It's an odd feeling, he decides, sharing his head with someone else. Of course this is not a tangible person or being, but more of a collection of thoughts from a tangible person or being. But oddity or not he prays and prays and prays again, like all the others before him and the skin on the backs of his arms tingle under the sharp eyes of the woman who isn't really there and the fine hairs on the back of his neck rustle in the wind that doesn't exist, and bells chime and rings jangle as another small part of him is destroyed and reborn. It is filled again, and the sensation isn't as shocking as the last time, but he still isn't used to it. A voice slips in and out of his soul, whispering and fading and circling in the part that is made new and joined with something far larger than himself. A soft, fluting voice, as gentle as wind through water reeds and simple and free murmurs softly, a small brush against his soul.
I will free you.
This seems much more promising, really, than the last, but there is still that sense of fear and anguish when the bells fade into silence and the wind dies down and part of him is left bare and hollow again. The feeling is no stranger, now, but the emptiness is bigger than before because he had to give more this time. And Spira is still counting on him. So he's strong for Spira, and for his brothers, and for everyone else. And even though he's a Summoner and he knows his fate, and Summoners are supposed to be selfless and kind and stronger for everyone and everything, he finds that as the wind brushes against him again to signal that the creature (the woman, the Aeon, the Summon, the Fayth, the all and the nothing) wants to speak again… he finds that he wishes that, maybe.. maybe people could be strong for themselves, for once.
What is my name?
This ones voice isn't demanding or regal or burning or anything like the first, but somehow he finds himself terrified of it. The freedom this creature offered was tempting but the price was to high, and the one offering it was too sinister for him to trust. It whispers the question again, like the first, gentle and soft and bells and aching like the hole in his chest and in his heart and his head and his soul. He doesn't want to know the name of this beast, this creature of wind and freedom who wants to sing and fly and chime like the rings and bells he knows hang from its wings, and who wants him to do these things with it. I had a name, once.
He will let his youngest brother name this one, because he knows that even though he is a little emptier inside the privilege of christening the Aeon will delight the child to no end. All creatures need names, after all, even the dreamers.
When they exit the temple of Besaid and Maroda is talking to the ferryman abut the price to Luca, the breeze picks up and even against the restless shifting of the fire lord (who had gone strangely silent inside the temple) he can hear the bells and chimes of the newest tenant of his soul. The soft, gentle, feminine, deceitful voice brushes against him again and he represses a shudder.
I had a name, once.
They called her Pterya.