Septimus
The great hall of the palace seemed colder than usual, the torches along the walls casting long shadows that made the marble gleam like ice. Emperor Lyall Lupin stood at the head of the room, his crimson robes heavy across his broad shoulders. He wasn’t seated today, as he often was when addressing matters of state. No, today, he paced—slow, deliberate steps that only underscored the weight of his words.
“You’re avoiding the training grounds,” Lyall said without preamble, his voice cutting through the silence like the crack of a whip.
Remus, standing near the base of the dais, didn’t flinch, though the accusation struck a nerve. “I’ve been unwell,” he said, keeping his tone even.
“Unwell,” Lyall repeated, turning to face him. His gray eyes were sharp, unyielding, and filled with disdain. “You’re always unwell. Always an excuse, always a reason to shirk what’s expected of you.”
“It’s not an excuse,” Remus said tightly.
“It’s not?” Lyall’s brows arched, mockingly. “Then tell me, Remus, how will you inspire strength in others if you cannot even muster it in yourself? You are the son of an emperor, yet you walk like a peasant with a lame dog’s gait. You avoid the sword as if it will break you. Tell me, how will Rome see you as anything but weak?”
Remus straightened his posture, though the ache in his leg screamed in protest. “Strength isn’t just in the sword, Father. It’s in the mind, the will. Rome is more than its legions, more than its arena.”
Lyall’s laugh was short and bitter, echoing in the vast chamber. “Spoken like a man who has never held a sword in his life. Spoken like a man who has never led soldiers into battle, or bled for the empire he claims to love.”
“I’ve bled,” Remus snapped, his voice rising before he could stop himself. “Every day I live with pain, with this—this body that fights me at every step. You think I don’t know what it means to struggle? To feel weak?”
“Struggle?” Lyall’s voice thundered, his anger barely contained. He strode forward, descending the dais until he stood mere feet from his son. “Struggle is a soldier fighting with a spear in his chest. Struggle is a gladiator who dies in the sand for the glory of Rome. You—” He gestured at Remus with a sharp, dismissive wave. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Remus swallowed hard, but he didn’t break eye contact. “Strength isn’t just in how much blood you can spill, or how many men you can kill,” he said quietly. “It’s in compassion, in wisdom. In leading with more than fear.”
Lyall’s face twisted in disdain. “Compassion,” he sneered. “Wisdom. Do you think the Senate will bow to your compassion? Do you think the armies of Rome will follow a man who speaks of kindness instead of victory?”
“They won’t follow cruelty forever, either,” Remus shot back, his voice firmer now. Underneath his tunic, his heart pounded so strongly in his chest, he was certain the guards across the room could feel it vibrate. “You rule with fear, Father, but fear only lasts as long as you’re the strongest man in the room. What happens when you’re not?”
For a moment, Lyall said nothing. The silence was heavy, oppressive, the air between them charged with tension. Then, slowly, he stepped even closer, towering over his son. His eyes were burning with hatred, Remus could feel it crawl across his skin.
“When I am gone,” Lyall said, his voice low and dangerous, “Rome will need a leader who can command respect. Not a dreamer. Not a philosopher. A man who is willing to do whatever it takes to hold power. If you cannot be that man, Remus, then you have no place on the throne.”
“I don’t want your throne,” Remus said bitterly.
Lyall’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a choice. You are my only son, my wife is dead. It is your duty and you will pursue it, one way or another.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to yield. Then Lyall stepped back, turning away with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Get out of my sight,” he said coldly. “And find your strength, wherever it is hiding. Because if you don’t, you won’t just fail yourself. You’ll fail Rome. And I won’t have a son of mine remembered as the empire’s greatest disappointment.”
Remus didn’t reply. He simply turned and walked out of the hall, his leg trembling beneath him. His father’s words would stay in his mind, heavy and unforgiving, for years to come. Haunting him in his darkest moments, taunting him.
But somehow his father was right. Remus wouldn’t lead Rome to greatness, with fear nor compassion. He wouldn’t lead Rome at all.
Lily‘s words echoed in his head. Do you ever think about leaving? … Rome is my duty… But is it your life?
-—
“You gotta be kidding me. James, look who it is.”
James Potter appeared out of the darkness, his hazel eyes widening when he saw who was standing in front of their cell.
“The Prince of Rome. What an honor to have such high visit, though unexpected. The hour is quiet late.”
Rolling his eyes, Remus leaned in closer to the cell. “Shut up, both of you. The guards will hear us, I had to sneak in. I-”
“A rebel,” Sirius interrupted him. ”Not what I expected.”
His sharp, blue eyes seemed to burn into Remus’ soul and it distracted him. He had practiced his speech so many times in his head, going over all the things he needed to say, and now he was coming up blank, because the fucking Gladiator legend was staring at him.
“Uh yeah, I mean I wouldn’t say rebel. Usually I’m in bed after dinner. Sounds boring, but you know, I like to read in bed. Anyway, that’s not the point..” Remus stuttered, suddenly a lot more nervous than when he climbed out of his bedroom chamber and landed in the rose bushes.
James stared at him expectantly. Sirius looked like as if he was already bored with this conversation
“So um.. when my father said he’ll give you the wooden sword, he obviously lied. I‘m pretty sure.. but I will do it!”
James blinked, confused. “Do what?”
“Give you freedom. I will break you out.”
Remus gave them a big smile. It wasn’t returned.
“Look, my prince”, Sirius said. “I don’t Know which Lady from what kingdom is giving you troubles right now, but it’s pretty dangerous for the Prince of Rome to wander Romes‘ streets drunk and at night.”
“I’m not drunk!” Remus almost shouted, before remembering where he was.
“Really?” James looked as unconvinced as Sirius. “Proof it.”
“No I‘m obviously not-,” Remus started, but Sirius and James already stepped back, no longer interested. “Okay, fine. Here I’ll walk in a straight line. See? Wouldn’t be able to do that if I were drunk.”
Sirius didn’t look convinced. “Do a somersault.”
Remus threw his hands in the air, agitated. “No. Listen to me, I’m not drunk and I will get you out. If you take me with you.”