I have been more open than I should have been. I have thrown caution to the wind and hurled myself into recklessness.
I asked the Hooded Man for his name.
My hand trembles with frustration as I write this now. I cannot be so careless. To know a name is to see a face when you close your eyes. To carry a memory when you are far away. To wonder about someone's well being, to wish them good fortune, to worry about their safety.
I have not told my name to anyone since leaving home.
"Home". It was not my home. Was it?
I am glad that my name is not mine. Even should it spill from my lips by accident, it will not convey who I am to anyone.
The Hooded Man says that a name does not define a person. Perhaps not. But it does tell you where they came from. Their roots. Their blood.
His hands were cut. He spoke of rage and killing. I thought he was a good, gentle sort. I think I was wrong.
I don't know how long I will linger here in this village.
