Dying Flame
It cannot be my time yet.
The orange pegasus mare laid in bed, her eyes peered at the white ceiling as she contemplated over the situation at hoof. She had been bed-ridden in her home for a few days now. She is alone, except for those few rare occasions when somepony would trot in and visit for a few minutes before awkwardly cantering out of the bedroom at a fast, anxious pace. This mare simply can’t take it anymore.
I’m just a dying flame.
She flipped to her left as she sighed, eying the poster of the very peak of her life: the Wonderbolts. The prestigious flying group was her devoted dream job that she landed into without a cinch. She nailed the tryouts with ease, eliminating each pegasus she saw fit. Now, she didn’t knock them out or murder anypony; no, she just smothered the entire competition with her amazing acrobatics and sheer strength in the air.
On this poster was her in her prime, posing in the most seductive fashion. She loved doing modeling for the photographers. It was her way of saying: “I have the hots, while you have the nots.” It bothered several mares who criticized her for being an ignorant attention whorse. She didn’t mind; the criticism was fully welcome in her books. Besides, she didn’t care too much about the mares who browbeaten her. They were more fuel to her fire.
She smiled brightly. There’s nothing more than spitting a bit of fire once in a while, especially when you give one of those rough housers a swift kick to the withers as a reward for being a rumor starter. At the time of her ascension to captain, a snooty noble—according to this unidentified being—started a rumor that she allowed the newest recruit in the Wonderbolts because they had multiple rounds in the bed few days before the tryouts started. Of course, the sassy mare responded with kind, giving the snobby rich featherbrain a simple, yet swift kick to the rear followed by two high hits to the muzzle. The noble had to go to the hospital for a few broken bones. The thing that astounded her was that the snooty uppity weaver didn’t press charges. Guess things panned out after all.
She sighed and turned to face the right side of the room, the near vacant space in front of her showing her the lack of items she had left. Her friends had taken most of the items to a storage unit near her home, saving her necessary belongings from being stolen while she laid in her bed. However, her beside has remained untouched by the whole ordeal, her little nightstand and drawer still next to her to use as places for her bottles of water. She could only reach them with her wings, considering that she could barely move from her position.
There were other items in the room, one extremely notable from the rest of the lot. It was a small wooden frame with a slightly glared picture inside. It was hard even for the mare to see, but judging by her being slightly younger in the photo, she already knew what it was: a family picture. Every time she saw it, she would always look back at it and wonder…
Why did he never write back to me?
She never got to see her father. She was only notified of him through one, specific little mode of communication: letters. Every night, her mother got a new letter from her father. She would always read them out in a soft, soothing voice...
“Dear Firefly, I have been struggling to write as of late. The island won’t be having any communication here soon, so this will probably be my last letter. I have so much to say and so much to tell you, so please read this to our little Spitfire…”
The memory blazoned into her mind, the pegasus mare continued hearing the calming echoes of her mother’s voice as she laid there, silently hearing her gentle coos and tones.
“Since my last letter, I have been working to save the thousands of ponies here who have been stricken with the new skin disease called the Eoma Virus. This virus attacks the skin and turns it into a blue, spotted pattern. The darker the colorization, the worse you had it. Also, the ponies who had the disease also had discolored coats, their once colored defined coats now all near the harsh desaturated gray. I’m telling you, Firefly, they are like walking zombies sometimes. They are so depressed too and when you come in to chat with them, their eyes light up like a little filly on Hearth’s Warming Eve. I just… love it here.
During that strand of time, my colleagues and I have been able to save approximately twenty-four ponies from the disease using a long-term treatment method that was devised by me and Doctor Gates, a lead scientist who went to the University of Canterlot with me. We’re happy with the results we’ve had so far, but we have a long ways to go. I…
I don’t know if I’ll ever make it back. If they even let these letters continue, I will write to you every day until we leave and hopefully return home. I’ll even make you those lovely pancakes you adore, Firefly. We’ll have the best darn family you’ll ever have once I get back. For now, I want you to keep our little Spitfire safe. I want you to let her have a dream, the dream career she always wants. I want you to give her all the love that I… that I couldn’t give her now. Give her an extra kiss every night I’m away and an extra I love you before she leaves for school. And if I never am able to come back, I want you, Spitfire, my little fiery fuzzy furball of goodness, to have the greatest life you’ll ever have. You have the ability to do anything in this world, whether for better or for worse. I don’t want you to go down that worse category, but we all hit that bottom sometimes. I know I have and just being here away from all of you just hits me so hard sometimes.
I lie in bed awake sometimes, thinking back to those nights with you, Firefly, your warm steamy cavern wrapping tightly around m—"
Spitfire briefly chuckled at this part. Her mother was beat red as she whispered to herself of all the nitty-gritty details her father wanted to say to her.
"But I also spend as much as time thinking about our adventures in bed then you, Spitfire. I wish I could just be that father you always wanted: a father that could take you everywhere, play with you and your toys, see your plays and other school events you attend, and just… be there to hold you when you’re crying. I’m… I’m so sorry. I love you to bits my little Spitty. You can’t stop this old man from loving you, my precious daughter. Someday, I’ll be back. I’ll write to you again separately. I’ll tell you all about my days as a kid so you can use them as reference. We’ll just leave the… extensively over-detailed parts to your mother again. She loves hearing those."
Again, Spitfire chuckled softly to herself, the strain in her throat caused her to violently cough. She also couldn’t help but wonder why there were… tears in her eyes?
Anyway, I don’t have much time left, I need to send this letter out before they cut off all communications with the rest of the world! I have to send this to you, my love, or in this case, my two loves. I hope you both are doing well. Like I said, go on and continue living it I don’t make it back. Just… just remember me, okay?
-Dr. Coined Life
The last part of her memory of this letter was her mother’s expression when she finished reading it. She sighed and began to tear up before rushing to her, her only daughter, and hugged her for all her worth. Spitfire could remember that painful cry of agony as her mother realized that her father would never be back.
Spitfire paused and flipped back over to stare at the ceiling. Maybe she was too rough with her father whenever she wrote back. She always wrote to him that she wanted him home, that she missed him dearly and wanted to see him. Whenever a letter prior to this was sent, it would always be him apologizing to her with the sheer and utmost desire to leave, but then he’d return right back to the reason of staying to figure out the cure to the disease and then fight it to the bitter end.
Was I not worth it?
Did he not care?
Did he just love his work and not love me enough to leave?
Spitfire tried to throw her forelegs up but was met with the hearty resistance of the barriers of life, her locked state keeping her unable to move. She locks up like this at times, especially when she’s upset about something. Then, when her friends come, they usually bring her back to normal, allowing her to move freely.
This frustration inside of her just continued to build.
Was I not his “love”?
Was I just a joke?
Were the words he said all a lie?
All these harsh thoughts swam in her brain, despite the undying hope that he’d return to her one day. Spitfire couldn’t understand it. Why did he have to stay there? Was she not important to him? Were the ones he loved not important enough to leave that island?
Maybe I’m just being too selfish.
Spitfire’s tears continued to stream down her cheeks, her eyes red and puffy from the small outflow of liquid from her eyeballs. Maybe she just wanted her father when she needed him the most. Maybe she wanted her father to see her enter the proud and prestigious flying group that her mother once partook in before she left to take care of her. Maybe she just wanted to feel special from somepony else in her immediate family other than her mother she adored so much.
And… when she died…
She couldn’t bear the aftermath.
Her teammates were so saddened by the news and began to be extremely worried about Spitfire when she locked herself in her room for a few weeks. She was utterly depressed.
During the lockdown period one night, Soarin, her best friend in the Wonderbolts, came in to check on her at her dorm room at the headquarters. He struggled to open the door but after coaxing Spitfire into opening it, he was able to enter. She was sure glad he did.
This was the night he and her became… a bit more.
Looking back on it, she couldn’t help but smile. Being together since then really made them better flyers and better ponies overall. Spitfire got over her mother’s death thanks to Soarin, and in return, she earned something so much more: a friend that would never leave her alone, somepony to live the rest of her life with. Not to mention, she loved getting a piece of heaven once in a while from him.
Unfortunately, she never got any kids. After trying several times, the two decided to go to the doctor to see why they were not able to actually reproduce. After several tests, the ultimate fears of the doctor were realized: Soarin was sterile. When Soarin heard the news, he stormed out of the room with Spitfire chasing him for hours on end.
When she finally caught up to him and ensnared him in her wings, he had no choice but to weep. He was unable to give her a foal. Most mares would leave a stallion if he was unable to reproduce, but Spitfire wasn’t like most mares.
Spitfire smiled as she laid in her bed, the tears began to stop their rapid cascade down her cheeks. The sight of Soarin perked up by the sudden realization that she wouldn’t leave him made him so happy. That stallion couldn’t keep himself calm after that…
...not that Spitfire minded that in any way.
I guess I’m happy with what I have…
“Hey, Spitfire.”
The voice caused Spitfire to perk up, her ears flickering upward. “W-who is that?” she asked in a pained, strained tone.
“It’s me, Spitty,” the masculine tone introduced himself. “Your father.”
“B-but,” she said, closing her eyes while scrunching her muzzle. “Y-your…”
“...dead?”
Spitfire couldn’t dare to open her eyes, silently nodding her head to the sound of the familiar voice.
“Silly filly,” the voice said, the feeling of somepony furling her mane causing her to softly grunt. “Open your eyes.”
Obeying the voice, Spitfire opened her eyes.
And there he was standing before her in his full being.
“D-dad?”
“Yes?”
“Why are we floating?”
“Because I told you I wanted to see you again.”
She looked around, the room now floating out of existence, the floating void replacing it with ease.
“Am I dead?”
“No,” Her father said. “You’re just starting over.” He walked over to her and put his hoof on her shoulder. “And I have a ton of time to make up for. So why don’t we start over?”
All Spitfire could do was smile as she nodded, wrapping her large wing around the stallion she never got to see.
“He was yellow, orange, tall and majestic, his large wings would always bring me closer to him, Spitfire. He had everything a stallion should have: courage, strength, the blessing of a strong mind, intelligence, poise, humor, an enticing gaze, and a strong heart.”
Spitfire remembered the description to the T, her mother always uttered it in strong volumes every night she cried with Spitfire in her arms. When she saw this stallion, he fit the description quite well, and she couldn’t help but move with him as they traversed the sea of blue, the skies the limit to what they could do.
Because all she needed was somepony, somepony to restart her dying flame.
