Its message of love rings strong and true, the oboe cries out. Telling the tale of a man's love so deep and strong, it crosses boundaries and generations.
But this is not a solo. It's a duet.
And the oboe plays along with the clarinet, encouraging it forward, tugging at her to pull her closer, into his tale, of love so grand a city is built upon it, of despair so wretched it takes centuries to heal.
On and on, he plays, telling her of how they met, of how they fell, he for her and she for him, together, one another.
A little trembling, a little uncertainty, but she pulls through. Explaining every detail to her, in color and size, she follows along. Led to his lair, the precious metals, the ornamental jewels, and she waits in bated breath for his every next word.
All around them stop, in their tracks, in their speech, their mouths agape. Open at this strange pair, two so different in character, in expressiveness, yet, united together by the power of music.
He, playing with all his soul, with feelings and sweet memories of the one in his heart, seated less than a metre away.
Oh, love so ferociously detailed, in every aspect, every note passionately romanced out, every slur pronounced, every pause for emphasis, for effect.
Yet, it was the only way he knew how; the only way he could express his love. No words could express the way he felt, and neither could deeds. Thus, he did it the way he knew best.
Music.
