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[A pebble isn't much for an attack, but he's been fighting Niffs long enough that he's gotten used to dodging bullets, so it's the same core concept. As the stone comes close to hitting him the blue glow returns, his form shifting to pure energy for a split second, a brilliant ephemeral light glittering in the dark in a shower of sparks. His body moves as the pebble soars through the spot he was just a moment ago, and suddenly he's standing a few inches to the left, the glowing afterimage gently fading out of existence.

A dodge isn't much of a demonstration, he knows, so he stretches a hand out and pulls from within. That same light flashes again, this time forming into a longsword that materializes out of nothing, blue at first before it too phases into reality. He lifts the sword and flings it as hard as he can towards the nearest building; the blade tears past where Pyra is standing and slams into the stone. As it flies, Noctis shifts into energy and follows it, a split-second's pace, not even the timeframe of a breath taken. In the spot where Noctis began is the blue frame of energy that echoes his posture from the moment he'd warped away, frozen in place like a phantom statue. That sharp strand of blue energy streaks past her as well, and when the sword sinks into the stone, Noct is just there now, hanging from the wall by the grip of his sword, his free hand lifting to wave at her.]

See what I mean?

[The entire demonstration takes a matter of seconds, and he's gone from one side of the plaza to the other. In the aftermath, there's a softly-electric feel lingering in the air, magic essence centralized between the transparent blue outline and himself. As the seconds pass, so too does that feeling, along with his "double".]

[ A breath escapes her when she witnesses the first display of his power, the slight shift in space itself that leaves the spot in which he had been standing empty save for his after-image. Her eyes remains onto his silhouette of bright blue light, the outline of which wavers with the lingering impulse of energy used for the dodge.

Her head snaps to him when she catches a second flash. Another image carves into the space before him. Light solidifies into metal, summoned from seemingly nothing to form a defined edge, and he swipes the resulting weapon out of the air as if selecting the sword from a rack. It's not over.

Noctis tosses the sword like a javelin, and she nearly gasps when he vanishes before her to follow through its trajectory. Blue light vectors after him like an afterthought of lightening, shimmering in the air like snow suspended in moonlight.

Pyra steps forth. In the darkness, the trailing glow appears even more brilliant, illuminating a direct path from where he had been to where he is now; it's a link between what once was to what is, from the past to the present. She lifts a hand to the trail of light just as it vanishes, catching the last bit of glimmering particles of blue-white as it fades. His summoned sword, his attack-- this power is a weaver's edge through the canvas of space itself. And it feels...

"Look.... Mythra, come look at this..."

Her lips part, lifting her gaze to see where Noctis hangs from his greatsword. ]

[ She's here. She's watching. And she's doing the same, stepping up to the trail and running her fingers through it. With the image suspended within her mindscape, the recreation only shifts slightly with her touch. It's not the same at actually feeling it, though, as Pyra does in reality.

Through Pyra, she feels a... magnificence to the energy, something that hints towards a beyond. The ephemeral afterglow of the blue-hued light is deceptive, beautiful as it may be. Soft though the light may appear, the lingering buzz of power she feels is harsh and unyielding, more refined than the strongest steel, far sharper than anything man-made, and-- heavy, dense, profound, boiling, bright-- brilliant, overwhelming.

She had likened Noctis's god-runes as if he had been touched by three different stars. With this power, she feels as if it's a star that impossibly never loses mass when it lends its light. Except unlike the chaos of the stars, all of it is refined. All of it is precise. And all of it strikes at the core of her own energy like phalanx, a legion of blades whose edges refract an august light, threatening to blind anyone who looks upon it.

That impossibility is how she knows it is divine, and it-- it feels wonderful. ]

....Noctis!

[ She takes a few steps forward. He's all the way at the other end of the plaza. Come back, she waves, her eyes alight with amazement. ]

That was... incredible. How is it--

[ She seems to start to speak again, stops, thinks, and then continues. ] ....You... you are not afraid... of using this power?

[He opens his mouth to respond, but thinks better of it; it's hard to talk while she's all the way over there. The blue of his body pulses again, and the sword disappears back into the ether, allowing him to fall towards the ground. It only lasts a second before he's called the sword back, now free of the stone, and he pitches it into the ground where he'd started, a few feet away from her, following in a streak of light to drop down into a crouch, the blade vanishing yet again now that its job is done. The light echo of his body remains suspended by the building, a street lamp in the shape of a man.

He stands up to face her, brows furrowed at her question now that he's close enough to parse it, his head tilted slightly to one side.]

I'm not. This is just- it's normal for me. Do you think I should be?

[It's a strange thing to imagine. He grew up feeling somewhat inept and ineffective, a lesser version of his family's power, worlds below the skill level of his father or even the Kingsglaive, whose powers were borrowed from Regis while he lived. He can't help but find it strange that someone would be impressed by it when they already seem so wise to the ways of magic and power in general. ]

[ --! He does it again! The warping! In a flash and a burst of light, the sword strikes, an impulse of energy follows with him manifesting before her as if he were born of that blue-light himself. She can't help but marvel for a few more seconds as the particles of that energy lift and disperse from him, illuminating him within the darkness and dancing within his eyes. But what's more astonishing is-- Do you think I should be?

She's not sure if that comes from ignorance or otherwise, but regardless, he accepts the power that has been granted to him. He wants to learn more of it, he wants to use it.

He does not fear it.

Her eyes widen briefly, lips parting as she almost appears thoughtful, humbled... ]

[ Then her whole expression softens, and she smiles.

It's enviable, how he doesn't fear that power. She also envies whatever entity blessed him with it, because they have someone who may now wield their power to its fullest potential, without the restraint of fear.

How beautiful is that?

Pyra shakes her head. ] I think not fearing it, accepting it for what it is,... is the key to unlocking your greatest potential.

[ She steps forward. ]

The way you maneuvered... that dodge, and how you flew through the air-- it's like watching a particle dance through the air.

[Well- she's smiling, so he'll accept that as a good sign. And while he isn't entirely certain of the accuracy of her claim - accepting his power for most of his life hasn't done much to grow it until the several months that followed his leaving home - he accepts her praise with a quiet smile. Yes yes, he's very impressive, do go on.]

Never thought of it as dancing before. It's just combat skills- get in fast and get out faster. Don't get hit. The basics of surviving a fight, y'know...

[Sometimes the crossing of blades is described as a dance, mostly in Gladio's bodice-ripper novels. The ones he usually sleeps through.]

[ She continues to watch him with a smile as he explains.

The basics, as he says, does indeed include to not fall prey to an enemy's attacks. His technique has served him well this entire time, since-- childhood, when he had first started training, she assumes. ]

[ ...She falls into thought. He has two goals with expanding his power: learning how to utilize more of his "magic", and then extending that power to others, so that they might be able to do the same.

Shifting her weight from one leg to the other, her eyes roam from him to his hand, then back to him. He had mentioned a pocket, into which he can place not just one object, but multiple objects. He must have more than one weapon. ] Can you summon one of your swords again?

Only--... before it solidifies. Would you be able to keep it in its phantom image, if you concentrate?

[His hand is already reaching out as she speaks, ready to call forth his weapon, but he hesitates as she finishes her request, lips pursed into a tight frown. Can he?]

I've never done that with a normal sword. I could with the Royal Arms, but most of those were sealed away or taken when I showed up here.

[And he's certain that the Armiger requires at least three to fully manifest... any attempts to get it working up to this point have failed. Normal swords just don't cut it.

Still, just to indulge her, he tries anyway: he reaches out and calls the blade back, but rather than reaching too deeply he tries to just... draw its presence, only the shape of it, phasing it into reality the way he phases his body. In a flash of light, the sword appears as normal. He dismisses it and tries again. Then again. Then again.

....

One more- nope. He lets his arm drop back down, shaking his head with a miffed - but not surprised - look on his face.]

I don't think it works like that.

[ Royal Arms, hm.

....But oh, it's so pretty; he calls up the sword, it flashes into existence and then fades, flashes and fades, and each time the light disperses like fireflies that twist and turn like quarks running out of existence.

She waits patiently.

.....

........

Ah. ]

One more time. [ She urges softly, outstretching her hand. ] Only... [ She places her palm upon his shoulder. ] Focus.

[ She lends a sliver of her power to him, and he'll feel it the moment she makes contact: a boon of concentration and calm, hyperfixated on streamlinging the energy within him. If receptive, he will feel a profound clarity wash throughout his mind, his senses heightened. Light itself will now seem to have a sound. ] Three seconds-- you can do it.

[ Having watched him manifest that sword over and over... She's noted how those particles of blue-light quiver as they align before they solidify into the sword; the touch she transfers to him seeks to give him the ability to stabilize the images, buffering the threshold of their appearance. That light-- it is energy that teeters on the precipice of reality and beyond. It is the building essence for his power; she is fairly certain. It's what becomes solid, it is what becomes weapons dragged out from the "pocket" within his heart, selected automatically by his mind.

If that is the case, perhaps that light can differentiate into the type of magic he so desires. It if it can make metal, surely it can make lightening or fire. ]

[That's new. He inhales sharply, and there's a moment of resistance as this strange, alien magic swirls and weaves its way around his own. It passes after a second, as he allows himself to calm, as he reminds his body that he trusts her. Three seconds. And he doesn't know if he can do it, but there's no time to doubt that and not even try.

As that calm washes over him, as that clarity centralizes his thoughts into a single, fixed point, he reaches out again and pulls, but this time, he does so more gently. Like reeling in a particularly stubborn fish- you can't do it all at once. Bit by bit, turn by turn.

It feels impossibly slow, doing it like this, but the way the blade manifests is distinctly different this time. Slow and sluggish, the blue energy knits itself into existence, painting a sword of light on a three-dimensional canvas. It hangs there for a moment, just a few seconds instead of an instantaneous flash, and then it passes and he's holding the sword again, full and solid.

He stands frozen like that for a moment; it worked, sort of, but he doesn't look pleased about it.]

[ Her hand does not leave his shoulder, but the connection severs at her unspoken behest. The boon to his senses shatters like a sledgehammer to ice, giving way to the mundane water beneath. ] That's it, isn't it? [ Not the warping. Not the phasing, the blinking, the force of the throw of his sword. Those are all afterthoughts to the power that supplies it. ] That signature to all of your abilities... is that light.

Everything you put within that pocket reverts to that light before. Everything that you take out, manifests from that light-- including that sword and, ah, maybe, whatever magic you might have. [ She describes what she sees, not how it may actually may be, yet her tone still that of someone in calm awe.

She almost wants to tell him to dismiss his sword. He wishes to extend that light to others, but if what lies within him is limited by his strength of heart, then that is what they will need to train first. ] If— I’d I had to guess. It’s the light itself that you will be transferring to others... and sustaining.

Should we begin working with that? Or focus on something else?

[ Easier said than done. But hey, power transfer is what she's here to help with. AND, and! It involves a lot of hand-holding, so even if this is in vain, it’ll help this world by default. ]

[There's a slight tilt of his shoulder beneath her hand, that tense alertness in his body fading as her effect breaks away from him. It wasn't unpleasant, but he's not sure how to describe what it had done to him or his powers. Abilities he's spent the better part of a decade honing on instinct, reaction, to be used only when needed to avoid draining his magic reserves too quickly, can't be so easily dragged from that corner. It was more than just a lack of skill or training- his stamina had needed time to grow as well. His father's magic fueled an army, and he could barely maintain three of his friends.

At her assessment, though, he nods, releasing the sword back into the ether, since holding it takes energy he would rather spare for more important training.]

That light is the power of the Crystal. It gives off the same kind of glow, and my family's like a conduit- power's meant to flow from it, to us, to the ones we choose to share it with.

[He'd been told to choose carefully, that they would have access to his Armiger and therefore his entire arsenal, along with the ability to stab him in the back with his own power, something that became a legitimate and literal threat rather than a cautionary potential after his father died. It's one reason why only his retinue has access.]

For my friends, the power's blocked when it gets to me. They can call their weapons in and out of the, um, "pocket", but they can't warp or dodge like me, and I can't pull other people with me when I warp. I'd feel better if I could at least do that much, but... I don't know how. Everyone I know who can do it makes it look so easy.

[ Of course they would make it seem easy; the master has failed more times than the beginner has ever tried. She's no doubt that Noctis has attempted more than his fair share, but with how... strained the situation in his homeworld sounds, perhaps he's never gotten the chance to consistently explore his abilities, not when the night deamons demand more straightforward attacks.

With her touch falling from his shoulder, she steps around to his front, extending both of her hands to him, an invitation for him to take both.

When he says that the power is blocked, she wonders if there may be a seal. But if there is no seal to prevent the power-transfer... her mind continues to work among various theories. Would it be that he need to warp that light into others, or is it just a matter of potential and selection? Yet while she would enjoy to explore the technicalities, the exact processes, the hows...

What might help him more may be a more thorough exploration of his power. ]

Take my hands again... and let us all sit.

[He accepts her offered hands, glances briefly around them, and then just... sits. Wherever she directs them if here is not appropriate. He can't help but feel intrigued; even if what she did to him didn't work as intended, it was still a different sensation, something new that affected his powers in a way he's never felt before. Maybe she's right- maybe that clarity is something he needs to progress. He'd certainly never had the time or teaching back home, not like this.

Either way, it's worth the attempt, so once they're settled he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, and gives her hands a light squeeze.]

Okay... how do we start?

[ She takes him to the bench when they first, hand in hand, keeping him facing her as they sit. It is not as if they are the only one here in the plaza this late at night, and she is sure there are a few locals within the buildings. With this exercise, if done correctly, it will make him feel as if they are the only two that exist. That is how he will connect to his energy. ]

First.... Close your eyes.

[ It may sound silly, and she expects an eye-roll from the young king. Aside from the street lamps and the steady, unified light of her own crystals, only shadows surround them. But with patience she regards him, bringing up their hands.

When he does close his eyes, he will feel the warmth preceding her scoot closer. ]

I’m... going to make a connection between us. [ It! Is important! That he knows this is happening before she does this, so as to not have it surprise him or be intrusive. ] And what I wish you to do next... [ The delays in her speech are with slow inhales, slow exhales, timed with his. ] is to open that “pocket” you have...

But draw nothing from it.

[She might be surprised to find he does not roll his eyes; he does furrow his brows, but after a moment he acquiesces. He's felt her power, even in that small burst, and she seems to know what she's doing. Yelling at fake stars? That's pretty dumb. But closing his eyes to focus - at least, outside of combat - isn't an unreasonable request.

When she asks him the rest, though, he does hesitate, his hands tensing in her grasp.]

...I don't... I shouldn't be doing this while you're so close. [He tries to tug one hand away, at least.] If I screw it up the sword'll hurt you.

[She's helping him! He doesn't want to hurt her! And he didn't bring any potions along.]

[ While she understands... On this, she does not relent. He’s kind for thinking about her safety— but this isn’t about her, this is about him. ]

It’ll be alright.

[ She gives his hands a reassuring squeeze. ]

Now. Close your eyes again. [ Here, she does so as well, keeping her voice low, soft, and kind. The night may be cool, but her hands are warm, her entire presence is. ] And think of it as if... turning a faucet one degree open...

[She speaks with such certainty that it's hard to argue with, so after another long hesitation he closes his eyes and tries to do what she's asked of him. If he focuses, if he's careful, then he won't hurt her- and all the more reason to take this seriously. At first, he isn't sure what she means. For him, his powers have never been much of a faucet- more of a light switch, on when it's needed, off when it's time to conserve power. But once that power is on, he can acknowledge that it does have levels, certain abilities that rise like rungs on a ladder, up and up until it's time to drop back down. To blink is less than phase, phase is less than warp, warp is less than the Armiger-

It takes some time, but gradually he's able to let it out, not all at once but rather a steady drip-feed of energy. His body pulses softly with that blue light, fluttering on, off, on, off, like a beating heart. His hands against hers phase in fragments, so she's holding on to a beam of sunlight for a split second before it reforms into a person, and repeats.

It's not so bad, actually. It doesn't drain his magic so quickly that he can't recharge, and it's... soft. It's softer than his power usually feels, so sharp and abrupt and violent. That was necessary back home, of course, with soldiers and monsters and daemons coming at him from every angle to end his life. Here though, at least for the moment, he can do this.]

[ She needn't even open her eyes to know that he has let a steady trickle of his energy through. The divinity is no less profound. She feels it emitting from him as surely as she feels his touch upon her hands lighten as he phases from reality, only to reform in the same breath. The glow becomes steadier as he concentrates, and he will soon find that when she begins, that concentration may feel like an afterthought to maintain.

From behind his eyelids he will see a golden-amber glow.

The light arise from her like the lazy tendrils of the corona of a sun, wispy, airy, and lighter than light. Enveloping her to her fingertips, the light begins to envelop him as well, washing over him slowly before cascading all in an instant. While the excess light bleeds like the steam of a star arising from his body. The rest is absorbed, and--

He will feel whatever magic he loses in this exercise replenished. The energy she gives to him, it seeks to join his, to understand his, to become his, to be what he may use for his own purposes-- giving, giving, giving in a steady song that may seep into his bones as surely as it might tangle into his heart. It becomes homogeneous with his light, and then, it becomes his light, no longer hers to use. A clarity, much like before, underlies this transfer of her energy to him. For her, this is the first step: to provide him with a steady surplus of power to keep him in the state he is now. His focus should not be concentrating on maintaining this precarious, barely-open door to the source within him, it should be the source itself. With this, she offers a way to feel that it is nothing to open that door further, taking the burden for herself as he focuses on the actual goal at hand.

Distantly, he'll hear her voice. Breathe.

Because time has passed, far more than either of them might have been aware, and as they enter this state of meditation, it's easy to forget the world around them.

She begins to piece through the energy he lets through. Absolute, powerful, temporal, yet completely unyielding to entropy and the passage of time. It's the vault of the heavens, the holding the stars up from falling upon the earth, yet equally capable of sundering all below; a source, beyond--

She focuses on space, on time, on light, on that beyond.

Breathe. She repeats, and should he have any focus within reality, he'll feel a soft pressure upon his forehead where hers rests against his. This marks the second step of sifting through his power, and this is where the toll begins for him.

He may feel lost, like he's falling upwards through skyscrapers, as if the ground itself is unraveling beneath his feet, or that he's leaping through not only space but history, passing in and out of the frames of a reel, all of them blank beyond what is now, washing away to a blue-hued light, the one that is him. Then out of the matrix of his source jumps a particle; suspended in the air slowly, he'll see it has facets, crystalline, before it plummets back into the amorphous blue-light. It is but a sliver of the power before him, that which he has only accessed thus far. The light jumps out again. He'll feel a pressure upon his hand-- like she's holding his with hers, but no hand is actually there with him-- guiding to catch it. That touch presses into his wrist to have him unravel his fingers. Empty.

Another particle leaps, he's guided to catch it, to open his hand again. This time, it's there. Repeating the catch a third time, he will feel the same tingle of energy in his opposite hand. Opening it, a duplicate particle hovers within his palm. The exercise repeats: sometimes yielding none, other times one, yet steadily the frequency of becomes two. As simple in principle as the task sounds, it will be strenuous, taxing, draining, demanding what energy he has to offer to complete the task. It will feel like fire igniting up the arteries of his arms, unraveling the sensation of touch at the seams, but he must remain persistent, focused on keeping his sense of self together.

The blue-light source of power within him has a scar, a portion of which remains completely still while rest remains beating, churning. This imprint is nonviable, static. Yet sometimes the droplets of blue-light emerge from here regardless; altered in their appearance by only one facet of their crystalline form that appears more mirror-like than clear. As it spins-- for all of these particles have a spin, both his energy, and this scar-- he may catch his reflection. Adult, youth, nothing, adult, youth, nothing, enchanting as the divine, if not moreso because it reflects the self. Yet if he decides to catch one... it will burn like ice-covered knives raking down his back, consuming, growing, enveloping, overwhelming; his reflection, both now and young, will scream silently with him; this wound he will always have, always know--

He will feel as if a hand is enclosing over his that contains this corrupted light. Then, it will be no more. A whisper-- no, a feeling of caution comes to him with that phantom touch: this part of his energy, he should not duplicate. It has a glorious nature of spreading on its own naturally.

When he happens to have two pure lights at last, his hands are guided to clasp together, making them one again. It doesn't work; the particle vanishes, and it's back to step one of taking a piece of his power and duplicating it. Once he has two again, his hands are brought together, merging the two sources of lights as one. This time, it stays.

The third step is to test the limits of that light he holds within his hand. How many can he produce from one, the sliver of the great power he actually draws upon.

He will feel as if his hands are being guided apart, only far more slowly, as if attempting to pry two powerful magnets from each other. Should he persist, the particle he had just merged into one shifts, trembles, and splits into two.

Breathe.

A third becomes to emerge in the same fashion. A fourth. One for each of how many he wishes to protect, each subsequent one easier to create than the last. Perhaps the lights will begin to overflow from his hands, spilling from his fingertips like diamonds, perhaps they'll begin to react with each other, sparking fretfully before burning out. Perhaps those lights will begin to overflow the mindscape crafted from this energy, spilling forth, dangerous--

He wishes to protect too much. He's greedy, he wants it all-- for his friends to be there, his family, his world, and himself, too, to be there for the sunrise with all of them. He might be able to get there, eventually. But for this first try? It's a little too much. Temperance is the virtue for this trial.

Focus.

Unlike the whip of power that had accompanied the word before, a softer presence returns, a warm patience that guides, and it acts as a pressure beneath his hands, lifting and helping him support up the light he holds. That presence fades, easing its help the more he is able to buffer himself and all the lights he has created.

Whatever blue light within his hand lasts by morning, he will keep as the representation of knowledge of how to recreate it. ]

[Each step of this process is a journey unto itself, like following instructions on a GPS machine where the only true direction is breathe. And he does, quietly, calmly, one for every handful of heartbeats on a cycle that becomes so practiced he no longer counts them off before long, merely lets it happen. The pulse of his magic follows suit, an automatic glow that quickens and prolongs itself the longer this goes on, until the fade is nearly imperceptible- instead a gentle gradient of blue, pulsing softly across the length of his body, never winking out fully- at least one part of him is in transit through time and space at any given second, never giving way back to reality as long as he holds on to this power.

He can see her glow from a distance, feel the thrum of it against his palms, and he has to fight the urge to look. Instead, he fixates on a point beyond it, at the goal they're working towards. Where once he was a well of power, strong and full but drained if he drank too deeply until the rains fell again- now he is a river, flowing slow but steady and guided by the banks of her touch. He follows it where it leads him, going deeper, deeper, deeper still. He's seen the bottom of the well, felt its parched surface scraping his palms as he scrabbled for more power, tried to dig deeper as Statis took hold and his body refused to cooperate. He's never seen where the water runs to, the depth of the lake that is the Crystal's power. So he follows.

He breathes.

Guided further, he chases those particles of light, no longer thinking of the why but focusing on how, what. There's something strange and somehow familiar about this place, this nothing-space that exists and yet somehow does not. It feels like the Armiger, where he reaches and pulls his power out of, where he goes when he bends reality to warp his body to other places. It feels like passing through the barrier of Insomnia, feeling the weight and the thrum of his home, of their magic, a blanket of security and strength draped over him like his father's old coat. It felt completely alien and yet it made him think of coming home.

The moment he falters, the only such moment, is when he is drawn to the scar. He knows what it is as soon as he touches it- and he does touch it, drawn by the otherness of it, curious and uncertain of its purpose here. It burns and he remembers: fire, blood, men screaming as they died. The wretched howl of a daemon as it reached out towards him, six blades shining in the moonlight. The dull throb of pain as his blood is exchanged for poison. His father screaming his name as the darkness dragged him under the surface to drown.

He is pulled away from the fragments, released from it, and as the caution wraps itself around his heart he remembers instead: soft fur under his fingers, the plush interior of the Regalia as he lay his head to rest, his father's warm hands around his own, a relieved, tremulous voice: I will always protect you.

He breathes. He follows the path.

For a long time, he stubbornly clings to as many particles that can exist in this space; reaching, reaching, snatching them back as even more spill from his fingertips. His friends. His family. Hammerhead, Wiz's ranch, the chocobos, the Crownsguard, Iris and Talcott and all his silly cactaurs, everyone in Lestallum, the Quay, Insomnia, Luna, Luna, Luna--

All of them fall away from him; he can't hold them all. His hands trembling, he watches them float free, and he feels a tremor in his heart. You can't.

You're not there yet.

The lights scatter, and he can no longer discern one from another. Gradually, and with some difficulty, he looks inward and waits, he lets it happen. Without looking he follows her guidance and reaches one more time, accepting into his closed palms a single light. He's not there yet, it's true. He can't hold them all.

Start with one.

As he's holding it, as he focuses on it, a curious thing happens: that blue light that pulses through his body is slowly, gently drawn to Pyra's as well. It starts at her fingertips and weaves its way up her arms, a soft yet all-consuming mist that peppers along her skin, feeding its heartbeat into her. It halts at her crystal, circling around it as if a timid animal, before it, too, is touched by the light. Not quite claiming her. Accepting her. And it must accept all of her or not at all.

When morning begins to creep up on them, he can feel it, though he doesn't know how. More than that, though, he can feel that pulse, and it encompasses the both of them, wholly and completely, the blue of his and the green hers became as gold and aqua intermingled. He can feel it, and he can hold it.

He breathes - an exhale, trembling and weary and exhilirated - and comes back to himself again, and he holds on to that pulse lest he lose it and never find it again.]

[ How often has she likened his power to a star in of itself? Yet it's so much more, too. Alone it feels divine, almost ominous, powerful and steely with an intention to be overwhelming. In his hands, it feels beautiful, and he's lending that beauty to wash over her, through her, and into her--

She takes it, of course, for herself, for the crystal she contains is quite similar in that power. This part of his light he lends to her....selfishly, she will not make it a part of herself, but rather keep it as unique by which to remember him, even if it does truly come from another source.

Perhaps-- perhaps in the hands of a human like him, a divine power isn't so dangerous...

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