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He hears his name when he tears through the house. Late to school, chasing the clock, chasing Tara, chasing errant magic. Fleeing errant magic. It wasn't meant to be prophetic. Well, you should have named me something else, then. His mother cannot hide her laughter this time. He feels like he's won a prize.
He hears his name muffled through rows and rows of tomes and scrolls and books. Of course he still loves his family. But he'll still have time to love them after he perfects this new incantation, after the rush of this new spell sparking off his fingertips. He'll have time to love them at dinner. After he investigates the effect of shifting his hands just so.
He flinches when he hears his name in class. He rarely hears it but for scolding, now. Scolded for skipping, scolded for sleeping. Scolded for silly things, like reading ahead and showing off and upstaging the professors and summoning slaads. It's not his fault he's bored. It's not his fault he doesn't belong here. He will not become less.
He hears his name drip like cold honey from the heavens. It flows into his mouth, teases his tongue with the richest sweets he's never tasted, envelops him in the softest blankets he's never felt. Finally. He is seen, and it moves him, vibrates his marrow and matter, shatters him through the prism of creation. He is made anew, and he is named. He is magnificence. He will never be the same.
He hears his name reverberate around him, infinitely. He hears his name in pride. He hears his name in heady, intoxicating pleasure, he hears his name in delight. He hears his name in vibrancy, in color and song and thread he tells himself no man has ever seen or heard or touched. He is magnificence. He will never be the same.
He pretends not to hear his name spoken small again. Not upon her smile. He is magnificence. He will not become less.
He hears his name, echoing, a twisted, wicked tongue, soiling all that she had touched, the him that been transmuted. Desecrating the altar that he had become. He hears his name, again, and again, laden in penitence and rot. He ghosts into the dark. The hinges vanish off of every door.
He does not hear his name.
He does not hear his name.
He does not hear his name.
He will never be the same.
He hears his name hollow in his own mouth. Hello! He does not know that man anymore. His very life rests on his ability to pretend.
He will hear his name the way he has come to know, forced out, contemptful. He cannot blame them. He will hear his name laced in distrust. He cannot blame them. The shame gorger knocks heavy against his chest.
He hears his name... he hears his name without any flavoring at all. What a curious observation.
He hears his name one of many. There is camaraderie here, in grief, sympathy, solidarity. It is a balm, now, to not stand out, for the first time in longer than he can remember. They call for each other, names ringing sharp through the chaos of battle, movement and flame and shield. The fragments of what he once was fit into a mosiac of broken pieces, more beautiful and terrible than any one of them could be.
He hears his name in gratitude. He hears his name in fear. He hears his name in relief. He hears his name in compassion. He hears his name in quiet defense and a thunderous one, heart beating out of his ragged body when someone throws theirs in between him and oblivion. They do not know what could be, only what is now. They do not know what he deserves, only that he belongs. Some torn part of him stitches back together.
He hears--
He's made Tav laugh.
He feels like he's won a prize.
He will never be the same.