A lightning bolt. Total silence.
One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four—
This is not a dream.
Barry looks up. A shadow hovers before him.
It repeats, This is not a dream.
Barry asks, Who are you?
I have no name, the shadow replies. I need none.
What should I call you?
Whatever you like.
Barry huffs. Generously specific. He thinks, You are my shadow.
He could swear it smiles.
Before he can ask it – tell me where we are – a grassy plain materializes. The shadow drifts away from him. Barry follows.
Where are we going?
Somewhere, the shadow replies. It gains some distance, pauses, and seems to turn back to him. Are you afraid?
Barry thinks, I should be. But the shadow gains a few feet and Barry follows it. The shadow gains a few yards and he picks up his pace, hoping to close the gap. The faster he goes, the faster it drifts away.
Those are weighing you down, the shadow informs him. Barry looks down at his feet, at the shoes he was wearing when A lightning bolt. Total silence.
He crouches and takes them off. The shadow waits. The moment he straightens, it resumes drifting away. The grass drifts underneath, soothing his feet. He leaves his shoes behind.
Thunder rumbles in the distance. The shadow pauses. Then it says with deep, unaccountable warmth, Home.
A lightning bolt. Total silence.
The shadow and he are walking side-by-side, the shadow gliding, his own feet seeming to do the same through the grass. It yields underfoot, utterly effortlessly. Sundown finds them still walking, neither tiring of each other's silent company.
A second rumble of thunder precedes A lightning bolt. Total silence.
The shadow stops. Barry asks, What is that?
I have no name, it repeats. I need none.
Then it walks, and Barry follows. Night descends.
It's hard to see you, Barry warns, falling behind. On cue, the shadow emits a warm, ember-like glow, reddish-orange. It's easy to follow, easy to listen to when the night emits stranger sounds still, animal noises, primeval sounds.
He hastens to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.
Nothing here will hurt you, the shadow says.
How do you know?
Because I am here.
It's shallow comfort, with a low crocodilian rumble crouching somewhere in the grass. Then a much louder rumble shakes the earth, and the crocodilian fades into oblivion. A beat. A beat. A beat. A –
Lightning bolt. Total silence.
The shadow keeps wandering on, aimless, unstoppable. Barry has no choice but to follow – or succumb to the pitch darkness.
Slow down, he entreats.
Speed up, the shadow replies.
Barry huffs and puts his tiring legs to good use.
You run the wrong way, the shadow says. There's no heat. It's scarcely a criticism, no more so than your eyes are green.
Show me the right way, Barry requests.
The shadow drifts closer for the first time, close enough to touch. Are you sure? it asks.
I trust you.
The shadow drifts closer still.
You will take my name, the shadow warns him. You will take my burden.
Barry listens to the hush of grass, aware that the shadow would let him walk away. Nothing here will hurt you, it said.
Even the thunder sounds friendly, a great waking thing, and Barry dares to take a step forward. I'm not afraid, he tells the shadow.
He reaches out, making contact. A wave of peace washes away the trepidation. The entire grassland sprawls before him, utterly harmless. There's nothing there that he can't handle. The shadow won't let it. The lightning in his heart and lungs and soul promise.
The thunder rumbles again and he can hear it, at last: Mine.
Barry closes his eyes and tells both, Yours.
A lightning bolt.
And sound.
After nine months, The Flash awakens.