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Memento Lucem

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Noctis would adore you.

He would love your emotion, your expression, the dreamy look on your face when you are lost in thought, the purse of your lips when you are focused on a task, the hilarious look on your face when you’re done with the world’s antics. He would love your snarkiness, right on par with his, how you are able to go back and forth with him with ease, sometimes with nothing but a glance. He would love your willingness to sleep in with him most days, even if it means you would get chastised for it alongside him. He would love you for not judging him, for seeing him as a person, as a man, before you saw him as a man burdened with duty. He would love your serenity, your acceptance, your willingness to understand, explore, forgive, even if – especially if – he was unable to do the same. Yet most of all, he would adore you for your strength, for pressing on in the face of adversity despite the tears that flow down your cheeks and stain your pillowcase and burden your heart. He would admire the very same strength that puts one foot in front of the other for you when it takes all of your focus to breathe, the same strength that streamlines your instinct to surpass and overcome even if it is the last thing you want to do, to hurt and sacrifice time and time again without benefit, of pushing through until the struggle has long passed, and you don’t realize until much later that you have overcome it when you thought you couldn’t. He knows there isn’t a drop of Lucian blood within you, but even on your roughest days, even when it seems impossible, you carry yourself like a queen. Your pain has blessed you with your crown, a symbol of victory, of wisdom, of triumph, of besting the odds and knowing that you can and would do it again. He would turn to you in quiet moments when his own strength falters, but he would fall before he would let you do the same. And he would gently remove the fire-forged metal from your head on days where its weight becomes too much to bear, so you wouldn’t forget who you were when the dust has settled and the threat is gone, so you can see yourself as the woman he loves and not the woman who must press on.


Prompto would adore you.

He would love every mark, every blemish, every “imperfection” that lies on your skin and creates the collage that is you. He would love the melody of your laugh, he would take as many pictures as he could of your smile, even when you would hide it from him. He would love your silliness, your goofiness, your random singing, your horrible dancing – he would love all of them, for they are expressions of your joy, and you are more than deserving of moments of happiness and reprieve in his eyes. He would love your nicknames, your playfulness. He would adore your creativity, your curiosity, your softness, your tenderness, but most of all, he would adore your compassion. You call him “sunshine”, “light of my life”, “warmth,” but he thinks you are much more deserving of those monikers than him. He is just as stunned, just as awestruck by the sheer perfection, completeness, art that is you, and the vastness that is your love… even if you think otherwise. He understands what it is like to feel worthless and undeserving, an imposter, a fake, annoying, a burden, a waste, and what it is like to fear the day you would be exposed for the fraud you think you are… and his heart would hurt, because that is a pain he would have never wished upon anyone, especially not you. Yet though he understands, he also wonders how it is possible to be that blind to your own light. You glimmer, you sparkle, you shine, you are effervescent, you are eternal. Your mere spirit is enough to leave him blind, though he would never look away from you. He would never leave you, if it meant he would never be able to make you see the wonder that is you. He knows you, and he knows your pain, and he knows that you are more than it, or what it could ever make of you. And so he would tell you what you taught him, slowly, lovingly, to make sure you understand just as he did: “You are fine just as you are, whole as you are. Nothing about you needs fixing. You are perfect and a work in progress all at once. And you are loved, regardless of who you are or what you think you should be.”


Ignis would adore you.

He would love all the nerdy things you do: idly flipping through a dictionary, musing over some random math problem, the ease with which you can discuss academia as easily as you discuss the weather. He would love the way your eyes lit up when he pronounced your name correctly, completely unassisted, on the first try. He would love your wit, your puns, your sarcasm, your intelligence (yes, the very same you so often doubted). He would love how swiftly you can see through things, spot and fix problems, even sometimes catching things he, overanalyzing, might have otherwise missed. He would love the cute, surprised look on your face when you are complimented, especially by him. He would love seeing you do your victory dance when you succeed at something hard, when you think he isn’t looking. He would love watching your murmur ideas to yourself as you scribble them down, when you think he isn’t listening. He would love your generosity and patience, even if it isn’t omnipresent, even when it comes at a personal cost to you. He’d both love and hate that you prioritize others over yourself, but that may be because he hates that quality of his. Yet more than anything, he would adore your perseverance. He’d loathe that you struggled, and your struggles caused you so much pain. Yet he is awed, each and every time you hurt, and hide that pain, and reveal it, and cry because of it, and fear it… and then deal with it anyway. He can tell with the ease in which you do this that you’ve had to do it many times before, and he hurts for you for that. Yet he’d tell you, “You are not alone. You are powerful, unyielding, more than capable. You are undefeated, regardless if you think otherwise. And there will come a day when the fight will end, and you can enjoy the peace you’ve sought out so desperately. I will be there when that day comes, and I will remain by your side to face each day, each struggle, each battle, with you until it does.”


Gladio would adore you.

He would love your habit of walking on your toes, of how graceful it makes you look (and no, he totally wouldn’t think you’re doing it in an unconscious effort to be taller). He would love how flustered you get when you notice someone – particularly him – staring at you; he would love doing it just so he could take in all of your beauty, and just so he could laugh when you bristled and fussed at him for it moments later. He would love your mischief, your zeal, your passion, the way you glow when you talk about something you love. He would love your spirit, how you would push on despite your fear or discomfort or uncertainty. More than anything, he would adore your drive, and how it knows no rest. He would adore how similar you two are, knowing that you are duty-bound to keep on even when you may not wish to, and how you don’t let that stop you. He would adore your fight, your stubbornness, your refusal to succumb to any adversity. Yet he would know that you are not built like him, that you were not raised to be what he was. And he would know that, try as you might to hide it, your strength has a limit… and that you refuse to allow yourself to reach it. He is a protector, a shield for the King before he must be for anyone else, but he would not allow you to travel down this road when he knew what it could do to you. He would refuse to allow your pain to best you, he would refuse to allow you to cause your own defeat. He would cup your face to hold your attention, to make sure you heard him when he tells you, “You can’t be strong without allowing yourself weakness. You can’t fight without allowing yourself to rest. Hardships may make you stronger, but you will gain nothing from it if all you do is fight and wait for the next. Learn to rest. Learn to breathe. Learn to live, now. Learn to embrace where you are, and who you are, and learn to look to the future with more hope and confidence than fear. You are not Atlas. You may want to be a pillar for others, but you can’t support others if you can’t do it for yourself.”


Ardyn would adore you.

He would love your innocence and your naiveté, your willingness, sometimes inability, to see nothing but the best in someone before you even considered the worst. He would love your willingness to forgive, to allow for second chances, to redo first impressions and find newfound respect. He would love your skepticism, your well-placed doubt, even if you didn’t. He would love your capacity to trust despite everything, despite what other people may believe. And though he would never dream he’d grow to be fond of someone like you, he finds that he would adore you because you do what he could not: you dare to love the world despite the pain it has caused you. You see the light and dark in the world, all of its beauty and all of its ugliness. You know firsthand that it could help you just as much as it could hurt you. You are walking, living proof, that the world can be unkind. Yet you take your hurt, and you channel it into welcoming, understanding, healing, loving, so that none would ever feel as you did – as you sometimes still do –in your presence. He would adore you for your bravery. He fancies himself a monster, a terror, the scariest of all the things that go “bump” in the night. But he knows he is nothing compared to the monsters in your head, in your heart, that cling to the slightest hint of sadness and insecurity and lust to bring you down, the very same daemons you fight every night and banish every morning to spread the light they so desperately want to extinguish. He knows it can’t be easy. He knows it isn’t easy. He knows you must be exhausted. Yet he would adore you for it, for facing it, all the same. He wishes he had been capable of doing the same, before it became too late for him.


You would be, and are, loved, cherished, admired, wanted, needed. They would all adore you for who you are and everything you are. You need not change, especially not for them. You are perfect in your imperfection, desired in your flaws, cherished in everything that you are, sought after in your wholeness. To think they would desire you otherwise would be a farce of the fantasy in which you seek your peace, and an insult to the reality in which they have found you. You are everything, everything you want to be, and everything you need to become someone even greater. They see this, and know this, and will never doubt it. And they will stand by you, just as you did with them, until you see with perfect clarity everything that they do.