All dark. Dark hair, warm eyes, strong jaw. Strong. Strong arms, attitude, words. He always stood tall.
There were three types of people – the ones who called him loyal, some who called him brave, and then there were those who called him arrogant.
The loyal ones offered him the attribute for they had the simple knowledge of his best self. Those were the people invited beyond the walls of confidence and recklessness. Beyond the arrogant exterior. He cherished them as they did him, often unaware of who appreciated whom more. Out of the sheer simplicity, they called themselves friends, very much aware that the word failed to live up to their dynamic, the depth of their relationship. Completely lacking that monumental ring that was desperately needed to discern just how much they meant to one another. If one were to try finding such word, the closest possible thing to it would be brothers.
Then there were some. Some people whose lips parted and their opinion of him rolled off their tongues as easily as truth spoken through a drunken slur or lyrics to a familiar tune. People who called him brave. People who had been misled for they relied on simple misconceptions caused by the odd chemical reactions between one teenage boy's hormones. Bravery was not what fueled his foolish adolescent actions; that was something much more akin to the devious boyish nature. The desire to prove himself, to overcome, to be victorious. No, he was not brave, at least not braver than most of us. For a lack of a better word, he was simply a child.
In the end came arrogance. The people who failed to see him at all, who failed to see beyond the 'head held high and shoulders squared always one step ahead of others'. Completely blinded by physical facts that they never bothered looking beyond. Simple as that – he was epitome of arrogance to them. Cocky and rude, perfectly horrible in every regard.
Blindness is a simple way to tell the story, but it takes pity on this particular group of observers. You see there are many things youth can be, but envious is one of the worst. Slowly creeping up the spine, through nerves, dissociating and entering lungs. It rushes against the blood stream, fighting its current, always reaching its point, eating away at the heart. It hides in the scraping teeth and clenching fists, in the eye rolls and silent sneers. It eats you up, parasitically dangerous and hard to get rid of. The ones who called him arrogant wore it on their sleeve—light as a feather, envy—as easily as one would wear a wrist watch or a bracelet, but much more ugly. Born from his teenage desire to prove himself, the recklessness, and their inability to see the good.
When he died, he was, perhaps, all those things.
Lying on the cold floor, left arm bent at an odd angle as his head rested on the bottom step. Silent. Leg muscles still remembering their last steps, as if clinging onto life; they lay sprawled as if they did not belong to his body at all. Loyal to his last breath and struck down by his youthful bravery, with a ghost of that arrogant smile etched on his lips permanently. The ground stood still, the night remained silent and the wind did not blow. James Potter died as if it was the most natural thing ever.
In a way, it was.
A/N: Please comment if you do or do not like this. I enjoy feedback of any kind. :),
xxx