//------------------------------// // Blown // Story: House of the Rising Sunflower // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// Something truly terrible came roaring out of the Everfree, a feral storm the likes of which Sundance had never imagined. Tall thunderheads, angry and puffy, flew north like a flock of truculent, choleric anvils returning in the spring. Tall as a mountain, illuminated from within with crackling bolts of lightning, boiling with rage, they were a terrific, terrifying sight to behold. Sundance’s blood ran cold in his veins at the sight of the ancient enemy of the pegasus pony tribe. It had to be more than a hundred miles to Canterlot, how far exactly, Sundance could not say. The storm came in hard and fast on his left, trying to blow him off course, and when the strong gusts broadsided him, Earwax mewled in agony. Sundance was little more than a speck in a vast sea of sky, a mere grain of sand compared to the leviathans approaching. Rain came in sideways, drenching Sundance, and causing the rope to swell with water. The swollen rope cut deeper with every frantic movement. Confusing crossdrafts hurled him up, pushed him down, and the dreadful turbulence made the horizon difficult to keep track of. Soon, Sundance would be swallowed up by clouds and that would make things harder, because the ground and sky would no longer be visible. Never in his life had he ever faced a situation quite like this one, and he had flown in many powerful storms in Baltimare that had blown in from the ocean. Pumping his wings, he pulled up, hoping to gain some much needed altitude. Fierce gusts buffeted him as the storm grew closer and he was panting now with exertion. All of that time spent flying with heavy loads was now paying off and Sundance believed that he had the endurance to make it—though it would not be pleasant. His empty stomach growled, demanding food, and the flock of thunderheads rumbled in reply. The ancient enemy had no mercy—as it had only the barest of intelligence. Sundance knew from his grandmother’s stories that feral storms had their own crude self-awareness, a predatory need to cause misery, fear, and destruction, the very things they fed upon to grow strong. The sudden change of atmospheric pressure could be felt as peculiar sensations in his teeth, as if he suddenly had too much tooth in too little of a space. He had failed to pull a plow, much to his own embarrassment and humiliation, but failure now had higher stakes. Not just his own life, but Earwax’s, whose movements were feeble and leaden. For all Sundance knew, she was dying and he operated under that assumption. Gritting his teeth, he ascended, fighting his way upward and struggling for every inch gained. He wasn’t Sundance any longer, no, he was Lord Sundance Sunfire, and he was a pony who had duties. His mother had raised him to honour and obey his grandmother, and now, Sundance had a far more demanding grandmother. Had an older, wiser, more seasoned pegasus been around, they might have told Sundance that one mile of climb in such conditions was impossible, and it would have been better to seek shelter to wait the storm out—but Sundance was alone, save for the injured mare he carried, and no such wisdom was available. The wind flung him about, hurling him for whole yards in different directions, sometimes even downwards, but he somehow kept his nose pointing upwards. Flying one hundred miles in level flight was a breeze, but flying one mile straight up took a bit of effort. Doing so in a powerful feral tempest took grit and Sundance was eager to tell his parents and his grandmother this story, provided he lived through it. Mocking faces manifested in the flock of anvils, puffy, distorted countenances illuminated by witch-green lightning that flashed from within. They were close now and getting closer. A cloudy fog approached, the outermost bands of the storm, and the first few stinging hailstones struck Sundance. What gave storms such disgusting, distorted physiognomy? Such horrendous lineaments? Why couldn’t feral storms be friendly, harmonious creatures? How far did he have to go? He wasn’t sure. He had flown for several hours at cruising speed to reach the barony. First east, along the railroad tracks, and then north at the railway depot. Now, he was flying in what he hoped was a more direct course, though he knew that he could be blown about and get lost in the big wide sky. For now, his primary concern was going up, and he would figure out the rest as needed. From a great height, the skies were sunny. Bruised, battered, beat up and busted, Sundance had flown up and out of the reach of the feral storms, but he was not yet out of danger. It was cold up here and he worried what the temperature might be doing to Earwax. Canterlot now existed in the uppermost reaches of the storm, the highest layers of the swirling maelstrom. To reach Canterlot would mean going back down. Sundance was able to glide a bit and catch his breath, a few moments of precious respite, but he knew that time was short. He was off course a bit, with Canterlot now west-southwest, which meant that the storm really had hammered him. One eye was almost swollen shut and his vision, his depth perception, was impaired. Somehow, he had managed. Now came the tricky part; approaching Canterlot in hurricane force winds and landing. Could it be done? Maybe. Would he survive it? He hoped. Sundance had a good understanding of the risks and there was no turning back now. Earwax needed the help. She was still alive—he could feel her breathing against his neck—but she had ceased moving and didn’t seem responsive. Adjusting his course, Sundance returned himself to the storm, not knowing how this might end. Canterlot had always been a precarious city plagued by winds and the residents who lived there reveled in their own continued existence. It was said that there was even a special type of happiness to be had on days when smoke blew sideways from the chimneys. The earth ponies of Canterlot were a hearty breed, the pegasus ponies were daredevils, and the unicorns were not to be trifled with. Each faced the frequent storms in their own way, many with a stiff upper lip and a rigid spine. Even so, all flights over Canterlot had been grounded and the skies were empty during Sundance’s approach. His wings were glazed with frost, tiny icicles hung from his eyelashes, and his snot had frozen in his nostrils. Behind him, his tail was a mess of clumped, tangled hair and clinging, frozen hailstones. Iced over such as he was, he was not in good control of his flight, and he had never learned how to de-ice himself while airborne. Now, somehow, he had to find himself a hospital and land. Circling overhead, Sundance spotted a medical landing pad, but knew that he would never be able to perform a rooftop landing in these conditions. Violent crosswinds blew down the urban canyons between the towers and swirling eddies rose up out of narrow alleys. The storm clung to the Canterhorn like an amorous paramour that had no concept of the word ‘no.’ It was snowing in Canterlot, a spring blizzard, and visibility was rather poor. While Sundance had been able to see the rooftop landing pad from above, down near street level, conditions were treacherous. Earwax was shivering now, a faint, feeble tremble that alarmed Sundance a great deal. How much blood had she lost? How much longer would she survive in these conditions? Had it already been too long? Doing his best to level out, Sundance began his long approach, with the intention of using the street in front of the hospital as a runway. It was narrow and little snow devils could be seen dancing among the hidden currents that cut against one another. Much to his surprise, there were ponies down on the street, out doing whatever it was that ponies did on a day such as this one. Dropping down between the minarets and onion domes, Sundance wondered what it would feel like to be skewered upon one of the many lightning rods stabbing skyward from atop the towers. He was buffeted by strong gusts that almost smashed him right into the buildings along his left, and just as he was starting to compensate, the wind changed directions. Now, the structures to the right of him were almost his undoing. Below him, ponies shouted and pointed. A headwind blew Sundance backwards for a time, and he pulled out of a terrific crash at the last second. He was mere yards above the street, which was crowded with wagons and ponies. The wind was too strong, too powerful, too cold, and Sundance could feel his strength starting to flag. “Clear me a path!” he bellowed in his loudest inner-city voice. “Emergency!” With that, he let the wind take him and he pulled up. Soon, he was out of danger—in a relative sense anyhow—and he flew above the city while he circled around to make his approach again. It was difficult to see, but it did look like the street was being cleared. The ice on his wings made him heavy and robbed him of fine control. His swollen eye had frozen over, robbing him of sight completely on one side. Even better, he saw multi-coloured lights forming the outline of a corridor and after a moment of intense squinting, he guessed that unicorns had formed a makeshift runway. Pushing his nose into the wind, he dove and made his second approach, hoping that he wouldn’t smash into the towers on either side of him. It was terrifying how narrow the streets were, how cramped, how claustrophobic. Baltimare was cramped too, but the city was also spread out. Canterlot was a can of sardines by comparison. Sundance clipped his wing against a gilded balcony railing, but he couldn’t pull it in to him, clutch at it, and whine and cry about it. The agonising jolt did knock some ice free though and this helped him to navigate the swirling vortexes that ran rampant up and down the street where he was trying to land. Horizontal icicles stuck out like spears on either side of him, threatening to skewer him if he strayed too close. “Coming in heavy!” Sundance shouted, hoping that somepony would hear him. His legs were jittery, trembling from a flood of adrenaline, and this was made much worse when a cluster of sideways, stab-happy icicles passed mere inches away from his one open eye. It was far too close for comfort and Sundance flapped like mad to correct his course. The street couldn’t be more than three yards below him and he just had to find some way to stabilise himself just a little bit more so he could make a safe approach. Snapping off one of his own legs would be disastrous. He was out of runway. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up as hard as he could and for a moment, the force of gravity was almost too much to bear. The ropes around him—frozen and caked with ice—creaked and made popping sounds. Something in his left wing, the one he had struck, gave way and he felt a significant weakness overtake him. What had he done? Was this the death of him? Gravity, a mean mistress, tugged his eyeballs back into his skull and squished his brain. Stars, millions of them danced in his vision and somehow, by some miracle, Sundance leveled out. Gasping, veering heavily to the left because of his weakened wing, Sundance rode above the storm once more, but he had reached the end of his endurance. Perhaps if he had eaten breakfast, things might have gone better. How long had he been flying? Hours? It felt like days. Tears threatened to freeze solid over his one good eye and the leaking moisture made his face burn in the wind. This time, there would be no turning away, and Sundance made his final approach.