Chapter Text
Rumi had never expected fighting blights and slaying gods to be easy.
They had always understood that it would be a difficult and perilous journey, and the visions had showed them all the strife they would face. But the visions couldn’t show him pain. The visions couldn’t show them the lasting fatigue that would come day after day, the ache that ate away at their spirit. They couldn’t actually feel in the visions, only see.
No one could be prepared for the wrath of a god, let alone that of many. Years of any and every kind of pain they had felt before could never be comparable to what this was. The indescribable agony of a god's anger, their desperation.
They weren’t prepared for this amount of pain.
Rumi’s eyes darted around the small makeshift camp. Peter was curled up by the fire, asleep, with his wounds already having been cared for by Rumi. He looked so blessedly relaxed there, Exadroth not screaming and tearing open his fragile skin as he normally was. The orange glow from the flames danced across his sleeping form, a peaceful, warm, radiance; not harsh and searing like Exandroth’s.
Rumi watched the way his chest slowly rose and fell.
Near Peter was a smooth, half painted rock, one he had been working on just moments before falling asleep. It was a hobby he had kept up, even despite their situation. Rumi wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to be yet, it still being just colorful shapes and smears. Maybe tomorrow he would finish it. They found it rather endearing.
Knowing Peter was alright and not hurting was almost enough for them to continue pretending that they too were completely fine, so as not to ruin this moment. Almost.
Nearby loomed Thanatos, still alert and cautious, never once dropping his menacing demeanor. Lizard was perched on his shoulder, and he would occasionally raise up a metallic hand and stroke the reptile, an unexpected gentleness. His expression as always was hard to read, but he seemed almost… content, Rumi thought. They couldn’t really tell, but he didn’t appear mad and he made a noise akin to humming.
Rumi had watched as he did what she assumed to be routine repairs, healing and fixing his mechanical body. If he felt any kind of pain, Thanatos never showed it.
Neither did Rumi. Rumi was meant to be perfection, free of any flaws. He was meant to be godlike. Heavenly. Powerful. Someone so truly divine shouldn’t be felled by mortal wounds.
And yet.
How should the masses look up to someone that is just as painfully human as they?
So instead they hid their injuries behind the mask that was Rumi. Every slash at their skin, every bruise, every cut, they would will their form to shift ever so slightly, in a flash covering the mess that decorated their ashy skin, long before giving anyone the chance to even realize that they had been wounded. And that was only the half of it, acting made it truly believable. They would raise their head high, standing strong, proud, perfect.
It gave the illusion that they were fine, in good health and shape.
Rumi hated to admit to himself that he very much wasn’t.
They stood up- and gods even that hurt- brushed off their pants, and looked over to Thanatos. They cleared their throat. “I’m going off on a little walk, Thanatos. I’ll be back soon.” Flash of gleaming teeth. Calm and cool, everything about them is fine, he’s glowing, he’s perfect.
Thanatos seemed to scowl, the glow of his eyes narrowing as he tilted his helm forward slightly. “Do not think you can escape your watch. Be back for it,” he huffed.
“Will do, Thanny, will do.”
Rumi smiled, and as Rumi would do, they sauntered, because they were just going on a walk. Rumi was going on a walk, a leisurely stroll, so they would have no reason to limp. They shot one last look at Peter, who was peacefully unaware, before they left the camp behind them.
He didn’t notice how the thin line of scar tissue on the back of Peter’s neck split open to reveal a single, dark eye. It glared at them as they walked away.
Rumi walked for some time, not really thinking about how long they walked, to where they intended to go, just that they needed to walk away. They finally faltered when they found a shallow, slow-moving, stream. “Excellent,” they murmured.
They gazed into it, their iridescent horns illuminating the water, bright enough even in the suffocating darkness. He saw the reflection looking back at him. A fair, androgynous face, with sharp features and a soft grin on their lips. Opalescent hair framed their face and was crowned by the asymmetrical horns that sparkled like crystal. A picturesque character, thoughtfully created and planned, made to be divine.
Reflected back was Rumi. Perfect, flawless, Rumi.
But it wasn’t actually them in the reflection.
They allowed their concentration on this image drop. They felt their skin begin to shift, to move and to change. They paled, familiar with the shrinking and cracking of bones as their body warped to fit a smaller frame. Every thread and bit of flesh tying him together came undone. Their vision swam, the blood still in their veins seeming to boil, and they choked down a weak cry.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it ended, and the mask was gone. It was almost as if Rumi had never even existed. Just the changeling remained in their place, plain and simple.
The pain felt fresh again, overwhelming them in a sudden wave that rolled through their body, and she gasped. The changeling dropped to the ground, gritting their teeth. Everything, their head, limbs, skin, gut, ached horribly, being accompanied by a deep and painful throb.
He felt sticky and cold, wounds only half healed, covered in a coagulated, bloody mess- of which he wasn’t even quite sure if it was all his own. The gore on his hands and splattered across his face probably weren’t, no cuts being apparent there. The mess had been inevitable, even when preferring a clean kill.
Fresh, warm blood dripped down their shoulder from a now reopened gash. That was definitely his.
Carefully, they ran their hands across their battered skin, checking for what hurt and what was an open wounds. They were all too familiar with this routine. Nothing felt too wrong, and certainly nothing was out of place and dislocated. Just regular old injuries that hurt way more than they probably should. He reeked of iron, the scent of it overwhelming, even nauseating.
They dipped their hand in the icy water, watching as a ribbon of red trailed away from them until it disappeared in the lazy current. The skin there was shredded and scrapped raw. Gently, she began scrubbing the mess from her skin, wincing at the cold, stinging contact.
The changeling pulled out an old roll of bandages that they had stowed in the pocket of their ratty dress, beginning to wind it over anything that still bled. Usually this wouldn’t even be necessary, a wave of their hand and everything would stitch itself back together, healed and new. Not perfect, scarring over his own skin, but Rumi bore none of those imperfections.
Not perfect, but usually their magic was enough to heal.
But the fight of that day had drained everything out of them, so much so that she couldn’t find any of that magic left to even fix a paper cut if she had wanted to. He had used that last bit of magic to heal Peter, even though he was in agony himself. He would’ve felt selfish had he chosen himself over Peter’s well being, even though Peter would have never known. At least that gave her peace of mind, knowing that Peter was fine.
That decision is what led to this, a pretend god curled by a river and pathetically cleaning up their nasty wounds, lest they get infected. Rumi would never be this vulnerable, never be this weak.
Rumi would never admit to this kind of defeat, a true god would never.
They glared at their reflection, a hollow, pasty face, scrunched up in distaste.
They were just the blank canvas that Rumi was so beautifully painted upon. They were nothing without their masks. They were the canvas and this, the cleaning, the wrapping of their injuries, was the primer- preparing and making the canvas better for the painting.
They would become perfection. They would become divine, god-like Rumi.
After what felt like an eternity, he had covered everything he had deemed absolutely necessary. There, they thought, at least I won’t bleed out for now. Stiffly, they rose from the bank and awkwardly hobbled over to an old twisted tree nearby. She leaned against the tree, feeling the rough bark dig into her back, and slid down to the ground, sighing. Took a breather.
The bone deep ache and throbbing pain still existed, only slightly muted, rolling barely beneath the surface so that it was just bearable now.
They were so tired, they were almost always tired now, exhaustion pulling down at their bones. He just wanted to close his heavy eyes for a bit, rest for a couple of minutes. They had time before Rumi’s watch, and maybe by then they would have enough energy to actually heal some of their wounds.
The world did not need Rumiracle at this very moment. It did not require perfection right now. They could just exist like this for a little bit. They could exist as nothing at all. Even if only for a few minutes so they could recover. She let her head droop.
The changeling, too exhausted to fight it, fell asleep by the river.