He was bent over the polished wood of the handle, eyes trained on his target as he sped across the inky sky.
He was so close.
Victory was minutes away. He had to win, had to succeed. There was no other option. Winning was everything.
It was hard to see in the darkness, penetrated only by jets of color that whooshed past him and disappeared, as if swallowed by the heavens. They never touched him on their flight to the abyss of space, but he saw them. He felt their heat as they soared by; he wanted to fly with the colors and be faster – he would be unstoppable.
Ladislaw stole a glance at his assailants. Their heavy black robes billowed over their brooms as they chased him across the star-strewn sky. The flashes glanced off the silver, dancing through the night and throwing the eerie light across their figures. They were one with the night; he was an intruder. He was the enemy.
As he turned his vision forward again, fixing his sight on the target again with narrowed, focused eyes, he knew this was right. This was what he lived for – the rush, the fear, the thrill. He thrived in the cheers and camera lights, the tabloids and the stadiums. He was alive in the race. Adrenaline was his drug, and he only found it here: on a broom, weaving through the obstacles and dodging the attackers, his target steadily approaching and the enemies close. He needed the risk. He needed the high.
But this was not the Quidditch World Cup anymore. The stakes had been raised, the danger at an all-time high. This was a race for his life.
This was better.
He had told his wife he would be safe. She was worried; reckless, she called him. He wasn't reckless; he just needed more. More speed, more risk, more excitement. Life was boring. He made it worth living.
A burst of red grazed his arm. His concentration was broken and he looked down, surprised. It was new; Ladislaw Zamojski had never been hit. It stung as the icy air whipped past, blood leaking from the shallow cut and trailing down his arm. Urging his broom to top speed, he raced for his life, system entirely controlled by the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Perhaps that was why he turned to see the masked assailants one last time, he only felt excitement. As the green light filled his vision, a smile touched his face; his wife would understand. He had found the best, for there was nothing more exciting than the unknown world of death.
A/N:
Written for –
Collect Them All (Ladislaw Zamojski)
Monthly Oneshot Competition (46: Fast)
Jury of Your Peers (minor)