Written by: AntiquatedAnnomaly
Rated Everyone
The sun’s brilliance crested the sandstone mesa that dominated the horizon, and Celestia’s glory painted the red landscape in complementary shades and hues. Early dawn light made limestone streaks and spires stand out from their sandstone bedfellows even more dramatically than usual. Flattop mountains shot forth from the San Palomino Desert sands like the bones of some colossal beast. The only color that broke through the reds and whites of rock and sand was the occasional shrub or cactus. But long ago, this dry and barren land had been a very different place.
Once, this desert had been an inland sea. The limestone had formed from the bodies of millions of generations of coral and other tiny aquatic animals. The sandstone had similarly been formed from the bodies of shellfish that had been broken down and compressed. While Equestrian geologists couldn’t agree on what had caused the inland sea to dry up a thousand years ago, they all agreed that the mass grave for millenia of sea life was a fitting place for the second most inhospitable area of Equestria.
All this was lost on Little Strongheart as she watched the sunrise. Looking over the barren and desolate wasteland of red stone—all she saw was home. The medicine-bull of their tribe had said the streaks of white were the ribs of old gods, that this was a sacred place. “To stampede on these hallowed grounds is to do honor to our ancestors.” This was her home, as it had been to her father, and her fathers father, and all the fathers of fathers before him. The Buffalo had lived here for as far back as the history keepers could recite.
The horizon of mesas and flattop mountains was more comforting to Little Strongheart than the rolling forests and plains that made up the rest of Equestria would ever be. The bareness and harshness of the landscape meant little to someone who had grown up here. To her, the desert was more beautiful than any forest, the seas of sand rolling beneath heatwaves more captivating than the ocean tides. This was home, and under the red dawn it was breathtaking.
Though Little Strongheart had been awake for hours, the rest of the herd would only just be stirring. While the dawn made this time of day beautiful, that wasn’t why she chose to rise so early. It had been hours ago when she had started her morning sojourn to the summit of the nearest flattop mountain. Many would say that calling Picacho Peak a mountain was doing a disservice to the nearby Macintosh Hills, but it was a mountain to Strongheart. She climbed slowly, carefully observing the rocky terrain to make sure that nothing large had shifted since her last visit.
When she had reached the top, the familiar sights of the petrified forest greeted her. It was a forest in name only. The few trunks left were made of brittle, red stone. Thin cylindrical pieces of petrified wood that had once been branches littered the ground. They crunched underhoof as she wandered around fallen stone trees and between those that were still standing. When the sun started to rise, she had ceased her wanderings and made her way to a large sandstone outcropping. It hung over the shallowest of the mountain’s sides, conveniently pointing back home. There she had watched the sunrise and let her mind wander over the tales and stories the medicine-bull had told her as a calf. Her favorite was the legend of the Winged Buffalo.
She could clearly picture him sitting across from the firepit, the firelight dancing across his features as he spoke.
Long, long ago when the world was young, there was a young Bison from a small tribe. He was not the strongest or the fastest of his tribe, but he was the bravest. One day when he was out playing with his friends—a sandlion attacked. The young Bison kicked stones at the huge sandlion, to gain its attention. He called out to his friends, and told them to run back and warn the tribe. Then, the young Bison galloped in the opposite direction to draw off the beast. For hours he ran, and it chased. Far, far off into the desert he lead the terrible beast. Eventually, his strength faded, causing his legs to fail him. He closed his eyes and prepared for death, but he was not destined to die that day.
As always, mother Gaia was watching. She saw his brave sacrifice and chose to intervene on his behalf. She blessed the young Bison with wings and great power. Using these gifts he was able to strike down the sandlion and fly back to his tribe. Once he had returned, the tribe saw his wings and knew that it was the will of Mother Gaia for this young Bison to lead them. The Winged Buffalo united the scattered tribes, leading them to great prosperity till the end of his days.
Even now the Buffalo wait for Mother Gaia to choose another Bison to lead them, looking always to the sky for a flying bison.
Little Strongheart sat on the edge of the mountain, hearing this story over and over again in her mind as she watched the sunrise. When the colors of dawn had been swallowed up by the oppressive heat of the morning, she stood and looked over the valley from her vantage point on high one last time.
Then she jumped.
The first ten hooflengths was a straight freefall. Strongheart smiled as she neared the mountainside and bent her legs ever so slightly. She glanced off a large, flat slab of sandstone by kicking with all four legs and turned her freefall into a bounding leap down the steep incline. Her hooves skipped over the mountain, and her eyes danced back and forth across the familiar terrain. She kicked off of the large, more stable boulders to maintain an almost gliding fall.
The feeling of wind in her mane was intoxicating, but the pleasure was offset by the irritation it meant for her eyes. The urge to close her eyes was almost overpowering. Strongheart resisted the temptation, knowing full well what would happen if she did. She started kicking off from the mountainside more frequently, now directing the force of her blows downwards, slowing her fall. By the time she reached the foot of the mountain, she had slowed to a gallop. Digging her hooves in and dropping to a crouch, she ended her “fall” by skidding to a stop.
Strongheart gazed back up mountainside, watching the gentle wind catch up and carry off all the dust her descent has raised.
“I may not have wings, but I can still fly.”
She adjusted her headdress to hide her windswept mane, and with sore hooves she returned to camp to start another day as a member of the Great Southern Buffalo tribe.