Falling.

Earth ponies and unicorns just don't understand. They always seem incredulous; surely a tribe whose great strength was their wings would inure its foals to falling as a matter of course—repetition breeds familiarity, does it not?

No, idiots, the pegasi reply. Falling more often just gives them more opportunities to get in touch with how truly awful it is to fall—and on that point, when pegasi fall, they don't screw around. Like everything that bold tribe does, they fall with gusto.

Falling off a ledge is painful. Falling off a building a recipe for a broken leg. Falling off a cliff is an an early grave.

But falling off a cloud?

Tumbling from the very heavens?

There's time then, even for a mind suffused in adrenaline, sauteed in panic, and marinated in dreadful inevitability to consider not only what is happening and just how much it is going to suck—which is the point where even a very distant fall for an earth pony or unicorn turns into a moment best not reflected upon in too much detail—but for a pegasus there's also time to consider just how immensely and terribly you screwed up something you learned to do when you were barely out of diapers.

There's a terrible, primal shame in that. No matter how old you got, when you fell, you remembered your mom or dad or uncle or whoever flying right there beside you as you gave your wings their first real workout. The terror, the performance anxiety, the need that awoke within you the first time you really flew and weren’t just hovering around like a newborn...all of it, betrayed by some waywardness or incompetence on your part.

It leaps to mind immediately, even if it legitimately wasn’t your fault, as the mind reels for anything to think about except “if a pony goes splat in the woods, but nopony's around to hear it, how long will it take for everypony to come looking for her...?”

Spitfire pursed her lips. She really was morose at times like this.

Falling, falling...of anypony, the captain of the Wonderbolts ought to be used to it—it was part of so many routines to just let your momentum die, and go into freefall until you seemed totally lost, then splay your wings out right over the crowd's head so they gasped at your daring. But there you were, that was a controlled action; there was a trick to it, keeping your body in the right form so that when you popped those wings—really popped them, like nopony who wasn't a stunt flier could—they'd catch you and your weight was distributed just right to bank sharply.

Maybe a foal or two got a feather to take home as a souvenir; it was hard work! And hard on your wings, that was for sure, not everypony could do it...

Even if you didn't quite land it, there were more 'Bolts around to catch you in one of eighteen different “emergency patterns” to save your feathers without even once breaking the show's stride, although being on the receiving end of some “divine intervention” was the quickest way to blow your paycheck known to Equestria, past, present, or future—since you'd be buying drinks for the next week or so, and stunt flying is thirsty work.

There was some serenity in free-falling like that, once you had the knack of it. Some grace, some beauty—the ultimate freedom of letting go, giving in to your bitter nemesis, gravity, and letting it embrace you for a moment before you once again defied its grasp in the most daring way you could manage. To be at once in control of your situation, and because of that control, allowing yourself to be consumed in the moment without hesitation.

In the hooves of a force larger than yourself, you fell...and if you fell properly, you felt no fear surrendering to it. There was, if you did it right, nothing to fear. Nothing to be ashamed of.

But this?

Spitfire had enough experience at this to have given up waggling her hooves in the air almost immediately. It never helped, even though your mind screamed at you to do anything to right yourself—there was something about even pegasi that told them that the sky was “up”.

Her experience and discipline should, by all rights, have saved her. But no, that...

She'd tried to pop and catch herself. A little desperate, yes, and her execution could have been better, sure, but still—at least she'd been able to master her panic enough to try to do things properly.

There had no realistic way to predict that sudden crosswind, though...

The thought of the audible snap of her left wing rolling in its socket far too hard in the wrong direction entirely still made her guts wrench with both visceral disgust and an immense feeling of humiliation. Any attempt to control her wing now just invited pain, and so she was forced to endure it flopping stupidly in the wind as it splayed out lazily next to her, throbbing agonizingly as it was buffeted by the rushing wind.

That there had been nothing she could have done, that her fate had been out of her control, should have been a comfort to her, by all rights; but no, it was just...

So, this is how the great Spitfire, captain of the Wonderbolts, meets her fate? An accident?

Doesn't the sky understand that it was better to die than to be killed?

That's what made it bad. That's why falling was so hard for the free-spirited pegasi; it was like being abandoned by something that should be your friend. Your dearest friend, an environment you knew so intimately that it was part of who you were as a pony, what set you and your tribe apart from everypony else.

Hack the horn off a unicorn and see how they like that. Toss an earth pony in the ocean and never let them back on land.

Not only that, but to be out of control, trapped in a body that couldn't save you—that, too, was a torture beyond reason for a pegasus, especially one for whom training and physical perfection was everything. Spitfire could fly, dammit, she could fly fly fly her body wasn't weak she wasn't helpless the sky was hers!

Broken like a foal's toy by the sky she so loved, Spitfire fell.

Thunderstruck.

She shouldn't have gone out. She shouldn't have flown into the darkness, but there was nowhere else to go. Now the roiling blackness of the thunderhead was far above her, spinning in her vision as gravity eagerly claimed one of its most persistently defiant foes. Just another raindrop crashing down, down, down onto the cruel, cold earth.

Falling.

Thunderstruck.

Darkness lapped at the corners of her vision, embracing her, offering the cold comfort of insensibility before the end.

Something calm in Spitfire's mind took note of the fact that she was starting to black out. Bloodflow to her brain was being restricted; her vision was clouding, her ability to control her thoughts minimal, her emotions dull and distant, like a day-old muscle ache.

She'd been falling for a long time, hadn't she?

Two and a half minutes now—and at the same time, years.

It had nothing to do with choice when she had started falling, just as it had nothing to do with it now. Kicked in the head, tumbling forehead-over-fetlock alongside the wailing unicorn, Soarin, and Rapidfire, sure, but that was only half—no, an eighth of it.

Thunderstruck.

What other word was there for it?

The world, hazy and indistinct through a swimming head, had exploded into color and sound. A ring of vibrant light, furiously, joyously bright, had bloomed before Spitfire's dull eyes, and streaking down from that spectacular burst like the thunderbolt which so boldly marked her...

There she was.

Spitfire had been watching Rainbow Dash's performance, of course, and...well, she hadn't been terribly impressed. It was a little painful to watch somepony suffer so heavily from nerves—and she was being upstaged by that ridiculous unicorn in her bizarre outfit. That almost took effort.

But on that descent, Dash had found...something.

Been transfigured, from what could be there to what there was...and it was beautiful.

Gone was the awkward, nervous mare whose performance anxiety had been so cringe-inducing; there instead was a force of nature, the joy of flight and speed embodied and given purpose. Her eyes were always alive with light and passion, but in that moment they blazed like uncut rubies freshly mined, burning bright with joy in the sunlight for the very first time to celebrate their liberation from the earth.

An angel dressed in many colors, her coming announced by the thunder of the air itself failing to resist the majesty of her passing.

Spectacular.

Spitfire had been graced with but a moment for her eyes to widen in stunned surprise, before the lance of beautiful light that was Rainbow Dash had her firmly in hoof, carrying her back into the sky they both loved so dearly.

If Dash hadn't turned out to be so fun the fascination would have ended there, but spending the next day with her just threw Spitfire more and more off-balance. Brash, yes. Headstrong, yes. Prone to lazing about, yes. A bit stupid sometimes, oh, most certainly. But for all that...dynamic. Passionate. Eager.

Spitfire was used to Wonderbolts recruits and the accompanying bravado, which was always so thick you needed a very large and very sharp knife to cut through it, but Dash was different, so earnest in her need to succeed, to triumph...

You could forgive her anything, when she gave you that cocky grin, even—no, especially—when you knew she couldn't possibly live up to her boasting. She'd try anyways, of course. It was sweet.

Spitfire had started falling, completely unplanned.

No neat dive, no control. There was no training for this falling, which was just as terrifying and constricting and mind-warping as the real thing, with the added complication that it felt so damned good.

Thunderstruck, as if that bolt had leapt straight off Dash’s flanks and nailed Spitfire right in the chest.

So, like a foal before flight school, lost and unsure what to do, she'd flailed—both to right herself, so to speak, and to make everything turn out the way she so desperately wanted it to.

Somehow it just never worked.

Like at that Gala, the really exciting one. Oh, so nice to see you there, Dash, what a nice dress! Come hang out with us! But excuse me while I go over here and, uh, frankly, try to think of something to say to you that isn't “want to come home with me tonight?”

And when she'd organized Ponyville's pegasi for the Cloudsdale water supply—Spitfire had been unsurprised to hear Dash trying to break the record, of course, that was so like her. What had really caught her attention, though, was watching Dash rally as it became clear that the record wasn't an option. The dream of beating the record was secondary; she had a head on her shoulders. She turned her attention to the task at hand and led her town to success, even making a point of praising her friend for her courage instead of making it all about her, even in front of Spitfire...

She'd heard Dash was the Element of Loyalty, but that just proved it in such a typically passionate, enthusiastic, honest way...

Another afternoon with Dash had just been a tailwind throwing her completely for a loop. Running into her at the royal wedding was just as bad, especially since Soarin all but tossed the gleefully gushing young mare into Spitfire's lap so she’d stop asking him questions about complex aerial maneuvers while he tried to schmooze at some of Canterlot’s most eligible bachlorettes.

Beautiful. Proud. Loyal. Honest. Courageous...

It was the simple joy of being in her that made Dash so fascinating. She did everything 110%, even complaining or being lazy. She put more effort into procrastination than some ponies did their jobs; it was almost a thing of beauty in and of itself to watch her really get comfortable and nap on a cloud. So to see that much passion and ambition focused so intensely on the dream of flying alongside the Wonderbolts... alongside Spitfire...

Of course she'd recruited Dash to the 'Bolts, a few months later.

Spitfire had drowned in Dash's glee as she was shown the clubhouse for the first time. She'd gloried in Dash's enthusiasm to begin training, even in the face of the harsh discipline demanded of synchronized performance flying. She'd reveled to hear the trainers gush about Dash's natural talent.

She'd almost cried, coming home that first day. Finally—teammates!

They could be friends now!

So what if she overlooked some disciplinary problems? There were always rough edges to smooth out. And showboating? Well of course Dash showboats! You would too, Soarin', if you weren't so busy stuffing your face until you were too fat to fly straight! And yes, I think that the Rainboom is a great closer, who cares if we never put rookies on close their first time out...this is special. She is special. She's ready!

Flailing, helplessly, as she struggled against a fall in the hands of a force which she was totally unprepared to deal with.

Oh, it had all gone so, so wrong...

And somehow, so typically, Dash had tried to blame herself for all of it.

Spitfire, her vision almost completely clouded by oxygen deprivation and despair, blinked away some tears that had nothing at all to do with the wind biting at her eyes.

No, Dash, no. It was me. I put too much pressure on you. Don't listen to Soarin, he's always hard on the newcomers. The team doesn't all hate you. You did great. So what if you didn't quite pull it off, this is just your first—

Flailing, lost, out of control in the face of Dash's crushed expression, Spitfire had been so desperate that she'd told the truth.

Why did I...? Why do you think?

But does anypony ever want to be told that their idol set them up for humiliation out of love? That it was supposed to be a gift?

Terrified of Dash’s response, somehow knowing that no matter what was said, it would be just too much, Spitfire had fled. Deeper into darkness and, more crucially, out into the storm.

There, as she had been so many other times, she was left thunderstruck.

And she fell.

It was okay. She deserved to.

Spitfire loved that vitality, that passion, the core and soul of Rainbow Dash—the raw, unrestrained creature she had seen, that very first day, as a multicolored streak scored the sky and descended on her. She drowned in the intensity of Dash’s dream of the Wonderbolts, the drive for success...the sheer joy of being alive and flying...and in her love, in her desire for that same passion and joy to be directed at her...

You can’t give somepony triumph. That’s the point.

Rainbow Dash didn’t want to be put in a position where she was perceived to be the best, to be showcased, or put on display...hers was the dream of chasing the horizon, the next achievement, the next height of skill and the thrill of earning her victories...

If Spitfire hadn’t been falling, hadn’t been lost and confused...she would have realized that, if anything, her only role in that dream was as a fellow traveler on the winds of glory.

Spitfire felt herself slipping away, but managed to keep her eyes upwards, towards the sky that was at once her best friend and her betrayer. Consumed with the rolling fury of the angry sky, punishing her for crushing the dreams of its chosen pony, she barely noticed striking a cloud, her momentum sapped somewhat by it dissolving beneath her.

Then another, the impact making her list helplessly.

And a third, this one too big for her weight and force to totally dissipate. Spitfire landed hard on her wounded wing with a yelp and bounced, rolling in the air and continuing her awkward descent to earth, tumbling head-over-hooves...

To fall was torture, for a pegasus.

To be stricken, out of control, cast down from that dizzying, electrifying thrill of movement and speed and freedom to struggle against some outside force, humiliated and confused and so, so alone as everything you knew and desired was cast to cruel winds, was a very special hell that you risked every day just by spreading your wings.

But spread them you did, no matter what. That’s what flying was all about.

Spitfire opened her eyes and groaned. Beneath her, the sodden earth squelched with her every movement as it became more and more liquid in the downpour of the storm. The harsh rain pounded down on her limp form relentlessly.

She’d fallen as far as it was possible to go. As Captain, as a flier, and as a pony chasing after somepony else...rock bottom.

But in that there was a little note of comfort, right? A little piece of folksy pegasus wisdom from the old days, the kind of thing that gets written on greeting cards.

Looking up into the terrified, upside-down face of Rainbow Dash, Spitfire chuckled weakly.

Once you’ve hit the ground, there’s nowhere to go from there but up.