Cirrus the WindDancer

It was cold, chillingly so, the area where his warm embrace had been, just moments before. She wasn't sure how it happened, how she suddenly felt naked without his touch there, his strong legs draped across her shoulders or his mighty chest beating against her withers. The cold bit into her skin, the rain and hail and wind were no longer hers to control - she was lost in this maelstrom, this whirlwind, this tempest of wind and water and lust, and she didn't know what she was doing.

Falling, I'm falling again, she thought as she tumbled awkwardly from one altitude to another.
Flying, I'm flying, she shouted with glee (unsure of whether she actually shouted this out loud or just in her head).
Fuck I'm tired, resignation threatened to doom her, to swallow her up and spit her out in a bundle of wet feathers and winter coat. Dizziness threatened to tip her over, her vision was still not completely returned. Despite her attempts to pull on her magic, she could not keep it in control - she felt the wind give way beneath her wings, felt her body strain as her generous breadth of feathery appendages groped for air that simply wasn't there anymore, too damp and haphazard to really carve anything useful from. She was descending, and fast, but at least she was conscious - at least she had felt what it was to be in his embrace before she fell to the dark abyss below.

Consciousness was frayed, partial, it seemed every other heartbeat her eyes would open to see a different world - a flash of lightning snaked its way in front of her, lighting up her pelt at it did - did she hear something else in the thunder that rumbled in its wake?

Cirrus, it hummed, it thrummed, a rhythm deep within her. Cirrus! it bellowed, it trumpeted, it cried until she heard it. Ears lifted from their graves beneath her dreaded locks, eyes opened and blinked against the battering storm that stung them shut again. But she saw him, she heard him, and her heart clung to the promise he sung, the vow he swore. Powerful wings caressed her own, and she was righted, her path steadier (though by no means perfect), her body almost spent. He was her beacon in this storm they had created - he was the lightning to her storm, she would follow him to its centre if he lead her there. Though she didn't descend so rapidly as to feel him beneath her, she did position herself behind him, her nose stretched out so that it was in contact with him always - his flank, his rump, whatever she could anchor on she did so. She rested her chin on him, not minding the bumps and tumbles it took as they wove their way through this storm, following him further into his home, hoping he had some safe haven they could land and rest and recover.

Slowly he had said, and slowly they did descend - the earth came up too quickly even though she was returned to consciousness, her limbs ached as they struck it and nearly crumpled beneath the weight of her sodden mass of feathers and fur. Breaths heaved at her sides, foam dripped from her barrel and thighs and shoulders, running off her in rivulets as the rain kept beating down. She shuffed her wings to her sides, but they still drooped a bit lower than usual - she was exhausted. The mare, the Guardian of the Throat, was a fit creature, made for running and flying and fighting all day long, but this, this dance that was almost deadly, had spent her, almost completely.

Tiara hung below the level of her chest, just above the bend of her knees, which wobbled dangerously (but seemed to hold, for now). She breathed in deep, relishing the damp air, thanking the gods that she was in the Earth God's own personal garden, plentiful in greenery which meant oxygen. The air seemed denser here, and that was what she needed right now, pure oxygen-rich air to fill her lungs, her body, to rejuvenate and revive her body.

Her spirit, on the other hand, was quite alive and well.

Eyes lifted, seeking out the similar baby blues of the stallion who had caused it all. The beacon in her storm, the lightning to her thunder. A wicked grin curled her lips, for they were both alive, and they had both just lived through something amazing, something few would ever get to see or do. They had danced together on the rooftop of heaven, and it was something Cirrus never wanted to forget.

Of course, they had almost died doing it.. But wasn't that all part of living anyway?

Perhaps, for a mare with few responsibilities and ties to the world. Cirrus was a cloud in name and nature, she was prone to wander and float with the wind, to live high and fast and disappear without a second thought. But now, she was becoming a cloud whose ties were growing more real, more serious - she looked into this King's eyes and she had to berate herself again for the foolishness that was her own reckless way of living. What if I had killed him, taken him away from his family, his land, his herd? What if I was labelled KingSlayer, as my grandmother was called FireSlayer? What if..
What if I lost him the way I lost you?

And suddenly the grin was gone, the laughter that wanted to burst from her chest stolen by the wind, and the mare became as brooding as the thunderclouds that roamed across her hide.