A Window In

Shardagra

[ʃɑɹdegɹɑ]

A word that doesn't mean anything, not really, even if the sounds are pronounceable, even if it could be something

A name for a character, one of the firstborn. A name made at the age of 12, when the world is too big and comfort can be found in the quiet of creating. A name for an OC that had never been described, never been articulated except in memory and daydream.

It doesn't exist yet, it hasn't been invented already, a google search confirms. No results the mind whispers in excitement, that means I made it, it's mine to take, to shape and form into something entirely my own.

Shardagra, the first page reads, and nothing more.

Shardagra is a she, is a he, is both and neither and then settles into he. Shardagra the character has a tragic past, is pieced together from pieces of Aragorn, from Obi-Wan Kenobi, from pieces of angst and melancholy, from the heroes of real life. A leader who reaches out a hand before raising a sword, a man or an elf or a karni (another creation, set aside) - it changes with each newly revised description. Shardagra is changing: He is two souls in one body. He is forged from a terrible magical accident, he carries lost memories and searches for a home. He carries two swords, one straight and true and one ragged and rough.He travels through the realm of shadow, he wields green Cyprus magic. He is a leader, a mentor, a calm voice of reason and encouragement as the world spins into chaos. He is set aside as other characters are formed and given substance. He is a starting point which shifts and changes and splits off into others, and his stories remain unwritten.

The name remains, though, coming to the surface and echoing. The name echoes as a young writer stares at an account creation page, dithering. What to choose?

What, other than nostalgia?

Shardagra. A word (a name) encompassing the indecision and vulnerability of a new writer, a creator dreading anyone find and see the creations of a young mind, yet at the same time yearning to leave the comfort of kept-secret lists and stories and endless worlds of imagination yet to be described or preserved.

And so it becomes something - An anonymous identity, a blank canvas to explore with.

Shardagra (the author) spreads to other realms of creativity, and grows into a new identity with each iteration. The character is mostly left behind, but still exists and thrives in nostalgia, in memory, watching as the writer grows into confidence and curiosity. Shardagra is a shield and an pseudonym, the thrill of a charge into newness with each word written, with each piece given.