“Fuckin’ Crash.”
That about summed up Spitfire’s current situation. Beyond her stretched miles and miles of white haze; A winter storm had crept out from the Yakistani mountains, covering her flight path in icy powder. Her wings beat hard, shifting the package in her covered saddlebags up and down.
“You’ve got the feather flu? You’ll buy me a drink? When I get back, I’m going to shake the bits from your corpse until I have enough for a keg!” She screamed against the snow storm. It howled back at her, but couldn’t match her powerfully trained drilling instructor voice. “Come on! Show me what you got!”
Heat steamed off her as the snow touched her, melting instantly from what she considered only a mild workout. Indeed, the only protective gear she wore was her waterproof Wonderbolts outfit, along with a pair of goggles that increased her awesomeness by at least twenty-five percent, because twenty percent was just not enough.
Spitfire was nearly blinded by a sudden gust that managed to send her into a sideways aileron roll. When she’d stopped spinning, she had to fly lower to the ground to reestablish her direction, looking for landmarks to confirm her flight instincts. Eventually, she spotted a tilled field, covered with crop rocks.
“They always plow north to south, and the changeling hive is just north-east of the Pie family farm.” She adjusted her angle, and sped back to acceptable weather speeds. The field lines were just barely visible below as she elevated her position.
Crack! Spitfire flinched and blinked hard. A solid line now ran down her right goggle lens. They were military-issue, and so quite sturdy, but the crack was still there.
“Great!” She shook a hoof at the heavens. “Now supply is gonna be down my throat.” She didn’t have time to consider what reprimands she’d be receiving for damaging equipment on an off-the-books operation as something thumped hard against her hoof. “Ow! Fuck that hurt!”
She raised her leg automatically to check herself when the storm really started. This isn’t hail…
Rocks. Hard. Frozen. Heavy.
All falling down with bone-breaking force.
“Sweet Celestia on a cinnamon roll!” She attempted evasive action, naturally, but it was like swimming through sand as the wind kicked up, all while sharks dove down upon you. A sharp pain shook her as her flank was punctured. Her wings never faltered, even as her hoof was snapped by a boulder the size of her head. Even still, she flapped on.
She passed field after field, eyes open for any kind of shelter. She turned, spotting the Pie farmhouse in the distance, and turned for it. Her wings strained hard against the fierce, chilling wind.
Spitfire flapped, fierce and blazing in the whiteout of an untamed Equestrian blizzard. Then her heart stopped as the one thing every flyer fears happened. The sharp crackle of many of the tiny bones in her wings was the stuff of nightmares. The pain would have made a lesser mare pass out from the pain. Apparently, Wonderbolt captains were made of stronger stuff.
“I am an Equestrian soldier! I am a warrior and a member of the herd! I shall never give up! I shall never quit!”
The not-quite graceful Spitfire spiral, like a bird of prey in death’s dance for prey, headed face first for the hard, cold ground. She did Rainbow Crash proud, nearly face first into a mound of rock and ice.
“Fuuuuuck!”
The only high point of crashing that hard? The blackout preceded the monstrous pain. The pain was future Spitfire’s problem, and freezing to death, that too.
Darkness.
The smell of hay and cold stone.
Intense pain and unbelievably stiff muscles in her wing. Spitfire shifted slowly, the only light around coming from a slice of moonlight across the room. She tried to stand, her hoof screaming at her to immediately cease and desist. Her wing wasn’t moving, pained as it was, as she tried to examine it.
“Where in Celestia’s flying pan am I?” She pulled at her wing with her teeth, and felt firm cloth holding it against her body. It was too dark to really see, but there it was.
Again, she took stock of her surroundings, her eyes adjusting over time. The structure stretched upwards into infinite darkness, and piles of something, probably hay, littered the area. Sitting up on her haunches, her hoof held gingerly, she looked towards the moonlight that most likely outlined a door ajar.
“Hello! Anypony! I’m not dead yet! You can come out now.”
The door creaked, and then was fully shut.
“Oh, I’ve been here the whole time.”
The voice was a bit gruff. It was pitched high enough that it was probably female, but with a gravelly tone that quirked a smile on Spitfire’s muzzle.
“That’s not creepy at all.” Spitfire leaned back, her eyes searching for the mysterious voice, her ears perked for the sound of crunching hay. “Thanks for not letting me freeze, by the way. That’d look pretty terrible on my record.”
“Oh, you’re definitely AWOL at this point. You’ve been out cold for days.”
Spitfire’s head twitched to the left as her host spoke. Despite a slight unease, she chuckled. “Out cold, huh? That’s pretty good.”
There was a long, hard silence. She stepped closer, immediately in front of Spitfire before the small creak of metal squeaked out. A little flick of flame banished the darkness like a score of clouds under seasoned pegasi.
The mare glared at Spitfire through her grey-silver mane, teeth bared as she stopped only hands away. The sway of the lantern shaded her purple cream coat in an odd, but not unflattering way.
“I’m Limestone. This is my farm. You–” She pointed at Spitfire. “--are now my responsibility. At least, until you can buzz off.” She started to pace back and forth, a junior drill sergeant if Spitfire had ever seen it. “You will do what I tell you to, when I tell you to do it. In return, I shall feed you and make sure you get proper care.”
Spitfire blinked, having almost attempted coming to the position of attention. She tapped her chin with a hoof. “You know, that sounds like academy training, but without hard, physical labor.”
“Oh, just you wait…” Limestone turned and trotted away, giving Spitfire nothing more than an angry snap of her tail.
Author's Note
So, this story needs a little explanation. This story was for a gift exchange for Christmas with the Reviewer's Mansion, and I've been struggling with it. Pairing Spitfire and Limestone in an organic, canonical way was a struggle. Add that atop of coming off of Christmas rush at the Post Office, and I've just been burnt out. Anyway, I'll publish another chapter either today or tomorrow. Happy New Year 
