There is more to me than meets the eye.
I didn't know when I was little. It wasn't til I was older that I was different. Even before the change. Before death, vigilantism, and SHIELD. Before there was the hero, there was the human. But what scared me, was what came before.
I had dreams. Dreams of hot places. Of battles against foes much greater than I. Of speaking to someone much stronger than I, to obtain power.
Of telling stories and lies, all woven into other's minds. Of enemies I had made with my ambition. Of curiousity, and failure.
The battles between wasps, a python, and a leopard. A gourd, a stick and a hole.
I accepted it as a part of me. There was nothing else I could do. That is, until someone saw my restless slumber. It wasn't my blood, or relative. It was barely a friend. More an ally than anything.
I had few friends, and even they drifted away...
Dr. Strange was not a man to mess with. Even men of science knew this. But there were even others he dared not mess with. Gods of men. Tellers of tales. Creatures who wore human flesh better than any mere mortal.
And he had returned after so long. It seems he had found this time as a wonderful choice for writing in the minds of men and women alike.
How fearful, considering his stories weren't always for the faint of heart. He was never one to weave soft blankets, but rather grand and disturbing tapestries. Terrifying. And more alive than most would ever believe. Legends worthy of King Arthur and his Round Table.
Strange was far from thrilled. The master weaver had returned to the mortal plain, wearing mortal flesh and thriving with mortal blood. And had masqueraded as a well meaning friend. Granted he could trust the weaver as both sought what few did, and challenged those who sought to oppressive and end the stories.
The lonely weaver was traveling on. And it could only end in sorrow. As so many of his tales often did. But to whom the sorrow falls, not even the great weaver knew. He would record the timeless tale for others who whisper and tell. And he was alive and walking with them once more. Strange could only watch in sorrow as the weaver stepped out into the world, unknown not only to his own body, but to the masses as well.
It took time, but many had gathered for the death of the arachnid vigilante. Some to mourn, others to celebrate. The spider was dead. His tale was over. The mask removed, and the face revealed. A woman weeped over her nephew's grave knowing she was alone. Heroes watched in silent vigil as a comrade had fallen. Villains watched with interest, their enemy just a child? How bizzare. If only the rumor were true.
As it were, the grave was shallow, the body misplaced. A life ignited as one had ended.
Nature shivered as concrete society stood, daring the spider to return.
Land he took the dare.
Dressed in inky black, he became the phantom spider that haunted the psyches of many common criminal, unknowing of his name, or purpose.
Just of a mystic laugh, warm hands and meticulous control.
The control of the Spider hiding in New York, with the blood of a child and the spirit of the African Sahara.
Anansi walked once more, in the skin and mind of the fallen Spider named Peter.
Okay, so this is a drabble. There is no more planned. It has just been sitting in the computer gathering metaphorical dust. No more to be added to.