And just like that, there he is- not here, in this quiet little garden, but in the fields of Tenebrae, being lifted like glass out of his wheelchair and set down amidst the flowers, his father's hand brushing gently through his hair, a murmured promise to come back for him soon. At his side, Luna is there, draping a blanket over his legs and sitting close, but not near enough to disturb him- she knows he's still sensitive to touch, she's always so kind. With infinite patience she talks him through the steps of weaving the traditional flower crowns of her home, plucking the stalks free and guiding his fingers when he struggles. When they finish, they trade, and she smiles at him beneath a crown of bent and clumsy blossoms; he, in the perfect wreath she'd woven, does not smile. He hasn't remembered how to do that, yet. He should have, though. He should have smiled at her so many times while he was with her, when he had the chance. Then, and here. Was it so long after that the flower fields were ablaze, when she was abandoned to the iron grip of Niflheim as his father fled with Noctis screaming in his arms?
He'd moved in a daze, and when he comes back to himself he's sitting in the grass by the flowers, situated nearest to the largest collection of blues, ignoring the rain as it drizzles lightly over him and soaks into his pants from beneath. If Pyra opted to follow he'd have pulled her along by way of their joined hands; otherwise, he'd have tugged himself free without a word.
For a long moment, he's still so quiet, immersed in the scent of them. The scent of her.]
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And just like that, there he is- not here, in this quiet little garden, but in the fields of Tenebrae, being lifted like glass out of his wheelchair and set down amidst the flowers, his father's hand brushing gently through his hair, a murmured promise to come back for him soon. At his side, Luna is there, draping a blanket over his legs and sitting close, but not near enough to disturb him- she knows he's still sensitive to touch, she's always so kind. With infinite patience she talks him through the steps of weaving the traditional flower crowns of her home, plucking the stalks free and guiding his fingers when he struggles. When they finish, they trade, and she smiles at him beneath a crown of bent and clumsy blossoms; he, in the perfect wreath she'd woven, does not smile. He hasn't remembered how to do that, yet. He should have, though. He should have smiled at her so many times while he was with her, when he had the chance. Then, and here. Was it so long after that the flower fields were ablaze, when she was abandoned to the iron grip of Niflheim as his father fled with Noctis screaming in his arms?
He'd moved in a daze, and when he comes back to himself he's sitting in the grass by the flowers, situated nearest to the largest collection of blues, ignoring the rain as it drizzles lightly over him and soaks into his pants from beneath. If Pyra opted to follow he'd have pulled her along by way of their joined hands; otherwise, he'd have tugged himself free without a word.
For a long moment, he's still so quiet, immersed in the scent of them. The scent of her.]