Prompts: Supernova, Why not, Lionhearted. Write about your character without using his name.
A/N: For Paula. I hope you like this darling, happy late birthday xx
Your head is roughly forced onto the dip in the wood, crafted perfectly for a neck. Your neck. Fear courses through your veins, but not regret. Never regret. You shiver slightly, a tear silently falls down your pale and scarred face. Cool hands push down on your bare back, preventing any movement. Scanning the crowd, you notice that he's not there. You look everywhere for those familiar, stormy, grey eyes to bring you comfort in your final moments, but to no avail. He didn't come. You don't blame him, you wouldn't have wanted to see his execution either. Despite that, you couldn't help feeling disappointed, and a little scared. He is your light at the end of the tunnel. His eyes are your guiding light, shining silver in the darkness that is your imminent death. Without him there, you couldn't stop the panic that threatened to drown you, or the fear that wanted to burn you from the inside out. He is a supernova, your supernova. Burning brightly forever, no matter how much the darkness threatens to put out his light. You glance around once more, as best as you can from your position, and you notice a lone figure standing in the wings of Castle, looking out at you. Grey eyes meet your amber eyes, and you can't help but think you've come full circle. Your story started with tragedy, and so it ends with tragedy.
"Run! Run, my son. Don't let them take you! Run!"
The sound of war echoes all around you, drowning out the voice of your father. Screams of pain, people begging for mercy, the maniacal laughter of the Slytherins as they slaughter each and every Gryffindor they can find. Men, women, children. No one is spared. The ground is a river of the reddest red, the water in this river never stops flowing. The river bed is made up of blocks, soft fleshy blocks that come in all different sizes and shapes. Everywhere you look it is a massacre.
You do as your father, Lyall, bids and you run. You praise Merlin that you ran with James, the lionhearted Prince of Gryffindor, who was also your childhood best friend, when he trained everyday in the mornings, for if you had not you wouldn't have made it nearly this far. You're almost at the edge of the Castle grounds, looking everywhere except for back. If you looked back, you know you would fall to the ground and never get back up again. If you stopped, your fathers' sacrifice would have been in vain. Guilt gnaws at your heart, but it's for the better. You know Prince James and his family are safe, they managed to escape before the bloodbath began (or rather, you think wryly, in James's case 'escape' was more like 'had to be forcibly removed'. He was 15, and the only heir to the throne. His father could not risk loosing him to battle as much as James would have loved to stay and fight for his people), which eases your guilt. Maybe, when all of this is over, you can return. However you know you can't. You can never return. Your father is dead, dragged away and his throat slit right before your eyes. The memory of blood pouring down his neck like a waterfall is seared into your mind like a bad dream. Except it wasn't a dream so with a heavy heart you run. If you were to return once the war was finished, all you would be is a burden, your father was the King's royal blacksmith and without him you would be just another mouth to feed. No, returning was not an option. So you continue running, and running until you can run no more.
Your breath comes quickly, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, urging you forward, but something in you makes you look back. You realise far too late that you've made a fatal mistake as the ground rushes up to meet you, too fast for you to stop it. Your head hits the ground, and everything fades to black.
Pain is the word that swirls through your empty thoughts as you begin to enter the world of the conscious. You are vaguely aware of a sharp pain in your side, and it is only worsens when something collides with it. This kick sends you flying back, and your head hits what feels like a stone wall behind you.
A tidal wave of dread rushes through you, drowning out every hope of rescue or escape you might have had.
You are in the Slytherin Kingdom, ruled by the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Adrenaline pumps through your veins, your heart beats impossibly fast and the tidal wave passes, leaving a wake of destruction behind it. Dread, fear, despair, pain. You choke back a sob, partly of fear and partly from the excruciating pain emanating from your head and side. You were going to be a slave.
Muffled laughter fills your not fully awake senses, and you come to the conclusion that you are being kicked. The feeling of your attackers' foot colliding with your side proves this. You try to curl yourself protectively into a ball, but it doesn't work. Your attacker roughly grabs a fistful of your light brown hair, and jerks your head up. Hazily and unfocused, his face comes into view. The picture is blurry, but the pain is starting to wake you up. Your heart stops as you realise who your attacker is. It's Fenrir Greyback.
Your life wasn't supposed to be like this, you think as you hear the executioner sharpen his silver blade. Your father had been training you in the art of being a blacksmith, so you could take over when he was no longer able. You had grown up living at court, so you were best friends with Prince James. Your life was going to be comfortable, not by any means luxurious, but comfortable and prosperous and long. Instead, here you are with your head on a block about to have it brutally severed from your neck because you committed treason. The fact that you are technically a Gryffindor and thus your King is Charles Potter not Orion Black meant nothing to Slytherins. Nothing gets in their way of a good execution. They always were a bloodthirsty lot, you think wryly.
Staring into those silver pools of moonlight gave you little comfort. Your supernova, your beautiful supernova, is fading, you think sadly, just like you. Your heart is breaking, and a single tear drips down your gaunt cheek. His light being viciously sucked out of his soul by the vampires claiming to be 'family'. He looks so different from when you first met him.
Working in the kitchens isn't so bad. You got a better deal than many of the other prisoners they took. Fear fills you every day, knowing that Fenrir Greyback, your father's worst enemy, lives within the same walls as you. Every night you sleep, wondering if you'll wake up in the morning, or if someone will discover you with a knife in your back. Your father had once made the mistake of mentioning his dislike of Greyback, one of the most feared assassins in all four kingdoms, in public. Word had gotten out, and since then Greyback had taken every opportunity possibly to get revenge. Now he had got it.
It's monotonous work, you don't have the skills to be anything other than a kitchen boy, so your job is just washing and drying dishes. All the slaves get beaten, it is a regular occurrence.
You hate the beatings. You hate the scars they leave in your body and on your mind, you hate the way they humiliate you, and bring you too your knees. You hate how they make you feel weak, hate how sometimes you cry. They make you feel weak, and helpless, like you did during the war. That is not something you ever want to feel again.
You are in the middle of one such beating, more vicious than usual because it is Greyback who is performing it, when your life is changed forever.
A beautiful boy with silky black hair and stormy eyes made of the purist silver enters the kitchens. You can immediately tell he is noble because of the proud, almost arrogant, way he carries himself and the fine clothing he wears. Your guard immediately goes up. Is he going to join the humiliation? Nobles in Slytherin are not as kind to their slaves and servants as they are in Gryffindor. Greyback halts his whipping as the beautiful boy makes himself known. He shines, you think, like a star. Like a supernova.
He opens his mouth to speak and you are ensnared by his voice and enraptured by his beauty. He moves with a casual elegance, and an air of regality surrounds him. The words that leave his mouth make you want to weep with relief.
"What are you doing?" he demands. His voice every bit as beautiful as he is.
Greyback drops his whip in alarm, and he stutters an excuse and you misbehaving and needed to be taught a lesson.
The beautiful boy's face twists into a scowl that mars his refined features. You find you don't like it when he scowls, he's much more beautiful when he smiles. He shines brighter.
"What," he drawls, his elegant body lengthens as he stands to his full height. "Have I told you about whipping?"
Greyback stutters incoherently, you resist the urge the smile at the imagine of Greyback on his knees, speechless.
The beautiful boy walks closer, so he towers over Greyback. He emanates power, and emanates light. Like a supernova. He folds his arms over his broad chest.
"Well?"
His voice is demanding, and powerful, and incredibly alluring. You can't help but be drawn to this mysterious supernova.
Their conversation continues, and ends with Greyback leaving. You watch from where you fell in a stunned silence. Fenrir Greyback is possibly the cruelest, most dangerous man alive, and this beautiful boy just made him cower before him like it was nothing. Suddenly you were scared, if that's what he did to someone as powerful as Greyback, what was this dangerous boy going to do to him? You shrink back, hoping to disappear into the shadowed and go unnoticed.
He turns to you, and you are surprised to see his expression was not that of a cold hearted, cruel, noble man, but rather one of concern. He holds out a hand, which you hesitantly take. You feel shivers run down your spine at the feel of his smooth hands on your calloused ones. You swallowed hard, and avoid looking at his eyes.
"Are you alright?"
It takes you a moment to answer. Your hand is still in his, and you make to withdraw it but he does not let go. Your heart rate quickens and it is all you can do to nod in response to his question. You can feel the colour rising in your cheeks, and you quickly duck your head, embarrassed.
The beautiful boy brings two elegant fingers under your chin, and lifts ever so gently. Apprehensive amber eyes meet his stormy silver eyes, that are laced with just a touch of concern. He is still holding your hand. You inhale deeply, hoping to shake off these feelings of attraction before they evolve into something dangerous.
"What is your name?"
His voice is as beautiful as his face, and you nervously stammer out a response. His face turns thoughtful.
"He shouldn't bother you again, but if he does, let me know and I'll deal with him."
The beautiful boy nods in the direction Greyback fled. You are swamped with overwhelming feelings of gratitude and relief. No more humiliation, no more crueler than usual lashings. You are still a slave, and you are still subject to beatings from your master if they see fit, but Greyback can't hurt you anymore.
You squeeze his hand gratefully, relief making you go weak at the knees. You meet his eyes again, and try to communicate just how much you owe this beautiful boy. Something flashes in his eyes, and he gives you the smallest of smiles, before twisting his lips into a smirk. He winks at you, and then suddenly he's gone.
It is only after he is gone that you realise you don't know his name.
He visits again, many times. His grey eyes seem to brighten when he walks into the kitchen and sees you, and you watch his lips curl into his trademark smirk as he walks into the room like he owns it. Each time you see your lionhearted supernova, you fall a little bit more in love. And you hate yourself for it. You still don't know the name of this beautiful boy. You tell him everything, he had a magnetic charm about him that could draw the truth from the most hardened criminal. You speak of James, your father and the war. You tell him of the beauty of Gryffindor and what it's like. You bare your soul to him.
One time, though, he doesn't smirk. There's no flirtatious wink this time, he doesn't have a witty comment and there's no laughter in his silver eyes.
He walks into your kitchen, where you are alone washing dishes, and he sits down on the stool resting his head in his hands melancholically.
You consider this beautiful boy a friend by now, it has been several months since the first visit. A friend that you may or may not have feelings for. He occupies your mind constantly. You can't get his elegant beauty out of your mind, can't stop hearing his musical voice or feeling the touch of his hands on yours. Thinking about the beautiful boy is a distraction from the world. It stops you thinking about James and your father and the life you could have had. It stops you thinking about Greyback; you know he is under orders from beautiful boy to leave you alone, but that doesn't stop him snarling at you whenever he sees you.
You approach the beautiful boy cautiously, unsure if he wants the company or not.
The silence between you is not awkward, and you use it as an opportunity to study him while he gathers his thought. His sharp jawline is tense, and shows signs of a bruise beginning to appear. His eyes are tired, they do not shine as brightly as they used to. Something is draining his spirit; his supernova. Even dampened, however, he still shines brightly. Your beautiful boy is a fighter.
He really is perfect. He is kind to the servants, not just you. People show him respect when they see him, and he treats them with respect in return. He is arrogant, that much is clear from the way he holds himself as he walks, and the smirks he flashes and his cheeky winks. But this time is different.
"I can't do this anymore," he whispers, sounding so utterly broken that your heart breaks. "My parents expect me to be this perfect child, to believe what they believe and do as they do but I can't."
Tentatively you reach out and hold his hand. He grips yours in return, and flashes you a grateful smile. For a while, you just sit there as he talks, he tells you of his abusive family and the pressure they put on him. You squeeze his hand pretend not to notice the tear that he hastily wipes off his face.
"Do you know who I am?" he whispers, glistening eyes like ice meet your warm, toffee ones. You nod.
You know who this nameless beautiful boy is. It was obvious from the first moment you met him, the silver eyes, the dark hair, and the elegant cheekbones. He was a Black. What you hadn't realised is that he was the elder Black, heir to the throne.
"I've known who you are for a while," you admit quietly, absently twining your fingers with his.
He looks at you curiously. "You're not afraid of me?"
You shake your head, puzzled.
"Why not?"
You meet his eyes, and you try to tell him without speaking that you love him. That you don't care who his family is, or what they want, because all you care about is him. You don't say anything because there are no words to describe how you feel. There are no words to say how beautiful he is, inside and out. Words are not adequate enough to explain the depth of your feelings. Something must've gotten through, because suddenly his lips are on yours, rough yet gentle, passionate yet sweet. He shines brighter than ever when he is kissing you, the brightest he has ever been. You know you are shining too.
"Lets run away," he whispers through bruised lips. His hands are on your hips, and yours are tangled in his silky hair as he pushes you against the wall. You moan quietly as his beautiful lips trail kisses down your pale neck.
"Why?" you manage to say, in between moans. Your hands fist in his hair and it is every bit as glorious as you imagined it. You take the lead, kissing his jaw and littering kisses down his neck and his exposed shoulder to where you had pulled his shirt down slightly.
He breaks away from your captivating lips and leans his forehead against yours, his fingertips reaching up under your shirt and you shiver at the skin to skin contact.
"Why not?"
His silvery eyes glow with adventure, with the promise of the freedom you both craved.
"We can go to Gryffindor," you whisper, excitement lighting up your features. "We can be free."
Your beautiful boy's face expands into a grin bigger than you have ever seen, and suddenly you are a tangle of limbs going through the door that leads to your quarters.
You are going to be free.
The same cool hands push you down, but this time they don't let go. You meet your supernova's eyes, and whisper I love you over and over again. You will never tire of saying those words, and he will never cease to be the light of your life.
The scratching sound of the executioner sharpening his blade abruptly stops. It is time. You do not regret running away with your beautiful boy, you do not regret that he was your first, and only love. You only regret that you got caught, and that now he has to live in a world without you as a puppet of his parents. More tears drip down your face. You are not ashamed to cry. This is not how you pictured your life, but you don't regret any of it.
You have just enough time to mouth one last I love you to your beautiful supernova before the blade comes crashing down.