so this is my first ever fic inspired by a song, and of course it had to be Golden Brown by The Stranglers — it’s been haunting me like a ghost with a lute for weeks.
I had no plot, no structure, just a cursed itch in my brain that said medieval tower, golden-eyed scribe, knight with memory problems
don’t ask me how we got here. all I know is I’m emotionally ruined and you might be too. enjoy ✨
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Golden brown, texture like sun.
The forest was not marked on the map.
Sir Sirius Black, Knight of the Western Banner, had been following the King's decree — a winding path carved through mountains and moor, meant to lead him to a beast terrorizing a southern village. But somewhere between the foothills and the fens, the road vanished.
The trees thickened. The wind hushed. His horse refused to follow.
And in the deepest part of the forest, where the light turned gold without warmth, he saw it:
A tower.
Stone, vine-wrapped, tall as ruin.
No path led to it. No birds sang near it.
It should not have existed.
And yet — from the highest window — he saw someone looking back.
Golden brown, finer temptress.
The boy — man? wraith? — in the tower was not beautiful in the way of courtly portraits. His features were too sharp, his frame too slight. But his eyes were golden, unearthly. His voice like autumn wind against a closed window. His hands stained with ink.
"Are you real?" Sirius asked.
"That depends," the man replied. "Are you?"
Sirius had climbed the tower. Found a hidden stair beneath overgrown stone. And now he stood in a round room of books and candles and yellowing scrolls. No doors. No exits. Only the window, and the man.
"My name is Remus," he said, watching Sirius with something like disbelief. "You're the first soul I've seen in seven years."
Through the ages, he's heading west.
Remus was a royal scribe, long ago. Cursed, he said, by a jealous Lord or a grieving Seer — the stories blurred over time. He had transcribed too many spells, too many secrets. He had known too much. And so they locked him in a tower to keep the kingdom safe — or to keep him from it.
"The magic is old," Remus said one night, handing Sirius a cup of wine. "It keeps me alive. It doesn’t let me leave."
"Does it keep people out?"
"It’s supposed to." A long pause. A small smile. "But you’re rather persistent."
Sirius stayed one night. Then two. Then five.
He learned Remus spoke five languages. Knew the names of herbs by scent. Could write sonnets without looking at the parchment.
He laughed like he’d forgotten how. He blushed like he hated to.
He looked at Sirius like it hurt to hope.
Golden brown, texture like sun.
The forest did not like Sirius.
It closed in when he left the tower. Turned his path to mist. Whistled threats through the trees. His horse bolted. His armor rusted faster than it should.
But each time, he found his way back.
Back to candlelight.
To Remus curled near the fire, scribbling forgotten histories.
To honeyed tea and soft music and the way Remus touched his shoulder like he didn’t believe it was real.
"You should leave," Remus whispered once, fingers lingering on Sirius's jaw. "Before it changes you too."
Sirius didn’t answer.
Just leaned forward and kissed him.
Never a frown with golden brown.
They became something sacred.
Quiet smiles. Shared breath. A stolen life between the world and the woods.
Remus would read aloud in the mornings. Sirius would fix broken steps and bring wildflowers and rest his head in Remus’s lap as the sun set.
"I used to dream of rescue," Remus said once, brushing Sirius’s hair back. "Now I dream of you."
Sirius kissed the ink off his fingers. "Then let me rescue you."
"You can’t break the spell."
"Maybe not." Sirius stood. Held out his hand. "But you can walk out if someone asks you to."
Remus stared at him — like he’d just remembered what wanting felt like.
Golden brown, lays me down…
The forest did not scream when they stepped through it.
It didn’t claw at them or collapse in fury.
It simply watched.
Remus walked barefoot, blinking at the sky like it was a memory. Sirius walked beside him, sword at his hip, hand always outstretched.
When they reached the edge of the woods, something pulled. Like breath being held. Like a moment deciding what kind of story it wanted to become.
And the forest whispered: He will forget you.
Sirius turned sharply. "What did you say?"
But Remus was already swaying, knees buckling, eyes wide in terror.
Every time, just like the last.
There are stories now, in villages near the forest.
They say a knight rides its edge every full moon, dark-haired and wild-eyed. He never enters. Just waits. Looks toward the trees like they owe him something.
They say the tower is still there. But no one sees it twice.
They say sometimes — if the light is just right — you can hear a voice on the wind, reading poetry in a language you don’t understand.
Some say the knight is mad. Others say he’s cursed. A few whisper that he fell in love with a ghost.
But none of them know what the knight dreams of:
A hand reaching through mist.
Golden eyes.
A kiss by candlelight.
A promise whispered in a tower: Come back. I am not done with you.
Golden brown… never a frown… with golden brown.
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