i. Some days I wish I had been there to reach my arm out
to catch you before you had fallen—
Readjusted your crown before it slipped off your head
and shattered on the floor.
Some days I wish I had the chance to go back in time
and fix all the mistakes I had made—
Shielded you from all the horrors and traumas you were exposed to,
opened your cage and let you see how the world really worked.
Some days I wish I had treated you more like a brother
and less like an opponent—
Shown you some compassion instead of preparing for battle.
I wonder how different things would have turned out
if I had just shown you an ounce more of love.
(But those days are few and far between.
Most days I wish I had been the one
to have pulled the trigger
and pushed you off the throne myself.)
ii. “But he’s your brother.”
And I suppose they are right.
You are still my brother.
You were my brother then, and you are my brother now.
Even now, you are still my brother,
and you will always— until the moment my heart stops— be my brother.
At least the press are still getting their information right.
What a fucking terrible thing that is.
iii. I am still trying to scrub the smell of you
out of my life.
I have learned that you are a wretched scent—
One that refuses to leave once someone has invited you in.
(You are cigarettes clinging on a smoker’s clothes
years after they have quit;
Grease on a cook’s hands
hours after they have come back home;
Booze on an alcoholic’s breath
the day after they have sobered)
Even my room reeks of you—
Even after all this time we’ve spent apart—
Even after death—
Even after everything that I’ve done—
I claw at my arms for so long in the shower these days.
trying desperately to rid myself of you,
that my skin is starting to turn raw.
I’ve gone through my memories and
swallowed the ones with you in it,
chased them with pills and booze and dust—
reveled in the feeling of your name sliding down my throat,
knowing it’ll be gone by morning.
(How much longer is this going to take?
How much longer until I don’t think of you every Goddamn second of my life?
How much longer until I’m free of you?)
iv. You are
a room full of red roses:
Beautiful at first
but after a while you
(I am drowning on the petals that you have left behind.
These flowers are beautiful no longer.
Your thorns are digging into my sides,
pushing into my ribcage—
I can’t breathe.
I can’t speak.
v. I wish I could apologize for the way things turned out.
I’ve tested the words on my lips
and everything about them feels wrong.
But knowing that you wouldn’t give a damn either way
settles something inside of my chest.
Because, if I’m being honest, I don’t give a damn, either.
I’m not sorry for your sake.
I’m sorry for mine.
I wish things could have been better.
Companions are Dared to give Sole a Flower Crown Part 1
(Little goose-New admin~ I actually wrote this as a prompt so the owner could see that I can write so yeah I’ll have Maxson added tomorrow maybe (hopefully) )
Cait grumbled to herself about how pointless this was. She had weaved the flowers on a very bendy but durable stick. Most of the petals had fallen off the flowers, the flowers were going slightly limp, and the crown had fallen apart two times. Nonetheless, the crown itself had great beauty, the leaves that wrapped around the stick seemed to support the flowers and give them that extra boost to make them pop. The flowers were purple with a hint of green (mostly caused by the radiation) and the leaves, an extraordinary dark green. Cait’s face grew darker shades of red the closer she got to Sole.
“Here, have this stupid flower thing, sole.” Cait practically threw the crown at their head. Cait looked away as Sole admired the crown, turning it over in their hands and Fiddling with the semi loose leaves. When Sole told her that they thought it was beautiful, she was surprised, how could someone like sole think a radiated dirty, wilted flower crown be considered beautiful? Cait looked them in the eye slightly before rushing off, out of sight.
Curie was quite elated to give Sole such a crown. She thought they’d look wonderful with it on. Curie got on making the crown right away, picking the most undamaged twigs, leaves, and flowers she could find. Working on it was her number one priority. Finding the prettiest and fullest flowers were the main mission. The flowers varied in size shape and color. Some were a light green, or a dark purple. Others were red as blood and blue as the sky. Many of the settlers and companions were amazed by how preserved and beautiful the flowers were. It took Curie around two months to finish it but today was the day. Walking up to Sole, she placed the crown tenderly upon their head.
“Oh sole! You look even better than I imagined with the crown on! You are magnificent!” Sole chuckled at her, and ruffled her hair. Sole never once took the crown, it was too special. However, it did save their life when sole got shot near the head by a group of raiders. Sole was fine, however the bullet completely demolished the crown, sending both sole and Curie into tears, including a few settlers who had grown fond to it.
Codsworth would have loved to make sole a beautiful crown out of flowers, it gives him nostalgia from before the war when sole’s spouse made one themselves and had him wear it. However, Codsworth wasn’t capable of making one, he had a claw and a buzz saw as arms but he didn’t want to let sole down. He wandered around Sanctuary, clipping a bundle of flowers together. Finally he went to find sole, and started to gently place the flowers in their hair. Soon, sole’s hair was bundled up with the (mostly) pretty flowers of the commonwealth.
Danse wasn’t really the type of guy who made flower crowns in his spare time, but for sole…well sole was special to him. You could say he really cared about them and their wellbeing. So that is how he ended up doing the daré, isolated in his room, weaving flowers together with such skill you wouldn’t even think he’d had. For someone with as large hands of him, he had surprisingly nimble hands. Finally he had finished the crown. It wasn’t the best, it was his first time, but it went better than expected. The colors were simple, light purples, light greens, nothing extravagant. There were a few odds and ends sticking out and it was a bit lopsided. However sole loved it, when danse walked up to them, he was flustered and stumbled over his words a bit.
“I uh, I was told to make you this and um…here.” he placed it upon their head. He cleared his throat, becoming a little antsy and nervous. After his conversation with sole, he walked off, returning to his room, and if you looked closely, there was a faint smile that rested on his face.
Deacon gave out a light laugh and pushed his sunglasses up a bit.
“A flower crown? Pssshh!! That’s easy!” However, making a flower crown was actually more difficult than he thought. He couldn’t believe how hard it was and when sole asked him why he was in his room for around 10 hours without getting out he said with a nervous chuckle:
“I’m just ya know…practicing…spy stuff, it’s super secret I’m not allowed to talk about it.” He then closer the door and went on trying to attempt to make it for the 10th time that night. Tears, sweat, and internal screams finally paid off. He had constructed a flower crown. It was quite flimsy and delicate since he didn’t know that you needed something to really support the flowers from breaking off or falling out. Honestly, it was more of a headband, a few long, thin blades of grass were the support of the flowers. The flowers themselfs had been clipped just a tad too short that they couldn’t exactly stay in the crown. The flowers were small and tiny, some were just flowers buds, beginning to bloom. Walking up to sole with a wide grin in his face, he delicately placed it on them. The crown started to slip since it was a bit small, and sole giggled. Deacon started to regret making the crown but that changed when sole put an even worse flower crown on deacon’s head. How didthey managed to fail so bad at that? That was a question Deacon could not figure out. The two walked around Sanctuary, each with a flimsy, wilting crown atop their head.
Dogmeat is a dog. He has no opposable thumbs or even hands to construct such a thing. He whined, he wanted to show sole how much he loved them, even though he kissed and loved them everyday. He sniffed up and down, sometimes ending up in other settlers’…..business, searching for flowers. Every flower he thought would please sole, he would gently pull it out of the ground and run over to their house just to drop it on their bed. At the end of the week, sole’s bed had been covered in flowers of all different shapes and sizes and colors. This made Dogmeat happy, that every flower he gave sole made them smile ear to ear and pat his head. He wagged his tail and walked up to sole, dropping a pretty red flower at their feet, watched them pick it up and hug him. Nothing made him happier than sole being happy because of Dogmeat.
Hancock was very happy to make a flower crown despite the fact that he never made one, but he wanted to make sole happy. Popping in a few mentats, Hancock got to work on the crown. Throughout the night, he got frustrated several times because the flowers would not stay put and kept popping out or falling off. He ended having to restart two times since he tied the bass of the crown too tight, snapping it in half. When he finally finished the crown, Hancock carefully stepped away to admire the creation. The flowers were big and in full bloom, the colors were bright and pleasing to the eye. The next morning, he gently took it in his hands and headed towards sole.
“Hey there, sunshine, I made ya somethin’!” With a smile up in his face, he reached up and plopped the crown on sole’s head. He beamed in delight as Sole smiled at the crown and at him. The two wandered the settlement, Hancock glaring at anyone who gave sole a strange look for wearing the flower crown on their head.
Maccready was pretty embarrassed when given the dare. A hired mercenary like him would not be spending his afternoon making some dumb crown for his boss/friend. However, Maccready ended up spending his afternoon creating a half-assed flower crown. It was like a school project you didn’t want to do, throwing some stuff together that would maybe give you a passing grade, and hoped it work. Maccready just grabbed some flowers and a few weeds that were pretty. He pulled out a too thin of a base for it that he just weaved more and more of the base together and hoped that it would work decently. The flowers were simple, small blooms. They were flowers that you would pass by, not giving it a second glance. That’s what made them beautiful, they were the forgotten flowers, the weeds, the nuisances, but one person gave them the first glance and thought they were pretty. Maccready grumpily walked up to sole and placed the crown in their hands. He watched as Sole admired it and thanked him.
“Don’t thank me, I didn’t want to make it anyway, it was just a fricking daré.” He pulled his hat down to (try) hide the faint blush that creeper up his ears and face. The blush only darkened as the flower crowned sole leaned in and kissed his cheek then walked off, leaving him with a cocktail of emotions.
Nick smiled, a sad but warm smile. The flower crown before him reminded him of Jenny. The memory was fuzzy, but he could recall her laughter and her smile as she danced with a flower crown on her head. It was a sad memory, but it was a happy one, a memory before the country was turned into a radiated wasteland. Nick never made a flower crown, but he had an idea from the one in the memory. He weaved the leaves and flowers together with extreme concentration. It sat on his desk at the agency. When Ellie walked in on him when he was constructing it, he stuttered that it was just for a case. If a synth like him could blush at that moment, he’d look like a bright red tomato. Going up to sole, he smiled as he saw sole’s face light up noticing the crown.
“I uh, had some spare time, and well,” he chuckled slightly, “I made this, here.” He placed the crown on them and talked with them a bit, even sharing the memory of Jenny. He saw the corners of their face go up and they soon parted ways, each recalling a memory that would make them sad but happy for the rest of the day.
Silver-edged and soft as sleep, they draped the careless tangle of his long limbs in the lush meadow grass. His head was pillowed on his folded arms and crowned with fallen stars. He flicked his snow-laden gaze up with drowsy languor as Day stalked the edges of his shaded retreat.
‘Come in,’ he lilted, ‘I won’t run away.’
Pale golden light limned a tree with leaves like silver coins. Bronze fingers settled on the deep green ivy twining there, and doe eyes peeped out at him from the greenery. ‘What are you doing here?’ Day chimed softly. He trailed across the small grove, pulling sunbeams in behind him. Dust pixies danced in the light, delighting in the spectrum of colours that he revealed. The Night Ruler watched him calmly as he approached, dipping long, tapered fingers into cool well-water as he waited.
Day crouched beside his indolent form and canted his head to the side. ‘Aren’t you tired? Shouldn’t you be resting at home?’
Night hummed softly. ‘I stayed because I wanted to see you.’ Day reached out a hand and Night tilted his head, allowing himself to be petted. Day sifted his fingers through a stream of starlight, tugging gently. Night all but purred when Day brought his hand back up to his scalp, massaging.
‘You’re working too hard,’ Day admonished him. Night hummed again and chased his retreating touch. Day swept the silver back from the other’s forehead and lightly tapped the whorl in his hair. Night pouted.
‘You know I hate it when you do that.’ He sulked prettily.
Day only smiled back. Night paused, taken by the slow, seeping warmth in the expression. He gazed up at him helplessly, lips parted. Obligingly, Day leaned down and fitted their mouths together. Night reached up to cover the slope of his neck with his hand, fingers splayed possessively. Around them bloomed tiny white star jasmine, in a spill of warm, honey-coloured light. Dawn discarded her pink and grey veils to pull the sun into the sky with streamers of deep orange.
‘Good morning,’ said Night.
‘Good night,’ said Day. ‘Sweet dreams.’
And Night slipped from his embrace, to the place where the moon goes when it is no longer in our sky.
Woo! Sorry this took so long to get to, friend! I hope you like it though.
Champion, they call him. Victor, warrior, blood-stained vanquisher. King of the Arena, they shout from the stands as he looms above a crumpled body with pints of red sloughing off the tips of his fingers.
Kings wear crowns, Shiro always thinks, but there should be no crowns for killers. He tastes blood when he swallows, and he cannot rid his nostrils of that acrid iron smell.
Kings wear crowns, champions get medals, and Shiro deserves nor wants either.
His captors burden him with both: the gruesome silver plating melts grotesquely into the muscle of the thing he had once thought to call his body. And when he escapes, it is only with a crown of viscera across his brow and a medal that feasts upon the flesh of the human being he thought he was.
Kings wear crowns; killers don’t. But he’s starting to wonder if there’s even a difference between the two.
You’re not a killer, Shiro…, Keith tells him in the quiet of their bedroom. And Shiro wants to plead with him, to tell Keith that he is, I am, I am! Can’t you see that? Please, will you still love me, if I am?
Please, oh god…. Will you still love me if your blood is on my hands?
But he never argues, he never pleads - and Keith loves him all the same.
Champion!, the witch shouts at him in the thralls of battle. Shiro’s lover fights like a knight by his side. But he falls like a pawn in the witch’s grasp, and once again, Shiro can see all of the red that stains his own hands.
Blood for blood, body for body, crown for crown, there is nothing left he has to give. Keith doesn’t move - will never move again - and Shiro is no champion in this place.
When she finally strikes him down, Shiro figures it’s what he deserves. No victory, no medal, no crown; just blood and pain and dying light as he stares into the ashen face of his fallen love.
Kings wear crowns, but they live while others die.
And Shiro can do neither any longer.
Thank you for such an inspiring prompt, honestly. <3
The propaganda has blinded you. The House of Magnus has become nothing but a shadow of its past grace. You are nothing but a puppet of the Emperor. We see through your illusions. We know the truth behind your lies. We will avenge the Fallen Crown.
Star Wars: The House of M. Where Genosha is a planet, Mutants are an alien race, and the House of Magnus reigns supreme under the banner of the Galactic Empire.
“Suddenly Carl Philip started to cry. He was in the King’s arms. No
one understood why. There was only one person who did and it was
Victoria. She was still little at the time, but she jumped up from her
little chair, rushed forward and lifted a small pillow that had fallen
“ - Queen Silvia
Legend of Dragon Pearl: The Indistinguishable Road 龙珠传奇
龙珠传奇 is a 62 90-episode drama about the fallen Ming Dynasty princess Zhu Yihuan (Yang Zi), who, under the orders of her secret organization, infiltrates the palace as a 秀女 and sort of becomes a court lady. Aside from her, there’s also the fallen [fake] Crown Prince Zhu Cixuan (Mao Zijun) disguised as an imperial doctor, and Xue Qincheng, the doppelgänger of one of the Emperor’s concubines named Shu Wanxin (Shu Chang), and they work together to somehow exact revenge via waiting for others to find keys to open this box. Naturally, Yihuan falls in love with the young Emperor Kangxi (Qin Jun Jie), angst happens, etc., etc.
To clarify: although Kangxi is actually the fourth emperor of Qing, after the Qing Dynasty was first established in 1644, loyalists that escaped to Nanjing crowned Zhu Yousong as emperor, hence establishing the Southern Ming Dynasty. It was not until 1662, or one year after Kangxi was placed on the throne, that Southern Ming was completely annihilated. So yes, the time period matches up.
The promos and trailers actually feel somewhat underwhelming and/or give off 50% Yu Zheng vibes, but I’ve amassed tons of fondness for this cast, not to mention leads Yang Zi and Qin Jun Jie are a real-life couple, so I’ll be giving this a shot.
Although the forest was fascinating, it was undoubtedly a strange and slightly unnerving environment. Old, storm-felled trees lay higgledy-piggledy across unpleasantly oily black bogs, where bright green mosses thrived, almost glowing in the low light. Beneath the upturned roots were dark caverns which Algy dared not explore, and which the patches of sunlight that filtered through from the forest canopy could not illuminate.
Algy could see that not only did the fallen trees host the growth of many smaller plants which took root in their bark, but many of them lived on, despite being uprooted, putting out new branches which stretched upwards towards the sky. Sometimes a brand new sapling of a different tree sprang forth from a hollow in the trunk of a fallen pine or larch. And high above it all towered the trees that were still standing, their lower branches crowded and bare except around the clearings where others had fallen, but their tops crowned with masses of bright green needles.
Algy gazed at the scene and marvelled… and decided that perhaps it was time to return to his home by the ocean, where everything was fresh and open and bright…
Since long before my birth, we were bound in blood.. It danced within your veins and sat upon your tongue, As it sang within my soul and fell cloaked upon my frame..
It drove us mad as Beasts before battle… Crazed and almost deranged as we felt its effects and followed its wiles.. Shadows and steel lay out our disposal, but simple instruments of war…
In blood we bathed and in hell we stalked… A Dragon beside a Knight as we basked beneath the carmine Moon Alive amidst the flames we moved in our eternal dance before the dead…
Will our dance ever end? Our claws ever clean? Our teeth never bared? No… For us, of thorns and thistles, sold and stained by the hands of Death, There is no end, the music always ringing, the Waltz ever ongoing…
Instead we stand, amidst the oceans thick and red, Masters before the Storm.. A King once fallen, your crown comprised of thorns; A Knight falsely holy, my scars forever branded..
Dear Count before the Knight, beneath shrouded veils.. I stand in your embrace, your Countess dressed in blood… Reach forth, take my hand, take my heart as they lie in sacrifice to you..
I hold yours as you hold mine while we dance upon the blade, Across the wilds of our domain, Ever are we bound in blood…
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock
and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset
over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
The only water on the river mirrored the red sky,
sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts,
just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead
gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient
–I rushed up enchanted–it was my first
sunflower, memories of Blake–my visions–Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking
Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and
unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing
stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past–
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye–
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken
like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny
air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem,
gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a
dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower
O my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man’s grime but death and human
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened
railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus
or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt–industrial– modern–all that civilization
spotting your crazy golden crown–
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty
loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust,
rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car,
the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the
smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars,
wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos–all these
entangled in your mummied roots–and you standing
before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect
excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up
alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old
locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and
stuck it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack’s soul
too, and anyone who’ll listen,
–We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not our
dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we’re all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our
own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers
in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank
sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.
Yay! A new blog! Can't wait to see your mad skills! How would they boys react to their s/o being in the crowd city when it falls? Do they think their s/o dead? How do they react when their s/o suddenly tackles them in tears and a hug in Lestallum?
Aw thanks ^^ This is a good request though, hope you like it!
Reunion in Lestallum after the Fall of Crown City
reading in newspaper articles that his father— King Regis has fallen
alongside with the Crown City, Noct has never felt more agitated in his
life. True, one of the reasons was that very matter; the death of his
father and the capture his hometown, but it was his S/O that concerned
him. One of, if not the most person to him and whom he’d promise to
return to after he concluded his business in Altissia.
would— at first, be desperately trying to contact his S/O through his
phone, only to met with constant ringing and no answer. The Prince
didn’t want to think that they were dead. Oh dear no. The Empire has
taken Insomnia and the life of his father. No way in hell Noct would
forgive Niflheim if they had to take his S/O’s life as well. His three
friends would have to reassure that they probably made it out of the
Crown City with the other victims of the attack.
Fast forward to
the Chocobros reaching Lestallum. While Noctis would’ve calmed down by
then, he was still thinking about his S/O. “They’re safe, right?” he
would think, and his question was met with a swift answer. After he
heard his name called out by a familiar voice, Noct— as he’d turned
around, would feel a wave of relief seeing his S/O safe and well. Seeing
them running for a hug and in tears? Maybe he’d be too. Minus the tears
though. A tight hug is to be expected from this man whom he’d thought
he lost with his father, close friend (Lunafreya), and hometown.
no, this man. The minute he found out about the capture of Insomnia,
Prompto had one, and only one thought in his mind— his S/O. Look, this
is a man not afraid to show to the world how much he loved his S/O. So
hearing about the attack on the Crown City won’t do any good for him (to
any of the four really). Like Noct, he would frantically try to contact
his S/O, dialling their number multiple times and hoping for an answer.
of the four, it would be this guy who’d most believe— though not
wanting to, that his S/O was one of the many who
perished during the attack. Prompto would no doubt cry a little as his
thoughts were filled with anxiety each time he’s greeted with no
response. There weren’t much people that he treasured, and the single
most important of them all potentially dying from the fall of the Crown
City? No. Just no.
After having to comfort him and reaching
Lestallum, Prompto was suddenly greeted with the most genuine hug by
that one person who he was dead worried about. First shock, then a
massive, massive wave of relief for this blond young man. Just like his
S/O, would cry (in joy and probably harder than his S/O even), just
satisfied and happy that he actually didn’t lose them.
this man’s not much for showing strong emotions like Prompto, but he
could never deny that he’s concerned about his S/O’s safeness. It’s
natural for Gladio to be rather protective of the people he cares about,
being a Crownsguard and having a little sister and all. He would have
faith in his S/O though, believing they’re not that weak to just die
during the attack of the Crown City.
That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t
bother checking on them though. Gladio would call Iris to ask if his
S/O was one of the survivors from the attack, and would breathe a sigh
of relief if his sister confirmed that they were safe. Bonus too if they
were with his sister. But what if Iris said “no, I didn’t see (name). I
tried to look but…”?, I hear you say. Well, until he sees their body,
he would not believe that his S/O was gone.
But the moment he
sees them in Lestallum? His low-key worries vanishes in an instant.
There’s no reason for this man to not return his S/O’s hug. Gladio would
be happy that not only his sister was safe, but also his S/O.
most collected of the four. It’s a little hard to read Ignis’ true
feelings in these kind of situations, and that’s what gives him his
collectedness. What’s for sure though is that he handles those kinds of
conditions well, but not without a tinge of worry for his S/O. He cared
for them as much as they do.
Just like Gladio, he’d believe that
they would make it out of the city and into safety. His S/O had faith in
him that he’d return safely from his duty to accompany the Prince to
Altissia, and so it was only right for him to also have faith in them.
would breathe a sigh of relief as well once he’s greeted by his S/O
with a hug after reaching Lestallum. Returning the hug, he’d give his
S/O light kisses on their forehead and wipe away their tears, saying
that he’s relieved to see them safe and well. Ignis’ faith them is
rewarded with his S/O’s safeness.