The hot, dry air burned in his raw throat, set his lungs on fire and made his body feel like a furnace. The wind offered no comfort, it was as arid and warm as the world, lapping against him without stealing any of his inner heat. It just seemed to hold it tighter to his sweat-soaked body, and he had no choice but to gulp in more of the revolting stuff. Where were the cool breezes of the mountain, soothing and gentle on the parched pulmonary system? Where were the winds that whipped the heat right out of you as you flew across a blue sky? Nowhere, nowhere, nowhere, and Moth struggled on across a deep, hot sky, the sun's cruel eye on his back, bearing down on him without mercy. He gave a shaky snort. In his chest, his heart kept beating, but it was fast-paced and desperate now, pumping blood to a body that wanted nothing but to bury itself in a drift of snow and slumber. He wasn't exactly tired - just, hot. Hot and dehydrated. It was an extremely bad combination.

He was flying over mountains, large wings forcing the air down with each stroke, propelling him forward across a blanket of clouds. Here and there a peak protruded from it, but nothing that was solid enough to land upon, even less make his way down from. He'd skimmed the cloud's surface earlier; it was thick, the eyes unable to penetrate it. To descend into them, when they hugged a mountain range so snugly, would be madness. He had to take his chances above the clouds, but right now he was regretting the choice he'd made. He'd already been tired and thirsty when he came upon them, but for some reason he had forged on, thinking he could reach the other side - that it would be healthier, lusher. Instead, he found himself forced higher, burned by the merciless sun and uncharacteristically stale air. The toll of it grew greater with each passing beat of his wings, and for the first time in his life, Moth found that he was flying not out of love, but out of a lack of choice in the matter. It was disheartening. He drew in another breath that scorched his dry throat, and another, and yet another; his breathing was fast, but still strong. He was in more danger from dehydration and heat strokes than running out of stamina. His head throbbed abominably.

Finally, he spotted something - a mockery of a meadow, situated above the clouds, facing the cruel sun with no protection at all. The drought and heat must've been here a long time, for the greenery was all dried up and browned. Moth angled in their direction, locked his wings for a glide, and slid down through the hot air. Finally his hooves touched ground and he broke into a canter, slowly decreasing his speed until it was safe to stop and fold his wings. Standing still, he blinked sluggishly at the surroundings. The grass underhoof was crumbled, making disconcerting noises when he stepped upon it, and what little respite motion had provided him with had now been taken from him. The heat made him feel feverish, and any movement he made too quickly left him light-headed and dizzy. In his mouth, his tongue felt swollen and dry. He had to get into shade. He had to cool off, before he died, or something. It was not even late afternoon; to wait for the nightfall was out of the question.

Sweating out what felt like the last of the water in his body, Moth trudged in a likely direction across the dead mountain-plain. How strange, a little world of its own up here. It had edges, though, steep edges into unknown terrain, and he headed towards one of them. Unless he was utterly disoriented, it was further inland.

He lost track of time, lost track of himself; all he knew was how every noise seemed magnified, how his breath sounded harsh and ragged in his ears, too loud. The world spun with each step, threatening to toss him down, and he wasn't quite sure of where he was going anymore. Everything was outlined in sharp contrast, but nothing kept still, it kept quivering even if he stopped. But worst of all was the way his head kept throbbing, as if he'd landed on it. Groaning, it took him a moment to realize he'd come beneath the cover of the clouds. He could barely see where he was going, but the sun wasn't shining on his back anymore; he stumbled, not prepared for the sudden decline of his path, and crashed onto his knees.

Getting up seemed like too much of a task. At least he was in the shade.

Moth keeled over, lying on the feathers of his right wing while his back connected with the rock wall on that side of the path. His left wing lay splayed carelessly across the path. Lying there upon the narrow ledge, hidden from the sun, Moth slipped out of consciousness.