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The goddess didn’t answer to a name.
She had never been given one, after all, and now, so far into her existence, it felt unbecoming to pick one herself. She had tried, when she had been newer, but none had ever stuck.
For a name wasn’t truly what she was, now was it? She was much more than that. She was a kind, benevolent ruler, one to calm the heavens and weave her breath through the fabric of her worlds. She was a terrifying force of nature, toppling empires she had brought forth herself, playing with destruction and creation like a child unaware of their own strength. She was a wanderer, her palms giving way to the growth of nature and kingdoms and fire, unaware of any consequence at all.
An empress, a beggar, a tyrant. A monarch of none.
The goddess didn’t answer to a name. She didn’t need one to explain all that she was.
Still, sometimes, as she laid between the softest blades of grass, sinking into the soil as though it and she were made from the same materials, she thought about how it would be to answer to a name.
Would it fill her with joy? Bring her sparks, send shivers down her spine and arms? Would it feel like skin against her own, like the warmth of an embrace? Would a name encompass all she was, catching her entire being into just one simple, rarely spoken word?
She imagined the shapes one’s mouth would make as they called for her. Imagined lips and tongues and hands, sounds and laughs and cries. If she were quiet, she could almost hear them, raspy and small against the sound of the emptiness she always carried with her.
The goddess didn’t answer to a name.
There was no-one to call her by it, after all.