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The Sudden Light and the Trees, Part 8
Remus awoke on the cold stone floor by his cot. The garden was gone. The falling sky was gone. His body, far from curled fetal, was a haphazard sprawl of limbs, and he was shaking. Sirius was calling to him, but when Remus opened his eyes all he could see were Sirius’s twisted, rooted feet by the base of the pot-belly stove, the strange transition from dirt to shade.
Sirius sounded worried.
After taking a moment to accept that he hadn’t died, or been crushed, Remus flexed his fingers on the stone and turned his head to the side, rolling his body ever so slowly over a palm and then pushing himself up. It took a lot to stand. His body was still in tremors, and a stabbing pain erupted in his temples when he stood straight. The sensation made him stumble, and as Sirius continued to speak, quicker now, terser, Remus frowned, raising a slackened hand for him to be silent. But Sirius wasn’t, though Remus still couldn’t register the words. Remus's ears were mute with the pounding of his own heart.
Remus stumbled further and fell, collapsing at an awkward angle on the bed blankets. The shaking wouldn’t abate. With trembling, sluggish fingers he tugged at the covers and drew them painstakingly over him. His body felt grit along the bedsheets, the lingering garden dirt, but he was too cold to care. He drew the blankets tight, up to his chin, and shut his eyes again. He focused on his breathing. His fingertips and toes were numb. His heart raced. And now he could hear Sirius’s plea.
“Moony, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried. It took a while. I’ve never done this before, and I didn’t know what to do. You’ve got to believe me. Moony?”
Remus sighed, rolling over in the bed. A wave of drowsiness hit him. He was too old for this, too tired. Better to just wait it out and hope for the best. No more games. No more adventures. His joints ached. His hands were shaking. How could he ever have thought himself up to this task? Again came the image in his mind of the collapsing sky, the oppressive sheet of snow, and he furrowed his brow to fight it off.
Sirius was still pleading - Moony, I’m so sorry a litany in death that was scarce heard in life. But Remus had forgiven that years ago. Hadn’t he? His face pressed to the pillow, his breathing still heavy and a lump in his throat, he tried to recall. The effort only made him drowsier.
Memory will be the death of me, he thought at last, giving up. His hands curled tight to the mattress, the blankets. Sleep. Sleep and no more bad dreams. No more memories gone astray. He’d deal with them in death if he had to, but now, no. Now he hadn’t the strength.
“I’m so sorry. Moony, Moony are you well? Moony, please listen to me. Please say something.”
On and on Sirius went, like a record let run after the music’s end: the heavy scratching and the small, muffled sounds of finality. Remus had brought no records with him, no record player, when he escaped the city. The thought of it now brought a twinge of regret to his chest. What a comfort it would be at present, the low and easy lilt of some long dead singer, the heavy, discordant tones of a jazz band over Northumberland countryside. It had been ages since he'd even last noticed his music was gone.
No, that wasn’t true. Remus frowned, eyes still shut. No, he’d read of it. Where had he read of it? It had been within the year. What had he been reading? He made a catalogue of his books in his head. It wasn’t poetry; he cut out those anthologies. It wasn’t from the wizarding volumes, no, not from Levi, Fortesque, Trimble, or Spore. He thought of his muggle books, the few and precious, the well-worn. Yes, he remembered now - Tolstoy, Levin lost and confused at the fantasia of King Lear. He imagined his body relaxing a bit at the thought, though his limbs still shook, stiff and heavy from the dream-cold. How tiring it had been for him to read and struggle to recall some similar melodies; how draining the thought that he’d put all music behind him.
Would he carry no such memories with him to the grave?
Remus opened his eyes. Sirius was still apologizing, a helpless, frustrated tone to his voice. Sirius was not meant to feel so guilty; in life there had been only recklessness to a fault. Apologies now, apologies without end… Remus felt sick at the thought, the wrongs of life played out ad infinitum in death, finding purchase in every new circumstance, every new mistake, or just in every lull. No, Remus couldn’t afford to be idle, to let himself slip away to such a guilt, not when his would be this and more. His body ached with the reclusiveness of age but he rolled to his side, to look at the ghost by his stove.
“Sirius.” Remus’s voice was hoarser than he’d thought, throat still clenched from his initial shock, but it served its purpose. Sirius heard and went still, but not silent.
“Oh, hell, Moony. You all right? I’m so sorry. Merlin, I’m sorry. I tried. I really tried to pull you out faster.”
“Sirius,” Remus said again, wetting his lips. “Be quiet.”
His eyes still dark with frustration, with anxiety, Sirius complied. Remus exhaled; his breath against the pillow came back to him, raw with the morning, pungent. Remus found he didn't care.
“Sirius,” he continued, finding comfort in the repetition, “It’s all right. I forgive you. I’m still alive. You’re still here. It’s all right.”
Sirius didn’t look entirely convinced, but his posture relaxed, the agitation falling away. Remus couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. With no body to mask sentiment, Sirius’s manner, his actions and his speech, were at the mercy of emotion, that vicious echo that turned all things tinny and mean in time. And there had been so much time already.
Remus smiled, propping his head in an arm, peering at Sirius over the crook of his elbow.
“I forgive you,” he said again. The words were glorious.