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She does not close the Breach, does not use the hand that pulses with divine magic. She watches it twist and turn in the sky as if fascinated by the play of layered light. She stands still observing with an intensity that speaks of curiosity, not desperation. (Desperation; his. His fault. His mistake. How did this happen?)
Then she plays her hand against the sky and it is gone, gone in the way of a thing unmade. There is vibrancy to the area that had withered away in the battle of two normalities. Scars on rock and earth are swallowed by grasses not-dead and flowers still blooming, earth pushes up and fills in and levels off.
When she turns away it from sky, she has rewritten the Breach to have never existed. Her own spell-light hangs in air, bright threads fading from sky as the afterburn of one who has studied sun and closes eyes in pain. There are wisps of something, something, he cannot quite see settling back into her, around her, they are her somehow. Her left hand, no longer whispering to him of fragmented power and shattered focus, is bare and just a hand once more. (Has she onlyjust been anything?)
Above them the rippling of clouds, their radial swirl miles around and miles high that had sung doom for the world, shift to an unremarkable afternoon.
She stands tall and unaffected, eyes bright and crinkled with her grinning. She turns to him as if to say: is that all- what’s next?
He says nothing to this, knuckles sharp and white as he grips wooden staff and he tries to think. Think of how this could be, of what it was, of what it meant. (He looks at her and fears.)