The words keep repeating even when he stops saying them, part of the fog somehow, filling his head until there isn't room for anything else, part of the crew part of the ship part of the crew.

The woman's frantic cry, her voice, her face, mean nothing on this side of the fog. The desperate courage of the man before him means even less.

No one leaves the ship.

His sword's in his hand, and he's moving even as the towline and those clinging to it fall toward the water, even as the man in uniform turns back toward him.