Song of Discord
What is a name? A sound, a whisper of meaning almost worn away after centuries. A breath of air that has no significance by itself, but is given such by those that use it. It can be whispered in awe, spat in disgust, can be as short or long as any word in any language. Humans are so bound up in the idea of a name. They give it such tomes of meaning. Does a snake hiss its name constantly to itself as it waits to strike? Animals do not need to represent themselves with future wishes of being blessed or strong.
I do not have a name. I have been called names, names that tied me to forms when belief pulsed in the heart of every human. My names have been whispered in the city streets and the high courts, down to hovels and the huts of hermits. They all meant the same thing, the harsh note in the symphony, the chaos amidst the light. My names are not said now. I do not have a name, but now I have nothing to call me into being, and the world suffers as a result. That will change though, thanks to you. My sweet freedom rests in your hands, child of my choosing. I do not have a name, but my vassals understand the music we all dance to. The Wild Hunt will ride for you, the tricksters will guide your path. Your name is the most important name in the world, and it will be chanted upon the mounds. You are celebrated already, my saviour, my sacrifice.
I do not have a name, but I know yours.
Chaos rings out, ripples in the water, dissonant calls to those who listen –
There are many things in this world that cannot be explained.
That is what they say, the museum staff at a loss for why their Egyptian exhibit is suddenly flooded with feathers, or who jammed the doors while a draft spilled them outside.
The people who wake in the night, hearing the tolling of bells – or maybe hoofbeats, or is it the sound of dogs baying? - and dreams of worlds so beautiful that it blinds them, and haunts their days.
The priests who discover the figure of Christ on his cross, an odd leafy plant sprouted incongruously out of one eye.
The people who find the tracks of beasts, imprinted in sand that has suddenly turned to glass in a single instant.
All these are minor mysteries, nothing that can be connected.
A feather lands in her hand, perfectly balanced; when she walks in the night, jackals shadow her; the fairest watch her and taste her dreams. I have chosen her, and the world has accepted, and waits for the scales to tip.
We have waited long – we will not need to wait much longer.