Cold air stung her face as she looked out across her beloved city, cherishing the twinkling lights nestled in the frozen wasteland of the winter-washed valley. Neffydd took a deep breath and enjoyed the pain of icy air in her feverish lungs. Her legs hung over the edge of the tall building, feet swinging and hitting the wall below her in a steady rhythm.
She toyed with the idea of falling, even though she knew that she couldn't do it. She spread her wings then closed them tight against her body to shield her core from the cold. Her whole body ached... her whole being was in pain. The cold didn't really matter to her; she couldn't die from it. Nothing could kill her. Not even the enduring pain.
She let out her breath in a giant white puff that froze into a cloud of tiny ice crystals and she watched it dissipate as it fell toward the hard ground. She wished she were her breath and not the breather.
She took in another fridged breath and shoved off the ledge. She kept her wings folded and enjoyed the feeling of death rushing close; then, when her instincts could bear it no longer, her wings opened.
She flung her arms wide to support her wings as they caught the air that had been whizzing past her body. The thrum of air hitting the membranes was deafening and the pain almost unbearable. Almost. She redirected her kinetic energy and twisted just so, turning her fall into a tumble then swooped out of her fall a mere ten lengths from the ground.
She could see faces a couple lengths below her flushed with fear and concern, a few accompanied by hands out-stretched as if to catch her. She felt a sad smile crawl across her face as she pumped her wings to gain altitude again. She twisted again and barrel-rolled before pumping furiously toward home.