and smiles.
***
Ludwig van Beethoven opens his eyes once more.
In front of him, he sees a myriad notes rise from the water, his younger self kneeling facing him, watching with tears pouring down his face, raising his gaze to meet the river in the sky. Then the scene disintegrates, he is now standing in that river, alone; at his feet the darkness comes infinitesimally close, but never dares to touch him; in the wet coldness of winter around him, he remembers now the countless lonely nights since that memory.
He is not dreaming. But when he wades down past the river's cool surface with a smile on his face, he really is striding into the sky; under resolute footsteps, even the most tenacious of darknesses retreat and then dissipate, collecting into a cradle of stars twinkling above him like a mother's amiable wink. Then, azure shades engulf his field of vision—he has left the twilight in embrace of dawn.
The Rhein, gushing majestically under the midday sky, presents itself to him, just as beautiful as the day it receded, dormant but never forgotten. It is spring now; the flowers will bloom soon, lining the banks with a kaleidoscope of dazzling colours, growing bravely and defiantly. He remembers his childhood here, the river casting his world in his irises—he is home now.
Ludwig van Beethoven stops walking. He lies back onto the river's surface. Water cups his light, pristine soul in soft, warm hands—he doesn't close his eyes, he watches the clouds float in grace through the sky; gushing of the river's waters inflect themselves in his ears, the most luscious melody, known only to those who rest in joyous peace.
To him, it is a most beautiful lullaby.