They call me Flightless Fury.
It is something of a misnomer. I am capable of flight, but I do not need to fly. My wings have not seen use in over one hundred years. They have rested at my sides, patiently awaiting their turn to shred the air once more. Like sentinels, they know their purpose and silently await their destiny. It is that patience which has won me my title. For I am not Flightless Fury.
My flight is my fury.
And today, little pegasus, you will know fury.
It was she who disturbed my slumber. She doesn’t realize it. She thinks she has won. That prize in her hooves—the most valuable treasure of my hoard—she thinks it is hers. That is a testament to my patience. The instant I heard her, she was doomed.
I can see her now, soaring in celebratory laps outside my cave. She flips and spins through my ashen lair with speed, deftly weaving her colourful contrail between my columns of magma. A bold grin splits her face now, and she dashes through the air, mocking me with her dazzling display of flight.
But, little pegasus, you know nothing of flight.
She plays with the air like a whelp enjoying a friend’s company. Her wings, to her, are a luxury. I can see it in how she flaps them. To fly for the sake of flying—that is her passion. That is her drive. To make a show of herself and merge her identity with the air, so that others will not think of her name without envisioning skies, clouds, and wings.
No, little pegasus, you know nothing of flight. Your wings are weak.
Allow me to show you strength.
My roar rends the air and quakes the earth, and so she flees. At least you know a threat when you see one, little pegasus. And you are quick, to be sure. There is so much potential in that—so much potential wasted on theatrics… wasted on foolishness.
You have speed, little pegasus. But speed matters none in flight.
Looking up from the entrance to my cave, I can see her just vanishing beyond the edge of my flaming sinkhole. Rolling heat waves bombard me, beckoning me forward like sirens. The air is black and sulfuric, aching with the stench of millennia-old smoke. A dot of blue rests far above: the gateway to my sky. All of my will bleeds into my wings, forcing them away from my body.
You will know fury.
The first pulse of my wings in over a century feels as you might expect—they are tired and sore, but memories of greatness fuel them as they bond with the air. I have longed for this. To feel the atmosphere part before me like clouds before the almighty sun. I am a harbinger. I am a force. I am power.
Oh, sky, how I’ve missed you.
I can feel every wingbeat. The volcanic hurricanes left in my wake course through my veins—like bellows to a fire, they are. There is steel in my eyes as the thermal winds crack and shudder at my presence. Flowing magma envelops the tips of my wings as I ascend, and it boils at my vigor. This is the feeling I have so longed for. To smell the sky’s fear. To make the cosmos blink when they notice me—when they see Flightless Fury fly. That feeling, little pegasus, is my drive. My passion.
Purpose.
You know nothing of flight, little pegasus. It is a tool. A weapon. A blunt hammer steered by the honourable hand of purpose.
I recall a time when ponies brandished blades. It was not against any enemy—it was for show. Ceremonial halberds held by guards who had seen nothing of combat. Oh, how those crowds cheered for them. Cheered for ponies in soldier costumes—cheered for weapons which gleamed in the sun despite never having delivered bloodshed. They were theatrics… nothing more. Mockeries of war.
I see nothing has changed, little pegasus. Still, you wield your weapon as a toy. Still, you fail to appreciate what should not be yours. On that day so long ago, I showed your kind a true weapon. I wreaked death across the landscape with little more than wings, fire, and a purpose.
Do you know where you failed, little pegasus? In identifying yourself with the sky. You have made yourself one with the stratosphere. You take the air as your equal, if not your better. It is your stage—your pride. Without it, you are nothing. Your wings are as firmly attached to you by your identity as by your flesh and bone. That is where you fail, little pegasus.
Flight is purpose. To understand it is to wield it. Command the air—don’t let it seep into your soul. Make the sky quiver when you bless it with your presence. Give yourself a new identity when you spread your wings. Feel the force behind every flap. Sense your willpower carrying you through the air to your fate. Bleed determination, my little pony. You have the potential. You could have succeeded.
But it is too late now, little pegasus. You will learn to fear my shadow like an executioner’s axe. You know nothing of flight, but you will see its reality in my flame.
One more push of my wings launches me into the open air. I can feel the atmosphere growing heavy and dark—the calm before the storm. Blue winds stream across my scales and shatter under my wings. The world shrieks and squeals in my ears, for it knows what is to come.
I taste the renewed freshness of the world, and it tastes me in return. It remembers my lumbering wingbeats, my ancient scales—my thundering spirit. I cannot help but smile. It is my purpose that has branded my name in creatures’ minds. It is my shadow that has darkened the annals of history, blotting out light in favour of fire.
I am not fast. I am not agile. But I have purpose. I have determination. I am a mountain given flight.
And you, little pegasus… I have your smell…
Your village will know my shadow soon enough.
Author's Note
Written for Equestria Daily's Writer's Training Grounds #004.
