Cedar Sweep Half Algorithm, Half Deity

forgive me for brooding boy hours lol

Name? He had felt certain until he was asked. There were three, weren’t there? Three names for three sides of the same dirty coin.

Hasdrubal.
Machiavelli.
Machi.

Prophet.
Survivor.
Person.

But which to introduce himself as?

Hasdrubal. That was what he was called here. That was what Joanna knew him as, Eira and Juno as well. A title that was more iron chain than gold crown, forged from alters slick with sacrifice and screamed prayers to gods he barely believed in. Hasdrubal, the Prophet, the whelp Herod molded from the sludge and slurry of grief and abandonment into something that could almost be called a pearl.

Almost.

There had been imperfections, hadn't there? No gem is created without flaws, no matter how polished it looks, and the fissures in the halfbreed's iridescent hull had been pumped full of betrayal and hate until he had crumbled—snapped, more like.

And if Hasdrubal was a pearl carefully crafted by Herod, then Machiavelli had been armor, created by the dogs own paws the night of Juno's murder, baptized in the boy's cut skin and spilled lifeblood. Machiavelli was strong, and ruthless. Machiavelli was safe, and alone. Machiavelli, the Survivor—the one who’d clawed his way from the plasma to taste freedom’s bitter edge, even if only briefly.

That left only Machi. The Fellahin—the person. Not a prophet, not a symbol, just…a man. It should have been the simplest name of the three, easy to wear, something he could settle into like a well-loved blanket. Machi was the most comfortable of the garments. The happiest—cut from the warm, soft cloth of Muat-Riya.

His thoughts scattered, dark and thorny. The memory of Muat Riya haunted him—a distant light now, greying at the edges until the bursts of color and light were lost. Was it slipping away because he had failed? Because Safiya… He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth set tight. She’d been so bright, so fierce, and he’d been useless—helpless, broken. Why would anyone come looking now? And if Muat Riya had turned its back on its Fellahin, why would it ever come for The Prophet of Godsmouth?

He swallowed, the effort of thought swirling him into exhaustion. Prophet. Fellahin. Hasdrubal. Machi, running together until they were indistinguishable from one another—a glittering, patchwork coat. He wavered, mind skipping like stones across a lake, the fractured reverberations of Herod's laughter and Juno's sweet voice echoing in his head. He wished they would shut up. Both of them. They were making this more difficult than it needed to be, it was not supposed to be a hard question.

And after what felt like hours but must have only been a few seconds of silence, the dog replied with a shrug of his shoulders, I'm not opposed to being called pretty.

The normal kind I suppose? The piebald man responded, quirking his own brow in response. You give someone something you possess, and they, in turn, give you something of their own? Hides, meats, herbs—those sorts of things.

He paused at the entrance of the cave, pink nose working to ensure The Abbot was truly gone. Satisfied, he ventured deeper, guiding Beau through the dimly lit passageway until they arrived at his chamber, where veins of gold snaked through the rock like delicate spiderwebs, glimmering in the faint light. With a weary sigh, he collapsed into a nest of leaves and pine needles, exhaustion washing over him, limbs trembling and burning with a fervent itch that seemed to claw further than just his skin. Eira would be back soon, wouldn't she? Surely she wouldn't abandon him as well, not with Herod still alive, anyway.

Take what you like, the halfbreed panted, gesturing with an exhausted tilt of his head toward the more dilapidated sections of stone. I suppose the rains must flood this place when the downpour is heavy. Fortunately for us, that means there are many options.