5. Feast
New York was set like a table before his eyes.
The snow glittered like candles on the rooftops. The river was a napkin, thick blue cloth, twisted into shape. The smoke from the chimneys was the smoke dancing over the food. The houses were glasses of wine. The streets formed a pattern on the mantelpiece. The clamor was a conversation. The city spoke.
Peter Lake breathed in sharp gusts of wind. His screams had been drowned by the ridiculousness of his circumstances. Now all he had left was the dumbfounded silence of incredulity.
The white horse shone under him. The sunlight gleamed off the fineness of its mane. The eyes were pale brown, like hazelnut chocolate. And in his dizziness Peter could have sworn to be seeing wings on either side of the animal he was riding.
The wind rose. The thick black hair floated over his head. His clothes swelled. He descended, gently, like a feather.
And as New York expanded under and around him, around them, Peter Lake opened his mouth and feasted upon the city.
Smoke. Salt. Snow. Ash.
A touch of rain. Money. Money he didn't have.
Dreams. Dreams he'd had. Still had.
Machinery. The grease. The metal. Cogs and hammers and screws.
Finally, he tasted the wind. Water. Relief. Gratitude. And... a touch of wonder.
When the ground became solid once again, and the wind subsided, and Peter opened his eyes to the sun-washed skyline, and the white horse trotted, like a horse ought to do, carrying him across the Brooklyn Bridge, he finally spoke:
"What... are you?"
Author's Note: To anyone reading this, thank you for sticking along and checking out my fanfic! It makes me happy :)