The Light Of Creation knows they love it even if they don’t. It feels it in their frantic grasping hands, the way it's held so so tight to their chests and trembling fragile hearts. They prove their love for the Light every cycle. Time and time again, threaded through the planes. It is loved. It is sought. They kill for the Light and they die for the Light and they love and laugh and spill blood and it is all for the Light.
The Light is not a selfish lover. It whispers with more than words and images. It hums songs they can only begin to hear. They have time to learn to listen, they have time to learn it’s love.