“Vhenan,” he says, a plea, a prayer.
“That is not my name.” The barest whisper of a breath, weighted with sadness and all that she had lost. So much. Too much. “My name,” she begs – but she never begs. Asks, takes, stoic ice and quiet command, demanding respect without a word. She just was – but she never begs.
“My name,” she says again, and it is the sound of a broken beast, howling the loss of its spirit. Wrenching. Horrifying. Devastating.
He cannot say it. To force it past his lips would be to admit she was real, this was real, and how could he -
She was some wayward imagining of a lonely soul that cried for comfort. A symbol. She was never real to him – except she was and how -
She was depth and memory, feeling and living and real but she wasn’t, but she was and how desperately he wanted things to be different.
He was only a wolf, lost and wandering the roads of time, of mistakes and curses and what if I had done it differently? Alone, always alone – a choice.
She was the moon. Oh how she drew him with only a glance, a light and friend on the darkest roads he walked – illumination on his wearied soul. A guide, clarity, wisdom, his, but not.
“Vhenan,” he chokes – she is not real. This is not real.
“That is not my name.” But it is.
“It is what you are.” So real. It changes everything.
“But it is not my name.”
But it can’t.