Princes of the People

Princes of the People

"What of the soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?"

-- Robert Browning

Remus had never believed in god save when his mouth was pressed up again Sirius'. He had never believed in a higher power unless strong hands were running roughly up and down his back and Sirius' mouth closed warm and wet and holy over his cock. In the in-betweens, the long hallways of the school, the nights spent restless in too-distant beds, the classes where he could FEEL Sirius' presence flowing just beneath his skin; in all of this he remembered. Then he remembered the cold and the curse and that no loving god could allow the things the papers proclaimed in broad headlines that turned Peter's round face green with horror.

But he had forgotten again so quickly when skin touched skin and voices spoke in moans and sighs. His hands along the long length of Sirius' thighs had been praises sung to god. His tongue deep inside a firewhiskey flavored mouth was glorious thanks. There could be no accident of birth, no mindless Darwinian climb of evolution that could have created the stomach that sucked in at his touch. No unseen and uncaring force that set the color of the eyes that stared up at him, mischief and lust glinting in them like lights on a Christmas tree. Only a god with the soul of a loving artist could have sculpted the look on Sirius' face as he came, hot and fierce and loud, into Remus' mouth.

Remus had always measured his words like careful dashes of powder in a potion. His voice was a lie, his honesty a façade. When he had gasped Sirius' name, when their voices twined around words they never meant or believed in save for these tiny slivers of time. "Oh God, yes, please, beautiful. God . . . please. . . my god." His careful voice sang a hymn of praise and sex and want. And in those moments, he believed that it was heard. God created man in his image. God created Sirius, and as he worshipped one, he had believed in the other.

Atop a familiar house in a place as picturesque as the storybook he'd bought for Harry's first birthday, a skull floated. Broad and obscene, unwelcome, beyond belief. Behind him he heard the whispers, and Sirius' name. It sounded like blasphemy, a vile curse spat from their lips.

If he could believe in god without Sirius beside him, befuddling his senses and hazing his clear mind into a welcome fog, he would wonder if they were all being punished for the arrogance of a youth that believed they were always right.

The voice beside him was unexpected, but it didn't startle him. There wasn't enough left alive in him to startle. Peter's round face was oddly blank, his fingers nervously digging at his thigh. "How could he do this, Moony?" Remus didn't look at him. The question he heard was different than what was said, he thought. Peter asked how Sirius could do this - what he meant to ask was how Remus hadn't known.

"I-I'll get him for this. He'll p-pay, f-for J-James, and Lily, and little Harry."

"Harry's alive. Dumbledore has him taken care of." Remus wondered at the oddly rehearsed sound of Peter's speech, and the flatness of his own voice. He wondered at the harsh sound of wind through the still-smoldering fires of James' home. Perhaps things just sounded different when your life became a lie, and your past became meaningless.

"H-Harry's alive?" Peter's eyes widened. "I didn't . . . I s-should make sure he's been taken care of. Poor Harry." Peter rushed away and Remus didn't see, because he ran away from the Dark Mark, and Remus couldn't look away.

He heard a heavy limp beside him and from the corner of his eye he could see the craggy, scarred face of Alastor Moody. The older man surveyed the scene with the sadness of one who had seen things like this before, and would see it again. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it? 'Bout how things go. 'Bout how it happens and why."

Remus shook his head. "I don't think there is a why. It just is. I don't believe in a bigger picture anymore." So softly he didn't know if it could be heard outside his own head he added. "I don't believe in anything anymore."

He felt Moody looking at him, magical eye seeing more than it should. "Everyone believes in something, boy. Even when they think they don't." He laid a heavy hand on Remus' shoulder, and Remus bit back the urge to snarl and cast it off, to howl and bite and rage in a wholly human way that had nothing to do with the wolf in his veins. "I'm sorry, Remus."

Above the burning house the Dark Mark seemed to watch him, smiling with its dead grin. It reigned over the sky around it, terrible and awesome. All around him the people who gathered to mourn at the grim wake averted their eyes and trembled. Remus watched. It was as false as anything else, this omen. And he didn't believe in anything save the betrayal that went with it. "So am I."

*****

Pss.47

[1] O clap your hands, all ye people; shout unto God with the voice of triumph.
[2] For the LORD most high is terrible; he is a great King over all the earth.
[3] He shall subdue the people under us, and the nations under our feet.
[4] He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom he loved. Selah.
[5] God is gone up with a shout, the LORD with the sound of a trumpet.
[6] Sing praises to God, sing praises: sing praises unto our King, sing praises.
[7] For God is the King of all the earth: sing ye praises with understanding.
[8] God reigneth over the heathen: God sitteth upon the throne of his holiness.
[9] The princes of the people are gathered together, even the people of the God of Abraham: for the shields of the earth belong unto God: he is greatly exalted.