"Let's build a new world order together!"
- Charm: Mind-bending Jedi powers
- Adaptability: Needs development
- Planning: Superior
- Survival Preparations: Superior
- Wealth: Gave it to the poor
- Weapons Skill: Death hugs
- Intelligence: Yoda
- Warm Fuzzies: Melting
- Leadership: Charismatic
To Ascend Or Not To Ascend
Most Idealists will self actualize and transform into creatures of pure light when the end of the world comes (see the Idealist Survival Overview). But alas, not all of them will be able to immediately achieve this glorious state, probably due to bad type development, a mean boss, a traumatic childhood experience with a chicken, etc.
Alright, so you didn't transform. It's not the end of the world.
...Okay, so maybe it is. But still. Think of this as an opportunity for personal growth. You will be actualizing parts of your self that you never even knew existed and enjoying every moment as though it were your last (which it probably is). Anyway, you're mutating into a creature with wings and mind powers now. Isn't that cool?
When you're done preening in front of the mirror, it's time to get down to the more important business of staying alive.
Your Survival Strategies
Like all types, ENFJs have the three basic survival strategies: 1.) hole up in a storage unit full of MREs and water; 2.) Scrabble over the nightmarish wasteland scavenging for food and fighting mutants and zombies; and 3.) Party up with a group and try to make it to an enclave of law and order. However, since ENFJs are Idealists, they also have a strategy #4, namely the aforementioned self actualization.
The only problem with strategy #4 is that you will have to discover yourself, and self discovery can be hard work, even with the help of psychedelic drugs. Most Idealists will employee a mixture of #4 and one of the preceding three strategies.
Since ENFJs are so people-oriented, they will tend to favor the "party up" approach. They choose this strategy not merely because they want to seek safe refuge, but because they want to support and encourage their companions along the way. For the ENFJ, it is the people, not the destination, that truly matter.
ENFJs will provide the following free services to their desperate little band of survivors:
- Warm Affirmation: "You really smashed those zombies back there! Way to go berserk!"
- Grief Counseling: "There was nothing you could have done." (Hug)
- Relationship Advice: "You two should stop arguing. We have to work together if we want to survive."
- Team Spirit: "Let's come up with a name for ourselves! And hats!"
With the ENFJ's natural desire to take care of others—and hold them back from their own folly—they are an asset to any party.
Our New World Order
ENFJs have a certain beguiling charm, nay, charisma. They spend so much time pondering the mysteries of life and love that they can produce inspirational quotes on demand. Add to that their magnetic teaching abilities, their benevolence, their likability, and their focus on the needs and feelings of others, and it becomes clear that ENFJs are life's natural sages. They make excellent leaders for organizations where people come first.
Of course, that's only true for the well developed ENFJs—and they're all ascended now, aren't they? Those ENFJs that are left have all the same charisma, magnetism, and focus on the needs and feelings of others, plus a healthy dose of insecurity, paranoia, and scary dark side powers. These ENFJs will start (post)apocalyptic cults. To help people.
Of course, many ENFJs will already be leading apocalyptic cults when the apocalypse comes. For you, the end of the world will come as no surprise. You’ll just sit there with your initiates, sipping cherry Kool-Aid as you watch the mushroom clouds bloom.
Seeing as you turned out to be right and everyone else was wrong, you may be tempted to continue leading your cult. However, let’s face it: the cult is probably the reason you haven’t self actualized yet. In fact, it probably contributed to some awful (or at least really weird) type development on your part. And let’s not even mention what it did to your followers.
So you need to ask yourself—do you want to continue to lead your cult, or do you want to evolve into a creature of pure light?
Right, the cult then. The first thing you should do is to set up a compound in a deserted area so that you can keep your followers away from the contamination of the outside world. However, before you do this, make sure you know why the area is deserted. Do the rocks glow blue at night? Is there a tyrannoscythe that lives up the mountain? Are there giant worms living beneath the soil? These and other questions should be addressed during the site preparation.
Once you’ve found a safe home for your followers, it’s time to set up shop. Depending upon the needs of your cult, you can stock up drugs, guns, and friendly little pamphlets inviting people to discover themselves. When the setup is completed, you can continue brainwashing (educating) your followers.
This will be an easy task, because by this time there won’t be any doubt about what you say.
“He was right about the world ending last year, so he’s right about eating nothing but celery, mayonnaise and peanut butter from now on,” your followers will tell the new initiates. “Now we must hop around on one foot and shout ‘I am a one legged kangaroo’ until the sun sets.”
"Why?" ask the new initiates in bewilderment.
Your followers will carefully explain the deep, meaningful symbology behind one legged kangaroos that you came up with while self actualizing on psychedelic drugs. The initiates will reluctantly start hopping.
Occasionally you may feel guilty about how you giggle uncontrollably while helping your followers achieve self actualization, but the feelings will go away as you progress down the road of poor type development.
After awhile though, leading the cult won’t be enough. At this point you may want to begin sharing your philosophy of nonviolent self discovery with the world. You'll start by blowing up the nearby Guardian armaments factory.
The Guardians won’t like your bold stand against Evil. In fact, they will hire mercenaries to kill you and all of your “fanatics” (as they call your devotees). Fortunately your peaceful compound is well stocked with guns and ammo.
After a long and bloody siege you will emerge victorious. Now you can seize control of the entire Guardian enclave, rebuild the armaments factory, and use it as a stepping stone in your crusade for world peace.
Restoring harmony to the countryside will be fun. You will wash over the landscape in a tide of red; in fact, you will rename your cult the Red Tsunami, striking terror into the hearts of warmongers everywhere. After your passionate Idealist armies have liberated the region, you will impose your own law, rallying everyone under the sacred symbols of the red tsunami and the kangaroo.
There is a problem, however. Your eyes are beginning to turn blood red as you mutate. This wouldn't be a problem (you wear silver contact lenses) if it weren't also for the fact that your wings are turning black and raggedy. It's just not a very...useful image to show to your followers, who are all NFs trying evolve into creatures of pure light. In fact, as one of your most loyal lieutenants observes, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were evolving into a creature of pure darkness."
Heresy! You secretly assign an INFP Mystic to poison him, then announce that you have seen a vision in which your lieutenant was struck down by a sudden, mysterious illness because he had disloyal thoughts.
But your lieutenant has other plans. He announces that he has seen a vision in which a kangaroo with two legs told him that he must wrest control of the cult from you and bring it back to its original purpose of peaceful drug use. There is a schism; he sends his armies to attack yours. In time you decide—completely of your own free will, in response to a sacred vision—to gather up your true followers and go on a spirit journey to a third world country where you can pursue your self actualization in peace. Since all countries are third world now and you like kangaroos, you'll head to Australia.
When you step off the deck of the ship, your idyllic new life begins. Oh sure, there are some drawbacks: Mutant saltwater crocodiles that can outrun horses and spit acid. Roving packs of starved dingos that encircle the encampment at night, howling and spitting acid at the sentries. Mutant Tasmanian devils that attack on sight, ripping the faces off of the unwary with acid dripping jaws. Snakes that spit venom, and also acid. And mosquitoes. That spit acid.
But more horrifying than any of these things is the realization of what the local ENTJ Warlord has done to your sacred emblem, the kangaroo. He is exploiting them for his warmongering purposes by planting control chips in their heads, mutating them into acid spitting versions of themselves, and using them as soldiers in his army. Even worse, he has shamelessly co-opted your name and logo and is calling his group the Purple Tsunami.
Under normal circumstances, it would be simple enough to attack his forces with ENFP psychic terror brigades that would crack the spirit of his troops like a china teacup. Then you would sit back and watch his warriors flee while the swift-winged INFPs and INFJs hunt from above. But there is a problem: his army is composed mainly of kangaroos, and to harm them would be sacrilege. So what can you do?
- Arrange a diplomatic meeting, greet the ENTJ with a friendly ENFJ hug, and crush. (Or if he won't hug, then reduce him to ash using your powers.)
- Hire mercenaries to kill the kangaroos for you, thus leaving your hands clean.
- Sue him for infringing your trademark.
- Pour gas over your followers and light them up in peaceful protest.
You talk these ideas over with your cadre, and it is generally agreed that they are all bad. The ENTJ Warlord's personal bodyguard might take umbrage if you reduced him to ash; it just doesn't seem ethical to have someone else slay the kangaroos even though technically it is not blasphemy; it's hard to find a good lawyer with all the ENTPs gone; and gasoline is expensive. But nobody seems to have any better ideas. In fact, the only other "idea" is provided by a fellow ENFJ, who says naively,
"Couldn't we all just get along and love each other?"
Eventually idea #1 is worked over into a faux diplomatic exchange where a bomb will be planted under the negotiations building. A substitute will go in your place and be heroically martyred when the explosives go off. Your loyal INFJ Muse second in command goes to arrange the meeting with the ENTJ.
Congratulating yourself on a good day's work, you head to your tent and sit down on your mattress. Time for some eye drops. You pop out your contact lenses, revealing blood red eyes, and sooth your scratchy eyes with moisturizer fluid. Afterward, you prepare a solution of bleach to get rid of the black roots in your wings.
When the procedure is done, you stare poutily at yourself in a hand mirror. Hmph. Creature of darkness indeed. I should have boiled the traitor's blood on the spot.
But a part of you sort of wonders if your lieutenant was right. People used to call you "Sunny" and declare that your presence lightened up the room. Now people ask if it feel a chill and wonder if the lights are going dead. Your followers instinctively cringe away from you, and even the bubbly ENFPs quiet down when you pass by. (You try to tell yourself it is from awe, but the way they rub the goosebumps off their arms tells another story.)
Sighing, you put the mirror away. You don't know why you worry about these things, since your cult's doctrine clearly says that you will evolve into the champion that will destroy all creatures of darkness forever.
There is a soft footstep outside; hastily you pop your contacts back in. Blinking furiously, you see the flap of your tent drawn back. The naive ENFJ from the meeting is standing there, holding a lantern.
"Are you alright?" she asks, mistaking your blinking for an attempt to hold back tears.
Since your organization is composed entirely of Idealists, everyone shares their feelings freely and cries without restraint. You, on the other hand, must hide your feelings under a veneer of perfect serenity because you feel only joyful exaltation. You've become a perfect actor over the years, and nobody suspects what you're really like down deep. Which is probably a good thing, you reflect darkly.
"I was crying for joy at the thought of our imminent triumph," you explain. "Why have you come, initiate?"
She looks shyly at the ground. "I...I was wondering if..." You wait with a beatific smile that hides your mounting impatience. "...if you wanted to hear a poem I wrote for you."
A poem? Suddenly you are suspicious. She seems like the sort that would have defected during the schism—one of those overly idealistic peace-at-all-costs NFs who would rather grieve about how war has devastated Earth than overthrow the governments that started it. Could she be an assassin planted in the ranks by your former lieutenant? Is she planning to draw out a dagger and plunge it into your heart, knowing full well that all the healers split off with the heretical faction?
Though it seems likely, you are an ENFJ and have a hard time saying no. Instead you say, "Sure, I'd love to!"
She comes inside and sits down in kangaroo position. Taking out a piece of paper, she begins to read in a poignant voice,
“Within the dark cloud, the silver lining gleams
Within the night, the stars shine
Within the darkest heart, a spark glows
And ignites a fire in mine.”
She looks at you, her fuchsia eyes brimming over with emotion. But in your world of NFs, this is nothing special.
"That was very deep. And meaningful," you say, softening your smile. "Thank you." Now go away so I can get some sleep.
"What do you think?" she asks nervously, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
"It was wonderful. Well, we must all rest so that we may rise refreshed for our dawn meditations." You show her out, ignoring the fact that her eyes are now quivering with a different kind of emotion.
You sigh irritably when she is gone. Maybe what your organization needs is more Rationals.
The next day you meet with your followers to decide who gets to be the lucky martyr who will be granted instant self actualization when the bomb goes off.
You stand up and announce, "I have decided that it is my duty to die for our glorious cause by blowing myself up to destroy the warmongering ENTJ. Do not grieve for me; I shall become a creature of pure light. All I ask is that you remember me kindly in your hearts, as you sit here happy, safe and content without one single care, having selfishly refused to sacrifice even one thing for the good of others. So I say, farewell, and remember that I love you all."
"No, no!" everyone cries. "Not you! Let one of us go instead!"
For a moment everyone looks around at everyone else, not wanting to be the selfish one who thought of their own wishes before others.
Abruptly the other ENFJ stands up and spreads her snow white wings. "I will go for you," she declares.
You have a feeling this is about last night. "No, no," you say. "I could not let you heroically give your life—I must go."
"Please, let me take your place!" she cries.
"Oh, very well. Prepare yourself to receive the gift of death."
Actually, no one has ever proven that dying in your service will grant instant self actualization. Still, there's no point in bursting their bubble, right? Might as well die happy. Anyway, you don't know for sure that the ENFJ won't self actualize. She's probably an assassin anyway, you think, though it seems pretty unlikely at this point.
Nevertheless, a tiny part of you feels a teensy bit...bad. You go find a group of initiates. "Smother me with affirmations," you say.
It works, for awhile anyway. When you head back to your tent—when you are alone—the dark thoughts come. They all know I'm a creature of darkness, deep down. They don't really love me. Nobody loves me. Nobody knows me for who I really am. If they knew who I really was, they wouldn't like me anymore.
You snarf down a pack of twinkies, an apple pie, and a box of oreos. It doesn't really help. You begin to wonder if your initiate now secretly thinks that you are a horrible person and is telling everyone what a jerk you are. You imagine all your friends listening sympathetically as she gives an overblown account of your cruelty. They comfort her when she tells them that she was so hurt that she has decided to become a martyr, because the world is just too miserable to bear any longer. Then her friends will go and tell all their friends, exaggerating with poetical NF zeal, until everyone in the camp secretly believes that you are a selfish monster with a heart of stone.
Finally you get up and go to the other ENFJ's tent.
"I've seen a vision where you aren't supposed to be the one to die gloriously," you snap. "There, now do you feel better?"
She stares back at you with reddened eyes, her mouth stuffed full of celery and mayonnaise. Apparently you are not the only one who uses food as a spiritual metaphor for enlightenment.
Hastily she chews and swallows, wiping mayonnaise from her lips. "But why?" she cries.
"Don't ask me, ask the beings of pure light—who communicate with me alone," you say crossly. "Now if you'll excuse me—"
"But surely there must be an explanation," she says, reaching out and taking you by the arm. You flap your wings in a gesture of impatience; dying feathers flutter down.
"You were probably unworthy. Or maybe it's your bad poetry. I don't blame them. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get ready to die." You twist away and stalk back towards your tent.
"Wait, please let me sacrifice myself in your place!" the other ENFJ cries, tears flowing down her cheeks.
You whirl around. All your patience is gone. "Fine! If you really want to die, then be my guest! Just don't blame me if you don't self actualize."
You stomp back to your tent, throw aside the flap, and hurl yourself down on your mattress. As you sit there, fuming, you notice the poem lying on the floor. You pick it up and read it again. It’s just as stupid as you thought. You read it again. And again. Finally you just glare at it without knowing why.
Maybe back in the old days, when you liked reading poetry instead of turning unbelievers to ash, you could have figured out what bothers you about the poem. But not anymore. You pop out your contact lenses, check your mirror to see if maybe your eyes haven't gone back to normal since you've been so nice today, then fold your wings about you and sink into a disappointed sleep.
The next morning you hold a video conference with the ENTJ Warlord, an arrogant man wearing a cape of imperial purple edged with gold. Such is his pride and hubris that he thinks himself your better. He shall soon be humbled.
Gushingly you explain how impressed you are with how he has improved your sacred animal, the kangaroo, and how flattered you are that he chose to imitate your glorious tsunami symbol for his own cause. With a sincere-looking smile you offer to join forces with him and provide psychic terror brigades to help him in his campaign. All you ask in exchange is that he will help you destroy the false believers afterward. "And if we all work together," you finish, tears of hope brimming in your eyes, "We can make a better world."
The ENTJ Warlord is a creature of logic; he weighs the pros and cons and decides that you could be instrumental in helping him achieve his goals—though you are not to be trusted in the slightest. He cautiously agrees to a meeting to discuss an alliance. You tell him how wonderful it will be to meet him and how much you admire his bold stand for religious freedom. He smiles tightly and thanks you for your time. The communication is closed.
You turn to your INFJ Muse second in command. "Prepare the bomb."
Returning to your tent, you lie down and meditate. (Meditation for you means watching hungry mosquitoes crawl across then tent fabric above.) Though your meditation sessions are seldom fruitful, this time you find a snatch of verse recurring to your thoughts, Within the darkest heart, a spark glows. It is from the poem. What could it mean?
Suddenly the answer comes to you. You should smuggle the bomb into the conference by having it implanted in the ENFJ's stomach in a gastric bypass operation. Ingenious! Smiling in contentment, you fall asleep.
That night you have a strange dream. A one legged kangaroo surrounded by an aura of light is standing there, watching you.
"Hey stupid," it says mystically. "You got it wrong."
You wake up in a cold sweat. Shivering, you pull your wings around yourself for warmth; it is the middle of the night. What could this strange vision mean? And why did the kangaroo sound like your eight grade English teacher, who told you that you could never be a poet because you mistakenly interpreted the metaphorical significance of the rose as purity rather than as love, a criticism which traumatized you for life and caused your current state of bad type development?
You cry for awhile, then light a lamp and go over the poem again. You meditate. I'm a failure, a horrible person, a worthless no good—
In a leap of intuition the answer comes to you: "the darkest heart" is an elliptical reference to the book Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, a symbolic narrative with deeply meaningful insights into materialistic mysticism and the duality of human nature. Thank goodness, you think, sighing in relief. I knew I'd figure it out if I thought about it long enough.
Turning out the light, you go back to sleep.
The kangaroo reappears to you, looking cross. Sounding exactly like your eighth grade English teacher, it leans forward and says slowly and clearly, "Do I have to spell it out?"
You wake up screaming, "Love, love! Roses mean looo—"
You throw on the lamp and snatch up the poem.
Yes! It all makes perfect sense now! It is a love poem—addressed to you! The other ENFJ has fallen in love with your irresistible perfection, your compassionate spirit, and your deep, mystical insight into the world. Clearly she doesn't know you at all.
Alone and misunderstood by everyone, you cry for the rest of the night.
Being ENFJs, neither of you can avoid each other for long. Next morning you "accidentally" bump into your initiate while looking for a secluded place to meditate. (It suddenly occurs to you that the other ENFJ has always picked out spots next to you. A thrill goes through you at the thought.)
For a moment you both fake cheerful small talk. Then you say, "I'm really sorry if I hurt your feelings."
"Oh, it's okay," she says. "I'm super sorry I hurt you by interrupting your thoughts of exaltation."
"Oh no, I'm sorry," you say. "It was my fault; it was really inconsiderate of me."
"Oh, don't feel bad, you didn't mean it," she says.
Now that the misunderstanding has been cleared up, you say, "Uh, about that poem. I was just wondering if it had any, uh, symbolic meanings I should know about."
"Nah, it was just a stupid little thing I threw together for fun," she says, laughing. "I'm really bad at poetry."
"Oh." She hates me! Of course you would have misinterpreted the symbology. It was probably a reference to Heart of Darkness all along. You curse the kangaroo for misleading you. What a fool you've been!
"Well, I guess I'd better start my meditations," you say with a cheerful smile.
"Me too," she says, smiling happily back.
Your meditations take the form of plucking the feathers out of your wings one by one and letting them fall to ground as you choke out over and over, "She loves me not."
Then you devour five twinkies, a package of ho hos, and ten marshmallow creme cookies.
The conference is scheduled in two days. Your second in command summons a surgeon to perform the gastric bypass operation. The doctor arrives in a jeep, a blood-spattered bandana wrapped around his head. Reading from his textbook, "A General Introduction to Surgical Techniques," he dwells long on the risks of the surgery, namely bleeding, infection, blood clots, breathing problems, hypoglycemia, ulcers, vitamin deficiencies, and even death. Finally he concludes,
"She seems very healthy, for a mutant. I don't think surgery is justifiable under the circumstances. Now if you wanted me to remove the, err, feathered growths on her shoulders—"
"She has a serious binge-eating problem," you snap. "She needs help now or she'll become dangerously obese."
The doctor clears his throat uncomfortably and adds, "There are also significant medical ethics issues that are raised by your request to have a bomb planted in her stomach."
"Would it be medically ethical if I caused your head to spontaneously combust?"
The surgery is successful.
The next day you are allowed to visit the patient. The ENFJ lies pale and exhausted in the medical tent, her wings splayed limply off to either side. She smiles weakly when you enter.
"I can't wait to self actualize tomorrow! Thank you so much for this," she whispers, grinning.
"It was nothing, thank you for volunteering," you respond with a huge smile.
"I, uh, have to tell you something real important before I die tomorrow," she says. "Come here."
You sit down on the edge of the bed. Her fuchsia eyes lock onto your silver contact lenses. For a moment she seems to be struggling to speak. Her breathing comes fast and shallow, her hands clench the blankets. Your own heart smashes like a hammer.
Then, all at once she chokes out, "Wow, we're having super awesome weather lately, aren't we?"
"It's been sooo beautiful out," you agree.
"Yeah. I'd better get some rest now. I'm real tired," she says, looking away.
Feeling sick, you get up and walk outside.
"She won't be able to eat solids for awhile," the doctor says. "Her next meal will have to be blended into liquid form. Do you have anything besides celery, mayonnaise, and peanut butter around here?"
"No," you mumble. You ate everything else last night.
Having nothing further to consume, you try meditation to calm your nerves. But all you can think of is the bomb within her stomach ticking, ticking, ticking down. You read her poem over and over and cry.
You are awakened early the next morning by the thudding of feet outside and a voice shouting your name.
"Wha—?" you mumble, stumbling out of bed and unzipping the flap.
"Something's gone wrong with the surgery!" cries your INFJ second in command. "The doctor thinks she's dying."
Half-dressed, you race for the medical tent. Inside, the other ENFJ is gasping desperately for breath, her strangled inhalations caught in her throat. The doctor is standing there looking puzzled.
You seize him by the arm. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," the doctor says. He listens to her lungs with a stethoscope. "I've never performed this operation on a mutant before. I told you—"
"Cure her right now or I'll turn you into a cockroach!" you shriek.
"I don't know how," he snaps.
You race outside and grab your second in command. "Get a healer! Now!"
"They all left during the schism."
With a snarl of despair you race back to the ENFJ's bedside. You clutch her pale hand in your cold, clammy one and look pleadingly into her eyes.
She looks at you and manages to gasp out, "Th—th—the poem—was...true."
Tears well up in your eyes. "B-but you said—"
"I lied," she whispers. She squeezes your hand weakly.
"You really love me?" you say, trembling.
You bury your head in her wing with an anguished sob. Now that you know the truth it's too late! If only you had healing powers like a real Idealist! If only you weren't a miserable creature of darkness! You would give anything—your life—your army—your very soul—to save her!
"Is she by any chance allergic to peanuts?" the doctor asks.
"I—I am," the ENFJ chokes out. "I c-can—only—eat—m-mayonnaise—and—celery."
"Oh. Let me go get some epinephrine out of my pack."
The injection works. It turns out the doctor fed her a single spoonful of watered-down peanut butter for breakfast. You are so grateful to him for saving her life that you do not turn him into a cockroach.
That night she sleeps peacefully as you hold her hand. You watch her breathing, count her eyelashes, and cannot resist touching her hair. It is soft as silk. You twirl a lock around your fingers, marveling at her. Within you feelings stir that you can hardly believe you were capable of experiencing. The lines of her face hold you entranced, and when she murmurs your name in her sleep you feel something close to ecstasy.
In the morning you are there when she awakens. You look anxiously down at her. "How are you?"
"I'm alright," she murmurs. "Now." She squeezes your hand gently and your heart pounds a rhythm of happiness and terror.
"I-I have to show you something," you stammer out. "You won't like it."
You remove your contact lenses and look her in the eyes with your blood-red orbs. Then you crunch your eyes shut and look down in shame.
"What?" she asks softly.
"They're red!" you blurt.
"They looked hazel to me," she says softly. For a second you sit there, frozen. Then you lunge for the nearest reflective surface. In the back of a gleaming dental mirror you see two beautiful hazel eyes with fringes of gold peering back at you. You look back at her, your mouth working open and shut.
"Th-they were red," you say. "And my wings—they're black—I bleach them—"
A clump of black-rooted feathers falls out, making a puffy pile on the floor. You stare at the bald spot on your wing, wondering what the kangaroo is happening.
"I know," the ENFJ whispers. "I've known for a long time."
You kneel down next to her, uncomprehending. "You knew all along?"
She reaches up and strokes the side of your face. You press your cheek into her touch, luxuriating in the warmth of her soft skin. Awesome feelings churn inside of you.
"Yes," she says. She takes your hand and places it on hers.
She is the spark of light in the darkness of your heart.
It will take awhile for all these revelations to sink in. At first you may be somewhat insecure. For example, your second in command will walk in and find you morose.
"What's wrong?" he asks in concern.
"She only called me five times yesterday!" you cry. "What if she doesn't love me anymore? And look—she only used three exclamation points in this love letter!"
But other than these occasional bumps, your romance will proceed with typical ENFJ intensity. You will talk about her to everyone around you, finally wearing out even your fellow Idealists, who normally eat, drink, and breath romance. You will overanalyze everything she says and doesn't say in minute detail, alternating between rapture and wretchedness. Eventually you and her will spend every minute of your day in physical contact: holding hands, hugging, snuggling, and exchanging long, tender kisses when you can steal a moment alone. You will shower one other with compliments, and you will even write her love poems where a rose is used as a symbol of purity. (She loves them.)
You will also molt. All of your raggedy black feathers will fall out, and for awhile you will look like a hideous plucked chicken. But soon new, snowy white feathers will grow in. People will start remarking that you brighten up the room, and your followers will actually like being around you again. Even the ENTJ Warlord will like you, though he will be understandably disappointed that you plan to convert your psychic terror brigades into psychic healing brigades.
Then, one day, as you and your beloved walk hand in hand down a bush trail, you have a new revelation. A larger than life feeling comes over you, and you realize in the deepest place of your soul that you are connected to her, and she is connected to you, and everyone is connected to one another. As you turn to her to share your insight, you are surprised to see that gold light is flickering over her skin, which is beginning to split open, releasing beams of pure white radiance. You gaze at her in awe; she stares back at you, her eyes wide with wonder. It is time.
You grip her hands. As you touch, your fingers dissolve together in a bond of golden light. Then you see her very soul, all of it, for the first time. It is blindingly beautiful. You draw closer, enraptured, and feel yourself merging—
Your body crumbles away, but it doesn't seem to matter. Where you are now, you won't need it. All is light, and you are light, and she is light, and both of you are now complete.