Gods and men forget prayers so easily. Hope lies crushed and broken beneath the ravage of war, but he can look to the future and see more—has always seen more than what merely is—he can see a future where men fly as birds, where the gods do not twist every decision. He can envision a future where man is free.
The gates of Giruvegan rise, tall and with all that false splendor of Immortals; he glances back at his team and smiles.
They will follow him, wherever he goes, whatever he chooses, for they know as he knows that he is destined for greatness.
The mist thins slightly here, and he can breathe without that heavy weight on his chest. A quiet chant fills his ears and he tilts his head back to listen, to feel, and the rest of his troop falls silent, waiting.
Giruvegan does not relinquish its secrets easily, however, the way is harsh, but from the chant, one voice rises higher than the rest:
Shall it be you who saves them from darkness? I am Venat, I can aid you in this.
Venat? Cid looks ahead and sees salvation. "I will," he says—
and history alters.