I Am A Flyer

II: My Choice

A dark shape whispered softly through the cool air, merging seamlessly into the darkness of the night. Its path was straight and sure, and it left nothing but coldness in its wake.

He had flown for what seemed like an eternity. The night stretched on forever; he could barely recall the last time he'd seen the light of day, or felt its warmth. Had it always been this dark? This cold?

There was no answer within the depths of his still mind.

He flew on, one with the icy night wind.

oOo

Eyes, whose vision was blurred and darkened with black wavering spots, caught sight of a group of tents below. They appeared bone-white, reflecting the moon's silver light. He pulled trembling arms closer in to his body, lessening his wingspan. He began to lose altitude. His arms wavered weakly, and without warning, they gave out. His wings collapsed, and he dropped.

Too fast!

White tents rushed up to greet him, looking like they were decorated with black, fuzzy polka dots to his weak vision. Barely taking notice of this fact, he reacted instinctively. He pushed the rest of his meager strength into his arms, forcing them to flare his wings. For a brief moment, the thin material spread, caught the air, held – then his arms gave out a second time, too exhausted to do any more.

It was enough, however. His fall had been slowed enough. He landed on top of a smaller tent, most likely a storage type. The canvas gave way beneath his weight, and he fell through into darkness. And hard objects.

He hardly felt it – his body was already numbed to feeling, having been pushed far beyond its limits a long time ago. Things cracked, snapped, tumbled to the ground. The tent itself leaned inwards, closing in upon him, swallowing him. Then all was still. Silent.

For a long while, he simply lay. Exhaustion pressed in, threatening to shut down his body into forced sleep. Not yet, he thought weakly. Please, not yet – just a little longer. I need to tell them. . . .

He began to move, pushing away the canvas, struggling to rise through the pile of broken crates and splintered rubble. It took a long while of blind, nearly panicked movement, but at last, he rose above the broken remains.

He swayed dangerously, trembling with numb weariness. Yet, he staggered forward, stepping clumsily onto solid ground. Having been in the air for so long, it felt like the ground swam and spun like playful air currents. His head spun, his balance lost.

He fell heavily, sprawling awkwardly onto the ground.

Moments later, he was on his feet once more, teeth set in a determined grimace. It was so dark; he could barely see. His helmet was dismissed, yet his vision barely improved. A cool night breeze caressed his sweaty face, bringing a faint improvement to his awareness.

His feet carried him on, seeming to know the way. He allowed his head to droop, his chin nearly resting on his chest. Hands were limp rags swinging from noodles attached to shoulders. He stumbled often, managing somehow to keep on his feet. Only a little longer. . .

He heard faint voices almost at the same time he spotted the white tent. It was incredibly bright, reflecting the moon's glimmer with painful whiteness. It hurt his eyes.

Squinting, he staggered on drunkenly, aiming for the tent flap. Inside, was them.

A sharp voice, startling loud. "Hey! You can't go in there!" A hand grabbed his shoulder with a iron grip.

He jerked away, pulling free. There was no way he was going to be stopped now. The voice shouted. Hands reached for him. A quick spin to the side, and he evaded them easily. More voices joined the first, more hands tried to stop him.