So, once upon a time in a faraway land, there lived a lovely maiden who didn’t have a name. Nope. None. She was nameless in the worst sense of the word. She had absolutely no identity. They didn’t even call her “the maiden without a name.” She was the best definition of a nonentity.

Well, one day this nameless maiden was picking flowers in her garden. Well, we think that’s what she was doing. She might have been doing something else in some equally romantic setting. After all, we are not past the age of romance (forget where I heard/read that but can’t take credit). However, for the sake of the story, she was picking flowers in her garden (or wherever).

A handsome prince rode by and saw the nameless maiden. Now this prince was quite a guy. Captain of the football team, senior class president, everything. Wait, that’s the wrong story. Well, anyway, this prince was quite a guy for his time. Handsome and athletic and smart and brave and funny and honest and an excellent listener. (Don’t even get me started on how hard it is to find such a dynamo of nice-guy traits nowadays.) Anyway, the prince rode by, saw the nameless maiden in her garden (or wherever).

He was suddenly inflamed with love and tumbled gracefully, albeit accidentally, off his horse. Then he vaulted the hedge to her garden (or wherever).

She didn’t see him coming and stood for a long moment with her nose buried in a rose. (Ha! That rhymes!) Then suddenly she was aware of the approaching young gentleman. She dropped every flower she’d ever even thought about picking and stood, feet rooted to the ground in fright, staring at the prince as he advanced to romance.

He greeted her cordially and didn’t act threatening at all, but it didn’t matter. She was terrified, and, as per the fight-or-flight instinct, she booked it out of there. Even if it was her garden (or wherever), she didn’t have the spine nor the voice nor the bravery to even speak to him, let alone tell him to get his armor-clad butt off her property.

Apparently, the prince was not big on the thrill of the chase, because instead of pursuing her, he just yelled after her, “Wait! I don’t know your name!” But that didn’t work, because (a) she thought he was coming after her anyway and (b) she didn’t know it herself. Her name, that is.

So he vaulted back over the hedge and tumbled back onto his horse and rode away. He asked about her, but no one had ever heard of her because she didn’t have a name. He tried to find her, but he didn’t know her name.

Two weeks plus three days later (on a Wednesday), he was again riding past her garden (or wherever). She was there again, this time with her nose buried in a chrysanthemum (no rhyme this time – but wait! That rhymes!). This time he was stealthier. He tumbled gracefully off his horse on purpose, crawled under the hedge, and thereby surprised her.

She didn’t see him till he was directly in front of her. He had brought her a lily from his own garden (or wherever) and he stood in front of her now, holding it. She seemed to think that flowers indicated he meant no ill. She didn’t run this time.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

She found her voice. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I never had one.”

“You never had a name?”

“Well, no.”

“May I give you a name?”

“Like what?”

“How about…” the prince screwed up his face in thought. “Vardas?”

“What?!”

“It’s Lithuanian.”

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s just pretty.”

“Well, I like it,” the maiden – oops! Vardas said contentedly, burying her nose in the chrysanthemum again.

So now that the prince had her name, he could ask her to marry him. So he did, and they lived happily, namefully ever after. The End.