She didn't knew if she could cry anymore. She was tired, so very tired; her wings' muscles burned as if they'd been dipped in boiling water; the sensation of crawling ants on her legs had given way to complete numbness; her eyes, soaked in tears, pained of needles, and her throat was hot and hoarse. But those compared in nothing at all to the pain she felt deep inside her chest, deep past her heart, flowing from somewhere near her soul.
"Don't worry… Raindrops… this things happen… from time to time…" Those had been his last words. Idiot, she thought, why did you had to be so stupid… so… eager to show off?! She looked at the body of her dear one, the pony she had come to care so much about without realizing. Why you had be so wonderful?
She could not do anything about them - her bottled feelings. Those feelings that you never know are there, or care to admit them, until it's too late. It was love; it was regret; it was dreams-to-be, now forever gone; and could do nothing about. Did it matter?
It's my fault.
The events were starting to fade, but she could not let that happen. She had to commit to memory what transversed that afternoon; she had to engrave it into her soul what she had done.
It had been her idea to go venture into the swamps at the far border. It was dragon territory now; she didn't care, she wanted to dare into the new; she wanted to be like him; and he was to eager to oblige. When she'd had grown bored of the tired, old skies, he'd made them new. When she thought she knew everything about herself, he proved her wrong - oh so excitingly wrong. She've seen things, met ponies, eaten, heard, and thought things that were so beyond her old self; she could not imagine herself without them.
And when they found the serpent, she was to eager to taunt it, and it was too eager to oblige.
"Don't do it," he had said, " you don't know what you're getting into!" It's tail and jaws thrashed about and she was still oblivious the danger. "Now, Rain! Let's get out of here!!" His words now registered when she found herself dealing with a second set of snapping jaws. Not just a serpent, but a hydra. She turned down to see him. He'd been bucking rocks and stomps to keep the second and third heads distracted. While adventurous, he was lacking quite in strength for an earth pony, and with him now catching his breath the hydra could dedicate greater attention to the yellow and blue pest that had interrupted it from it's rest.
He was yelling, "You … I… into the forest!" The thunderous sounds of the beast were deafening. Into the forest? She didn't like it, but he had a point. She was fast, but not that fast. One head was something that could be dealt, but three and a tail were a different story. It was not a terribly large beast, but still monstrous and larger that most trees; the trees would offer protection, then. Her faith was his.
After one last rock was propelled to one of the mandibles of the monster, the hydra let out a hurting roar. He ran and she followed suit.
The maze of obstacles that was the forest gave him and advantage. Both quick-witted and built for running, her dear proved a master on land as much as she was a master in the air. But running and dodging could only help for so long: the trees where thinning, the beast unrelenting, and she was running out of steam faster than expected.
And then the forest stopped, giving way to small open field and a cliff.
And the serpent's cry stopped.
And they stopped, too; gasping for ear,covered in mud, scrapped all over, ears pounding deaf from the constant roars of the beast. She could sprint, but not run; she was built for flying.
"Rain," he asked with a puzzled expression, "what are you doing here?"
"You said, 'run into the forest,'"
"No, I said…"
It occurred faster than a blink. And she knew that she'd made a mistake: he never asked her to follow her. How many times, while basking in her own arrogance and bathed on the hydras's booming voice, she had ignored him. Two? Three? How many times had he said, "You go; I'll lure it into the forest" It didn't matter now; not while he was in the virulent fangs of the foul beast.
The movement of it's neck was whip-like, almost unnatural. And his body was shot violently into the ground.
That's when the pain, that primordial, deep, and almost unearthly pain, began in earnest.
She lifted herself as one of the heads dropped directly at her. She had to act, she had to do something, but what? She wasn't brilliant: he was! And what about him? Was he alive? Was she to fly away and abandon him? Could she do that? Would she dare?
She started to do turns and spirals; flying around and around in twisting paths. No great plan here: just stay alive. It was instinctual and premeditated. She wasn't thinking anymore. It was adrenaline, and fear, and shame, and blood.
And then there was a great roar; followed by a sickening bone-crushing noise that was almost indescribable; followed by and equally indescribable silence. The hydra had fell over the sharp drop and simply died. It was sudden, spontaneous, and thoughtless. It was almost purely accidental.
The sun was starting to set. The heavens were turning red and purple. From the air Raindrops gave the only thing she could offer: hundreds and hundreds of flowers collected from the forest and the cliff. Her important somepony lied there, covered under a field of blue and red and orange and white and purple posies.
He was wonderful. When she'd had grown bored of the tired, old skies, he'd made them new. When she thought she knew everything about herself, he proved her wrong - oh so excitingly wrong. She've seen things, met ponies, eaten, heard, and thought things that were so beyond her old self; she could not imagine herself without them - even now.
