Rafts of wispy clouds give texture to the darkening sky as Owl and Falcon launch themselves into crisp and cooling air. Feathers slicked back and wings beating, they climb over houses and stores, schools and shops, leaving branch and ground farther and farther below.
Free from ponies and population they wing their way ever upwards, gardens and lawns and streets reduced to patterns in the distance. Over fields and hills they glide until yards become farms. Weaving among the trees of an orchard, they share a smile and nod before peeling off to separate paths. Owl swoops low, darting among thick leaves and heavy, pendulous fruits as he scans the well-trodden grass for unsuspecting prey. Falcon climbs, wings splayed wide as she circles high overhead, every swaying leaf and weed below as clear as if she’d held them at beak’s length.
Opposite the orchard, over clear ponds and ambling streams they meet again, a mutual shrug the only indication that prey had been scarce. Into the forest they fly, threading their way at breakneck speed between crowded saplings and towering pines. At a coo from Owl they agree on a branch and alight to rest. Long minutes pass in silence as they breathe deeply of the forest air, its scent thick with sap and blossom and undisturbed earth. Carefully and meticulously they primp and preen, beaks clacking and feathers smoothed until once again they sit ready as they airborne predators they are. Woodland silence descends and they pause, watching and waiting, patient in their nocturnal vigil.
Somewhere in overgrowth a tiny heart beats and thumps, tiny veins pulse, and tiny paws scamper across scattered leaves. Warm fur stands out beacon-bright and beckoning against cool earth, and tiny breaths puff against the hull of a nut. The fieldmouse rolls the nut back and forth, tiny teeth clicking as they search for a way to extract the succulent fruit while tiny claws clack and click against the shell.
On his perch Owl looks about and freezes, stock-still. Falcon sees nothing but shares the gesture, trusting her friend’s preternatural senses, coiling her muscles as she awaits the signal. A powerful hoot issues from Owl, his voice strident and reverberating through the treescape. Its effect is immediate: far below, something skitters through the leaf litter, frightened into movement by Owl’s booming call.
This is the moment for which the two were born, Owl silent and powerful and night-eyed, Falcon fast and sharp and inescapable. They dive, a race to the underbrush, and their prey is caught and silenced before the dust settles to the forest floor. There they dine in silence, fur and bone and sinew filling their stomachs. Falcon reaches in, cleaning a glistening red speck from Owl’s cheek; Owl preens an errant feather on Falcon’s silken breast. They share a knowing nod, their nightly ritual complete. They are invigorated, basking in the glow of the chase, and many clouds pass overhead before they sigh and resign themselves to a return to civilization.
Finally they wing their way at housetop level to land in the branches of the great golden oak, its heart warm and its windows glowing, scents of ink and parchment drifting up from below. Owl sits full-bellied, wide-eyed, and refreshed while Falcon pants, weary and tiring as night closes in. Fluffing feathers in the cooling breeze, Falcon draws Owl closer for warmth and a last goodbye before leaving to roost. Their adventure in the skies coming to its close, Owl leans in and shares a beak with his friend before gliding gently through an open window into the flicker-lit treehome below.
Sighing and contented, Falcon leaps into rapidly chilling air and beats her way up and onward, cloud-bound and soaring. By chance she glances behind and immediately curses her unfailing vision. Between the branches and leaves of the oak, through the still-ajar window, she sees what she swore she’d try to forget. Her heart leaps and her bile rises.
There on the floor of the oakhome library lies perfection in the form of taut muscles and rainbow mane, sky-blue coat and speed almighty, her beloved blue pony. Her great flawless wings lie outstretched, one warming and caressing the purple pony who so adores Owl. The other glorious wing, now traitorous and vile, covers and embraces Him. There It sits, wing-warmed, peaceful in his idiocy, the monster that stole from Falcon her joy, her future, her passion and her love. A cry escapes Falcon’s throat and echoes in the nighttime sky, a curse on the day the blue pony met that - that shell-armored beast.
Him.
That thing.
That goddamn tortoise.