He put his hand over her wound.
The divine energy came out of his palm in the specific gold-warm quality of the Breeding God ability — not aggressive, not the forceful output of combat energy, the other kind, the vital kind, the kind that had grown a world tree from a seed in six hours and had been doing things to pregnant women's bloodlines for months.
It entered the wound.
Celestia's eyes went wide.
The wound — she could 'feel' it, the specific sensation of damaged tissue receiving energy, of the sword-cut beginning to knit from the inside out, the bleeding stopping not through clotting but through the actual physical restoration of what had been cut. The pain didn't stop — it 'changed,' became the ache of healing rather than the acute shock of damage, which was a different kind of pain entirely.
"'Wait,'" she said. "'You can do — is that divine energy? You can 'channel' divine—'"
She stopped.
She looked at the wound.
At his hand on it.
At the green lines in her skin.
