The anchor shook and she held on for dear life. Sometime she thought if she grabbed people as hard as she meant, they'd crumple like unsent letters – but no, still here. Touch confirmed it.

„Careful, sailor.“ Voice rolling down the collarbone. „Might believe we did something well yet.“

Him comforting her. What a world. But it was welcome. Everyone needed to lean every now and then.
 
There was that little feeling again, tugging in the gut. For the closeness and the lower tones. What had he said once, twice, thrice, countless times whenever someone brought caution into question — that truth about sailors?

“ Being careful is not what got me here. “ He admitted, letting the eye drift shut. Exhaling into the pit of her neck as one settling to restful slumber might. “ I’ll not start now, if that’s all well and good with you, miss. “
 
„Well thank Ghanga for that“ That was the sailor one, right? Hard to keep all the stories straight after a long enough time. Each retelling fractured them into something new and equally interesting. This made the Elum great at parties, and considerably less impressive on the witness stand.

„What did bring you here?“ Just to make sure he understood she was prodding, she made her finger motion mimic the emotion – digging at the shoulder blade.
 
He flinched sluggishly at the probing touch. Ticklish.

“ You did. “ Was his initial response, the truest of them. But suppose that was more a who, than a what. “Before that— Shoreleave. A friend of a friend is— “

Sentence meandered off to a gentler, slower bend. Like pausing to reminisce.

“ Poorly. Has been for a long time. “ Kept his tone steady, for effect. It’s just life.

“ We’re here to see him off. I think. “
 
So he was ticklish. An important bit to remember if they were ever trapped in too serious a moment. The rest of it, though – wasn't a joke. Flattery quickly turned to confession, and Vyn wasn't a wasted ear. She'd remember. Because even the act of telling told her something.

„That his wish?“ Voice low, fingers tapping him like the gentlest drum.

Not like she had any right to know. But she did remember plenty of Elum who'd left the Wagons when the time came. Still got a funeral of memory. But that was for the living. The dying had a right to choose. She didn't prod further.
 
“ No. Too much humility. “ He smiled at that, for how characteristic to some such a thing was allowed to be. Until bitter end. “ What he wished for was good gin. “

Also, brutally on brand.

“ Doesn’t drink, not since ten years ago what with the— “ He shrugged. That whole thing, whatever it was that ails him. His own thick skull had lost the name. “ So, for the burial. Ashes are thirsty. “

Sailors’ more so. Even if most of them gain rest in the Sea. Not this one, though.

“ You ever gotten utterly shit-faced with the dead, Vyn? “
 
She got quiet for a moment. Because she remembered trying to get a Pale drunk once. Well, half the night anyway. Wasn't sure if they counted as dead, but they sure as Wagonwood could drink the living under the table. Learned not to try again. Funny thing to say, but not a story she could tell. Not yet. Not to him.

„Tried. Got tabled.“ She smiled at that. Near as truth could get. Her arm moved, wavy. „Rest of the night is mist.“

„That what you're doing? Drinking gin in his memory when the time comes?“
 
Mist. Gave a nod, understanding. Maybe a little amused for the simple relatability.

“ You have some, you pour some, after. Something strong for the burned bones and to fill the little tear in your chest. “ Explained against the warmth of her face, hand resting on the back of her ribs.

“ Or make it larger. I’ve seen that too. But it's tradition. “
 
„Here we tell stories of 'em“ She still remembered the last rite. „Burn their bones and paint them in a new name.“ Because to the Elum, that made sense. „The name you start with sometimes doesn't fit the person we say goodbye to.“

Didn't say how many still left to die on their own terms. How some never got to be sent off and finalnamed. Road lined with wheels, but no Wagons.

Pulled her hand back to rest on top of his. Not like he needed reminding she was there. But, you know, just in case.
 
There was that bit about names again, emphasized importance. She’d introduced him to it first thing on the pier too, giving three different monikers for what to him was a mere object. That bird of wagonwood, found in the dust.

“ And objects? Why was the bird called Remember? For tonight, as you said. “

What makes another wander and sit down by a stranger, at night?
 
Vyn looked at him with concern and surprise, because it only seemed obvious. You cut the oak and named it Plank. Plank did its job and claimed the name of Wagon. Wagon broke and you got to meet something named Chunk. And Chunks were a good sort, but they lived short lives before they too were repurposed to something different. It was all so perfectly rooted in Elum logic – further confirmed and compunded by their way of life. But explaining it was...well. If Vyn wasn't an Elum, she wouldn't be Vyn. She'd have a different name, a different Road and purpose.

„Because that was its job tonight.“ And yours too. „You took the name, so you took its purpose too.“ Must've all sounded downright nutty. Many things did, when you failed to see the Road for what it was.

„Should it turn to evil come light... then Chicken will be its name.“
 
The remark on chickens broke his tender seriousness, pried a huff and a chuckle to the cooling, dusty air of the Wagon.

“ I got to play alongside a cockerel once. Lutist, virtuoso. “ He recounted, looking on into the dark like he should’ve seen the memory play out in the depths of it, somewhere. “ Great sense of humour, bit of a bastard. Don’t know about evil. “

It was jest enough, aloof.

“ Some purpose to inherit, though. Reminds me a bit of— “ He shrugged, head tilting with thought. “ How some witch once told me that things that touch one another are imbued with each other’s mana. Power of thunder in a lightning-stricken oak, the aspect of Death in the hangman’s cord and the knife that’d eventually cut it down. “

Rules of magic. Wasn’t the one she’d practiced in naming him a type to itself. A bow and bend in the fabric of who they were.

“ Did I live upto it, for you? Remembrance is what the Elum live by, no? “
 
Appreciated him playing along with the chicken bit. People often dismissed it. Such was their evil, slow and insidious. At least geese had the decency to goose you quick, not chickens – those monsters wanted to peck you low and slow. It was important to remember that not all horrible things seemed bad – as well as chicken soup recipes. Each pot brought a bit more peace to the world.

The naming bit she held onto dearly. Because he was starting to understand it, in its and bits. Oak struck by lightning was no longer just an oak. Noose struck by death was no longer merely rope. And the blade that cut beyond such death was no more a knife than Vyn was a Jem. So it was only natural that beings met with a new name changed at the touch. That was the essence of Truenaming. And were she someone of note, her small prophecy for Jens might've been closer to a promise than a plea. But she wasn't anyone, really. Just Vyn. But everyone, no matter how small, got to try. As long as they understood the responsibility behind it.

„Life is long, Jens. We're yet to see.“ Because it wasn't her Vyn wanted him to remember. There was desire there too, sure. But she wanted him to remember himself. Especially in those moments when the sack became too heavy and the long drop too inviting. That he would remember who Jens was and that he still had things to do upon both land and seas.

„But I believe you'll try.“
 
“ That’s some faith bestowed on my old arse. Long life— “ He hummed, drawing back a touch to see her face. “ But I’ll take it, with the name. "

Smile something devilish, look drawn narrower with mirth that'd crinkle the edges about every feature.

“ You dabble in telling fortunes alongside that juggling? “
 
Cracked like an egg at the last bit.

„I do offer palmreadings time to time“ Hand pulled back in mockthreat. „Never quite what people hope for.“ And sometimes she got scolded about how palmreadings were about telling people the future. Which was nonsense. Hers were just as valid – they only told the present.

Nothing wrong with that.
 
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