Night Glider awoke in the sweat-sticky hours of early morning knowing she had to leave.
It was an odd feeling. An ache in her wings, though not an ache in the traditional sense—she knew the pains of cramps and splints and twisted feathers, of strains and sprains and broken bones. This was not that.
This was a restless fluttering.
A thrumming.
A need to move and thrash and fly away.
In those first few moments of consciousness, she couldn't fight the urge, and her wings puttered uselessly under the blankets. The motion scared her, and she rocketed upright, her wings still buzzing.
She yelped something. Some wordless cry of confusion. Her wings had a mind of their own.
But then she truly woke, dragged out of the bleary world of sleep and truly into the world of the waking and the living.
The buzzing stopped.
But the urge rattled under her skin.
She swallowed firmly, spit thick and salty in her throat, and pulled her blankets up to her heart. She twisted her hooves into them. She felt that steady pressure of the cool linens pressing into her skin, and she willed it to hold her bones in place. Like a tourniquet. Like shackles.
The urge to fly still vibrated through her wings. They trembled with effort it took not to move.
And then,
because Night Glider was merely equine,
she exploded from her bed in a burst of blue feathers,
fumbled open the window latch,
and dropped into the inky dark of night.
The ground rose to meet her, and she dodged it, allowing her wings to carry her through the sky in whatever direction they pleased. She whirled in circles through the night air, tight spirals, rising, diving—
"Nigh!"
A familiar voice. Whisper-shouted from a nearby window.
Just like that, the magic and freedom of her whims vanished.
Night Glider whirled in the air, searching for her friend. "Party Favor?" she guessed. "Is that you?"
The predictable peaks of Our Town faded into her view. Night Glider spotted the little blue dot of her friend without a bit of trouble, and swooped in to meet him at the window.
Party Favor's brow creased. "Are you… okay?"
"Yeah," Night answered quickly, without thinking. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Party blinked. "Uh… because you just came flying out of your bedroom window like your house was on fire?" He looked his friend up and down, searching for signs of harm and finding none. "What the hay are you doing?"
Night Glider did not have an answer.
She cleared her throat. "I'm, uh—hey, what the hay are you doing?" She hung on the window frame with both forehooves. "Why are you even up?"
"Midnight snack," Party said with a shrug. "But you didn't answer my question."
Night Glider coughed. "I dunno. I just… felt like flying, I guess."
Party didn't say anything. He only looked deep into his friend's eyes, his brows knit, his lower lip protruding in the frown of a worried parent.
"Don't give me that look," Night said, rolling her eyes. "I'm fine, I just—"
And then came the sound.
Not all at once.
Slow.
Rising.
Like a swelling wave, rushing to the shore.
It sounded like shuffling cards. Or a stick run along the wood slats of a picket fence. A thousand individual fluttering beats, layered atop one another until they became a singular hiss.
Night Glider flicked her ear and looked to the sky, searching for the source of the sound.
The stars began to blink.
Flickering.
Like candles about to snuff themselves out.
Candles in the autumn breeze.
Party Favor winced. "What's that noise?"
Night Glider gasped softly.
She pushed off of her friend's windowsill and drifted up, higher and higher, wings carrying her up to the moon, to the stars, to the—
Things were rushing past her.
Careening.
Shapes, forms, things with wings!
Pegasi.
Thousands.
Hundreds of thousands.
So many that they blocked out the light of the stars.
"What's going on?!" Night Glider screamed into the gale. "Where are you going?!"
Someone hooked her. Scooped her up like a bear scoops a salmon from the white waters of the river.
"We don't know," the mysterious pegasus whispered in her ear. "But we have to go."
Party Favor called after her, but Night Glider could not hear.
She was swallowed up by the flock.
On the fourth day of the migration, Night Glider awoke from her midair nap to find herself over the ocean.
The dark waters churned beneath her.
A sharp stab of fear buried itself in her chest. She silently thanked Celestia that she had not dropped into the ocean while she was sleeping. Even the thought of waking up underwater was enough to shoot icy adrenaline through her entire body.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
Salty sea air.
She had never seen the ocean before, she realized. Not like this. At the beach, perhaps. In pictures.
Not like this at all.
And she felt that she was almost there.
She felt it with such certainty that it came to her in complete words, no longer that hazy bleariness of the first fluttering urge to fly:
You're almost there.
She looked around her.
The flock was different.
No longer weary. No longer afraid. At least not dominantly.
They were buzzing.
Humming.
Electrically alive with anticipation.
Night Glider looked to the pegasus beside her. "Hey," she said, nudging them in the ribs. "We're almost there, aren't we?"
The pegasus beside her smiled—
actually smiled!
—and said, "yes."
When the skeletal branches of winter trees begin to bud,
their leaves thrumming beneath the bark,
the salmon leave their home to explore.
What awaits them in the deep blue waters of the ocean?
What do they feel as they fly away from those familiar pools and streams?
What unknowable feeling in their fins
in their scales
in their hearts
tells them it is time to leave home?
Asks them to leave behind those corridors lined with well-worn pebbles
in search of something more?
Do they know they are bound by fate
to thrash through the whitewater
to be plucked
ripe and red
from those icy creeks
by hungry bears and swift eagles
on the way to frenzied death in the pools of home?
Do they leave home with no intention of returning?
Or do they leave because they feel
the very act of leaving
makes coming home finally feel real?
When the leaves turn golden and crisp,
fried by the Summer Sun to a tender perfection,
the salmon come home to die.
What awaits them in those familiar streams?
What do they feel as they fight against that powerful current?
What unseen power of the earth
of the moon
of their own minds
guides them back out of the ocean
slips them into those narrow corridors lined with well-worn pebbles
and shards of glass?
Do they know they are bound by fate
to thrash through the whitewater
to be plucked
ripe and red
from those icy creeks
by hungry bears and swift eagles
on the way to frenzied death in the pools of home?
Do they fight to die?
Or do they fight because they feel
by some miracle
they might survive?
The migration was international news.
On every radio station. In every newspaper. The only thing non-pegasi felt they could talk about, as roving flocks blotted out the very sun. The only thing on anyone's mind.
Night Glider had no way of knowing this, though.
At one point, an intrepid reporter had taken his hot air balloon up into the sky, looking to speak with a few pegasi.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his balloon carried along with the flock. "Excuse me? Miss? Where are you all going?"
Night Glider shook her head. "I-I dunno, okay?!" she spat back. "We just—we're just—ask somepony else!"
It was hard not to be afraid.
Everyone in the flock held with an almost deadly silence, their fear roaring wordlessly through the air between them. The sun beat on their backs without much cloud cover. The sky itself seemed to be closing in on them.
Night Glider, however, had more reason to fear than most.
She had once vowed never to blindly follow the flock again. Had sworn to herself that she would never allow another to puppet her thoughts and feelings.
And yet
here she was
flying into oblivion and uncertainty
guided only by her restless wings
and the will of the flock.
She remembered spotting Rainbow Dash leading the flock at one point.
Perhaps she was always leading. That would make sense. She was a leader, after all. Natural-born.
Night Glider wanted to flag her down and speak with her. Rainbow Dash had seen it all. She must have some insight. She must have something.
But she saw the way her eyes drooped. The way her wings beat lazily up and down, devoid of purpose and confidence.
She decided it was best to leave her alone.
Other pegasi said hello now and then.
"Doing alright?" they'd ask, as if anyone could answer that honestly.
Night Glider would nod. "Sure. Doing fine." And she'd look at this unexpected visitor with her own drooping eyes. "You?"
They would shrug. "Fine, I guess. Where you from?"
"Desert."
"Huh."
"You?"
"Manehattan."
A lot of the pegasi in her flock were from Manehattan. Guess that was just a quirk of geography and population and maybe a little luck.
"That's cool."
"Guess so."
And a long silence.
"Fly safe, okay?"
They'd nod. "You, too."
