names, just like personal dates, do not matter in her eyes. not exactly. to her, it is not the name itself, it is how you wear it; the journey it took to earn it.
after all, she had not been crowned the full name, zephia dahut kurosawa, upon birth. her family surname had been lost to the ages, long before they had fallen to her magic. where her mother bore the surname of the flower humans preferred to gift her, zephia bore the surname of a tragic legend, horribly translated within the waves of the tale.
and she had been the one to first utter the syllables of the name, wrenching it from the crinkled papers of an old storybook until it fit perfectly into the mouths of the tribe. years later, within the ruins of a human village, she tore the second surname from the murky waters at the bottom of the mountain and presented it before sombron. and he accepted the dirty, sullied name just as he had accepted her; dirty and sullied and at his command.
HUMANS CALLED IT THE FEAST OF THE ANTHURIAMS. a name weighed down by what the mortal mind perceived as the war between divinity and the fallen. a name this mage dragon first scoffed at upon first hearing of it, pointed helix twitching when the abbot fell into a silent stride beside her. there was irony in the event━━━or the holiday many recognized it as━━━so, it tempted the laughter in her throat.
“as long as they understand the weight of to-day, then all is well, right?” she had chosen to offer, decades earlier, when the idea first sprung at the feet of the Lord, “followers will be sacrificed or maimed, yes, but the lasting impact could overcome the cost. the name━━━”
or, had she managed to utter all of the suggestions before her name slipped through the Lord’s lips, thus reminding her of her worth in each letter?
but this mage dragon had foretold the worth of delirious faith correctly: blood and innards were strewn across the dark sand of the Altar, an awful nostalgia to the gore-soaked snow and dirt centuries prior. and, here, beholding the eyes that once witnessed every child's last twitch, her gaze was narrowed on the only figure visible through the skittering cloud of kicked-up dust.
before the church's hundreds of eyes, this boy twitched and heaved and stood as if he had been born the other day, but there was a glory to every ragged breath. an untamed hunger the child within her once swallowed.
the abbot sighed beside her, but she interrupted the beginnings of any voice with her own, "who is he?"
"hm, that is griss. he joined a..." but her ears had already deemed it worthless; it had not been the answer she hoped for.
later, she had demanded the same from the boy himself, immediately once the clergy saw to it that the Eyes of God had been drained from the majority of his system. "who are you?" was what she pried for; and a follower, was what he gave willingly, still wide-eyed and trembling. though the tremors could not be fear. no, not if his lips continued to twitch into what she hoped to be an exhausted grin.
her head lolled to match his, sangria eyes narrowed to a scornful slant until she deemed his reaction to such judgment enough. fangs bared in her smile, consideration melded into a figurehead's generosity; mage dragon had not hesitated to lean closer, raising a clawed hand to cup his cheek as she crooned, "hm-hm, how wonderful. how promising. again, boy. you are the Lord's follower before you are...?"
griss, was the drawled name she heard. therefore, griss was the reward he'd receive.
the mage dragon had not released him when she purred, "as i am the Lord's follower before i am zephia." a pause, as her gaze lowered to the blade at her hip, "come, griss. you will draw blood with me. then, a prayer before we leave the monastery, will suffice, yes?"
