Painting Winds

by SaxPon3

Rating: everyone
Tags: Spitfire, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Soarin
Length: 1529

Spitfire loses sight of what she saw in flying after the incident at Rainbow Falls, and goes to the very teammate she betrayed for help. But the answer she gets is not the one she expected...

Flight...is a magical thing. And yet no unicorn can truly replicate the beauty of a pegasus tearing through the skies upon a pair of majestic wings.

Soarin is approached by Spitfire with a burning question.

Spitfire has lost sight of what she saw in flying. She had betrayed him, a teammate and close friend, for the sake of winning a competition. Confused, she turns to him, and asks him a question that has too many answers:

"Can you remind me of what it means to fly?"

Written for week four of EqD's Writer's Training Grounds. The prompt: "What's it like to fly?"

Written at like 1 in the morning. Don't judge; a sudden thought popped into my head and I had to write it down.

Published 2014-01-21 09:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2014-01-21 09:20:01 UTC

Painting Winds

I dunked a bucket of water over my head, moaning as the cool liquid doused the flames of my exhaustion. I was dead tired after Spitfire’s latest round of practices. The Equestria Games were weeks away, and yet she had me working like a slave...

“Hey, Soarin?”

I turned and suppressed a chuckle. Speak of the devil: it was Spitfire. “Hey, Cap. What’s up?”

“Nothing much really…” She said, running a hoof through her mane. “I just had something I wanted to ask you.”

I smirked. “Is it about what happened back at Rainbow Falls? You’re not getting out of buying me that pie, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Spitfire blushed furiously. “No, that’s not what I had in mind.”

“Really? Then what is it?”

Clearing her throat, the mare spoke. “I just...I just wanted to know: What’s flying like for you?”

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by her question. “What’s that supposed to mean, Spitfire?”

“Well, you and I both make a living out of something that all pegasi can do: fly.” Spitfire said, turning and looking off into the distance. “So why is it that we can do so much with it? Rather, how can ponies like you and Rainbow Dash do so much?” She shook her head. “I’ve lost sight of what I saw in flight. I guess that’s why I let my desire to win overtake me...and my teammates.”

I didn’t know what to say. Spitfire had never really been this sentimental with me before, so I just stood there, unsure of how to respond.

“So I guess what I’m asking is…” The flame-adorned mare turned her head back towards me, a sadness in her eyes. “Can you remind me what it means to fly? Even if it is just what it is for you?”

I stared at her a moment, then took a deep breath and sat down on the grass, looking up at the sky.

“Well, I guess you could say it’s like this: imagine the world is a blank canvas…”

I took a deep breath as I stood high above the ground upon a cloud. The world around me was but a canvas, blank and unknown. It was a sight that seemed to take form every time I perched myself so highly in the stratosphere...a sight that welcomed me every time. Today was no different; I saw hues of green in the grass, shades of blue in the sky, and streaks of white in the clouds. But just by itself, there was nothing spectacular about it.

It was a blank canvas, the different winds the colors, and my flight the brush.

Stepping up on my hind hooves, I took one last breath and closed my eyes as I let my balance shift forward. My body soon gave way to gravity, and I felt my hooves leave the cloud from which I stood. The wind rushed by me, roaring in my ears as I fell. A smile broke out from my lips, as I knew what was to come next. I fell more, twenty feet...thirty feet...fifty feet...my altitude crept lower and lower, and soon I could feel the air start to get warmer as the ground got closer. Soon, it was just warm enough to where I could breathe easily, and that was when my eyes shot open. The ground was but a few yards from me, and my pupils flared, taking in my surroundings. My wings sprang open, stopping my fall.

I grinned. The first spot of paint had been placed on the canvas: the grass waved from the force of my stop. Looking back up to the skies, I lifted my wings and then pushed them back hard, propelling myself back up the sky from whence I came. I left the green behind, going back up the to the blues. Blurred were the different shades as I soared, becoming masterful strokes of the painting that was my flight. My trail was but a straight line, painting a streak of lighter blue as my form shot through the sky. I tilted to the right, curving the stroke against the canvas. I aimed myself to towards a set of white clouds, listing lazily in the cool afternoon breeze. My pupils widened as they got closer, taking in the details as they were: every vapor of water that made up the sleepy white giants, every breeze moving them as if like a gentle brushstroke.

As I was about to hit them head on, I turned around and thrust out a hind leg, kicking my way through all three of the white beauties. I once again spread my wings out to halt my flight, turning to see my good work. There were now many streaks of white against a backdrop of blue...the sky. Every windblow was constantly making the streaks blur and mix, as if the painter—as if I—had let the wet paint to drip and mix. My wings, my tools, my paintbrushes were shivering in the wind at the thought of such beauty being achieved. My flight had caused this, my flight had made this. I smiled, seeing how good it was.

But no...my painting was not done, my flight was not done. A thunderous crack came from overhead, and I strained my neck to see a huge mass of black and grey, of horrid crimson winds and golden flashing lightning. The storm seemed ominous as much as it did threatening. My mouth, formerly agape at the sight of the black massive behemoth, came up to form a smirk.

Perhaps I shall add this to the canvas of my flight.

Thrusting my wings out once more, I lifted off, zooming headfirst into the black mass. Already the challenge became clear; this storm was its own painter, and it wanted me, the intruder, out. The heavy strokes of its winds beat against me, and I struggled to maintain my flight. Each blast of wind was a crimson red upon my canvas, fighting against the will of my wings. The heat emanating from the lightning scathed my body as it tore through the blackness. I opened my mouth screaming as the hot touch of the electricity added yet another color to my canvas: a burning gold. I braced myself against the squall; the blackening force of the storm threatened to overtake the beauty that I had created with my wings. I gritted my teeth, and swore to myself that such a thing wouldn’t happen.

Spreading my wings again, I threw myself at the black mass, drilling my way through the dark clouds like a stroke of white against black. Upon making it through, I stopped to see that I had dispersed the giant storm cloud into smaller grey clouds, making a beautiful addition to my artwork. I looked at my wings, the tools of my trade, and felt the wind tickle the feathers, like the cup of water washing away the paint off a brush. As I gazed at the scene before me, a scene of chaos and yet of harmony, a scene of horror and yet of beauty, I couldn’t help but think to myself one thought…

I stopped talking, getting up to leave and rest up at home. I took off into the air.

Spitfire sat there, flabbergasted by my tale. She stumbled to her hooves and shouted after me.

“Hold up, you’re not finished!”

I shrugged as I flapped my wings gently. “Sure I am. What else do you want to know?”

“Well, for one, that thought!” The captain hollered at me. “You’re not finished because you haven’t told me what you thought at the end!”

I sighed, and turned around to look down at her on the ground, seeing desperation in her eyes. “The thought I had? Do you really want to know?”

Spitfire nodded eagerly, the desire plainly written across her face.

“Well then Cap,” I whispered softly as I drew close to her. “Here’s what I thought.”

“Flying...it’s more than an ability, a gift, or a talent. For me, it’s even more than the thrill, the feeling of the world blurring around you.” I landed next to Spitfire, and looked at her directly in the eyes.

“Flying is a painting, our wings the paintbrushes. And you know who the painter is?”

The orange mare looked at me imploringly. I chuckled and spoke. “Flying is a painting, an art...and we’re the artists. No unicorn can replicate it with their magic, and no earth pony can master with their strength.”

I patted her on the shoulder, and stared at her dead in the eye. “Flying is like painting, with wonderful hues of green for grass, red for the storms’ winds, blue for the open skies, and yellow for the gentle breezes.

“Flying, in short, is art. Remember that next time, Spitfire.”

I flapped my wings again, and started to gain altitude. Behind me, I heard sniffling as tears hit the ground.

I didn’t look back. Not even once.

Author's Note

So here's my entry! I rather like this story; it's probably my favorite one shot to I've written to date.

Anyways...on to the next!