Re: Wandering: Hannah/Fiach
Beauty was vicious, and tarnish was often beautiful, and she would understand. She'd encountered her own beasts, alive and not, and perhaps those things were nearly the same, at least in all the ways that mattered. And this was home, but it wasn't. Her bones felt like they didn't live here, and she didn't think that had anything to do with synthetics. She just thought she wasn't quite tethered like real people were, like other people were, like people who hadn't snapped their necks going over railings. And it showed on her face, maybe, that lack of weight. She was small, insignificant, really, but this was a different weightlessness. But she danced well, and maybe that was part of it, too.
"What's a name?" she asked with a smile, serious and not, and she shook her head, hair slipping along her coat at the shoulders. Messy, unbrushed, but she smiled. "I think a lot of things are a touch dangerous, but me not having a name isn't one of them. I know people say a lot of things about names, but I'm not sure they're true. I don't think they give people power, and I think choosing one doesn't make you own yourself any more than you did before." She shook her head again, still moving with an oddly irreverent grace, one that ignored steps in favor of feeling the silent music moving her. "I think identity is something much, much deeper than letters put together," she added, and then she listened to him talking a few more moments, laughing when he slipped dancing into his metaphor.
"Fiach," she repeated, and then again, and she tipped her head as they moved, ear to shoulder. "Maybe because your hair is dark, and your eyebrows are thick and dark too. But maybe those weren't there when you were born. Do you feel like a Fiach?" she asked him, and then she shook her head once more. "I'm not captured. I'm lost in a vast forest of maybes and what-ifs, and I'm trying to figure out if it matters, who we are to others. Not just names," she explained, "but who we are. What if people forgot you? Friends, family, or they said you weren't yourself. Would you still be?" she asked with a plain and raw honesty, and it was late in the evening, and her words weren't being carefully watched as they escaped her lips.