//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: Moonchild // Story: Born to be Wild // by PeaceColt112 //------------------------------// The lonely car cut the desert in half along a perfectly straight grey line. It whizzed past a sign saying „Next gas 280 miles“. They were so deep into the desert that the Milky Way stretched above them like a colossal highway, dwarfing the one they were on. The murmur of the engine was barely audible. Feather Wing was asleep for hours now and Flower decided to put something calming on. Nothing but the gentle whisper of the wind, the purring of the engine and the faint music. Lights poured over the leather seats, dancing on Feather’s face, creating various patterns on the cabin walls. The interior of the car was in complete darkness except for the soft glow of the moonlight and a faint tinge of the gauges. Luna’s moon floated slowly over the roadway, touching everything with its blue glow. This was the beauty of not being stoned in these sorts of situations. You could feel the beauty, the high being part of every pony’s mentality. The mind has this appreciation of simplicity, this love for the simple yet beautiful images that life sends towards you. There were no drugs necessary. Life in itself was beautiful. The car was riding so softly that it almost felt like it was floating a few inches off the ground. Nothing was impossible right now. If Flower wanted he could get lost in the music, flying to the moon and back in a paper aeroplane folded along a crease in time. If he could describe his emotions right now with a single word, it would be “limitless”. He decided to stop the car for a while and simply observe the endless universe. The car slowed down in the middle of the empty desert illuminating the dusty and barren ground with its headlights. There was nothing but dust and the echoes of eternity surrounding him. As he stepped out of the car his hoof made contact with the ground underneath his hooves. Under his voice he repeated a once famous sentence. “One small trot for a pony, one big leap for ponykind” His step blew a few small specks of dust into the air. They danced around in the wind before floating away. Flower could hear his own heart beat, drumming away rhythmically into the night. It felt exactly like that, as if you were stepping on the surface of a forgotten place, eroded by time. His fur stood up on the back of his neck from the cold. Nevada nights tend to be cold. He trotted over to the trunk and opened it. Inside was a single suitcase, containing his personal belongings. Slowly, he ran his hooves across the latches keeping it closed. They made a silent clack sound as they flipped open. It echoed through the desert, being the only sound for miles around. Inside there was a bunch of clothes, covered by a jacked labelled “U.S. Air force”. It was decorated with a number of slogans and badges most of them being anti-war and pro-peace. Flower ran his hoof down the jacket examining it like a child. There was something unique about it. He had it for years, wearing it through thick and thin. It served him many purposes over the years, from a tent to a blanket. He loved it like a fellow pony. With one swift movement, it slipped over his shoulders. He felt the familiar gust of warmth flush over him. Flower reached inside the trunk and produced another item. A beat up acoustic guitar that was clearly a few years old and somewhat weathered. It was covered in snippets of photographs, back and front, all united above one subtitle that read “friends”. These were the small snapshots that Flower Blossom had gathered over the years. A few were gone, eroded from his world, now only distant faces in the wind. They seemed so close but in reality they were infinitely far. He ran his hoof down the strings. It was perfectly tuned, as always. He even named the guitar. Cymbaline, he called it. It echoed exactly like a small part of a song he wrote years ago. It floated around in his mind. He quietly repeated the word Cymbaline a couple of times, just to see if it sounded the same. It did, it was as melodic as ever. He closed the trunk and silently made his way to the hood of the car. He caught a brief glance of Feather Wing, still fast asleep. He was probably high in his dreams as well. Each to his own, as Flower said. The car hood was still warm from the ride and covered in a few patches of dust. Slowly he raised himself onto the hood, slightly dirtying his cutie mark. It was a small piece of road surrounded by wind. He knew what it meant. Other ponies frequently examining it and asking him what it stood for. He would usually answer with a single word: Freedom. Then he would remain silent for a few seconds, letting it hang in the air for a while. Slowly, he settled himself and brought the guitar forward. From his pocket he produced a single red pick and began strumming away into the sky. It began as a few tender chords and slowly evolved into a very complex melody. He sang to it softly, pouring his soul into the surrounding desert. It felt like a signal being sent out into space, meant for no one in particular. There was a reason he gave it the name Cymbaline. It wasn’t only because it sounded nice. It was the name of a pony he once knew and he missed her very much. After strumming a few more chords, Flower Blossom decided to try and play his own song. There was no one around to hear him anyway. Feather Wing was fast asleep anyway so it wouldn’t bother him. Once again he lowered his pick onto the strings and started strumming away gently. He spoke the first line of the song, choking back a tear. Slowly he started singing to himself, sobbing after each verse, and strumming away every now and then in no particular order. Memories came rushing up to meet him, all passing by like ghosts in the night. Flower felt like he was riding the great train of life, passing by memory lane, seeing all the ponies he once knew. He choked back more tears, trying to sob as quietly as possible. Throughout his travels, he never felt particularly attached to anypony, until he met...her. Cymbaline was amazing, beautiful, wild and as free as the ocean waves. She was the most stunningly amazing mind he had ever known, not caring about norms, only about being as alive as possible. Cymbaline was born with a weak heart. She knew she had little time and she wanted to make up for it by living every single second of her life like it was her last. *** The day that she was dreading came in July two years ago. In Flower’s mind that day was as clear as the night sky before him. They were in a hotel, cooling off from the heat outside. They were thirsty. Cymbaline thought it would be nice if he hopped over the street and got something to drink. Flower trotted to the door, shooting Cymbaline one last glance. She replied with a simple smile and a wink. He ran across the street, narrowly avoiding a truck. For fifteen minutes he waited in line, unaware of what was transpiring across the street. Every time he thought of how he was waiting in line in a shop while the love of his life was dying. The fact that he could not be there with her during her last moments, like he had promised years ago hurt his very soul. He trotted back up to the hotel room, announcing that he had gotten something to refresh her with. The door opened before him, revealing a sight he could never forget. Cymbaline had her back turned to the door, her red fur radiating in the sunlight. She laid there motionless. Flower’s mind had gone blank. He knew exactly what happened. Before he even walked up to her, he knew she was dead. The bottles of Coke fell from his magic grip as a tear streamed down his face. The world turned into slow-motion. He was walking over to her lifeless body, each step of his hoof echoing like an explosion. He looked at her face. She smiled the smile of someone who was ready after years of waiting. There was a note on the night table beside her, addressed to Flower. He opened it with his magic and read it. This was her goodbye letter she had written years ago in case this happened. She thanked him, assuring Flower that she would be fine on the other side. According to her own words Cymbaline was in peace from the moment she had met Flower. Their souls intertwined and she believed that he would carry a piece of her around for as long as he remembered her. At that point, Flower’s memories went blank but that didn’t matter in the end. He still remembered her, thinking of her whenever he sang the words from her letter. In his song, he recreated her from that small piece of her soul that she had left him. Every time he thought of her, he could feel her again for a few seconds before she drifted away into the fabric of time itself. The stars shone high above Flower and he knew that his dearest Cymbaline was out there, as free as the celestial winds. He played throughout the night in front of the greatest audience ever seen. He had played for the winds of eternity themselves; he was a lonely child in time, a soldier of fortune that lost the only pony he had ever known. The show was over and the dreams were replaced by reality. For a few fleeting seconds he was with her again but it couldn’t last. *** Flower still sat on the hood, watching the Sun rise. The stars all faded into cracks of dawn. He didn’t sleep all night. It suited him well though. He was ready to hit the road once again and be as free as possible, keeping up the ideals that Cymbaline had cherished so much. He got off the hood, put the guitar in the trunk and hit the road once again. That's where he was at home, on the wide and open road, always ready to live some more.