The wind stings my eyes.

Ragged wingbeats push me onwards – faster, higher. Until the air grows thin and shrieks in my ears as I hurtle above the wispiest cloud tops, gone all too soon. My lungs ache.

It helps, a little.

It is beautiful, here at the roof of the world. Clear air surrounds me, as puffy clouds far below cast patchwork shadows to creep across the verdant quilt. The blazing sun pricks at my skin, and I glance up instead, the blue horizon fading into deepest black around a single, searing point of brilliance. I look away. No darkness could ever stand against her, it seems.

I have no rights to this place.

Were it only night, that I could be but a flicker among the twinkling stars. That the silver orb still beckoned, unbranded.

Day or night, the vault of heaven holds no comfort now.

Memory. That shadowed day of magic, steel, and blood. Of rainbow light and shattered hope. Away the faithful, flee they said, before the dawn came, incandescent. Our crushed, tattered few; some sought the cool, sheltered hollows of the earth. Others gave themselves to the light. I flew. To where, I knew not and cared less.

A pony smarter than I once said that the choices we make are what lead us to be the pony we are today. To regret your path is to doubt yourself.

Regret. Do I like myself now?

If only I had the breath to snort.

They called out to us, saying it is too late. That we have lost. I suppose the searing sun above is proof of some of that, at least. They continued, pleading for us to give ourselves up. To surrender. They claimed that everypony would be forgiven, all set aright. They offered mercy, no matter how stained.

The memory tugs a bitter smile to my lips.

My hooves are dyed a scarlet that no soap can touch. Nightmares fade in the morning light, but ponies that never wake are less easily set aside. War begets necessity.

How could I regret what I have become, doubt the events and duties that brought me near to her? Near enough to glimpse her moonlit smile, to hear smoky laughter echo in midnight halls, to catch the razor edges of her rapier wit. Can I bear to even contemplate trading those moments for others? To imagine not having seen that majestic vision of her dark, unappreciated dream that we all gave so much for. Dare I even risk that such speculation might diminish her worth? The fidelity of our sacrifice?

Dare I consider that this might have been avoided?

Motion catches my eye, a quicksilver flash darting among the clouds below. The light hurts. I blink away the treacherous moisture and focus past the pain. I see specks of white on gold. If only they were blue on black.

My eyes narrow.

I had chosen to fly higher, faster, farther; hiding in the sun might help, I thought – or did not think. Irony is not camouflage enough, it seems. Apparently somepony did expect the unexpected. Or the foolish. They have a word for us when we fly in daylight, after all. It is not a complement.

They are spreading out; I recognize the formation. The snare is closed. I breathe in as deeply as I can – It’s too late to matter now.

My teeth are bared; it could be called a grin. My wings snap shut.

Will I open them again?

I regret nothing.