"Flying" by Sarah ´SRW´ Bevon

The air was thinner, here above the clouds, but he had no trouble breathing. Air, almost completely unnecessary for life but so sweet and clean that he could not think to be without it, filled his lungs. It also shoved his metallic gold hair away from his face, although he knew from experience it would fall back perfectly as soon as he landed. It was a small magic, like all the others he did. Useful, as most of them were, unless he wanted something big done. Elf magic, though powerful, only did small, mundane things like make clothes or fix hair, cook good food or clean up a mess. Perhaps the biggest it could do was heal, but then it only speeded the natural healing rather than supplementing it.
He'd always thought he'd rather have magic like his sister's. It made her a freak, more than they both already were, but it seemed better than his. Something had melded the delicate elf magic from their father's side with the coarse human magic from their mother's, making her not only incredibly powerful but also able to do the bigger, fancier and more noticeable magic's of the humans. Akin to the humans', anyway. It was really very different. Her hair would be far from perfect when they landed, but he would have traded his immaculate hair and clothes for her raw power.
He could hear her high, happy laughter faintly as the breeze snatched it away. She was only a few hours younger than he, but she always seemed much younger, less mature. The metallic silver hair that reached her thin waist spread out behind her, darkly shadowed by her heel length black cape that fluttered in the wind. He stole a glance at her, and saw her face upturned towards the sun, brilliant violet eyes closed, a look of pure delight on her face. She really loved flying. For him it was a way to get around, a way to play a game he liked, but riding the soaring black dragon as she did now was a passion for Artemis, a thing that gave her life and energy.
His own mount, a tawny griffon, shifted slightly as if sensing his inattention. The dragon would carry his sister as if she were the most precious thing in the world no matter what. His griffon was not nearly so forgiving. He patted its great neck and stayed looking strait ahead for a time before allowing his attention to wander again.
Glancing back, he could see the third member of their odd little party. The other boy was another half-elf, although not related to them. With him they were a complete set, displaying all the major physical attributes possible in High Elves. His hair was black beyond imagining, and made his typically pale elvin skin seem even lighter and his crystal-grey eyes seem even more remote. His colouring was blessedly rare.
It was very easy to tell elves apart, even if it shouldn't have been. There were only three possible hair or eye colours, and those didn't vary much in shade or texture. The same was true of eyes, and one combination of the two was not only rare, but most who had it were killed before their second birthday. All elves were built similarly, too, with narrow faces  and frames and long, elegant bone structures.
While all three of them were outwardly indistinguishable from pure-blooded elves, their minds were very different. Pure blooded High Elves were stupid. Most half-elves were pretty stupid too. For a race that averages life spans of about eight hundred years, it was amazing just how stupid they all were. Artemis, who was easily the most opinionated and cynical of the three, has once said elves were probably stupid because anyone more intelligent would go insane after ten years of the mindless tedium that passed for elvish life. As they'd only lived among the elves for maybe four years, and that broken up, he wasn't sure how accurate her assessment was. Personally, he found he could learn to enjoy the comfort and relaxation within a few months. Artemis said his intelligence must be close to that of a pure-blood.
The griffon gave a hitch, bringing him back to the present. The heavy sweeps of the griffons wings made for difficult and uncomfortable riding, so it was much nicer if his mind was elsewhere. Except that the griffon didn't like that. Ares didn't seem to fare much better, his thestral's wings being of much the same design as the griffon's. On the other hand, the jet-black winged-horse always did exactly what its black-haired rider wanted, although it would happily kill anyone else. Ares wasn't tolerated out of love or devotion, it had always seemed, but obeyed as one evil being bows to a more powerful one. It wasn't an encouraging thought.
Artemis definitely had the easiest time. She knelt astride the dragon's ridged back, in a little dip that seemed made to be a saddle for her, just ahead of where the dragon's wings joined its body. The slow, steady sweeps of those great wings made for a much smoother one, and a much faster one. So as not to get too far ahead, the pair performed graceful turns and loops, something both of them seemed to enjoy. The dragon was an albatross to the sparrows that were the boys' mounts, and flew with a pride that reflected its ingrained knowledge of that. If his own griffon had been a fussy courtier, then the thestral would be a villainous nobleman, and the dragon a great king.
It was with a kingly flourish which mocked his analogy that the dragon twirled its winds so that the wind cracked and it seemed to jump upwards before beginning to spiral downwards. The griffon and the thestral followed with far less grace than their leader.