Author's Note:
"What's in a name?"
William Shakespeare
When I create an original character, I wrestle with selecting the name for that character. For the most part I do not choose a name because I like it, or it will trip nicely off the tongue, or it is currently popular. I choose the name because of its meaning. I sometimes add extra little considerations just because I want to. For example in my story Hollow all of Lee Crane's OC helpers have given names that start with the letter A (yes Tony is short for Anthony).
In this story the meaning of names is even more important to me, especially those of some canon characters and I was thrilled to take those meanings into consideration as I wrote this. I just thought I would share that with you before we get into the story.
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Roots
Eons ago
The water dripped inside the cavern. Dripped very slowly. The silica rich fluid coated the substrate. Over much time the fluids slowly evaporated leaving the silica to ever so gradually crystalize. Forming tiny crystals of quartz in parallel bands of black with white in precious layers of banded chalcedony.
The black onyx was hard and beautiful. The white bands set off the blackness giving the mineral striking contrast.
The mineral formed deep in the caverns far from the light of day. It was simply part of an ever-changing planet's crust.
Millennia ago
The onyx had no meaning, no inherent value of its own until much, much later a sentient species found it, mined it, prized it, and looking for greater meaning in their own mortal existence attached their own constructed meaning and value to it. These mortal folks chose to believe that possessing it gave one courage.
Thirty some years ago
The toddler stood at the side of the hospital bed looking up. The edge of the mattress was above his head. He was looking at the hem of a white sheet hanging down in front of his face. He smelled what he later in life recognized as the smell of hospitals, a pungent mix of urine, disinfectant, and illness. He could see the wheels under the bed that made dark, streaky marks on the linoleum floor, lots of metal framework and mechanisms underneath the mattress his father was lying on. There was a handle for cranking at the foot of the bed.
He reached his hand up over his head and tried to touch his dad's hand. It was so far up. His mum lifted him so he could kneel on the bed beside his dad.
He patted his dad's hand gently. His dad opened his eyes and smiled sadly at him.
"Hey buddy."
The youngster didn't speak. He just looked at his dad with huge solemn eyes and patted his hand.
"I'm sorry I won't see you grow up little one. That's what I wanted, to protect you and see you grow up."
The boy's sad, grave eyes looked at his dad and his thumb inadvertently slipped into his mouth. He had been trying not to suck his thumb but sometimes it just snuck in when he was sad.
His mum noticed but didn't chide. She looked at him with understanding. His dad smiled at him with compassion and gently tousled the boy's curly top with a hand moved by grief and love.
"I'm sorry I won't see you get bigger. Sorry you won't have any brothers or sisters."
The man's eyes looked huge and beautiful, golden brown with long dark lashes. So much love and wisdom shone out of those eyes. "I came to this country to have a safe home for a family. For you. Safe and happy. Protected from bad things."
The two gazed at each other with eyes so much alike. "That's why I gave you your name you know. I wanted to shelter you from wars, and hunger, and sad things. I won't be able to do that and I am sorry. I can't shelter you any longer but I wish that for you.
"Always remember I am proud of you. I hope you grow up to be whoever you want to be."
The man sighed in regret. He had hoped to have a full quiver one day but that was not to be. There was just this one. This one wouldn't have brothers or sisters to love, boss around, spat with, read stories to, and share hopes and joys with. No siblings to grow and go through life with. He was on his own.
There was a pause as the man worked at the ring on his finger. "I am giving you my ring, little one. It is supposed to give the wearer courage. I don't have to tell you to be brave. You don't need extra courage. You are already as brave than any one I know. You are already overflowing with courage."
The man's voice changed a bit; grew wistful, "But perhaps you might remember me sometimes if you wear it. Think of me when you see your ring. Never worry though if it is lost or damaged, it's just a thing. Things don't matter, people matter. If you are able, use the courage you already have to look after people."
The solemn child watched with wondering eyes as his father slipped off the onyx ring and slid it over his little saliva-wet thumb. He closed his thumb into his fist holding his dad's ring tightly. He could hold onto the ring but his dad was slipping away. Slipping away someplace he couldn't follow. The little one leaned forward and nestled his face into his father's neck and hugged him as if he would never let go.
The man felt the little eye lashes fluttering against his neck. They were damp with silent tears.
The child nestled there sheltered by his father's arm until he fell asleep. Then his mum lifted the sleeping toddler up into her arms, where he snuggled into her shoulder as she carried him from the room. He never saw his father again.
About twelve years ago
The young teen stood beside his father's bedside, his disinclination to be there evident in his posture and the cold look on his face. He hated the smell of the hospital. Hated the insipid green of the walls. Hated the kowtowing to the professionals. Hated the man in the bed.
"You look like you're about to puke. What can't stand hospitals? You're such a wuss. How did I engender such a wimp?"
The teen bit his lip but was wordless. He was always speechless with his father. He could never do anything right. He was never good enough. Never lived up to expectations. His father reminded him of that constantly. He was a disappointment to his father, to his family, to his very name.
His father was going to the long dark. Good riddance, he thought. He would have many years, decades, to find the courage for their next meeting there in that dead land. Maybe by then he would have found the valour he needed to face down his father.
Without a word he turned and left the hospital room. His father's voice followed him down the hallway. How could a dying man have such vitriol in his voice? His father's last words to him, the words that followed him down the corridor were 'yellow-belly, sissy, coward'. Words that proclaimed to all that he was a disgrace.
He felt every bit the coward his father thought him.