(Don't own 'em.)

He prays and prays and prays but he doesn't look up because he doesn't want to see the accusing eyes or the fire that surrounds him, and finally he feels part of his soul slip away, away, away, a small bit for every prayer. Immediately, though, something replaces the missing piece; something hot and burning and aching, and he hurts inside because he's on fire, just like the room around him and the inferno sways and swirl and grow inside and out, white hot and filling some of the emptiness. A dark, burning voice, hotter than the hottest of fires and laden with regality and so alive sounds in his head, deep and commanding.

I will burn you.

He knows, and the fire in him swells until it hurts, then fades and leaves a sputtering ache in his chest and soul and mind where he's empty again. He has to get used to this feeling, though, because this is only his first Aeon, and he will lose so much more later. He tries not to feel scared. He fails, but his brother is counting on him, and Spira is counting on him, and Mama and Papa probably are too up on the Farplane, so he figures he will be strong for the people he's lost and the people he will lose and the people who will lose him. It's hard, but so is life and it's even harder in Spira, and he's used to dealing with pain.

The fire is gone, but the voice isn't, and it still burns in his mind.

What is my name? the voice whispers, all hot and power and explosions through whatever mental link they may have shared. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to feel close to this creature, this not-quite-god of flames and earth, because this thing will probably kill him one day. I had a name, once. The voice is still strong, still regal, still molten metal and lava, but now there was a hint of remorse. The voice is fading, tired of him, or perhaps being summoned elsewhere. What is my name?

He decides to let Maroda name this beast of flames. All creatures need names, even if they are only dreams or the dreams of dreams, even if they are only the dreamers. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he does, and as they turn to leave the temple at Kilika, the voice sounds softly in his head again, the volume weak but the intent strong.

I had a name, once.

They called him Grothia.