It was just after he accepted his exhaustion that the sky lit up far behind him in a plume of fire and smoke.
The change in vision and scenery was very disorientating for a moment. The explosion had been large enough to light the ground far below him. He turned back, angling himself to see what the cause was; eyes straining to make sense of most of what he saw, ground and sky becoming separated once again. He was certain it was back the way he’d come, confident (or perhaps praying to the fact) he’d not wavered from his course enough to make that large a difference. It was certainly an explosion like those in the distance, tall and powerful, reaching high into the night before dying out. He could not be certain how far it was, as he was not certain how fast he’d been going. Fear gripped his heart as he realized that Johan was back in that direction somewhere, and if he wasn’t at the center of that blast, Aryu was quite confident that he would have been close.
He circled lower, mind wracked with possibilities and uninformed suggestions. Did he go back? Did he keep going? How far was it? How far were they? Damn it, if he’d only been more confident in his flying he may have been able to make a better judgment, but as it was he was too ill-prepared to make an informed decision. Yet again, the shame of the wings reared its terrible face and Aryu was just a puppet in its grip.
He began descending, hoping putting his feet on solid ground would help him focus on the tasks at hand. He had almost touched down when the shockwave rushed past him.
It had traveled much farther and lost much of its strength since it had passed over Johan. The terrible heat and storm-force winds were significantly lessened. It was still a loud, powerful, and destructive force to any and all things hovering in the air.
Aryu’s wings folded back in the force of the blast, losing all aerodynamics and converting themselves to little more than leathery pennants in the wind which carried him upwards. Aryu twisted backwards awkwardly, snapping like a rope was trying to pull him away, only to slacken and release after a moment too late. He tumbled back, trying to brace himself against the approaching ground. In the blackness, he had no idea which way was up, seeing stars no matter which way he fell. The rush of wind in his ears was a constant equal, and all he could do was close his eyes and hope he didn’t have much more to go.
He heard the ground rush to meet him before he felt it. Like closing your eyes and walking down a hallway, you know where the walls are and can sense which doors are open without seeing. That was the only warning he had, but it was enough for him to put his hands up and hit arms-first instead of with his head, which certainly would have killed him.
He hit hard enough to snap his arms against his head and neck, punching himself twice in the process. He tumbled back, feeling the strain on his back as the joints and muscles that connected his back and lower shoulders to the non-human joints and muscles of his wings heaved while they were wrenched up over his head and back down his face like a grotesque blanket.
Being so large and fragile, they never felt pain like the rest of his body. He’d strained them a lot when he was first learning to fly, landing badly or twisting the wrong way while trying to turn too hard, but this was an all-new feeling to him as he tossed like a circus tumbler, hitting rocks and ragged scrub as he went. The sand and thorns scraped at any exposed flesh like fishhooks.
When at last he came to rest, he was facedown, his appendages akimbo like a marionette that was dropped. His head hurt terribly, and that was only step one on his mental checklist. There was still a whole body to go. His arms were above his head, his left arm twisted around in a way no arm should be. He attempted to move it, realizing instantly that he was pinned down somehow. Neither arm would move. He couldn’t account for why until he felt the soft hide texture under his right hand.
His wings, after their brief foray above his head, had become wrapped around his body like a bedroll, pinning his arms into their current, extremely uncomfortable position.
“This is going to take a little finesse,” he said to himself, feeling better that neither his voice nor ears seemed to be damaged.
He moved what he could of his arms, testing each body part as he went to ensure there was no serious damage. He knew right away that his left shoulder was hurt and likely out of joint. A common ailment to a man who had wing muscles constantly pulling other upper-torso anatomy around in ways regular people aren’t accustomed to.
The next stop on his mental itinerary was the back and wings. Even growing up with them, he was never comfortable with the way his wings felt, likely
