A Man by Any Other Name

[wangxiuming]

"Your name, please?"

Frayn paused, wondering if the surly attendant at the Four Lanterns had any idea the significance of the question she posed him. A new city, a new land, a place where no one would know him, where no one would hate him. He could be anyone now. No longer would he have to be the son of a dock worker and whore, the man responsible for the deaths of everyone in his family.

He remembered the way his sister's eyes went dull. The way his mother's corpse looked hanging from the rafters. His father's rage ...

"Sir? Your name," the attendant asked again. Her tone was impatient, and annoyance began to seep into every corner of her face. Frayn had to say something; he spoke the first name that came to mind.

"Fiero."

...

He had chosen the name of his dead father. The father that he had slain with his own hands.

What was wrong with him? Why would he choose that name?

"Fiero ... Fiero ... no, Sir. I'm sorry, you're not on our registry. I'm afraid our rooms are all booked up for the week. You'll have to find somewhere else to stay."

Relief filled Frayn's mind. In any other circumstance he would have cursed his bad luck, but he had no desire to walk around in his father's name, a name that bore a constant reminder of what he had done. It was better this way; he could find a new place to stay and new name to don. One that was not stained by his crimes.

"You know," continued the attendant, a nostalgic smile spreading across her face, "I used to know a Fiero. Lived down at the port, but every so often he would come up here for a ... well, I'm no lady, but I don't kiss and tell, if you know what I mean."

Frayn could feel the blood drain from his face.

"Actually, he even looks a bit like you. You wouldn't happen to be related, would you? Your eyes ... they're so familiar, so blue."

Frayn's eyes were gray.

"N-no," he stammered, eyes darting back towards the exit. "I have to go, thank you for your help!"

Frayn whirled around to leave but a strong grip seize him by the wrist and stopped him in his tracks. He turned around once more to find the woman holding onto his arm, peering at him as though he were some sort of museum attraction. Her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"Your ... your face! What's happening to your face?!"

Frayn did not know, but he could feel it. Whatever was happening, it was like nothing he had ever felt before. His cheekbones were on fire, his jaw felt as though someone was trying to snap it off. He had to escape; wrenching his hand free from the female attendant, he darted away and barreled through the exit, almost knocking down a hooded elf in the process.

He didn't stop running until he could see the forest in the distance. The pain had passed. He found a pool which he used to wash his face of the sweat. He could see his reflection in the water; the surface still rippled from his efforts to cleanse his face. The undulations of the water made it look as though his face was being distorted. He lifted a hand to gingerly feel his skin; it remained still.

Exhausted, he curled up next to the water and closed his eyes, not bothering to set up a fire or to lay out his bedroll. "Just for a minute," he told himself. "Just for a minute."

[wangxiuming]

How does one name oneself?

That was a question Frayn had struggled for days to answer now. It was difficult to meet anybody in the valley without having to provide a name. Sometimes the other person would offer theirs freely; he could only meet their introduction with an awkward explanation of how his name no longer seemed fitting. Most would then shoot him a strange stare. Some mocked him openly, turned away with a derisive sneer or just laughed as though they thought he was joking.

He did not blame them. It must have seemed an inconsequential problem with an inconsequential solution.

A few offered advice. And while he appreciated their counsel, none of the suggestions proffered seemed to fit him either. One recommended finding a name within his faith. The deity he offered devotions to – Chauntea – was not exactly a font of inspiration. As a resident of Avanthyr, he was also intimately familiar with the temperamental Umberlee … but the “Bitch Queen” seemed a particularly poor role model for choosing names.

He tried to think about how he had been named, but came up empty-handed. His mother had named his sister Vera in response to her Father’s infidelity and lies, but he lacked her purpose. He knew others whose parents had named in hopes of instilling measures of bravery, intelligence, and kindness, but to do so for himself seemed unabashedly arrogant. Plus, the pressure of having to live up to the quality of his own name was intimidating.

Things were simpler in nature. Creatures didn’t have to have names. They simply were. They existed, independent of the need to identify, to individualize. It was society that required its members to compartmentalize their identities into a single word.

It made sense. Society was rooted in accountability. Accountability required that everyone have names.

Maybe he just didn’t want to be accountable.