Roman never got along with the Dragon Witch. Sure, he had created her as a casual villain for his games when he was a child – when Thomas was a child – but he hadn’t intended things to get this bad! She was meant to be a goofy villain, one that you could wave away easily.
And instead, here he was, bleeding heavily, burns over half his face, skin peeling and one eye bleeding too much to see through. All he had was a sword, and the dragon witch was looming over him, leathery wings stretched wide and ready to throw another wave of fire at him.
He struggles to stand back up, knees aching, body screaming at him. His ankle was throbbing, possibly broken, hopefully just sprained.
He was alone. He was going to die. He was going to die alone.
“You lose, little prince,” the Dragon Witch sneers.
He stares as the fire comes towards him, but it doesn’t hit.
He hears screaming, and it isn’t him.
Instead, he sees a familiar man, wispy brown hair, green Shakespeare-esque outfit, arms outstretched, protecting him from being hit. At the expense of himself.
The rest of the battle is a blur. Roman sees his brother lying injured, and it’s all the encouragement he needs to finish things. The Dragon Witch hurt his brother, and for that she deserves to die, he’s sure of it.
Remus is lying on the ground, breathing shallow and broken. His clothing is burnt and sticking to his ravaged skin. Layers of skin no longer visible, simply charred flesh and muscle. The smell of burnt hair fills the air as Roman crouches beside his brother.
“A-Are you…you can’t die, r-right?” Roman doesn’t want to consider the possibility, however much of a dick his brother is. “Sides can’t die, right?”
He needs Logan here. He needs Logan to tell him the facts. To tell him it’s okay, because sides can’t die, and injuries aren’t permanent. Just painful.
“…Do I look like Freddy Krueger?” Remus asks, forcing the words out with a grin.
Sort of a grin. One side of the grin creases and sticks unnaturally, the wounds weeping over blackened flesh.
“…Yeah, you look horrible,” Roman tries to smile, but he can’t, “…I-I’ll get Logan…”
“No, don’t…” Remus winces, talking getting painful, “I’ll be fine…we heal, right…so stay and tell me how awesome I was…”
“Seriously?” Roman laughs slightly, “I know we’re Thomas’ ego, but now? Yes, you’re awesome, you’re my brilliant, talented brother…any better?”
Remus smirks, and slowly the wounds seem to heal. Each layer of skin grows back, inch by inch, and Roman watches how his brother winces and squirms. Healing from the Dragon Witch’s burns was always painful.
“I’ll get Logan,” Roman repeats.
“Don’t,” rasps Remus, “please…”
Roman doesn’t understand the reluctance, but he can’t ignore an injured man’s requests, right? He watches the skin slink back over the burns, charred flesh becoming soft and silvery scars. Scars.
“…We don’t get scars,” Roman says softly.
Remus doesn’t answer, groaning at the way his hair regrows, a new patch now white and grey, like salt and pepper. He grabs onto Roman’s hand and squeezes tight as the last few injuries heal. And then he sits upright, shaking and forcing himself to grin.
The grin is half coated by silver scarring, by crinkled folds of stretched skin that doesn’t move like regular skin. His eye looks sunken, a little discoloured, and yet he’s alive, and he’s smiling. Sort of.
“Like a burnt dog’s butt?”
The next time Virgil is arguing with Deceit, Roman takes the chance to look closer at what little skin Deceit has on show. Small silvery stretches of skin trickle down from his gloves. A discoloured eye that seems to be a snake’s eye, but could be a cover up.
His scales don’t quite cover silver and white skin stretching over his face.
And when Virgil adjusts his hoodie, pinched white lines are barely visible beneath his sleeves.
And Roman understands, and understands a little more of why the dark sides have always been so tight-knit and so defensive.
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