Disclaimer: Not mine. And I know Shiro/Hichigo/whatever is slightly out of character – I don't really think he'd be up for a sophisticated debate of this sort. Then again, he's a hollow – is anything about him non-contradictory? I swear it gets better after the first few paragraphs. First two lines lifted directly from the Ichigo/Byakuya fight.
Genesis
"Who – are you?"
"I have no name."
What's a name?
A name is a marker of identity. A symbol of who and what we are. In primitive cultures, the symbol is indistinguishable from the thing; thus, a name is, literally, the sum and total of that which we define as ourselves. It's debatable, really, whether or not our name shapes who we become, or if we break our appellations to heel until they assume a role as definitive indicators of individual characteristics. The result is the same either way.
Don't look at me like that, king. Unlike some people, I pay attention in class. Now it's my turn to play teacher
It's true that name and identity aren't directly comparable. A person consists of more then what you call them. Knowing someone's name doesn't tell you that they like strawberries, or go clubbing on weekends. It doesn't tell you whether or not they enjoy literature or take a secret delight in astronomy. It doesn't inform you as to whether or not they aspire to become a doctor, or if they'd rather play the base guitar. In this regard, a name is not the sum and total of a person's identity. It doesn't even indicate whether or not someone's dead or alive. Which are you, anyway?
But to know a name – that is power. Names hold power.
When you call someone's name, they automatically look up in recognition. They understand, on some primal basis, that names are important. They associate the name with the self to the extent that there is no self without the name; it is a marker of the identity that is the sum and total of who you are. Captives of war, held hostage, repeat their names over and over to their captors, frantically reminding themselves of who and what they are in the face of the pain that would unmake them. Their names are a symbol of their identity, reminding themselves of why they are fighting and why they still resist.
Because we're nothing without a name. There is no I without a name, no stable identity to brace against the world, only a fractured whirlwind of images and experiences that spin like a hurricane of blades that dig deep and tear with abandon into every precious scrap of yourself. It's being bare before the storm, letting the lightning soak into your skin and feeling the ozone flicker up the back of your throat and into your laughter.
There's no pain without a name – no flesh to cut, no soul to scar. No blood – only pale ceramic that fuses effortlessly into colorless skin. It's an easy way to live – you should try it sometime.
I have a name. But you know that already, don't you king?
Deny it all you want. We're One in the end, and you know it. I'm everything you've ever locked away – every dark thought that you shoved behind a mental barricade, every secret longing you had to just kill the fuckers who made fun of your hair, every tear you've refused to shed since Mom died.
Oh? Don't like me calling her that? She's my mother too, you know. She brought me into the world just as surely as she gave birth to you. She was the catalyst for my creation, the origin of my very existence – sure sounds like a mother to me, doesn't it, King? Don't curse at me like that – what would she think of your language?
I can remember the rain just as well as you do, king. I was there, after all – peering out from behind your eyes, hearing through your ears as I took my first gasps of existence. I can remember how your knees were scraped raw when they had to drag you away from her body; the way her hair lay matted in the mud and how her legs lay limp in the cold. I can ever remember how they found bruises on your back from where she grabbed you so desperately. You refused to let your old man treat them, didn't you? They were the last remnants of her touch, and you didn't want to let them fade away.
Despite what you might think, I don't really like the rain. Then again, I don't hate it, like the Old Man. Ever hear him complain about the stuff? It's sad, really, how he throws a hissy fit every time he looks to get wet. It doesn't trigger weepy emo-fits for me either – really, king, just how old are you again? I don't really care about the rain, to tell you the truth. It reminds me of the day I was born, the day a dead woman's blood and a child's denial of the world yanked me out of nonexistence and thrust me into being. Not exactly pleasant memories, but not without their appeal.
The rain is what the rain is, and nothing more.
Here's a secret for you, should you care to know. Despite what I told scarf-and-curlers, I do have a name. You know it already, king – it's yours, after all. And I'm going to make it mine.
Or was it mine to begin with, and you the thief?