A Name in the Light

The boy’s name was Arel. He had scrambled into the hull when the first surge hit; now a beam blocked the opening. Each breath of the sea drove him further in. I cut the strap from my quiver, fed it through a gap and told Arel to fasten it around his hands. His fingers were so cold that he couldn’t feel the knot.

My nightsaber braced himself against the timber. I pulled. Shells rattled behind me, followed by the gurgling cry of a murloc. I could have reached for my bow. Instead, I called to the boy: when the water drew back, he must breathe out and make himself as narrow as he could.

He came free in a wave of splinters. We didn’t run until I had lifted him onto my companion’s back. A stone struck my shoulder. I didn’t turn. You don’t have to defeat every enemy to bring someone home.

The girl was still waiting at the edge of Auberdine. When Arel slid down, she scolded him. Very softly, very quickly, her face pressed against his wet jacket. The dockworker took them both somewhere warm. Only then did I notice how cold I was.

Later, my nightsaber got his fish. I sat on the harbour wall again, stitching the quiver strap. Two names had been scratched into the bottom of the lantern. I returned it the following morning. I didn’t add my own. It was enough that the other two still belonged together.