He hits the ground in a blaze of light.
Fire, golden and white, scorching the earth in a ghostly spiral. Flames, so high that he thinks it might touch the stars, might burn the heavens, all glorious heat and flickering brightness.
He’s never known pain like this, burning him, scorching him, heaven’s wrath and hell’s delight and he thinks he might die.
He didn’t know Falling would be this bad.
When he finally manages to pull himself to his feet, there’s a crater. It’s seared into the ground, deep into the rock, a shape of hands and feet and something else. The slightest imprint, a sudden breath, and he thinks it looks like wings.
His shoulders hurt, like something had been ripped out, like his bones had been melded together with blazing-hot rivets. Every breath stung, acid flowing into his lungs, like shards of shimmering glass forcing its way down his throat.
He coughs, collapses onto his knees, the shards of rock pressing into his flesh, deep indents like fingerprints. He’s left plenty of them; embedded into the mud around his feet, smeared onto the trees and all over the boulders.
With a sound he didn’t know he could make, the boy stares at his hands.
Remus, he thinks. My name was Remus.
He stands on shaking legs, blood running down it from all the gashes in his legs. Remus stares at it, ruby red, vibrant against the rock.
He remembers palaces, huge golden ones, white silk and stars like gemstones against the dark sky. Arching ceilings and floors made of glowing rock - moonstone, he thinks, hewn from the glowing surface itself, glistening white and radiant.
He doesn’t know where that thought came from. He can’t remember any more.
There’s something hollow inside of him, something strange and twisted, something dark where there used to be light. He can feel it, twisting into his heart, all jagged thorns and iron.
He doesn’t know why the thought makes him want to cry.
The word makes him bolt upright, from where he was curled on the rock. Arms wrapped around himself, biting back his whimpers, his ribs screaming with every movement.
He didn’t know where that name came from.
But he hears whispers now, faint nudges at the edge of his consciousness, voices that told him he used to be more.
He can remember wings now, huge fiery ones, golden feathers and golden skin. He can remember whips of flames, crowns of some strange white metal.
And he can remember him, dark hair and darker eyes and a smile that reminded him of the devil.
He doesn’t know why the boy kept appearing. He doesn’t know why he left.
When Remus closes his eyes, he sees stars.
Huge ones, whirling gas; purple and blue and green, ghostly auras and streaks of diamonds. Floating, in a void so dark he sees flashes of light - or wings of fire, he’s not sure.
The feeling of marble underneath his hand, cool against the burning of his skin. Another hand against his, and God, it burned, hot enough that Remus would have tried to pull away.
He didn’t though. He grasped the hand tighter, let it sear into his skin, let golden ichor flow out of his wounds.
Sirius’ eyes were silver.
Silver, like the moon, hollow orbs of burning ice. He remembers holding his gaze, with eyes of bronze, remembers winding strands of hair against his finger. He remembers Sirius, his hand against Remus’ face and it’s still fire, still flames and lava and lightning.
And fear. That gut-wrenching feeling, like watching a wave appear over the horizon. That’s what he associated with Sirius - fear. Absolute terror, that made his heart stutter, made it stop beating.
Remus bites his lip. He doesn’t remember having a heart.
Something inside of him, definitely. Twisting, ripping, burning, something other.
But not a heart. He doesn’t remember anything beating.
Remus lies curled up on his side, watching the flames.
Red and orange and yellow, the colours so foreign to Remus. He’s only ever seen gold, pure and holy and blinding, bright enough to be seared inside his head forever.
He’s always been able to hold fire, to shape it, spheres of light and spheres of wrath. He’s always loved it, pressing the flames into objects - spears and swords and arrows.
Sirius was never able to hold Fire, not like that. He’d pull light out of the sky, into whirling masses of darkness tinged with silver, would look at Remus with those eyes full of elation and Remus would have followed him anywhere.
You did, whispers the voice at the back of his head. You followed him to the ends of the earth.
Remus wishes he could stop the screaming.
What would it feel like when all he is, all he was was ripped away?
When halos of thorns replaced crowns of light, when torn flesh ceased to mend? When the golden ichor that leaked from his wounds turned to the glistening ruby of an open heart?
And he used to ponder. An eternity left to regret what he never would. An eternity left spent searching the heavens, looking for that one star who he knew was all that remained. An eternity of wandering, with no home to return to. An eternity spent knowing that the stars were the only things left in the night sky.
He knew he had fallen. He just didn’t know how far.
They were above emotions, above those lower, human tendencies. They were soldiers, warriors, meant to serve instead of question. They were weapons, holders of God’s wrath and they were holy.
And he had always wondered, watching humans, watching them fall apart into pieces, always wondered what use love was. What pushed them, to the absolute breaking point, what made them shatter apart like glass?
He’d never loved before, never known that feeling, never known anything besides anger and wrath and the barest hint of curiosity. He’d always followed what he had been told, always obeyed without questioning and sometimes he hated himself for that.
He’d never known temptation, not until he had met Sirius, all darkness instead of light, all defiance instead of obedience.
He had always been in love with Sirius. He just didn’t know what it meant.
They had chained him. One finger, one fucking finger, pointed at him as he knelt on the floor in front of that goddamn throne.
They had cut his wings, with a saw that burned through his bones. He had refused to scream, though, had refused to do anything but stare at them, at the angels who ripped his wings out,
He felt them, the crack, the snapping of what made him holy. They took his crown too, tore it to shreds and scattered it on the floor of the palace.
Sirius had watched, his beautiful face impassive. Remus had begged him, begged him before They took him, pleaded with him to keep his mouth shut.
Let it be me. I’ll take the Fall.
He wouldn’t curse both of them, wouldn’t risk the rebellion that would follow. Better to let one Fall then both, separate them so completely that they would never see each other again.
He remembers the pain, the way he had tumbled, the way ichor had streamed from his back like starlight, the way he had landed hard enough for him to scream. He never did, even as they cut him, even as they took his wings.
Heaven had never felt farther then it did now.
He used to sneak out, back when he could fly, used to trail golden wings across the earth. Used to watch the Humans, in all their mortal glory, used to watch them build their paltry fires. Watched them chant, hurling angel names at the sky, falling on the deaf ears of those who watched.
Sirius used to come with him, would fly close enough to the ground that his wings would scorch the dirt. They would fly together, in eternal silence, their hands barely touching.
Even the stars were His spies. He saw everything underneath them. The Earth was His domain.
Still, sometimes, when the stars faded and the sun started to peak above the horizon, when the mist swept in in streaks of silver and gold, sometimes they would allow their fingers to brush together.
They only ever had one kiss.
Against the fountain, hidden in the corner. His palace was eternal after all - endless hallways, endless windows, endless balconies. Sirius’ hand curled around Remus’ hip, the soft slide of their wings shielding them from view.
And time was meaningless, was useless, time meant nothing to angels but by God, Remus wished this moment could have lasted forever.
They both knew they could Fall for it. They both didn’t care.
It was still a shock when the angels came for them the next morning.
He lights the fire at his feet. Flames, so mild compared to the ones he used to wield.
He used to talk with Sirius, before he fell. Is it better to be the creator, the undertaker? The one who knows all and sees all, the one who can never escape the prophecies given. The one who is forever bound by the glittering strands of starlight. The one who is free to create, but never escape. The one who is doomed to walk amongst the stars, and never feel the sand beneath their feet.
Or is it better to be the created? The shaped, the molded. To hold a simple life. To rejoice in the comfortable poetry of an ordinary existence.
To live the life of thousands, to love that one person you never could. To have but one life to fill with the hopes of millennia, the forgotten dreams of time.
To see the magic and the destruction in the everyday things. To watch the wind beat against the cliffs, to hear the waves unleash upon the rocks. To stand on the deck of a glass-bottomed boat as the waves loom in the far-off distance.
To never make, but create. To never fly amongst the stars, but to forever walk upon the ground.
He would never know the answer now.
~
The wind whips at the flames, the heat making him wince. The flames are as high as he can manage, as close to the power he used to wield.
Remus stands there, stares up at the sky, all glittering stardust and flames, and he remembers when he used to walk amongst them. He knows that Sirius still did.
Remus takes a deep breath. He knows that he’s mortal now, that Sirius isn’t, know that he’ll die and that Sirius will live forever. He knows that they’ll never see each other again, that he’ll always be haunted by his lost glory.
But he’s been an angel, seen all the lit fires. He’s seen both Heaven and Hell, had wings of fire and a heart that beat. He’s spilt both blood and ichor, had feathers ripped from his back, bathed in the fires of Heaven until everything turned gold.
So Remus dries his tears, lets the blood that pooled in his palm drip into the flames, watch the fire turn a beautiful, ghostly gold.
And he knew that every shooting star that fell was Sirius, watching him. Every twinkling star, every spinning galaxy that appeared above his head, every flame that burned bright like molten silver and he knew that Sirius wouldn’t abandon him.
Remus stood, his back straight like wings still grew and watches the stars fall around him.
