The midnight sun held back the darkness while we climbed. Clouds had descended all around. We climbed higher than clouds, and as dusk gathered saw eerie blue noctilucent wisps at the edge of space. We were on top of the world, staking tents in clouds, chasing auroras.
You said, “All compasses point to us.”
You were the only thing keeping me tethered to reality, voice rumbling from your chest to my ears, the burn of the wind and your beard. I left you there in the cloud latitudes but every compass in the world still points north to you.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers. It’s been a while and I missed some intriguing prompts! Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff Fields for keeping it going and to Douglas M. MacIlroy for the inspirational picture. The pic turned out to be Mauna Kea in Maui but I was already up near the north pole in my story, where the clouds layers really are compacted and so ride closer to the ground. You can find more stories inspired by the prompt here.