A New High
A tuft of cloud burst against Shrieking Arrow’s face as he darted upwards, the tiny droplets of water beading down his silver coat. He flapped his wings harder as he continued his ascent. He looked down as he continued his vertical climb, hooves outstretched. The landscape gradually disappeared as he drew further away from it, the dull shades of green being drowned out by the white of the clouds beneath him.
Higher.
Flying was all about the thrill for him. He always pursued the next rush, and he had nearly run out of ideas. The wind flowing through his crimson mane, the air current tearing itself as he dove through it—none of that was good enough for him. He returned his gaze to the sky, soaring into the darkening heavens.
Not high enough.
His lips stretched into a wide grin as he felt the water droplets freeze against his matted coat. Few pegasi enjoyed the air at that height—it was too cold, too thin. Not for Shrieking Arrow. He had a plan, something new and terrifying. As he passed through another wispy mass, he was greeted with tiny shards of ice which bounced harmlessly off his wings and coat.
Almost there.
The chill was becoming unpleasant, but that did not stop him. Nothing ever did. Today was the day to test his limits. He only focused on one thought as he beat his wings harder still: the stratosphere. Once the air began to warm again, he knew he had reached his destination. Thankful that his coat and feathers offered insulation enough to consider such a frigid temperature “warm,” he considered how unfortunate unicorns and earth ponies were to never experience such wonders. He slowed the rhythmic pulse of his wings and gazed around.
There he hovered in a cloudless sky. The air was calm and quiet. Beneath him lay the world, the entirety of Equestria in his vision—as well as countries he had never had the opportunity to visit. From here, they seemed so small, so close together. Above him stretched the entirety of the universe, sheer blackness punctured by tiny dots of light. Never had he seen so many stars. He could not imagine how much clearer they could be if he went even higher, but he had been warned in flight school of the dangers of clearing the stratosphere. Up there, the air was too thin even for pegasi. He was daring, not stupid—well, not completely stupid.
This next stunt was by far the dumbest thing he had ever considered, and he was bound to follow through with his plan. He estimated that he was roughly twenty-two kilometers above the ground. He was glad he paid attention in flight school. Any miscalculation would result in death, no question about it. He even spent an entire day checking the books and working the math simply for the sake of his own survival. Three minutes ought to be enough. Taking a deep breath, Shrieking Arrow closed his eyes and did what no pegasus in his right mind would ever do.
He folded his wings around his barrel.
Thus began his descent, slowly at first, as gravity realized it had finally regained ownership of his fate. The wind beat at him from all sides as he toppled, out of control, to the ground below. His legs flailed about, despite his attempts to tuck them against his chest. After several moments, he successfully curled up as he plummeted, a ball of meat ready to splatter across the ground at any time. He needed to keep track of how long he had been falling.
Fifteen seconds.
Gradually, his tumbling form began to stabilize, and he continued his fall face-up, the air splitting across his back and running in small eddies up and around his legs. His mane whipped wildly in front of him, lashing at his snout, each impact bringing more pain than the last. This only furthered his resolve. He would not cheat. He would not open his eyes. There was only him and the sky beneath him. He needed to focus.
Thirty seconds.
He encountered that cloud again. The minuscule fragments of frozen water lashed at his back; it was far less pleasant than before. He could only hope that his wings would not tatter as he continued his plunge through the fluffy patches of ice. He shivered as his velocity increased further. The wind at his cheeks was numbing; the air had chilled again. By now he had broken the sound barrier. He needed to remain calm.
One minute.
It was exhilarating, but it still was not enough. He needed less wind resistance. He curled tighter against himself as the updraft blew colder, sharper. The stratosphere was above him now, and the temperature was increasing, but the rush of wind about him concealed any evidence. The stinging on his neck and back had become unbearable; he hoped the incoming droplets of water would soothe (or at least substantially dull) the pain for a moment.
He was mistaken. At this speed, the vapor was just as painful as its crystallized counterpart. And he would only accelerate. He began to question his sanity as he was pelted by thousands of tiny beads of water, over and over again. He would not give up. He was over halfway there. He would not open his wings early. He needed to be tenacious.
Two minutes.
He was drenched, his coat glistening in the moonlight. The next cloud would continuously splash against him even as the freezing wind dried him of the last. He tried to calculate his bearings. The clouds grew consistently closer in succession, so he was likely eight kilometers up, and his velocity was still increasing. His heart pounded in his chest.
Flying was more than just maneuvering through the air currents. It was feeling; it was timing; it was simply a matter of existence. He knew the sky, he felt the sky, he was the sky. He was taught to be one with the air, to let the wind be his guide and use it to his advantage. At the end of this fall, he would be fighting the wind with all his might. He needed to be ready.
Two minutes, forty-five.
He heard a familiar rumble to his left; he had just dropped past a stormcloud. It was time—he may have cut it too close. No. Three minutes. He did the math. That stormcloud could just be too high. No. The pegasi on duty kept their stormclouds at consistent heights. He was taking unnecessary risk. He could break away now—what’s ten seconds shy? He wiggled a couple of his feathers, ready to cut loose just in case. But he could not feel them. There he was, falling at terminal velocity, and he had only just realized that he had lost the feeling in his back and wings.
That was when it hit him: he was terrified, the first time fear ever manifested itself in his life. Flying was feeling. The numbing winds had taken that from him. Flying was timing. The stormcloud distracted him and had taken that from him as well. Flying was existence, being one with the sky. He had chosen to fight the sky. All he had left were his instincts, and he could only hope they were enough to keep him alive. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as the possibility of death confronted him. This was the rush he desperately sought. He needed to act.
Now!
He unfolded a wing and straightened it, forcing his body to flip. In an instant, both wings flared out, catching the updraft with such force that Shrieking Arrow struggled to keep them properly extended. As the draft impacted his outstretched wings, the remaining water on his body erupted in a mist, falling to the earth below. Streams of wind streaked between his pinions and around his tail. He felt his speed decrease and opened his eyes—his heart nearly stopped.
The ground was too close. He had only one option. He tilted himself forward and began to nosedive, wings clamped against his sides. He eased into the current sucking him toward the trees and adjusted his trajectory; there was no fighting the wind this time. He flapped his wings; he felt the current between his feathers again. He looked at the ground before him and smirked; he had practiced this hundreds of times. The pegasus gritted his teeth and pulled up into a perfect parabola.
He let out a triumphant yell as he soared mere meters over Everfree Forest, a fierce whistle echoing in his wake. He quite appreciated the sound, as it was caused by the strange arrangement of the feathers at the base of his wing. When the wind ruffled those feathers the right way, the high-pitched hum would always give away his location. He much enjoyed the attention it brought him. He performed a few barrel rolls and spins, reveling in the way the wind rushed through his mane and wings at that speed.
In fact, it was only a few minutes later that he circled Canterlot. By the time he reached the mountain, he had lost all the added momentum from the twenty-two kilometer free-fall and was merely cooling down after such a thrill. He landed atop the mountain and sat on his haunches. Nothing was more fun than tricking gravity into thinking it won, only to pull away at the last second. He took a few deep breaths and let the adrenaline run its course. In all his short life, he had never experienced anything like this. The victorious pegasus looked up to the sky, its likeness marred by clouds and atmospheric gases. He smiled.
There was no topping that experience.
Author's Note
Edited by q97randomguy — Thanks for making this story bearable!
Written for EQD Writer's Training Grounds #004: "Rainbow Falls".
