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You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember the color of your eyes, though you can just check that in a mirror. (There’s no mirrors on this ship. The captain says they’re cursed.) You don’t remember what you did for a living or the name of your best friend. You don’t remember your first kiss and you certainly don’t remember what drowning feels like.
At least, that’s what you told me.
We were charting a course ‘round the Isle of Refuge. Lots of folks like you were ending up in the water, looking for a better life and finding naught but a watery grave unless we got to you before Prexus did. Or whatever Prexus left behind when he turned his back on Norrath.
We didn’t save people out of the kindness of our hearts. No, the only major civilizations we knew of at the time were desperate for more manpower – more laborers for working the fields and digging in the mines, for raising livestock, cutting down trees, building homes and, before any of that could commence, building new walls. Both the Overlord and Antonia were willing to pay us good coin for every living and capable laborer we delivered to their ports. Sorry, I mean every capable adventurer. They don’t like it when ol’ Ingrid tells it like it is.
Your hands are rough and your arms are strong, which means they’ll take you with open arms, whoever you decide on. Although, looking at your bluish-gray skin, your pale hair and the pointy ears … that decision’s already been made for you. The Queen doesn’t take your kind. That’s all well and good, though. Rumor has it that pretty dark elf girls do well in Freeport. Not that I would know anything about that, of course. I’ve never been one much for dry land. I was born to be a sailor and blessed to have gotten a spot on one of the few ships that knows how to navigate these choppy waters. The same can’t be said for whoever was captaining your ill-fated vessel – that wasn’t you, was it?
Captain Varlos made up your whole life story while you were unconscious on the deck. You were so pretty lying there, looking like you’d just washed ashore. As I watched the golden tints in your hair come out in the sun, he posited that you’d been a pirate and that the rest of the folks we’d plucked out of the water – a motley mix of ratonga, erudites, and barbarians, mostly – were from a merchant ship you’d tried to attack. Things got out of hand, he said, and the dinghy was lost. I said, isn’t that a little bit racist? They could’ve all been on the same ship together, and then he pointed at how everyone else was wearing leather armor, now starting to stink in the sun, while you were dressed in fine chainmail. Very expensive-looking chainmail. You’re no longer wearing it, but don’t worry about that. They’ll get you dressed on the Isle. The Overlord provides, or whatever it is they pay us to tell you.
When you finally woke up, you were so scared. It was kind of cute! You’d dried out in the sun and your white hair was all fluffy, like a little lion. None of your compatriots had any more of an idea of what was happening than you did, but you at least had the good grace to not raise your fists at us. Some pirate, I told Varlos. He hates it when I’m right, which is most of the time. You started blathering and Varlos slapped the sense back into you. Sorry about that. I was too slow to stop him. It didn’t look like it hurt.
Once you’d finished rubbing your cheek, I asked you what your name was and you, as I’ve already said, didn’t know. So I sat down next to you and offered you a shot of rum and a corner of hardtack. You liked the rum. I peeled an orange and fed you slices, hoping it would get you to talking, but it didn’t, because you had nothing to talk about. You seemed like you wanted something, though, so I told you that you could rest your head in my lap and you did. Your skin gets so warm in the sun, did you know that?
Well, I said, you need a name, girl. Do any of these feel familiar to you? And I started rattling off a list of all the dark elf names I’d heard before. There was the old queen in Neriak before it got buried, the Ethernaut girl, the Freeport clerk who signs our invoices… and that was all the dark elf names I knew. None of them seemed to fit you. Some list.
You nibbled on the hardtack and thought. Your thick, unruly eyebrows knitted together and you bit your cute lower lip until it turned purple. You asked me what my name was, and I told you. And what does that mean, you asked.
I shrugged. It’s just a name.
You weren’t happy with that. You insisted that names should mean something. You glared at me like an angry kid. I couldn’t help it – you made me smile.
I don’t know, I said, what kind of meaning do you want your name to have? I flicked the tip of your pointy ear. It was a lot longer than mine.
Something meaningful, you said, and your eyes got all big. Uh huh. A meaningful meaning. I would’ve given you a hard time for that if you weren’t still half-full of seawater. Were you asking me to name you? I’m not exactly good with names. I mean, the ship we’re on right now is called The Far Journey, that’s not exactly poetic…
What about Sky? you asked. Or what about … Wave?
You’re just naming things you can see, I said. We might as well call you Varla – I chuckled and pointed at the captain.
You were delighted. Varla! Yes! That’s perfect! You didn’t get that I was joking, but you said it was your name, and who would I be to tell you otherwise? You were nothing like Varlos, but the way your face lit up when you said it – well, it just seemed to suit you.