Chapter Text
“Rage, Goddess. Sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles.
Begin, muse, when the two first broke and clashed,
Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.”
- The Iliad
[There may come a time in a series of lives where the Gods play their hand. When humans, pitiful souls capable of cruelty like destruction and novelty like love, need to be dissuaded and knocked off course. Lest they begin to think themselves worthy of the world. Overzealous in how they conquer. Realize, ultimately, they do not require the will of the Gods at all.
But how can that simply be? The Gods granted them wishes and cultivated the earth with earnest care. They, immortal, powerful, unthinkable beings gave out chances and warnings and allowed the foolishness of humanity to prevail.
Alas, that proved to be a mistake. The humans have gotten way over their heads. They do not tremble at the face of mortal punishment– they have long ceased fearing what can condemn them. In the midst of human deceit and hungry desires to consume and prey, they forget the Gods. They, mortal wretches of the most vilest of beings, forget and discard divinity in favor of their own righteousness.
No more, the Gods had decided. It would be a waste to have them eradicated, after millennia of perfecting their creation. No, they simply need to be reminded of their lesser souls. How the blood of Gods spilt are honeyed gold, ever-changing and everlasting, nectar in its purest form that creates and grows. But human blood is dully the same. Sickening crimson that only stains. They need to be reminded that while they may save themselves from adversaries, only the Gods can save them from themselves.
So let the warrant be known and allow the fires to burn and destroy. Send wishes of inevitable demise and await the familiar sentience of being worshipped. Let the humans fight a war that tears themselves apart until their broken, mortal bodies are crawling to the altars, begging for salvation.
This is a familiar story, one you may or may not have heard of before. Of Gods and men and war. Of loss and regret and glory. Of devotion. And of love.
It would be a story ending in the favor of the Gods. Where they are returned the control over the mortals. But the Gods had not accounted for how far humans would go for their own control and power. For the fleeting novelty that is love. For there is nothing more dangerous than a perishable life with nothing and everything to lose.
The war began as fated, of course. Destruction seemed like an inescapable thing. But the Gods had not accounted for the son of stars to choose differently.
They rather liked their prophecies, you see. The Gods are not above such divinity, do not get it wrong, but they know more of it, understand more of it better than the mortals. Easy to manipulate lesser forms with divine, otherworldly knowledge they can fabricate for their own benefits. It was unheard of that things go awry.
The Gods, however, had not accounted for Sirius Black, son of stars, whose life had been designed long before he was born, to deviate from what was carefully woven for him. To deviate from the prophecy.
They had not accounted for Sirius Black to fall in love with the unassuming exiled prince.
They had not accounted for the wrath of a most deep-set devotion lost.
The Gods, you will find, my friend, had not accounted for anything at all.
But let the story begin familiarly. Amidst these pages, their fates are decided by only your beholding eyes.
Though, I suppose it is best to begin before. Before the prophecy and bloodshed and the Gods’ meddling, before this would have even come to be.
Then, I shall start here: It was a rather bleak, cloudy afternoon when the ship docked, and Remus Lupin stepped foot on Asterionian soil for the very first time…]
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The world had never quite made sense to him, ever since he could truly discern it. Flowers would be tended to with the utmost care, nurtured by steady hands, their vibrancy exquisite amidst monotonous skin. They would be given sanctuary, vast expanses of gardens to encase their beauty. And then they would be picked and cut. Imprisoned in bouquets and wreaths and hung dutifully over celebrations while steadily dying. Then they would wilt and would be discarded, and then it begins again.
Remus remembers the very first time he’d ever picked flowers from his mother’s garden. He remembers their beauty and remembers feeling incredibly lucky over how great it was to hold something so precious and have it entirely in his grasp. He remembers the oranges and yellows of the marigolds by the ledge of his window, held by an ornate vase. A deep blue that clashed with the petals horribly, but against the backdrop of sunlight that would filter through the curtains, it would remind him of the ocean. Flowers blooming amidst waves. Remus remembers how every morning and evening when the sun would rise and set he would take extra care to water them. One morning he awoke and found the flowers wilted, and back then Remus felt as if nothing could hurt more.
Back then he was foolish and naive, in the way only children could be. However his discernment of the bleakness of the world and how ambiguous it truly was didn’t start with the flowers.
It started with his mother.
The earliest memories Remus has of his mother are all gilded in warmth. Not like the sun– where everything is bright and unobstructed. But rather a kind of warmth found in a hearth. In familiar arms and an all encompassing kindling between the ribs. It was in the way his mother smiled. Held in the quilts she’d embroider.
Hope Lupin, as Remus remembers her, was something of a paradox. She was divine not in the way the Gods were, but in a way she didn’t belong amidst the unremarkableness of man. Light and goodness would pour into everything she’d touch or glance at. The entire Kingdom adored her, the gentle queen who’d guide them into thriving crops and just climate. She was the heart and soul of everyone and everything. She made his father a good man.
At six years old when Remus’ little heart had cracked right in two because of the dying marigolds, Hope held him close and allowed him space to cry and mourn. It was, of course, nothing short of ridiculous, such expressed by his father. “He is a prince, an heir,” Lyall had said once he’d come to learn of the cause of Remus’ absences from his princely duties. Perhaps Hope had replied with a lot more, but Remus only recalls her cradling his face, smile impossibly radiant as she’d responded, “He is, above all, my son.”
Hope had taken him to plant more marigolds. It’s the most vivid and important memory Remus has of her. She had made him a promise. Life, as he grew, would only be a whole lot of loving and losing. That losing could despair even the strongest of souls, but it is necessary to hold onto that prospect of that lost love being returned. “The flowers will grow again,” she’d assured, “You will love them again. Anything you love will come back to you. Oh, Remus, it surely will.”
Two years later, after she’d passed, Remus held onto that promise. He’d lost her. He’d loved her. He was painfully empty and the world dimmed at the edges and it was not so much grief as it was pure, tormented anguish. At eight years old Remus found his mother had lied and that love lost is simply that. Lost. He could never love anyone as much as he’d loved her.
Now nearly nine years later, having been banished from the only place he’d ever known, blood on his hands and repentance marked all along his face, Remus doesn’t love anything. What would be the point, anyway? If he were bound to lose it? Love made sense to the world that made sense– and Remus has long learned that if anything makes sense, it’s certainly not the world. Perhaps something like that is made for the Gods only, who have celestial knowledge of everything and have a chance at keeping a thing forever.
Remus thinks it’s rather poetic how he is set to arrive at his place of punishment the day of his mother’s birthday. It’s the one day, apart from her death anniversary and his own birthday, where he allows himself to think of her. That’s why, for the past hour and a half, long before the early crew awoke and before the attendant assigned to him noticed, Remus slipped away to the upper deck. He was greeted with a gloomy sky and choppy waves. Remus whispered a quiet “happy birthday” and allowed it to be carried off by the wind. He’d done everything to wrangle the wistful thought that Hope would hear it from wherever she’d gone to silence.
The salty air stung at Remus’ scars. The unpleasant itchiness he’d been feeling only amplifies. Now all he can do is stare into icy grey waters, wood chips digging into the soft palms of his hands as he grapples between sorrowful, bittersweet memories of his mother and the fateful day that sealed his calamity.
“You’re set to arrive soon, son,” a gruff voice utters from some place behind him. Remus jumps despite himself, familiar, revolting fear crawling up his throat before he swallows it down. He’s not here, Remus scolds his racing heart, He’ll never get to me again.
The sailor that had interrupted his solitude is appraising him with guiling pity, Remus notices once he turns to face him. The past two weeks had softened some of them. They were cautioned to heed carefully around the banished, exiled murderer, but it’s no doubt hard to think of the sorry, scrawny seventeen year old boy littered with scars as someone who could hurt more than a fly.
“These servants o’ yours are tearin’ the place apart lookin’ fer yeh,” the sailor says conversationally. He comes up to lean against the guard rails beside Remus. His eyes are a warm, earthy brown, the color of rich soil and the ground after rain. He’s a bear of a man, but his eyes take away from his boorishness. In another world, perhaps Remus would have felt comforted in his presence. “But I get it. Rather uptight that one, eh?”
Remus briefly wonders what Horacio Cuthbert would think of being compared to a servant. His servant, no less. The man had taken to thinking he was some sort of heroic escort, getting rid of the disgraceful prince and delivering him to his salvation. Really, sometimes it felt as if Remus was the servant.
“He has to be,” Remus mutters, dragging his gaze back out to the sea, “I’m a monster of a boy. Do you not hear what they have been saying about me?”
“Aye,” The sailor agrees. He pauses, then, before continuing a bit more hesitantly, “Was it…are yeh…?”
“Was it fun for me?” Remus replies tonelessly, slightly relishing in how the man flinches, “Am I satisfied?” Remus continues on, “No. It was a sorry accident but what difference does that make? The boy is dead and I was the one standing over him.”
For a moment the waves morph into the familiar, pebbly sands of his kingdom. Instead of the comforting sandy tones the ground is stained red. Lifeless eyes stare up at Remus as blood drips from Remus’ own hands. A mouth opened, words unsaid. An insult at the ready. A plea.
The sailor begins to speak and Remus blinks harshly. The sight of dull waters once more does not appease his churning stomach in the slightest.
“If it weighs on yer mind, it makes all the difference,” the sailor says. He’s regarding Remus sadly, “There are many good men who get condemned fer things way outta their control. Good men have blood on their hands an’ they weep. Bad men do not tend ter do so.”
“Good men still have blood on their hands,” Remus replies quietly.
There’s a moment of silence. The sailor hums softly, “Remus Lupin, eh?”
Remus nods, then despite himself asks, “Who are you?”
“You can call me Hagrid.” The sailor smiles. It’s just as comforting as his eyes, “I’ve been watchin’ yeh, yeh know. Two weeks spent watchin’ fer a cunnin’, young killer but all I saw was a regrettin’, miserable young man.”
“Oh.” Remus frowns, “Thank you?”
“And now yeh’ll be off ter train as a warrior while everyone whispers in yer ear of how cruel yeh are,” Hagrid barrels on as if Remus hasn’t spoken or looks increasingly bemused now, “An’ eventually yeh’ll have no choice but ter believe them. An’ then yeh’ll turn out exactly how they say yeh are.”
“I don’t understand,” Remus replies, peering up at him incredulously, “Am I supposed to fight that fate? I have nothing to offer anyone. Not my father. Not my kingdom. Not even the world. It would do well if I die in some battle as some bloodthirsty general.” Remus can’t imagine himself dying in such a way, but he’s resigned himself since he’d set off from his kingdom. All that once, everything got real. The weight of what had transpired suddenly settled upon him and he was helpless to avoid being crushed. His father turned his back on him just as easily as the boy’s skull split open, red spilling across–
Remus bites the inside of his cheek, hard, willing himself to stay in the present. Hargid is gesturing wildly with his large hands.
“There’s another way,” he says simply, making a large sweeping motion towards the ocean.
“Really?” Remus arches a skeptical brow. He’s begun to think the sailor may not be all right in the head.
Hagrid only grins at him, a twinkle in his eyes, “There’s endless possibilities in an end-filled world. Yeh don’t allow yerself ter fall into isolated despair. You're on this precarious edge– balanced between pits of despair an’ second chances. Yeh just have ter allow yerself ter be pulled ter the right side.”
“You’re telling me to make friends?” Remus snorts. No doubt his entire history would be rallied all over the Academy no sooner after he arrives, and amidst the rich, silver-spooned nobles, Remus will be at the bottom of the food chain. As a prince he was at the bottom in his own kingdom. His best bet is to slum it in with the other runts of the litter and hope the rest don’t tear him apart.
“Thank you, Hagrid,” Remus says sincerely, “But I’m afraid isolated despair is my only choice.”
Hagrid shakes his head disappointedly, yet he wisely doesn’t push any farther on the matter. Remus doesn’t know why he feels disappointed. It’s as if every time he closes his heart and tells himself no one truly cares, someone pries it open and reveals perhaps someone can. It’s expected, anyway. Hagrid sees how pathetic Remus is and can’t stand it– but while others show so in disgust and violence, Hagrid’s is shown through kindness. When Remus hears the tell-tale sign of Cuthbert’s angry footsteps drawing nearer, he prepares himself for another verbal lashing and expects a half-hearted goodbye from Hagrid.
But when Hagrid turns to him ter speak, he does not get a bidded farewell. “You’re a good lad, Lupin. I hope yeh see that yeh can choose differently.”
Remus opens his mouth to reply, startled and touched all at once, before Cuthbert appears and drags him away from the railing.
“Perhaps a whipping will do you some good yet!” he snaps, snarling when Remus easily rips his arm away. “How many times have I–”
“Sorry,” Remus says, not sorry at all. He gestures vaguely. “I felt sick.”
“You certainly will,” Cuthbert sneers, before suddenly noticing Hagrid’s presence. “Oi, hasn’t it gotten through your thick head that no one was to speak to this one?”
Remus grits his teeth, disliking the tone being addressed to Hagrid, even if the other man himself doesn’t seem bothered. It was not as if Cuthbert himself was in any higher station to be talking down or regarding Hagrid as a speck under his shoe, not that that would have made it any better. It’s the ones that have no status and nothing to back them up that speak louder.
Though now, Remus knows better than to retaliate. Despite wanting to defend Hagrid, Remus bites his tongue and allows himself to fester further with his anger and guilt.
“Aye, just gettin’ back ter work,” Hagrid says gruffly. His eyes are a lot less kinder when he looks at Cuthbert, but before he leaves he sends a wink in Remus’ direction that causes him to smile faintly. Cuthbert notices and narrows his eyes.
“Don’t think some bumbling sailor being all friendly towards you erases your sins,” Cuthbert spits. “You’re still a vile, miserable wretch.”
“How can I possibly forget,” Remus mutters, “When you make sure to remind me every waking moment?”
Cuthbert sneers, opening his mouth to retort, before the ship lurches and a commotion resounds, “Land ahoy!”
Remus takes off towards the opposite side of the ship, ignoring Cuthbert’s yells and the bustling crew and barrels. He slips through the chaos easily and reaches the railing, squinting through the fog and the spray of water towards the distant land steadily coming into view.
Asterosis a highly revered Kingdom. Their legacy is as old as the Gods, and their feats are regarded as sacred. Remus thought it to be rather absurd their prestigious warrior training academy would agree to take on banished, discarded princes who are socially annihilated, but he’s had the chance to mull that over and realizes of course their pretentiousness would exceed to reforming rather than simply punishing.
He recalls the whispers of the guards posted outside his bedroom door, the night before he was to leave. “The Blacks not only need warriors,” one of them had murmured, “They also need scapegoats.”
So Remus takes a good look at the place that will become his home for the next few years, where he will be trained as a sacrificial lamb, then sent off in battle to die an unassuming death, so very like the unassuming life he’s thus far lived.
Though, perhaps Hagrid is right. Maybe there is another choice. Remus just leans over to peer over the railing and into the grey waters, when Cuthbert is there yet again. Great Gods, the man won’t even let him think about dying peacefully.
“There will be people from the academy when we dock,” Cuthbert sniffs, watching carefully as the ship approaches the docks. There are dozens of other ships docking. Crowds upon crowds milling about, distant smells of food and other assortments cutting through the salty air. The buildings near the dock are short and unassuming, but if Remus squints, he can just distantly make out the tip of a long winding tower– undoubtedly part of either the Academy or the royal palace itself. He really should have studied the map he was given, but in his defense, he had been too busy thinking of the ways he’d be humiliated and then inevitably killed. “I will remain for about a week should things go awry.”
The message is rather clear: I will watch them dispose of you should it come to that and report back to your father accordingly.
“Lovely,” Remus says absent-mindedly. He cranes his neck to watch some of the other ships– noticing young men his age and even younger being gathered into a line, “I’m not the only one joining in the middle of the year?”
Cuthbert rolls his eyes, giving Remus the impression he’d been explained this piece of information some time before. “Today is the initiation for the more problematic students,” he replies stiffly, “They watch over you closely for the first two days. If you make them think that you are and will continue to be a problem, they will take care of you.”
“Lovely,” Remus repeats. He’s at a loss for how to react. How to take it all in. The churning in his stomach gets worse, guilt coinciding with anxiety and dread. Despite having anticipated this moment for so long, Remus can’t help feeling overwhelmed.
There’s absolutely nothing he can do.
“Come on, then,” Cuthbert shakes him out of his stupor, gripping his arm roughly. The usual sting is dulled by his mounting nervousness, and Remus doesn’t bother to shake off the grip this time, because truly, the only way he could get off this ship is if he were dragged off.
Cuthbert explains how his belongings– which is really only a sorry sack consisting of his mother’s lyre, her crown and his favorite book– is to be collected by the Academy workers and would be placed where he is to stay, but Remus is too distracted as he watches the line of boys he is meant to join in mere moments as they disembark the ship.
Despite what the stories say, nothing magical or fantastical happens when Remus’ foot touches the ground. Asteros’ land is different, sacred, holy– they say. That luck flips its coin once again and your fate has a chance to change.
Really, all that happens is that Remus stumbles. Some of the boys snicker, and Cuthbert all shoves him into the line. Remus opens his mouth to apologize to the blonde-haired boy in front of him, whose shoulder he accidentally knocked into, but the boy has a nasty look on his face and Remus mindfully shuts his mouth, drawing his eyes down to his shoes.
As the line moves onto the next ship, Remus looks up to catch sight of the vessel he’s called home for the past two weeks for the very last time, and notices Hagrid peering over the railing. He catches Remus’ eye and waves with a large smile, and despite the impending sense of doom, Remus can’t help but smile back.
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Remus learns very quickly to expect the unexpected.
After he arrived two days prior, he and the group of boys he was in line with were taken to be given a brief tour of the Academy. Which– what the hell. The long, winding tower, looming high above the city, is not a part of the royal palace, but a part of the Academy. Apparently it was built to symbolize the closeness to the stars, after the legacy surrounding the Blacks and all. Still, Remus isn’t entirely sure how wise it is to allow a bunch of amateur, blood-thirsty aspiring warriors to have access to such a tall building where multiple accidents can take place, but he’s beginning to learn things are just simply different here. The Academy is located more or less in the heart of the city, with the royal palace on the northern outskirts. Remus overheard some of the boys express their confusion, especially since it was rumored that the supposed prince was living alongside the trainees just the same until he completed his studies in the Academy. While back at home, as prince, Remus was permitted to join the other boys in their lessons, but he was always expected back at the palace. It was rather odd how the prince would have to travel such a long distance just to go home.
While being shown around the dormitories, Remus felt a little weird knowing that the royal, supposedly ‘touched-by-the-stars-themselves’ prince lived more or less the same way he would be. And Remus…well, Remus isn’t sure he is anything here. He’s been introduced as the exiled and banished prince of his Kingdom, but he’s hardly a prince anymore. His father had been more than content to be rid of him as easily as a skull could crack on a rock.
“I mean, it makes sense,” one of the boys had muttered. Remus didn’t remember his name, nor the Kingdom or noble lineage he was from, only that the reason he was exiled was because he beat his older brother to death with an oar. Remus made a mental note to steer clear of him, especially because the boy seemed pleasant enough despite everything. “Apparently travelling from here to the palace takes four days. This place is huge. Wonder what the prince is like. Prim and proper, or a testament to the Black family madness?”
The hierarchical system of the Academy was made abundantly clear during dinner of the first night. The dining hall, labelled as the Great Hall, was larger than the ballroom back at his Kingdom. There was a great assortment of voices. Loud, jovial laughter. Arguing, jostling, shouting. The air buzzed with charged energy, and Remus had never seen so many people in his life. Though being ushered in alongside the crowd of new, problematic arrivals, the hall fell into a hushed silence, and Remus realized this was the real initiation. They were being scrutinized and judged and divided.
A few instructors gave half-assed speeches of not being too hard on them which was instantly lost among the inquiring that rose up. Some from their group were permitted to join pre-existing groups. The boy with the oar joined a clique of burly, scary looking boys who took up the tables against the wall on the far right. Some of the others made their own group and stuck together, taking a vacant table farther away. Remus and a few of the other mousy, nervous boys found themselves amidst the table of other mousy, nervous boys.
It worked well, anyway. They mostly ate in silence and occasionally answered a few questions. Remus learned a little of the training system, the schedules, about which group to stay away from and which group to completely disengage with. But the most vivid thing Remus remembered about that very first night was not the food– an edible enough tomato soup with cold bread (Remus didn’t like tomatoes, and the bread was rather stale). Not even the brief commotion breaking out in the back.
It was him.
He sat at a table in the middle row. Not the middle table, but a little off to the side in a way that made it seem like he didn’t want to be the centre of attention, but he couldn’t help it anyway. He was surrounded by dozens of other boys, each gravitating into his space, others unknowingly being pulled into his orbit. He was laughing loudly. Unapologetically. He carried himself unassumingly, yet he was the most striking person Remus had ever seen.
The boy had looked up. Their eyes had met. Remus felt something shift, something odd form in his gut as the overhead lanterns caught on glittering gray. He felt exposed, then. Completely vulnerable under this magnetic boy’s searching gaze, and he wondered if the terrible thing he’d done was laid out in front of him. Remus had never been looked at so carefully, so attentively before. Certainly never by someone so…
“Oh, that’s the Crown Prince,” the boy next to him had said, following Remus’ gaze. “Sirius Black.”
Remus caught wind of Prince and Black and had immediately choked on his bread. When he carefully lifted his gaze, Sirius wasn’t looking at him. Watching him a bit more, Remus noticed bitterly that it was absurd to think someone such as Sirius could have possibly been offering him such intent focus. It was probably nothing more than a fluke.
The rest of dinner had passed by in a blur. By the time they were sent off to their new accommodations, Remus was so exhausted with the entire ordeal of settling in, Sirius had almost left his mind.
Almost.
His room was better than Cuthbert had exaggerated his living space to be. There were no mites crawling around the floor. It wasn’t as damp as a cell and not nearly as cold, with the hearth in the center of the room. There were two sets of bunk-beds across from one another on either side of the room. Near an empty wall sat a small desk, and clothes and various training equipment was strewn around haphazardly, giving the space a welcomed, lived-in atmosphere.
It made Remus a little sick, how he stepped in and was briefly reminded of his mother.
“You’re here!” Came a startled, strangled sort of squeak. Remus winced as a sandy-haired boy, who had been lounging on one of the top bunks, peered over the edge quickly and fell with a loud thump.
“Are you al-” Remus began, just as quickly being cut off.
“I’m so sorry!” The boy continued, frantic. He sat up, rubbing the arm he fell on as he glanced around. “I was supposed to clean but you know I snuck out of training today so I had to steer clear of the dorms unless they wrote me up for a whipping which I’d only heard terrible stories of– oh! Don’t just stand there! Come on, come in. Here, let me just–” he pulled out the rickety chair from the desk and quickly tossed the tunic wrapped around it onto one of the bottom beds, muttering a, “Damn Potter.”
“I…thank you?” Remus sat, startled. He felt as if any sudden movement may cause the poor boy to combust, “Really, I don’t mind. To be honest, I was expecting a jail cell.”
The boy frowned, appraising him for a moment. “So it’s true. You’re one of the…er, I mean, you’re part of the problematic…”
Remus bristled, “Is that an issue?”
Surprisingly, the boy grinned, “If you think that could be an issue you have much to learn about this place. I’m Peter Pettigrew.”
Remus eyed Peter’s outstretched hand and tentatively shook it, “Remus Lupin.”
“Oh, I know,” Peter said, gesturing vaguely at a sack placed in the corner of the room, “Someone came to drop your stuff off earlier. There are many people who come and go in this dorm, but you’re probably the first one with such little belongings.”
“Why do so many people come and go in this dorm?” Remus asked, suspicion steadily creeping in.
“Oh, you’ll see soon enough,” Peter had said conspiratorily. Remus finally noted the mischievous glint making itself apparent in his blue eyes. Peter seemed nice enough, but he also clearly had a troublemaker’s streak. Remus had enough to worry about as it was.
Remus slept that night holding his mother’s lyre close, on the bottom bed under Peter’s as he silently wondered where their other two dorm mates were. He didn’t care to ask, not wanting to be swept up in whatever Peter was clearly itching to get him swept up in. He allowed the unfamiliarity of the situation to catch up to him, the realization that he would never be able to be home again. See his mother’s garden, or the library he adored dearly. The hardest part was realizing that apart from that, Remus had no reason to miss home at all.
Remus fell asleep wondering how it could be that in such a vast world he had absolutely nothing to return to. Nothing that truly tethered him.
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The following day was spent settling into the Academy and being shown around to training areas and being made aware of schedules. They were separated into sections– made up of the best, the worst and some who fall along the middle. Considering there were over a hundred students, Remus wasn’t surprised to find each section contained about thirty people. Dorm mates were grouped together, and Remus didn’t know whether it was a good thing that he was with Peter and his other mysterious rooming partners of which he had yet to see. He still didn’t dare ask, already getting a bad feeling about all of it.
Presently, during roll-call, Remus’ suspicions are proven correctly when the first name called out for his group is, Black, Sirius.
There’s silence and muttering. The instructor standing in front of them rolls his eyes and scratches something down on a scroll. Remus turns towards Peter, who’s clearly been awaiting this moment, too, because at the look on Remus’ face, he breaks out into snickers.
“We’re rooming with the prince!?” Remus hisses, “That’s- that’s simply ridiculous. How does that even work!? Shouldn’t he be staying at a much- I don’t know, a more princey place?”
“He does have his own quarters,” Peter admits, before shrugging, “But Black is good friends with my good friend James, and the two of them had managed to bend around the rules. I’m sure if Black had it his way, he wouldn’t want me around either, but James and I have known each other since we were five.”
Remus processes this information as the instructor jots down his and Peter’s attendances, pausing again briefly on Potter, James, before moving on with a near identical eye roll he had given for Sirius’. He casts a glance around to find no one else as surprised as him– not even some of the boys who had just recently arrived alongside him. What a truly odd place.
“So…the reason you don’t have a fourth roommate is because of Potter and Black?”
“Oh, no,” Peter chuckles, like Remus said something very silly, “James doesn’t care. It’s mostly Black. He’s very particular about the company he keeps.” He shoots Remus a sort of sympathetic smile that has him bristling. After having been subjected to pity for most of his life, it leaves a bad taste in his mouth, “You’re nice enough, Remus. I hope Black goes easy on you.”
Easy on me? Remus’ apprehension fades away, and in its place he finds a pit of fear. It’s absurd, of course. He knew this place would tear him apart– that it would lead to his inevitable demise. He sealed this fate of his months ago, when he had…
Remus shakes his head forcefully and stares down at the worn shoes provided by the Academy. He kicks up a bit of sand, blanches at the memories it prompts, and looks back over at Peter, who’s still watching him with commiseration.
“I guess it can’t be helped, then,” Remus says, resenting Peter’s spinelessness a little, but also finding he can’t blame him. Peter seems to be the type of person who would apologize for someone bumping into him, how could he possibly stand up to a prince? A prince such as Sirius. A prince that was his best friend’s best friend? Honestly, Remus thinks he should be the one doing the pitying.
“Where are Potter and Black, anyway?” Remus asks despite himself, “If being a prince doesn’t exempt him from slumming it out here with the rest of us, how come they can miss training?”
“Oh, sometimes they look at the schedules of training and what we’ll be doing ahead of time to go train themselves in the private arena,” Peter explains, “James is one of the top students anyway, and, well, being a prince and all, Black can get away with certain things.”
“Right, of course,” Remus mutters. Despite how highly Peter speaks of this James, Remus still imagines a pompous, arrogant muscled-hunk who hung off of every word Sirius said. Like some of the boys back in the hall. Remus doesn’t recall seeing a James that fit the description, but back then, Remus couldn’t exactly focus on anything else that wasn’t Sirius.
It’s a good thing Remus can prolong meeting them. He doesn’t know if he can truly handle Sirius’ supposed cruelty. To him, beautiful things have always just been beautiful.
“Alright, boys!” The instructor claps, “Groups of five– begin drills.”
Remus turns to Peter as everyone begins to shuffle. “Drills?”
Peter grimaces, “It’s worse than it sounds.”
-------------
It really, really was.
Remus thinks drills are a kind of glorified torture method. Why else would they make a bunch of seventeen year olds carry buckets of stones– filled with water, from one side of the arena to the other, for nearly four hours in the height of afternoon?
Remus thinks he died about fifty times. Peter had given up after the first trip back and forth, dramatized an injury until the instructor was too over it to coax him back into training, and left him to his whining. A few others did the same, which made Remus think this was a recurring event. Remus made it about two trips before he, too, collapsed, and he didn’t even have to dramatize an injury. His head was pounding like never before. His shoulders felt bruised, his lungs seemed to cave, and his scars stung and burnt as if the sun itself had come down to scorch him.
It was beyond him how the others managed to complete drills effectively, only seeming mildly exhausted. It was also, quite frankly, terrifying. The Academy wasn’t merely training soldiers and warriors. Remus didn’t want to label them training monsters, having been known as that back home, but he took one look at Bruce Mulciber, a broad-shouldered boy his age who did fifteen rounds and ran the last three, and promptly rested his case.
At dinner, Remus sits with Peter just like he had the day before, at a table near a less-rowdy corner. Seated in front of them is Edgar Bones, a brown-haired freckled boy with warm dark eyes and a nice smile. And Edgar’s own friends, twins– Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Their red hair is as bold and spirited as they are. Despite their rowdiness and the chaotic glint in their bright blue eyes, Remus doesn’t feel overwhelmed or uncomfortable.
They had known Peter since he was thirteen and they were fifteen, and had taken him in when James would be off gallavanting with the prince (unsurprisingly) and Peter would get bullied. They were going to ‘graduate’ soon, be dispatched to actual divisions of the army to serve the kingdom after the end of summer.
“Don’t worry, Petey, we still have months with you!” Gideon grins when Peter sulks over this fact, after Edgar explains it to Remus, “And I have great instincts. This Remus Lupin will look after you.”
“Really?” Fabian muses, eyeing Remus’ slumped form on the table, “This one looks all tough and scary, but it seems the wind will blow him over!”
“Don’t you remember the first time we did drills, Fab?” Edgar snorts, nudging Fabian’s shoulder as he grins, “Fabian over here picked up that first bucket and–”
“You take that to your grave, Bones!” Fabian cries, bringing Edgar into a headlock as he squirms in his grip, “We don’t speak of the dark past!”
Ignoring them, Gideon turns to Remus and whispers, “He pissed his pants.”
“I DISOWN YOU!” Fabian snarls at Gideon, and the brothers get into a squabble as Remus lets out a bewildered laugh.
“We can be a bit much,” Edgar says, fixing his hair and smiling apologetically at Remus, though he doesn’t seem all that sorry. The twins have fallen off the bench, rolling around in the space between their table and the next– who don’t seem phased at the profanities and the fight taking place at all. “But you get used to it, Lupin.”
“And drills,” Peter says sympathetically, patting Remus’ sore shoulder, “You get used to drills. Eventually.” He unsubtly steals a piece of bread hanging off the edge of Remus’ plate, and Remus lets him, too exhausted for anything.
“So, what do you think of Black?” Edgar says conversationally after Fabian and Gideon settle back in, going back to eating dinner as if nothing had transpired at all. The tone in which he poses the question makes Remus think it’s framed more so to be, what does Black think of you?
“I haven’t met him yet,” Remus says carefully, finally sitting up fully. Any thought of Sirius makes his stomach do that odd thing. He feels vaguely sick and nervous, yet chalking it up to fear doesn’t quite cut it.
“Oh, that makes sense!” Fabian exclaims, “No wonder he’s hanging around you, Petey. He hasn’t been given the new roommate experience yet.” As Fabian snickers, Gideon joins him, and Edgar seems embarrassed on the behalf of his friends as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Well, what they mean is-”
“Don’t bother, Ed,” Peter says with a sigh, “I told him. And anyway, Remus doesn’t seem like a show-off or a pompous, toe-sucking git like the other ones. Maybe he will be different.”
“I’m also right here,” Remus pipes up, “You all speak of this Sirius Black like he’s some God who’s judgement is all that matters.”
“Most would say so, yes.”
Remus quite literally gasps at the voice that speaks behind him. Even before turning around, Remus undoubtedly knows it’s him. It’s not surprising that his voice would be just as pretty as the rest of him. Remus never thought a voice could be pretty, but here he is, unable to describe the way Sirius Black speaks as anything other than charming. It’s low yet melodious. It seeps into Remus’ skin and causes the hair on the back of his neck to rise and envelops him completely in warmth. The odd thing in his stomach only gets worse. The warmth gets worse, too, until Remus feels as if he’s burning alive.
“Black,” Fabian and Gideon chime at once, seeming unphased at the appearance. Edgar, too, doesn’t seem the slightest bit miffed, but he does offer Remus a slightly concerned glance. Peter nudges Remus, who has gone completely stiff, to move over along the bench to make room.
“Hello, everyone,” Sirius says as takes a seat on the other side of Peter. His striking gaze glides across all of them before settling on Remus. Remus doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare anything, really, in fear that it would make Sirius look away again like that first time. That the moment would cease to exist, and it would be as if nothing had happened at all. “You must be the new dorm mate.”
“That he is! Remus Lupin, right!?”
Remus flinches at the voice beside him, being so lost in Sirius that he had apparently missed the presence of the boy next to him entirely. The first thing Remus notices about him is that he’s– well, bright. His tanned skin seems to glow in the candlelight. His smile is entirely unapologetic and entirely open. His eyes, hazel and warm, seem to glisten beneath the wired spectacles he wears. An odd accessory to be sporting in a war training academy, but somehow he makes it work. This boy could work as the personification of the sun. His voice was just as loud and boisterous as the rest of him.
“I’m James Potter,” the boy continues– oh– taking Remus’ stunned silence in a stride. He holds out a hand, “Sorry we couldn’t come greet you when you arrived earlier.”
Remus finally forces himself to move, and he shakes James’ hand. A calloused palm, but a warm, firm grip.
When Remus turns back to the rest of the table, Gideon and Fabian sport shit-eating grins, and Edgar looks exhausted.
“Don’t look so down, Ed,” James says cheerfully, “You love us.”
“You are loud, Potter,” Edgar huffs, though he does smile, “Your presence is already giving me a headache.”
Despite James starting to bicker and converse with the other boys, Sirius’ gaze stays fixed on Remus. Remus notices Peter squirming, his eyes flickering between the both of them.
“You seem familiar,” Sirius says finally, inclining his head, “Have we met before?”
“I think we briefly saw each other the day I arrived,” Remus manages, looking away the second his eyes meet Sirius’. He’s always been quiet and meek, and he has never loathed himself for it more than he does now. Sirius’ intensity should be matched with a brightness like James’ or loud, unabashed humor like Gideon’s or Fabian’s. Remus’ inadequacy is as apparent as the glint of disappointment in Sirius’ eyes before he turns away with a nod. Dismissed, just like that. Remus has to bite his tongue to not shout out. Say something cutting to make Sirius look at him again.
They fall back into conversation, but this time Remus says little and keeps himself busy by playing around with his food. James recounts his training with Sirius dramatically, encouraged on by the twins whose input causes more exaggeration. Edgar offers advice whenever he can, and Sirius speaks with him on their military and future plans or whatever, because Remus is too busy dealing with the ringing in his ears and the sorry realization that all of this changes nothing for him. He’s technically here on punishment, and he can pretend to be normal and try as hard as he can, but there is still an insurmountable amount of blood on his hands. What was it that he’d realized on the ship? Right, isolated despair. Remus is learning it is possible to feel the loneliest surrounded by people, no matter how conspicuous they are.
The world is burning around him but to everyone else it is but the flame of a candle. Remus stews with his own internal dilemma and he will until he’s dispatched out onto the front lines, and inevitably dies.
“–Lupin?” James is waving a large hand in front of his face. Remus is beginning to think the grin etched on his face is his default resting face, “Ah, there you are. You were all gone for a second. We’re heading back to the dorms. Are you coming?”
Fabian, Gideon and Edgar had apparently left during the time Remus was spiraling. He looks up to find Sirius and Peter lingering a few steps away. Sirius’ stance is relaxed, maybe even a little impatient as he waits for James and Remus to catch up. Peter stands beside him like a wilted flower, peering up curiously before looking back down at his feet. The Hall is still milling with students, but most of them are older and the rowdy ones have clearly retired. Remus wishes to simply remain where he is, if only to avoid any further confrontation, because something tells him that is going to happen.
“About time,” Sirius mutters as they begin walking down the hallways. Remus feels indignant and yet again, bites his tongue. It wouldn’t do well to speed up the process of his doom by angering the Gods damned prince, of all people. Sirius and James walk ahead purposefully, laughing and jostling each other, and Remus lingers back with Peter.
“It’s not that bad,” Peter says with a wince, “Usually Sirius goes all in. He’s good at sniffing out the ones with ulterior motives.”
“What is he, a dog?” Remus mutters under his breath. He glares daggers at the back of Sirius’ head, his perfect, shiny dark curls bouncing with every movement, “What ulterior motives can a bunch of boys looking to become glorified war sacrifices have?”
Peter looks at him incredulously, “I understand your circumstances, but surely you can’t believe this place only produces war spoils!”
Could have had me fooled, Remus thinks to himself, annoyed, as Peter continues.
“It’s a prestigious institute to produce the strongest warriors. The Blacks, they’ve been blessed since the beginning of time!” Peter waves his hands around excitedly, before lowering his voice and pointing at Sirius, “They’re different. They have the blood of Gods and Goddesses flowing through them. The Star Goddess had–”
“I don’t really care, Peter,” Remus breathes out, unwilling to hear anymore of Sirius’ golden lineage. It makes sense. Of course Sirius is some sort of demigod, no wonder he’s so… “So that’s why everyone sends their sons here to train?”
“You need to catch up on your history,” Peter replies, his brows creasing, “What Kingdom are you from again? Everyone and their mothers know about Asteros.”
Remus spent the better part of his years with his head down and learning everything he can about his own Kingdom to get a sliver of his father’s approval. It seems rather pathetic, but the one time he didn’t, he killed someone.
Forcing those thoughts away, Remus shrugs, “Not me.”
“Not you,” Peter concedes.
After they arrive in their dorm, James marches over to the beds across from Remus and Peter’s, lying down on the bottom bunk with a loud sigh. Sirius climbs up towards the top, and Remus has to fight not to roll his eyes. Of course he takes the top one. He doesn’t even understand why that makes sense.
“Right, so, I think we should cut through the awkwardness!” James says as Remus settles in his own bed. Peter lets out a groan and even Sirius rolls his eyes, “What! Remus clearly feels out of place and we should be a little more welcoming!”
“I don’t really care,” Remus says dryly. His previous exhaustion because of training is coming back and he wants nothing more than to curl up with his mother’s lyre and pity himself to sleep again. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I have no interest in being a problem if you all leave me alone.”
“Ah, joy,” Sirius drawls, “Perhaps we should just leave you to your own devices then, Lupin. Come on, James. It’s clear this one isn’t worth your time, either. Maybe save it for the next one?”
The words seep under Remus’ skin, and he glares over at the prince, “It makes sense there has to be a next one if this is how pleasant you are.” Every time he tells himself to ignore Sirius’ all-consuming presence, the bastard just has to push.
James winces, sitting up a little, “Sirius–”
“Oh, touchy, are we?” Sirius grins, but it’s cruel at the edges and he’s still so beautiful when he’s being mean, “Go on then, Lupin. Why are you any different than the others? What are you looking for? Glory? Status? Or– hold on, I’ve heard you’ve been sent here as punishment. So is it revenge?”
“I’m looking to be left alone,” Remus grits out. He takes a few calming breaths and turns to lie on his side, but Sirius’ next words make him freeze.
“Are those scars a result of that?”
Peter poorly conceals a gasp and James curses under his breath, “You can’t just say that, Sirius–!”
But Remus sits up and lifts his chin. The blood under his skin burns hotter, anger thrumming along his veins, and his vision flashes between blood, glassy eyes, sand and Sirius. He laughs humorlessly, “Yeah, Black. I wanted to be left alone, and a self-obsessed, stuck-up noble boy just kept pestering me. Do you know what I did?”
Sirius’s eyes flicker with something akin to hesitation. He studies Remus for a moment and Remus grins under the scrutiny. You’re looking at me, he thinks madly, can you stand the thought of doing so after learning of the abhorrent thing I’ve done?
“I killed him,” Remus whispers, but the words nearly echo in the dead silent space.
James’ eyes grow wide beneath his glasses. Peter lets out another gasp. All Remus focuses on is Sirius. How his expression doesn't change. If anything, it only grows curious. Interested.
Sirius doesn’t look away, and it rattles Remus so deeply he turns his back on them and buries himself under the pillow and blankets with a grunted, “Leave me alone.”
That night Remus dreams of a head splitting open, of sand being stained red, of being back in that room and angry, glowing eyes. When Remus startles awake, he exhales shakily, as quietly as he can to not disturb his sleeping dorm mates. Through blurry eyes he glances out the window and catches sight of the moon.
It sickens Remus to his core, and he doesn’t fall asleep again for the rest of the night.
-------------
[…it was a troubled night for Remus Lupin. But looking upon the wretched moon— the celestial body forever tainted for him— and pleading for even a moment’s rest was laughable to divinity. Who was he but a troubled, exiled prince whose destiny was doused with blood?
He was entirely unremarkable. His life meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, and he was to be forgotten like many others.
You may be wondering, my friend, why was he not? That, indeed, is the question.
Over—]