#divinemotif

sora: I NEED HEALING donald: no you don't

donald is best dps, clearly. no heals for you, he’s going battle donald today!

adventhero replied to your post “mercy says heroes never die but clearly she’s never been in a party...”

the worst part is as a genji main sometimes mercy players outright refuse to heal me so it works both ways

     when they arrived at the inn (the only one with rooms available at the moment, understandably so) nyx urged lunafreya to go upstairs to their room, lock the door, and wait for him to return as he gathered what little, muddled information he could. insomnia in shambles, the king dead, this he knew. yes, this he knew well, as he grit his teeth to keep the guilt at bay. he may have saved the oracle, but now the debt he owed to king regis was even greater, and, in his mind, could never be repaid. but what he heard next, that the crown prince had also perished, along with lunafreya, brought an arch to his brow. that was most certainly imperial propaganda; he knew for a fact lunafreya was safe.

     the remainder of the news feed is drowned out as he then goes hunting for food, the amount of gil he’d managed to grab from his apartment more than enough to buy four bottles of water and two sandwiches. nothing grand, but it was far better than nothing. he moves quickly to get back to the inn, rations cradled in the crook of his injured arm, his muscles screaming at him that he needed rest, he needed far more than just rest, but that was time he couldn’t afford. nyx takes the stairs to the second floor two at a time, then unlocks the correct door, just as quickly locking it again behind him, before the food and water is placed on the bed.

     ❛ nothin’ much, but after all that, you’ve gotta be hungry. ❜ his tone is curt, polite, business like, but an undertone to it gave away his unease. about the whole situation. if the empire was telling people that their oracle was dead, there was bound to be panic soon down the line. with a sigh that melts into a groan, the glaive settles on the floor to begin unlacing his boots, before grabbing a water bottle and a sandwich. ❛ i’ll go askin’ around in the morning for more info. but for now, we need to stay low. ❜

LEMON SCENTED / accepting

           ghosts — she has learned long ago — do not just haunt the corners of old homes and forgotten lands. they wrap around bone, around the throat. speak in tongues against the shell of her ear. gentiana knows loss. knows it as sure as she can count the steps back to her own body. ( sure as she can feel rain against her skin now — remnant of hydraean’s rage ) 

           the girl is gone. knows it before she even sees the body, body she’d watch grow into brilliant bright now dark as clouds which circle in the heavens above. glacian has known loss since before darkness threatened the land — such was the curse of holding love for all that was mortal beneath holy ribs. how blessed each breaking was, again and again she would love and lose and love. the girl no different — she sees the blood. tastes it copper on her own tongue. she sees the wound — feels it deep in her own gut ( like loss ) and she has known loss as lover, and loss as friend. never loss as mother even though the girl was not of her own blood ( red — brilliant, mortal red ) yet she knows what this is.

          he stole me. ghosts have a way of whispering far more devastating than any haunting. it chills her as the cold she creates. rages as goddess — her time was not meant to be yet and blossom of a girl ( of one she loved as a daughter ) was plucked from the earth. cast to the ground once petals began to wilt ( oh, dear lunafreya — you had far more strength than i ) and messenger is struck with the unfairness of gods she had only heard of before.

         he stole me. a goddess does not kneel to mortals, pride will not allow it. but she bends knee as loyal servant to beloved oracle. takes her in her arms. her own cold means little against the chill of flesh which once turned rose red, bright with smile. a goddess does not weep for mortals, their lives are blinks against her own. she weeps as mother to the one she failed to protect. tears crystallize on pale skin, fall like rain ( hydraean’s anger and glacian’s grief ) until gentiana is not sure which one wets the ground more.

FIVE TIMES KISSED / selectively accepting

          ONE, infant rests in the crook of her arm — watchful eyes of the mother from her bed and gentiana has forgotten just how small life can be. ‘her name is lunafreya,’ sylva told her with tired smile. hands reaching to take her daughter back ; glacian brushes brief kiss to the crown of her head. reluctant to let go.

           TWO, her name is lunafreya but in the eyes of gods she may as well be miracle made flesh. blossom of a girl — messenger watches her where she plays in the field with her brother. she’s bright. she who will pull the sun above the horizon when at last the darkness dares lay claim to it. now, only the bright of her smile as she stumbles to where goddess waits. grass-stained ( a baby tooth missing, miracle as a girl ) and smiling, small hands offer a crown of loosely woven sylleblossoms.

          she kneels, dips her head to be crowned by future oracle. catches the girl’s hands after and kisses each finger tip. blesses them to only hold love, to touch only with kindness. prays ( as gods only can — to the silent choirs wheeling in cosmos above ) that her heart be made strong.

           THREE, she learns of loss when the fire claims the forest. when armies march upon her home and glacian has become too accustomed to the heartache. relearns it through watering blue eyes — the girl without home or mother now. divinity has no place in soft hearts yet now gentiana wraps her arms around lunafreya. around miracle now put to the test — trees are not the only thing to be claimed by the fire.

          cold lips to cheek made warm with tears. salt water, the ocean, how the moon pulls the tides across pale skin. how the ice can only slow the water for so long.

           FOUR, gentiana still prays her heart remains strong against that which would threaten to swallow it. girl turned woman, miracle of unshakable might — long has it been since messenger felt pride. she does in this moment and cold as her touch is, she takes the oracle in her arms. ( a long way from baby cradled against her chest ) the healing is taking its toll. a rare smile curves the red line of her mouth. kisses oracle’s cheek again — the chill in her is not her own.

           FIVE, glacian relearns loss when hands cup the girl’s face. skin cold from the water, from the blood loss, from the exertion of a body in dire need of rest. it is the way of things. mortals wane and fade — even bright girls with more light to give than all the suns and stars. a lesson she has known since her own youth. yet nothing is made easier for it.

  IT’S A MONSTROSITY, AN EVER-LURKING PLAGUE OVERWHELMING ALL SENSES. it’s a ravenous creature starved and rattling beneath a cage constructed of poisoned ribs, failing flesh. it is peeled away, enveloped by a suffocating darkness. skin and bones turned smoke and mist. it is a war ongoing and advancing, his will on the losing end in spite of pressing onwards with every haggard step. humanity dwindles, memories slipping past fingertips from the hand that retains familiarity  ---  for the other is ragged, wretched. a claw, outstretched and agonized into the emptiness, the nothingness before blurred vision. 

    forsaken. abandonment. ghosts that he has danced with before, but never so harshly in this manner. the emperor, the daemon in a foul skincoat on the throne, and his wheezing death sentence set upon him. surrounded, outnumbered, blinded. his king, his king, his bringer of death. and the echoes of the chancellor’s laughter linger fittingly in place. these disorganized images and sounds surround his destruction. behind the gates he is to be bestowed like a prized animal on display, a weapon to be unleashed without a choice. and then, by chance of cruel fate he sees her.

    sister. were that he could, he would laugh. a sound of sorrow in place of what would be rejoice. had she not once, no, twice asked? what had become of them; children displaced, thrust in the heart of this violence and shaped into different type of pawns. this was puppetry at its finest, with his body and soul stolen. 

@divinemotif

It’s a quiet moment, and Gladiolussinks into the hot spring with a sigh,leaning up on the stone edge, hesmiles at a nearby Luna as sheapproaches the pool’s edge.

(he is bruised from the day of fighting, and the heat is helping more than he cares to admit)

“You should come in--” he smileswhile closing his eyes, “It’s reallynice” he promises, forcing his eyesopen even as the Oracle sits besidehim and begins to thread her fingersthrough his hair. 

He... definitely doesn’t purr.

Gladiolus gravitates to resting his chinon Lunafreya’s knee, and idly rubbinghis stubble against her every so often.A few flowers bloom along the edgeof the natural hot spring, andeventually he leans over and picks afew before reaching up and tuckingthem gingerly into Luna’s hair.They’re a soft pink and she looksbeautiful wrapped in the moonlight.