Racer

At first Racer took pride in his name. After all, he was the fastest runner of all the hatchlings, and he'd proved it time and time again. With that kind of speed who needed to fly. He could get the experience and keep his feet firmly on the ground. It felt like he'd gamed the system somehow.

But, as he and the other hatchlings got older and more and more of his friends took that leap from the top of the lair, and as more and more took to the skies rather than tumbling to the waters below, Racer started to hear an edge to how others said his name, a sharp tinge of derision.

Nobody taunted him to his face, and his closest friends would offer words of support, praise his speed, tell him flying wasn't that great anyway. He wondered if those words sounded as hollow to them as they did to him. Certainly the whispers that stopped the second he entered a room screamed an entirely different message.

They didn't understand. To them the cuts and bruises were a simple enough cost to own the skies. They wanted the height, the wind against their snouts, the brush of clouds on their skin. And they thought Racer was afraid of the pain of the fall in learning to soar.

He wasn't. He was afraid of heights. The idea of being so high filled him with dread. And it wasn't that he feared falling. Once he knew what to do he'd have no worry of that, and the training fields were designed to keep the hatchlings safe while they learned exactly that. It was the idea of hanging above everything, nothing beneath his claws, only empty sky around him that woke him screaming in the night.

Racer needed the solidity of the earth to feel safe.

So, on that fateful day, Racer stayed behind while the other hatchlings went off to play tag in the sky. Lonely, he sought out one of the lair familiars, a friendly Dunhoof named Dudley. The two often played together, racing for hours through the twisting forgotten places in the lair.

That day started no different. They ran, no destination in mind, no spot to reach first. Just two boys that shared a joy for going ever faster. They'd taken back paths that would back and forth, and Racer had long lost his sense of direction, so when they spotted light ahead he didn't even hesitate when Dudley declared the winner to be whoever made it outside first.

Racer and Dudley both put extra speed into their strides, eager to be the first to burst into the meadow outside the lair. Instead, Racer stumbled and skid to a halt just in time to see his friend plunge off the ledge.

Dashing to the edge, Racer realized they'd found themselves at nearly the very top of the ancient lair. The ground was more than four hundred feet below, and unlike the flight training ledge, only hard rock waited at the bottom here.

Staring down, Racer watched Dudley get further and further away. The centaur's eyes were wide and mouth opened as if in a scream, but no sound escaped.

Racer had to do something. Now!

He called for help, but knew in his heart no one would come in time. He only had one choice. He could fly after Dudley, try to catch him, carry him to safety. Or he could watch him die.

The first terrified him, but the second was unfathomable. So, taking a deep breath, Racer backed up and then ran as fast as he could right off the edge. For a moment the whole world was askew, his wings twisted and pulled painfully tight. And then he righted himself, those wings snapped in place, and he pushed through the air perfect as an arrow, gaining speed rapidly, nothing but the rush of air in his ears and Dudley in his sight.

Racer caught him just soon enough to slow their momentum as they both hit the ground. He felt both his wings break, but as he and Dudley tumbled claw over hoof, he found himself laughing.