:;Interlude Two: Aeons of Fate::

The Travel Agency was quiet, almost devoid of life. Auron was thankful his self-appointed white mage had retired for the night as well. The Al Bhed was nice enough but her Spirain was hard to understand and her work futile.

He was dying, and he welcomed it. Braska had died in his arms and Jecht was now cursed as Sin until the next Summoner gave their life. His only regret was that he wasn't able to fulfill his promises to his friends, his brothers. While the Ronso youth Kimahri had sworn to find and protect little Yuna, Tidus… well, how was he supposed to find Jecht's Zanarkand? They had traversed all of Spira with no trace of where the Blitzball player called home.

Would they understand? Or would they resent him for his foolishness? He knew now that he shouldn't have gone back to Zanarkand and challenged Lady Yunalesca. But the rage and pain had overwhelmed and blinded him. Even now it burned in his heart, pulling him into despair. They had given everything and yet it was meaningless. They had died in vain.

Not just his brothers, but all of Spira. For a thousand years, they had pledge their faith and their life to Yevon in desperation for peace. For a life without Sin. And all of it was a lie. There would never be peace. Sin would always return. Summoners would always die. And Spira would always suffer. That was the only truth in the world. Pain. Death. Hate. Despair. He wanted to be rid of it all, and just fade into the blissful oblivion that beckoned to him.

He couldn't even pray to Yevon that he would be forgiven and welcomed into the peace of the Farplane.

"Our apologies, Guardian. But your part is not done yet."

Auron opened his eyes... no. Eye. The other one had been removed, far too damaged to be healed. The lack of his right eye was disorienting enough, never mind the image that greeted him. Three ghostly spirits stood around the bed roll he laid on; a rotund middle-aged woman, a tall young woman, and a young teenager. All three dressed like insects. The tall one tilted her head faintly, judging him with bright unnatural eyes "Your heart is full of grief and rage, and you do not deserve to trapped as a fiend in your afterlife."

"Are you the gods of death then?" he rasped, trying to sit up but the wounds across his chest and abdomen protested, leaving him short of breath as soon as he even twitched. His other arm braced the bandages wrapped around his chest, feeling fresh blood seep through the linen bandages.

"No, though the Magus Sisters have been known as Fates through the years," the larger woman said. "Past, Present, and Future."

"We need your help, Auron of Bevelle," the young one said with a voice too old for her body. "We were foolish to think a simple dream like Jecht could end this nightmare."

He gave a harsh laugh that left his chest burning and his heart stuttering from the exertion. "I'm a dead man. Find someone else."

"It is because you are in between that we seek your aid," the tall woman spoke, unoffended by his mocking laugh. "You are like us: neither living nor dead, but standing between the realm of Spira and that of the Farplane."

"You can enter the Dream. We can weave you in without her noticing, and you can guide our next chosen one."

"And if I refuse?" he growled. He was tired. Tired of living. Tired of serving masters. Tired of giving everything for no reward. He could feel his soul tugging away from his body, an unearthly sensation of shedding a husk. He wanted to give in to it, yet something held him back, anchoring him to his body without his permission.

"You would refuse the chance to fulfill your promises?" The young one spoke, stepping closer. Like her peers, her eyes had an light in them that wasn't quite benevolent. "Braska and Jecht gave their lives for you. For Spira. Would you be so selfish to refuse their last request?"

That caught his dwindling attention. Things were starting to swim, and he could barely focus on the trio. He wasn't even sure he could form the words properly in his mind, but he tried. "Zanarkand. You have a way?"

"We have a way," the tall one nodded, seemingly able to understand him. "All you have to do is promise that you will be their guide. That you will not give in to the call of the Farplane until your story is complete."

It was a glimmer of hope and desire he was surprised to find, and he hung on to it with all his might. He could fulfill his promise to his friends. "You can do more than that," the beetle said, able to read his thoughts. "You can make sure that Braska and Jecht's sacrifices were not in vain. You can make it so they are not another footnote in history, but the last to give their lives to defeat Sin."

He wanted to say yes, but his body refused to obey. His heart was stuttering to a halt, his soul departing from his body. His lone eye could see the spectral light of Pyreflies as they started to swarm around him. It was too late. He had failed…

The dragonfly grasped his hand, pulling him to his feet. He took a breath as his heart gave its last beat, becoming still in his chest. Yet he could open his eye, breathe, his body no longer weak but as strong as it had ever been. The wasp fluttered to meet his gaze levelly. "Death is not the end of your story, merely the start of the next chapter."