So without further ado:
Anonymous
We are myth and folklore: denounced as superstition by modern minds; logic has no place for the fantastical. But fantastical is what we are, we who hide in shadows and live by moonlight, what need have we of logic. That is how I thought when I was newborn, but back then the mortals had less need of logic, they knew of us, knew our names, and they feared the darkness. Since then almost two millennia have passed and the mortals have brought light to our world, forcing those of us who still survive further into the shadows, we are now the anonymous.
There was a time where you could find tales of my exploits across most of the world’s continents; my name and description used to terrify men insatiable enough to cruelly take their satisfaction. I suppose in my early centuries I saw myself as an avenging angel, protecting those who sold themselves from the cruelties some men delight in. I have always had a soft spot for courtesans, I personally think it is due to the fact I am named after one, not that my parents knew that or would have approved of my behaviour during those years. Not that they approved of my behaviour while I was still with them, eighteen and still unmarried. At a young age I knew that as a girl I was already cast as a caregiver, forced to be subservient to a man, both of which I now laugh at. To avoid this I put about rumours that I was cursed; by the time people had started discrediting them I was past marriageable age. But then my sister died. Leaving behind her an indifferent husband and two children in need of a mother. I was offered as a second wife, someone to raise his children and, although it was never said where I could overhear, someone to warm his bed. Even back then, in a time where the feelings I harboured would not be recognised for what they were, even by me, I knew I did not want to be bound to any man, which I suppose made my final choice as a mortal all the more odd.
My name has since been lost to history, some folklore student or researcher might stumble across it in some old text but never with enough information to make it interesting again. However, in the old countries, in the towns that have stood in place for over a millennia, down some twisted alley you may find a man or woman of the night offering a prayer to their Queen, asking for protection of one form or another, but they do not know my name or my face any longer, they pray to the memory of a legend. I do not reveal myself, no matter the temptation; it is safer to be anonymous. Anonymity for us is; to flit through someone’s life as no more than a shadow, two small puncture wounds and an hour’s memory loss. Anonymity is survival and the darkness has embraced it.
We no longer have need of names, we are known simply by title or ancient reputation, I am the Queen and Goddess, both titles as one; the dead of night personified. There is the Sovereign, the twilight walker with a taste for royal blood, the first of us to rise, but the first to succumb to the harsh light of Apollo’s chariot. And finally the Knight, chivalrous and noble at first, swift glance, but the virgin blood which stains his hands is as multiple as the fading stars which mark his realm. Our names are known only to us three, whispered during the hours of darkness lest we forget. The names our Father, our Lord, gave when our hearts where newly dead, when we were his to rule. But what dominion holds the darkness in this age of logic? We embrace the darkness, we are the anonymous.
labeling this I realise how many things have managed to slip into 700 words of writing....
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