As Apple Bloom got into bed, Applejack began to speak the tale of a young princess and a magical harp.
“There was a tale, a long time ago. When the wind would blow through the trees without the commotion of the cities and hot air balloons. When the birds would sing without the gray smog clogging their throat. When the harp would play by the riverside without the world looking for its magical music. But that was a long time ago.
“The harp would play by the riverside and bring all the creatures of the forest joy. The birds would sing and the wind would blow. The harp was played by one young child. she would use her delicate hooves to pluck the threads with perfection and passion. When the day had ended she would walk home to her castle with sadness.
“One day after the sun had set, the birds had laid their heads to rest, and the wind was calm, she was walking home when a gun was fired. The young princess lay dead with a bullet through her heart and a puddle of blood streaming out of the filly’s back.
“The birds never sang again. The wind was never calm again. The harp was never played again.”
This story was Apple Bloom’s favorite bedtime story. Her sister told the story of the harp, every night. This story about love and passion filled with hopes and dreams that were crushed by reality. Just like real life. Or at least that’s what Apple Bloom thought. But she would find out soon, that is not the case.
One day Apple Bloom was walking in the woods, when she found a river. The river was beautiful, just like the one in the story, crystal-clear water and mossy banks. The young filly followed its twisting, turning flow into the deep woods. Apple Bloom walked and walked for hours following the magnificent river.
As she was walking, she found a dragon. The creature was sitting on a bed of moss, when it hopped up and ran to Apple Bloom. The two souls made a connection that day and were inseparable from then on. The filly named the dragon, Spike. They started walking again following the river once more.
When Apple Bloom and Spike came to a river bend, the filly thought it was time to go back to her small house on the farm. She didn’t know how to get back, so what would walking a bit more do? Little did she know that what was around that bend was something that would change her life. The harp.
That was all she could see when she turned the river bend. The harp. So it’s true she thought, it’s really true. Just like in the story, it was old but looked as if it was just made, in perfect condition. Apple Bloom had to jump on rocks to get to the other shore. She counted as he jumped. Apple Bloom stepped on the shore opposite of where she was moments ago, the same shore on which the harp stood erect.
The young filly ran to it, her heart pounding with excitement. She had found the harp. She played and played, with power and willingness, pricking the thin strings with pride. The sturdy wire was rough against his soft hooves. Spike sat by her this whole time, almost cheering the young filly on.
The birds came out of their nest and looked at her with a puzzled expression. The wind blew with power and what seemed anger. The river grew higher and higher and louder and louder. Apple Bloom ran. She jumped on a rock. The river grew higher. She jump on another rock, then slipped a bit and regained her balance. The river was almost covering the next rock completely. Apple Bloom jumped. She slipped and fell. The forest shuttered when the noise of a skull hitting a rock filled it. The water turned red, blood soaked the stream. Apple Bloom lay dead, floating down the river.
The birds never sang again. The wind was never calm again. The harp was never played again.