The Fall
Before he knew it, Peter was falling. Which was pretty weird already, because he had been standing in the middle of the street and suddenly bam!, no ground nor street anymore. He hadn’t even been superheroing and his spidey-sense hadn’t warned him soon enough, so that was extra weird. God, did he hate school trips… Okay, granted, he hadn’t technically been on a school trip, it was already over, but it hadn’t been even half a damned hour since it had ended. Speaking of which, how long had he been falling? If Peter had to guess, he’d say either five minutes or a hundred years.
That would be both correct and incorrect, with almost a four hundred years difference.
Regardless, he was getting tired after several minutes of free falling; around him, images of different scenes flickered momentarily, dying before he could even process what he was seeing, and the cacophony that accompanied them was not only confusing him even more but also giving him the headache of several centuries. At some point, his traveling speed started going down and he was able to somewhat wrap his head around what was happening a little better.
A war, finally over; hundreds of men and women exhausted, many other thousands dead, only wanting peace and rest.
A foreign king, crowned in a sacred place, surrounded by people who don’t consider him their own, a selfish overgrown child in the middle of a selfish, never ending war.
A betrayal, a snake biting his ally to toss her into the lion’s den.
A joyous celebration, the return of a long desired savior.
A young raven, withering away in his own despair.
A treasure of infinite value, lost forever.
A farewell, cold and rushed, a piece of two hearts torn apart.
Peter could sense the end of his… journey? was finally near, and everything was getting less and less blurred together, but remained just as confusing. Trying to be ready to land, he twisted his limbs and tried to face forward.
The tower, ominous and foreboding, struck by a wondrous force.
The marching reaper, looking directly into the eyes of the raven.
The crossing of two paths, destined to meet each other, fated to be separated right away.
The reunion, several pieces becoming a whole again.
The stern, blinded woman, swinging blade in hand and holding scales.
The breeze of hope, gathering together those who had succumbed to the numbness.
A small dot of green appeared at the end of the kaleidoscopic tunnel he was falling through, and before Peter could start thinking it was just his brain being fed up with the emptiness ahead of him (and it wouldn’t be the first time), it started growing bigger and bigger. As he prepared his web shooters for the landing (just in case, you never know), a certain part of the images around him became fully clear in his peripheral view: even as the scenes changed, the only thing that remained the same was the face of a young man, not older than Peter himself. Pale skin that spoke of lonely afternoons in the double-edged safety of isolation; clear, piercing eyes that hid a well of warmth behind obscure pain; a mop of dark, wild hair that reminded Peter of a crow’s feathers; a scar on his left cheek, painting his face with shades of bravery and regret… He was immediately struck by a foreboding feeling, a pull towards this mystifying boy. The green dot ahead was getting close. The scenes continued shining and dancing around him.
Terror, a festivity turned into a massacre, apple pies and delicious sweets glistening with honey and blood.
Sorrow, a memory of a long lost innocence refusing to be carried by the stream.
Dread, an assemble of vultures cackling and fumbling a spooky dance.
Spellbound.
The lake’s still surface, a dishonest façade, a laughing mirror reflecting the raven’s questions.
Suddenly, green was all he could see.