Chapter Text
Their house was small, quaint, with nothing more than what they needed, but somehow it was enough for Elena.
Rumi wouldn’t have been satisfied. Rumi had seen themself as a god. Had been so close to godhood. Would have taken it, if Thanatos’ sword hadn’t taken Peter’s life first.
Peter’s death had changed everything.
Kind, sweet Peter, the epitome of humanity and hope in a world where those traits were dangerous. And yet he had taken every blow, put up with Exandroth in his head, and as he had died, did not blame his friend who had swung the sword, or the god who had forced Thantos’ hand, but had apologised. The words he had spoke while dying were still stuck in Elena’s head.
“I’m sorry. What did I do? Why?”
With the power to perform a miracle in their hand, Rumi had done the only thing that had made sense. They had given it to Peter, to bring him back to life. And given the chance to perform his own miracle, Peter had simply created a copy of his pet to keep Thanatos company in his eternal guardpost.
Peter was not perfect. That was not the word for Peter. Rumi had been perfect. Rumi had been flawless, eternally unmarked by the wounds inflicted upon them, able to hide imperfections due to their changeling nature.
Peter was good. Peter was gentle. Peter was flawed. But Peter was human, and that was what had mattered.
When he had used his witchsight on the changeling, seen through Rumi and become the first person to see the real them, with their pale skin and stringy hair and tattered nightgown, they had realised that godhood was not what they needed. Rumi was not who they needed to be. Perfection was not necessary. It had taken a while to figure out their new identity, and they had stayed under the guise of Rumi while they had worked it out, and while they had slain their final god. But with Zuen turned to stone and Thanatos taking his place as the god’s guard, the godslayers had become unnecessary, their purpose fulfilled.
There was no need for perfect Rumi, and so the changeling had taken their mother’s name, Elena, and had created a new identity, one built on love and honesty instead of ambition and perfection. Rumi had loved Peter more than anything, and Peter had loved Rumi, but using the mask they had donned to kill the gods did not feel right for a life of simplicity and domesticity.
Adjusting had been difficult. They had spent a year in pursuit of godhood and now they simply wanted peace. Not world peace. The kind of peace that came with waking up every day next to a husband who loved them, in a home just big enough for the two of them and their pets. The kind of peace that came from long walks in the woodlands by the house, from going to the market and buying flowers for the windowsill in the kitchen, from listening to Peter talk about his rocks and watching lovingly as he painted portraits on them.
Elena had kept the first rock Peter had painted of her. It meant more to her than Peter could ever know. Seeing herself in the mirror every morning had been challenging at first, seeing the scars that showed her weaknesses, the flat white hair, the pale grey skin, the frail frame of their body. They had itched to become someone else, someone new, someone better. But three days after moving into the house, Peter had given Elena a rock with her face painted on it. It was beautiful.
Elena knew that Peter had spent months on his paintings in the past, painting the same thing over and over until it was perfect. But Elena had seen him working on that rock since he had first seen the real them. Knew it was the same one. That he had painted her exactly once, and decided it was perfect. Elena had looked at it, listened to Peter talk through his process, his thoughts on the changeling’s true form, and through it was hard, she had been able to see what Peter had. Silver hair and shining eyes, with scars that were not signs of weakness, but of resilience, of continuing despite being hurt. The painting clearly had a lot of love in it, and whenever Elena was struggling, she looked at the rock and remembered that she was enough for Peter, and that that was enough for her.
There were no more gods to slay. No more blights to defeat. No more visions to follow.
There was nothing but the cottage, small and quaint and just enough, and Peter, kind and imperfect, and human, and everything Elena needed.
For the first time in a long time, the changeling felt truly satisfied.