Dedicated to Lenap
-Names-
Discarding the book she held, the young woman leaned back and closed her eyes. Choosing a name could be so difficult at times. So many centuries ago, when she had been truly young, she had been called Anitchka. She had been her father's 'little dancer.' And, she could still recall the way his eyes had lit with happiness as she twirled with all the grace that her name bespoke. Even as she had grown older and began dancing beside her mother on stage, her name had echoed to her the meaning of her soul.
That time, however, ended quite abruptly when she was attacked. The man who attacked her had only hours before lifted her through the air with all the care of a lover. She'd believed herself dead as the blood flowed over her throat from the gash drawn across it. And, as Markov stood scowling down at her, Anitchka could only stare at her blood covered hands in shock, unable to speak even a prayer of mercy. Her eyes had slipped closed moments later, and she only caught the briefest glimpse of black hair, pale skin, and deep brown eyes.
Yeva, the woman who had 'saved' her, had called her Stasy. Though, now, she wasn't sure if it was truly a name. At times, it seemed to be a mere description of what Yeva had thought of her. That she had simply given her a new life. The thought didn't particularly bother her, but the name lacked truth. So, Stasy had been discarded in favor of Siny. Yeva had not approved when Siny had declared she would no longer answer to Stasy. The dark-haired woman had shaken her head in distaste, and the dark curling tresses seemed to emphasize the motion.
After several months of the woman simply ignoring her and refusing to call her anything, Siny had decided it was time for a new name. She felt empty and had chosen her name to express the loss of herself that she felt. Dancing had lost it's meaning when she realized that her father would never watch her dance again. But, without Yeva's acknowledgment, the name had taken over. It made her feel as though the meaning behind the name was stealing her soul. Instead of the name reflecting her, she had begun to reflect it.
Reluctantly, she had gone to Yeva and apologized for her behavior. The time seemed to slip on into the nothingness she felt as she explain herself to her mistress. Before she finished, she realized that, despite the calmness of her words, she was pleading for a name... for a meaning to her existence. The woman's painted black lips had pursed in thought as she regarded her, the nameless one, and for the briefest moment Siny feared her request would be discarded. Then, the dark eyes had softened, and Yeva had reached out a pale hand and pulled her close. The motion had been so strange that Siny had wanted to push her away, but, for whatever reason, she couldn't. And, then, the words that her mistress was whispering against her hair had registered, and she'd felt herself relax into the embrace. She had a name... Irina. Light brown eyes, too much like her father's had been, slid closed, content for the first time in too many years.
Things had been easier for awhile after that; years had grown into decades, and those had become centuries. And, while she did not always have the peace promised her in that moment, she always found it curled inside her when she needed it most.
The death of her mistress had been inevitable, but it had still been hard to accept. Sheep could never accept a wolf into their midst no matter how it disguised itself. It didn't matter that they looked and acted human, they weren't. Her kind hunted theirs, humans could be nothing more than prey. And, like most prey, humans fought to protect their own numbers and drive out predators.
So, even as she'd knelt beside Yeva's ashes, she realized things had changed, and she could no longer call herself by a name that had once again lost it's meaning. Without Yeva, she had no peace.
She lost no time in pouring through the books on the meanings of names, searching for the answer in them. It had been nothing for her to disregard every religiously themed name, with only a bitter taste in her mouth and a scowl disrupting the elegant lines of her face. Sveta had been pretty but was again nothing more than a description of her skin, and so she'd discarded it after a moment's pause. Vasya, she thought, would have suited Yeva more than herself, and so it, too, was passed over. And, with it so had Zeny, Vasilissa, and Tahna.
Sitting up again, she lifted her glass as though to make a toast, but then said nothing before tipping the glass against her bright red lips. She swirled the blood wine in her mouth thoughtfully as she considered the name. If Yeva was the giver of life, and she had been in so many ways, then perhaps her mistress had gifted her with a name once again. Or, perhaps, she would merely be a reflection of the woman; maybe she already was. But, whatever the case may be, Zoia had a name again, and this time she thought... it would be her last.