Work Text:
He was falling.
Down,
Down,
Down.
He was weightless, body slack as he fell through the air and wind whipped at his face harshly.
In the back of his mind, somewhere forgotten, he knew he should be feeling something.
Dread, pain, sadness.
Something.
He felt none of those.
There was a whistle that blew through the air as he dropped faster and faster, and he could finally see the ground.
It came to greet him, quicker than he could respond to, and then he stopped.
His body twisted, turned around, and shot up as if it was no simpler than swimmer. And to him, it was.
And he flew.
Blue and yellow flames burst from around his body in the shape of large wings and he dove in an arc and flipped upside down. He felt so free.
Every movement brought him joy and the man looked back up at the cliff. The flaming wings grew larger and brighter as he pushed himself back up to the top of the cliff.
Standing at the top of the cliff was the one who brought him this freedom, smiling as if what he had done (he flew), was what he had expected would happen. And he had.
This man, this powerful man, had known he could do that.
And Marco smiled back, grin matching the one on Edward Newgate's, Whitebeard, his captain and his fathers, face.