chasing daybreak

Aureia draws her knees into her chest, staring blankly past the empty bed across from hers. Her toes curl inwards beneath the covers. Is she the only one who has noticed? The way the remnants of their magic cling to this room, little pieces of the self—the soul, the spirit, or whatever it is—left behind. She can’t see it—not exactly—but she can feel it. Once she would have assumed it was a symptom of excessive magic use, but now…

It must be the work of the Echo. Or perhaps the blade of light. Or perhaps…

Her gaze passes over the empty bed. The smell of ash and brimstone returns, the acridity burning her nostrils, her throat, her lungs. Her heart pounds, bile rising in her throat, and a spike of fear pierces through her, scalding heat flaring across her back and she is burning, burning, burning—

She tears her eyes away and breathes in deeply. Slow. Steady. In control. The infirmary is not a battleground, and this ward is not ablaze. It’s a quiet place, located on one of the lower floors of the Waking Sands and far removed from the hustle and bustle. Unfortunately, being buried so far below ground means there are no windows, but it is a small price to pay for the cool, solemn stillness. Arenvald brought in freshly potted axilflowers the other day to brighten up the space, but without daylight they have begun to wilt.

The thought is appreciated, nonetheless. A reminder, perhaps, of the world beyond.

A world that is waiting for her.

Her fingers curl into a fist. It’s infuriating. She has never been this injured—not when she was a faceless soldier for the Empire, not during the perilous journey to Eorzea, not even when she emerged from the Bowl of Cinders victorious. Another fiery battlefield from which she walked away covered in ash, but Ifrit’s clutches left no lasting marks on her.

Not this time.

Damn it. 

Aureia exhales an impatient breath and swings her legs over the edge of her bed, a shiver running down her spine as her bare feet touch the cool tile. Her back protests at the movement, a blistering ache throbbing beneath the bandages. Ignoring it, she rises to her feet and cups her hands before her, a tide of aether swirling about her. She hasn’t cast a single spell since her battle with the Ascian. His fire may have burned her, but fire is her domain. Her home. Her comfort. She is not afraid to call on it, in any of its forms.

Anticipation coils in her gut. Expectation forms an image in her mind—three small balls of flame, rotating in the palm of her hand.

She sucks in a breath and pulls on the aether.

Nothing happens.

What…?

She tries again.

Again.

And again.

Each time, the same result. Each time, emptiness. Each time, a rising panic.

She clutches the front of her tunic, twisting the fabric over her heart as she tries to swallow her fear. What is this? How? Her magic cannot have left her, surely? Such a thing cannot be possible—she can sense the aether in the room, rushing by her as if she were a boulder in a river. There is an abundance of it. If only she could reach it…

A light. A spark. It dances on her fingertips, coiling back and forth. She yelps in surprise and relief floods through her, her momentary panic dismissed—but then it flares, growing brighter and brighter and larger and larger, black magic uncontrolled. Pain sears across her back like the strike of a whip and she cries out, weak legs sending her tumbling to the floor. Her knees crack against the stone, dark hair falls about her shoulders, and then she is pressed face-first to cold tile, a trembling, sobbing wreck paralyzed by pain and the laughter echoing in her mind.

Laughter from a mocking mouth, its sneer stretched over the canvas of her friend. Laughter from a voice she knows intimately, warped beyond recognition. Mad laughter.

His laughter.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Familiar fire burns in her veins, but there’s something lingering within it like an infection. No longer a comfort, but something transformed. Foreign. Alien. Wrong. It’s within her now, her command of aether, her spellwork, her magicks, everything—

“Mistress Malathar?”

Shit. In her panic, she didn’t hear the door open.

Inhaling a shaky breath, Aureia tucks her hair behind her ears and looks up.  

Minfilia stands on the threshold, blue eyes wide, her lips pressed into a worried line. She passes quickly through and shuts the door, blocking the view from blocking the view from the hall beyond. “Are you well?” she asks, pressing her fingers to her mouth. “Should I call for Mistress Cockburne or Urianger or—?”

“I’m fine.” Slowly, Aureia rises to her feet and sits on the edge of her bed. Her knees ache from slamming against the stone, but at least the pain in her back is subsiding. “You know you don’t need to call me that.”

Minfilia pauses, her expression caught somewhere between the stoic professionalism of an organization’s leader and the concern of a friend.

“Aureia is just fine,” she adds, catching her eye. A small smile tugs at her lips. It’s a relief to see someone—anyone—who isn’t a damn healer. “Or is there business you wish to discuss, Antecedent?”

The smile is returned—softly, shyly, as if sharing in a private joke. “Very well, very well,” she replies, lowering her hand from her mouth. “Your point is made. It is not business, Aureia, I promise you. I would not be much of an Antecedent if I marched into your quarters at the first available opportunity to deliver your next assignment and send you on your way. When I ask you to return to the Waking Sands, I do wish for you to do so in one piece. Your safety in the field cannot be assured if your health is not cared for first. Your work—our work—can wait.”

Can it? Though Minfilia’s words are earnest, the thought sinks in Aureia’s mind like a stone. How many are waiting for her to leave this ward and return to active duty? Though the Scions and their allies have earned a moment’s pause, anything could be stirring beyond these walls—and while some of their number can hold the line, she is the only one who can do what she can do.

Her fingernails dig into her palm. There was a time when it wouldn’t be a familiar face walking through the infirmary door to tell her to take all the time she needs, but a stranger in a crisp uniform delivering the order that she was to return to duty now she was well enough to stand.

“I know that look.” Minfilia’s smile fades, her brow furrowing with concern. “Pray, let the thought go. Do not think what you are thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Because I have seen that expression of yours on Thancred’s face countless times.” She sweeps across the room and joins her on the edge of the bed, leaning in close, a determined look on her face. “You and he are… cut from the same cloth, shall we say. Far too willing to push yourself past your limits when it is not demanded of you—”

“Now, see here—”

“—and replacing all sense of self with a sense of duty. Please, for your own sake, do not follow in his footsteps. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn will not collapse without you.”

Aureia grimaces, her gaze drawn once again to the empty bed. “Are you certain it’s only me and Thancred that applies to?” she says pointedly.

“I—” Minfilia sighs and shakes her head, pressing her fingers to her mouth once again. “I do see your point—truly, I do—but there is a difference. I am not in the field. My life is not on the line—”

“It is not only the soldiers and the spies who put their lives on the line. You’re as defined by your duty as I am.”

“I would disagree.”

“Disagree all you like, but when was the last time you wrote a friend? Stepped outside and saw the sun? Hells, held a conversation with someone who doesn’t know whither the wild rose blooms? Is your devotion to your cause truly all that different from mine? You should know by now that you do not need to be in the field to put your life on the line for what you believe in.”

Minfilia falls silent. She bows her head, folding her hands together restlessly in her lap.

Aureia pauses, the question she has ignored for days now lingering on the tip of her tongue. Should she ask? Should she not? Would it be better to know the truth of the matter, or to live in ignorance for a few more days? She will find out soon regardless. “Have you seen Thancred?” she asks quietly. “How is he?”

Minfilia catches her eye. “Well,” she replies. “He is well. The healers have instructed him not to leave. I do not know whether he will take their advice in kind. Urianger has told him to listen.”

Away again, as far as he can go. Gods, can he even look me in the face?

“Did you not know this? I thought he would have told you himself.”

“I haven’t spoken with him since…” A lump forms in her throat. The memory of searing pain spirals down her back and coarse laughter rings in her ears. “It seems we keep missing each other. Either I’m asleep when he’s awake, or he’s elsewhere when I’m here. He hasn’t had the opportunity to tell me anything.”

“I… see.” Her pause speaks volumes. Disappointment, frustration, uncertainty… Perhaps her caution comes from her own healing wounds; she may not have been at the heart of the Praetorium, but she was more deeply affected by Thancred’s possession than she would like to let on. Perhaps she does not want to interfere in private affairs, believing she would be overstepping her bounds. Thancred is one matter, but Aureia? Does she even know her well enough for a conversation like this? They have been colleagues for the better part of a year, yes, but colleagues are not the same as friends. 

Or perhaps this is simply another reminder that their organization has been irrevocably changed. There is no going back to how they were before.

Minfilia draws in a sharp breath and sits up straight, her hands pressed firmly together. “Aureia, I must admit I have been duplicitous in my intentions of coming here. I came here because I care for you—” There’s a strange emphasis on the word, a brightness in her eyes, a flush in her cheeks. Odd. “—but also because I owe you an apology.”

Aureia frowns. “What for?”

“You were… correct.” She sighs heavily. “About the Waking Sands. About the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Our cause and the promise of a brighter future drives us onward, but we cannot endure on purpose alone. We have persisted, yes, but we have also failed. I failed. You warned us that you believed our headquarters were insecure. I failed to heed that warning, and the Waking Sands suffered the consequences.”

Her heart pangs. Oh, Minfilia… you don’t have to bear the guilt of this, too. “You don’t owe me an apology—”

“But I must insist you take it, nonetheless. I did not trust your insight when I know all too well that we all have come from different walks of life. And I intend to trust it from now on. An incident like this cannot happen again, not while I am Antecedent. Garlemald may have suffered a blow with the loss of the Black Wolf and the Ultima Weapon, but it does not mean they are gone. They will return, and when they do… They cannot know where we are. I will not allow them to infiltrate us as easily as they did before.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

“I do not yet know.” She glances at her, meeting her gaze. “But one thing is clear: our position is compromised. Though I do not wish to abandon the Waking Sands, we must find a new home.”

Aureia nods. She expected as much—everyone who has survived or remained knows the risk of staying is far too great. “Mor Dhona,” she offers quietly. “If you’re looking for suggestions, that is. Word will find a way to them one way or another, but a fortress—even in partial ruins—is far more defensible than Vesper Bay. Not to mention the terrain and local fauna does little for Imperial magitek.”

“Thancred said the same. And here I said my visit had naught to do with business. Perhaps I should consider that another failure on my part—Aureia? Are you all right?”

She grimaces, either out of pain or her inability to keep the pain a secret or the fact that it simply happening again as if the wounds have a mind of their own. Then again, Minfilia is perceptive—there is very little that can be hidden from her. This time does not hurt as much as the times before—strange how the scars seem to flare when she thinks of the Empire and its military, as if some latent connection stirs within her very skin.

Or perhaps it is the Echo.

Or perhaps it is her imagination.

Or…

Aether swirls about her, its warmth dancing just beyond her reach. She grasps it and the magic burns—hot, then hotter, then hotter, raging like wildfire.

She darts back and releases it. Astral fire is too strong, too unrestrained, too frenzied for her to safely draw upon. Gods, what is wrong with it? What is wrong with her?

“Aureia?” Minfilia’s hand rests on her arm. A tentative touch with an unspoken question.

Her throat is raw. “Help me.”

Some distant part of her flushes with shame. She should be better than this—when things have gone sour in the past, she pulled herself through on her own. There is little she has faith in these days, but she has always trusted her own skill. Years of work and training have paid off; she is safe within her habits, her knowledge, her expertise. To lose it all now…

It’s a betrayal, of a kind.

She should not have to ask for help.

Just as Minfilia should not have to see her like this.

“What do you need?” Minfilia asks softly. Her voice is a tether, pulling her back from the edge. “How do I help?”

“I…” Aureia swallows the lump in her throat. “I need to get these off. I need to see… I need to know what his magic did to me.”

She expects resistance—the healers said it is not time for the bandages to be removed—but Minfilia simply nods and asks no more questions. Rising to her feet, she collects tools from across the room and returns. The bed creaks as she sits on the edge, murmuring quiet instructions. Aureia does as asked and turns her back to her, gingerly pulling her tunic over her head and clutching a spare sheet to her chest to preserve her dignity. A small matter, really, but she has no desire to feel any more vulnerable than she already does.

Finally, she pulls her hair over her shoulder and out of the way and Minfilia sets about her work.

It does not take long to strip the bandages. A cut here, another there, and then they are unravelling with ease. Minfilia’s hands are cool and pleasant where they brush against her back, a welcomed contrast to the ragged itch of antiseptic cloth. There’s something satisfying about pulling them away, like scratching off an old scab covering a healed wound. Air washes over the fragile skin and she sucks in a breath, anticipating searing pain, but it never comes. A slight ache perhaps, but nothing more.

A small price to finally feel free.

And to know what lies beneath.

“Minfilia?” Aureia asks. “What… how is it?”

It is a long time before she answers. “I… I cannot answer that.”

What does that mean? “Tell me. Please.”

“I believe you should see for yourself. I am no healer nor mage. I think would have a greater understanding of it than I.” She pauses, her fingers resting gently on her shoulder, and takes a breath. “Shall I fetch a mirror?”

No. Her thoughts decline, but her head nods, nonetheless. A part of her fears what she will find lashed upon her back, that in seeing it she will confirm her most devastating suspicion. But the other part—the stronger part—needs to know. No matter what has been done to her, she will not bow to it. She will not let it break her.

She will learn. She will know. She will overcome.

But she cannot do that if she does not see.

Aureia sits frozen in place, clutching the sheet to her chest as Minfilia goes in search of a mirror. Click click click—heels clack on the flagstones, the sound ticking across the hollow infirmary like the hands of a clock. She raises her head and casts her gaze upwards to the stone-hewn ceiling, imagining the dozens of Scions passing through the halls above as they conduct their daily business. Perhaps Arenvald is there, greeting the others gently as he returns from a mission. Or Yda running her mouth, clamouring for someone to train with her while her regular partner is recuperating. Or Urianger in the library, pouring over ancient texts to resolve an esoteric problem only he would have thought of.

Anything to distract her from the empty bed and the whereabouts of its former occupant.

“Here.” The cot creaks as Minfilia sits down again. “In your own time… when you are ready.”

Aureia’s fingers grip the sheet.

Slowly, she turns her head and looks over her shoulder.

The mirror reflects back stretched flesh from where her clothing melted into her upper back. She expected as much; she’s no  stranger to burn scars, and all things considered the damage is minimal. The Scion conjurers did their work well. But beneath the pink of healing skin lies the true injury: a series of raised flame-red marks spread across her back in a pattern, too thin and too symmetrical to be natural. The more she looks, the more the pattern unfolds, flaring from the base of her neck to the small of her back like an arcane sigil. The marks burn hot and angry, the tang of foreign aether saturating every line.

It is as if he branded them directly into her skin.

“Do you know what it means?” Minfilia asks quietly. “Is… is there a meaning?”

“I don’t know.” Ruby eyes bore into the reflection, mesmerized and horrified. Her fear has evaporated; anger fills the void, simmering in the pit of her stomach. This is not a simple injury. Whether it was his intention or not, his magic has stamped an ever-lasting impression on her. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Never? Perhaps we should consult an arcanist. Considering the geometries here—” Fingertips trail lightly across the nape of her neck, gently moving stray hair out of the way. “—their insights would be valuable.”

Aureia’s throat tightens. “No. This is an Ascian’s work. The Arcanists’ Guild won’t make head nor tail of it.”

“Very well.”

Though Minfilia says the words, there’s disagreement in her tone. She would do differently—seek out experts, placing her trust in their expertise. If Aureia were anyone else she would be open to it. But the thought of strangers observing her at her most vulnerable, asking questions, prodding into her history, her skill… The thought makes her sick to her stomach. No one can know about this.

Not unless she trusts them.

“…perhaps Y’shtola or Papalymo, then?” Minfilia muses quietly. “An individual closer to home and no stranger to you?”

“No, I…” The lump in her throat hurts. She sighs and turns away, raking a hand restless through her hair. “I don’t think they would have any more insight than I already do. And I don’t need Y’shtola’s judgement—”

She cuts off, the words said in false anger. It’s not Y’shtola’s fault, not really. They are cordial when together, but do not have the friendship Minfilia assumes they have. The Miqo’te mage has made her nervous from the day they met, as if a single look could unravel everything she has worked for and proclaim her a fraud. She is more skilled than she will ever be.

And for now, she would rather struggle alone.

“Can you put that away?” Aureia asks raggedly.  

A pause. The bed creaks and she knows Minfilia has set the mirror aside. In the silence that follows, Aureia observes the infirmary, hunting down every last detail and committing them to memory. The shelves of tools and bandages and potions and salves. The privacy curtains, hanging still. The beds, once used, now empty. Thancred’s cot, where he tossed and turned at night, just out of reach. His expression was never peaceful; she wonders whether he ever played pretend, a convenient excuse to avoid seeing her face to face. And weaving throughout it all is the impression of every soul who has passed through that threshold, remnants of their aether lingering where they once stepped. So many have recovered here.

There is no reason why she can’t as well.

“I’m going to try something,” she murmurs. “Will you stay?”

Minfilia shifts closer to her. “Of course.”

Aureia closes her eyes, calming herself and emptying her mind. It has been a long time since she had to put such a thing into practice. When she was a child and her abilities manifested, her powers were so uncontrollable they ripped a hole straight through to the Void. It took time and effort to control such a thing, transforming a place of fear into one of strength.

She will not let it regress. She cannot.

Inhaling a deep breath, she reaches out to the power surging around her.

Aether churns. She pulls it in and siphons it away, compelling its element to shift to fire until a burning, brilliant light pulses in the palm of her hand—the impression of a spell the moment before it is released and bends to the caster’s intent. Power. Comfort. Strength. It could be anything now, and it yearns to be shaped by her.

She forces it past the wall in her mind.

It burns hot.  

Pain lashes across her back and she cries out, losing control. Flame sears her palm, burning, burning, burning—and so she slams the door on it and throws the wall back up, snuffing it out for good.

The remnants leave her gasping for air. Too strong. Too much. It has changed, and those scars have everything to do with it.

No, no, no, no… 

The panic rises. She bites her tongue, but a wretched sob rips from her throat anyway and she hunches over, desperately clutching the sheet to her chest. This can’t be it. This can’t be happening. A mage is what she is—how can she be afraid of her magic? Afraid of herself? Afraid of aether?

She suspected it was no normal fire Lahabrea cast upon her. She may have destroyed him, but he will destroy her in absentia, cutting her off from her strength. It seems even in defeat he has the last laugh.

Hydaelyn must know the extent of his magic upon her, but Hydaelyn is—as She so often is outside occasions when her champion is facing impossible odds—silent. Either this is not important enough to divert Her attention, or She knows as little about it as she does.

“Aureia…?”

She sucks in a breath. “I can’t… Minfilia, I can’t… I can’t cast. The scars are… It’s different now. I am no mage.”

“Oh, my dear…” Minfilia’s presence is steady and soothing as she draws her into her arms and lets her rest her head on her shoulder. She waits, giving her the time she needs for her sobs to cease and the panic to subside. It is only when she quiets that she finally speaks. “I cannot say I understand what has happened to you. Not even with the power of the Echo. But this I do know—you need not suffer alone. I respect your desire to keep your condition private, but pray, consult another. Urianger will keep his silence, I know he will. When you are ready—and it must not needs be now—pay him a visit. He will know something of which no other will have thought.”

Aureia opens her eyes, blinking back the last of her tears. “All right,” she murmurs. “I will ask him.”

“Promise me you will.”

“I—”

“Who do you think I am, Aureia? I will not allow someone I care for greatly fall back into her poor habits of silence and distance and attempting to do everything on her own.”

“…you make me sound like Thancred.”

“Do I now? The pair of you run me ragged with this behaviour. Thankfully, I am well practiced at suffering through it.”

“Then I promise I will consult Urianger. But only if you promise something in return.”

“Of course. Anything for my dearest of friends.”

Warmth spreads through her chest. Friend? I suppose we are. How could we not be, after all this? 

Aureia raises her head from Minfilia’s shoulder and meets her gaze. “Promise me that you will not tell Thancred,” she says quietly. “Not about the scars. Not about… the pain. He doesn’t need to feel more guilt for something he did not do.”

Minfilia’s expression softens, a distant look in her eye. “Of course,” she replies. “If that is what you wish, then I will hold my tongue. This is your matter to disclose, not mine. But Aureia…”

“Yes?”

“He should know. It is not to benefit of either of you to keep your silence. Only when all is known do I believe that both of you can move past this.”

Aureia looks away, her gaze passing once more over the empty cot. “I’ll think about it,” she lies.

primam wreathed in prompto ->

sunflower :: the sunflower, as the name entails, is a sunny flower with a lot of happiness, warmth, and joy tied to it for its floriology -- or flower language. sunflowers are flowers that are defined as always pointing toward the sun. this has made the sunflower also come to mean adoration, loyalty, devotion, and hope. it is also seen as an optimistic flower, as its aforementioned feature to always follow the sun has also come to represent finding light in even the darkest of times.

primrose (yellow) :: just like most yellow flowers, the yellow primrose is associated with happiness, warmth, and joy. however, the yellow primrose also is long lasting. it has been used to represent deep bonds between people, especially those who have been with you thick and thin, and prompto has built himself up as someone to be seen as worthy, putting others before himself, and being the best friend he can to everyone he cares about.

primrose (red) :: red is often a color associated with deep passion and love when it comes to flower language, and the red primrose is no exception to this. as an early spring bloom, the red primrose also represents young love, charm, and longing for someone. it conveys a message of "i cannot live without you", and when it comes to prompto, it feels like without everyone who stayed in his life, he would be lost. so for him, i do believe the red primrose is perfect for his love for those he wants to keep in his life.

tulip (yellow) :: in the victorian era, yellow tulips were said to mean 'there's sunshine in your smile'. again, it shares a lot of meaning with other yellow flowers as being bright, cheery, and happy. an older meaning of the yellow tulip veered more on the less-than-happy side as being associated with hopeless love or even jealousy. while i don't know prompto to get jealous, we definitely do have a hopeless romantic on our hands when it comes to him!

nasturtium (orange) :: the orange nasturtium is a creative flower, bringing forth positive and creative energy. in the victorian era, this was also considered more of a 'joke' to give to people in jesting nature, though they were kept to keep a fresh smell around the house regardless. other than that, nasturtiums' common symbolism also revolves around patriotism and being victorious in battle.

brunfelsia pauciflora :: also called the 'morning-noon-and-night', 'yesterday-today-and-tomorrow' or the 'kiss-me-quick' flower, the brunfelsia pauciflora has no real dedicated meaning to it (that i could find, and i did look). i kind of just chose it for its names and the sun and moon theme that i often heavily associate with primam and prompto. these flowers' name and epithets come from the fact that its flowers appear in a gradient array of color from purple to white, or vice versa, very often having blooms that also include this pastel purple upon the stems.

larkspur (white) :: as a general, the larkspur has come to symbolize an open heart, sincerity, strong bonds, dedication, and fun. the larkspur is a humorous flower that indicates the desire to laugh and bring a smile to the face. the white larkspur is associated with happiness and joy, much like yellow flowers, though also comes to represent new beginnings -- a fresh start. like other white flowers, it also does symbolize innocence, purity, and grace. the larkspur is also a protective flower, said to ward off evil spirits and was planted in gardens to keep homes safe.

spes wreathed in ignis ->

iris (purple) :: a noble and regal flower, the purple iris is given to represent wisdom, strength, and courage -- it is a flower of recognition for one's accomplishments and achievements. the iris is also a february birth flower (along with pansies, violets, and primrose to name a few!), making it very good for ignis to have with his february 7th birthday. :>

hydrangea (green) :: a fresh flower, the green hydrangea is associated with health and luck. the hydrangea -- in general -- is also a sincere flower, conveying many such emotions like gratitude, understanding, renewal, and abundance.

camellia (pink; winter's interlude) :: one of many different kinds of romantic flower in general, camellias are often given to those close in one's life, and depending on color, carries a different meaning. the pink camellia expresses longing and yearning. it is typically given as a gift to someone in a long-distance relationship, though could also be used to represent missing someone who has passed.

carnation (green) :: the green carnation, like many green flowers, represent health and good luck. these also represent resilience in achieving goals and an enduring fascination.

philippine jasmine (sampaguita; maiden of orleans) :: the symbolism of jasmine is adaptability at the forefront. while it may be used to convey purity and innocence, the jasmine flower also represents virtuousness, delicate romance, grace, passion, and sensuality. i also wanted to place the sampaguita as part of the small bouquet to represent ignis as 'divine hope'. because i feel like none must be more hopeful than ignis to navigate the darkness and learn to grow around his blindness to one day fight again at the king's side to bring back the light.

lavender :: a calming flower, the lavender is a flower that represents serenity, devotion, loyalty, protection, wisdom, unity, and grace. the lavender is an acknowledgment of love, and for ignis, though he may not voice it, he shows it, and he shows it thoroughly with how he cares for others.

vesper wreathed in nyx ->

protea :: the protea flower is a flower of resilience, courage, and represents the ability to overcome challenging conditions. because of its storied history and the fact that the protea takes its name from the greek god 'proteus' who is known to change his form at will, the protea flower also represents the ability to embrace change while also embracing one's individuality. with the snippets of story that leafy has also shared about vesper, i think it apt to also attribute the symbolism of transformation and hope into nyx as he's allowed a life with vesper past the events of kingsglaive.

lotus (blue) :: the blue egyptian lotus represents being strong of spirit, and is revered in egyptian religion and spirituality. in egyptian mythology, the blue lotus connects to the divine, and represents a transition from the afterlife to rebirth with its connection to the sun. given nyx's canon, i felt that the blue lotus was a good representative flower of having a taste of that afterlife and then having a shot at continuing his life at vesper's side (pending on the au that's happening ;))

lotus (purple) :: a mystic flower, the purple lotus -- like many other purple flowers -- is a flower that also represents royalty. though nyx is not of royal or noble birth, there is a noble drive to his actions that shows in his unshakable loyalty to those he swears himself to and the duty he feels he must uphold.

periwinkle (blue) :: as an evergreen flower, the periwinkle has come to mean an everlasting and enduring love -- eternal love. the periwinkle is good for symbolizing a love that is steadfast, loyal, and that nothing will come between the bond that you share. given leafy's very detailed documents on how she headcanons galahdan weddings, i felt that the periwinkle was a very apt flower to give to nyx that represents his enduring feelings for vesper.

periwinkle (purple) :: much like the blue periwinkle above, the purple periwinkle carries many of the same connotations and meanings. similar to the egyptian blue lotus, the purple periwinkle is another spiritual flower, chosen to further represent how strong of spirit that nyx has shown himself to be. it can also be a way of telling someone -- if given as a gift -- that you find them captivating and unique.

bluebell :: a quiet declaration of love and devotion, the bluebell is a romantic flower that has also come to symbolize introspection, personal growth, constancy, and resilience. as spring flowers that bloom shortly after winter, they are also a flower of hope and renewal -- "no matter how dark things get, light and beauty will always return" -- a fitting flower for a man who would give anything so that those he cares for get to see the light of a new day.

caelan wreathed in ardyn ->

black bat flower (tacca chantieri) :: this is actually a new one to me! so i'm not entirely sure of what the flower language for this is in its entirety, and it's possible that what i found could be wrong. when i looked into it, the majority of what i could find is that the black bat flower is said to represent the unknown, transformation, rebirth, courage, and protection. it is also representative of being able to find beauty in darkness. according some some other sources i found, it is said to be a symbol of good luck and prosperity.

dahlia (red) :: while red is a common color across many flowers to represent a deep and abiding love (and the red dahlia is no exception), the red dahlia represents strength, power, the ability to overcome, and great perseverance.

dahlia (white) :: this one may be an interesting one, but hear me out. within the context of rhi's 'immortal shield', ardyn is given a second chance at life -- to really make something of it. so i chose the white dahlia to represent rebirth (not so much purity, but we can also use that to represent the fact that aera is always there, watching over them both and wishing them nothing but happiness in life with one another).

dahlia (purple) :: while there are not many meanings associated with the purple dahlia in general, it was chosen as a royal color, as many purple flowers were used to represent royalty or nobility. a nod to ardyn's role as the true king before it was stripped away from him by somnus.

zinnia (red) :: to start, the zinnia symbolizes absent friends, which there are plenty to be had in rhi's 'immortal shield' as we go through the journey between ardyn and caelan, their relationship budding from acquaintances and then blossoming into a whirlwind of emotion. so the red zinnia was chosen, not necessarily for the love aspect (but it plays a role), but for the strong emotional bond aspect that develops, and that it also represents the steadfast beating of the heart.

zinnia (purple) :: again, purple flowers are often used to represent royalty -- this is true of the purple zinnia. however, the purple zinnia also represents spirituality, elegance, and a sense of pride (much which is to be found in the banter between them both, and the actions they take to avoid having the other come into harm's way).

zinnia (yellow) :: gold is a color that was touched upon in 'immortal shield' -- a striking color when observed in ardyn's eyes. because it was brought up as a defining feature several times that was lingered upon, i added the yellow zinnia. yellow flowers tend to convey feelings of happiness and joy, and while the yellow zinnia holds these meanings, it also holds the meaning of new beginnings and optimism. the yellow zinnia is also the zinnia indicative of daily remembrance.

sweet william dianthus :: the dianthus flower is called the 'flower of the gods', coming from the greek word 'dios' (god) and 'anthos' (flower). the dianthus flower has been treasured for centuries, and are one of the oldest cut flowers. there are an array of meanings associated with the dianthus flower, as it has such a rich history; these meanings range from admiration, passion, capriciousness, affection, love, gratitude, to even sadness and death. quite the flower for a man two millennia old!