4. Flight
There was a horse in the alley.
How had it gotten there? Where had it hidden? How could it have hidden? How? It was as white as the sky and the ice under Peter Lake's ash-colored fingers. It stood out against the darkness of the walls. The dirty blues of the concrete. How had he only noticed now? Peter's breath floated between them in clouds, and the horse bled into them.
"Do it slowly… Use the knives…"
The snake-like hissing of blade against leather. Peter stood up. His back ached. The handle of the knife warmed, softened under his grip. He was holding it too tight. Slowly, he went to the horse.
"Hello…"
His free hand reached forward. The animal drew back from his touch. The hooves clacked against the concrete.
"I need some help here…"
Even those hooves were pale and miraculously clean. There was no dirt on them. No water, no ash. It seemed like those hooves had never tread the road altogether. The dirt of the city had refused to stain them. Peter was fascinated, to say the least. But most of all, he was in desperate need of transport.
The fence clattered loudly. The noise bounced off the walls. Peter trembled. Pearly stayed on his side. Watching. And alone.
"Help me. Help me, please. Horse. Horse. Hey."
The white horse shook its head, the mane breaking into waves. Peter's grip on the knife was becoming painful. His fingers hurt. The blade was dark, lightless. And the horse then made a guttural sound that sent shivers down his spine.
Only at that moment did his hand relax. And he thought of a possibility.
"I- I'm frightening you. Forgive me. There."
He set down the knife, slowly, on the concrete, and rose with both hands open.
"There. Sorry for scaring you." And…? "I guess… old habits die hard…"
And…?
The thunder of shoes boomed on the alley. The wolves were over the gate. They were going to him slowly. Their knives were out. And their teeth were bare.
"I'm going to die."
The white horse tilted its head.
As a baby, Peter Lake had sailed the sea without a paddle, without a mast, without sails with which to enslave the wind. He had lived.
"I don't want to die."
And…? "I won't die."
And…?
The horse bent a leg. It kneeled. Peter was beyond confused. He felt the hum of discomfort in his belly. But the thunder roared on. The alley was pregnant with the noise of death. The sharks were swarming around him. He had to sail.
So he mounted the white horse and felt the city cower under him. New York was beyond his touch. He was flying. And the invisible breeze thickened around him like a mattress.
Peter Lake screamed.
Author's Note: If anyone other than me reads this at some point, thank you for sticking along and have a wonderful day!