"Le Nom du Loupe"
Part 1/1
Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.
Date: April 2004
Summary: Remus remembers the origin of his name.
Small Note: The title is really quite bizarre. It actually translates into, "The Name of the Magnifying Glass," but because it is amusing and I am insane, I want to keep it that way. Aside from that fact, it looks pretty. Please disregard my insanity with all previous efforts you have used to disregard it in the past.
The boy could remember very little about his first years in this world. He retained only mere glimpses, like shreds of an old photograph tattered and torn. These images were blurry, ephemeral in substance, and left him lingering with only a sense of doubt and a strange chill in his bones. He did not like to ponder them for too long; it did not seem productive.
He preferred to concentrate on what he knew—on what he could remember. Every morning he made it his routine, as he stood before the mirror, his reflection gaping back at him with pale indifference, to recite the information he knew. It was as if he was locking it in a steal trap in his mind, not to forget, never to forget again, who—what he was. It was his mantra; it was his solace.
He lived in Salisbury, England. He had not lived here all his life, whether it was that he had not lived in Salisbury or had not lived in England at all, he did not know. He could not place his father's slight accent and had become accustomed to it through the years, or at least what he remembered of them. He however, for all his life he was sure, had the same color hair. It was a strange tint, too much of a red-brown to be gold in the sun, but glimmering like a precious metal when hit by firelight. His father did not have this hair color; therefore he must have gotten it from his mother. He also knew that he had always had the same colored eyes. The two orbs were tawny brown on most fair-weathered days, only changing to a deep chocolate when he was emotional, or to a fiery gold when the moon was near. His father did not have this eye coloration; therefore this was another trait he had gotten from his mother.
He had not gotten many traits from his father, he presumed, since he looked nothing like the man. He lived in Salisbury; he was seven-years-old. He looked nothing like his father. He owed his looks and his curse to his mother. The only thing of permanence he could ever remember getting from his father, since even though the man did give him many books to read those were ingested hurriedly before hungrily searching out the next, was his name. He could remember, if he tightly shut his hazel eyes, gold swirls no longer reflecting the dim light, and thought. He could remember.
His father was carrying him in his arms. They were coming up the stairs of a new house; this house. It smelled of old wood and rot and soil. It was not new, though that was what his father had said. A new house and a new life for them, together; he promised they would be happy. The boy didn't feel happy in his father's arm, walking up the creaky steps. He felt tired and sore and the wound on his left forearm was hurting him again. Blood was beginning to leak through the crisp, white bandages. His father shushed him as he started to whimper like a pup.
They came to the top of the stairs and entered the first room on the right, always the right. The boy remembered this distinctly. His father set him on the bed, letting his small, lithe body flow gently out of his arms and unto the patchwork quilt that covered a lumpy mattress. The boy had frowned and rubbed a small fist over his eyes. He told his father he was tired, to which his father responded like he always did,
"Shh. Sleep will come soon."
The boy had then asked his father a question, which had caused his father's face to pale more then the son's already sickly pale flesh. "Where is Mother?"
His father had sat on the bed next to him, making the mattress sag. He ran his calloused fingers through the coppery-blond mop of hair that was so unlike his own and stared into the already changing eyes, gold streaking across deep brown, that seemed to have no relation to his soft green ones. He murmured loving reassurances to the child, stroking his forehead with his large hand. He told the boy that his mother had gone away for now.
The boy asked another question. "When will I see her again?"
The man stared at him, eyes delicate in their gaze. He whispered the answer. "You will not see her again, my son." He placed a tender kiss on the boy's forehead, but did not make any move to leave the bed. He stayed there, caressing the boy's temple.
"Where has she gone?" he asked again, his voice so small and quiet, distant to his father's ears.
"She has gone to the place where we all must eventually go," the man told his son, and then added in a mute whisper, "She has gone with the wolves."
It was evident that the boy did not understand what his father implied, being as young as he was, but the words did not sound comforting. He felt scared deep down inside, scared of his loss, scared of what it meant. He could not remember his mother and therefore did not know if he should miss her. He turned his attention to the bandage on his left arm and played with a loose end of cloth.
The father saw his son's inability to express his feelings. He was not sure if the boy could even recall her after what had happened; he was not sure if he would mourn her anyway. He offered a comforting word, a little truth that his son could take with him, knowing that his mother would always be present in his life.
"Your mother gave you something," he said soothingly, pulling the boy's fingers away from the bandage and turning his face to look at his father's; a face so unlike his own. The boy did not question but instead just stared blankly, acceptingly, for whatever was told to him. "She gave you the name Remus for her family, for her kind." He tucked a loose corner of the quilt around his son's small body. "She gave you that name because she loved you; you were her Remus. She wanted you to live a life like her." He smiled lovingly at his son and placed another soft kiss on his forehead. The boy seemed to be falling asleep. His bandage still needed to be changed and the room would be rather drafty with only the one blanket—though that was the only blanket they had—but as long as the boy slept, it would be fine.
His father stood slowly from the bed as not to disturb him. He ran his hand once more over the mop of thin, tussled hair of his son's head and sighed. "And I gave you the name John," he murmured to the darkness. "For me. I gave you that name because I loved you, and wanted you to live the life by choice, even though you were her Remus."
The memory faded out of his mind and the boy added the last to his mantra. He was Remus John Lupin and he was a werewolf. He could never forget that, no matter how hard he tried.