The Child

I remember the day I stumbled across him so vividly that I sometimes forget that it did not happen just yesterday. He was so much quieter back then...not to mention smaller. He couldn't have been more than four years old.
I had set out on The Chronicler with my crew only a little while after my daughter's birth, on a trip to Rhen as a favour to a merchant friend of mine for some selling and buying purposes. He had some particularly good business with the desert people at that time of year and he trusted me to deliver and exchange goods in his place.
I never did meet his client.
We made berth at port during what should have been one of the busiest times of the year, only to find the docks deserted and the city billowing with smoke and ravaged by flames. We disembarked, my crew and I, armed and quite prepared with every intention of facing danger head on, should we encounter it. But the only living thing to meet us at the end of the dock was a small boy draped in filthy rags. He was smeared from head to toe in soot and dirt and grime and his small left fist clutched a distressed scrap of parchment, which he seemed very reluctant to release into my care. I managed to retrieve it from him after inviting him onto The Chronicler and then I escorted him down to see our physician, Red, who cleaned the boy up and assured me that he was in fine health. We gave him some food and I stayed with him below deck for a while, in an effort to lessen his apprehension towards me. When he finally deemed me trustworthy enough, he passed the note in his hand to me, in answer to my question of "who are you?".

This is a request in troubled times, and to whoever may read this, I can only pray that it falls into worthy hands. From the deserts of Rhen, this boy has travelled, escaping the horrors of his homeland. To send him back from where he came would be murder. His tribe has been ravaged by the bandits and thieves of the sands, his home destroyed, his family lost. Should you find pity on this boy enough to take him in, he will not disappoint you. Treat him as your own son and he will grow well and strong, he will learn quickly and cherish your kindness. This letter bears his father’s seal, the Master of the Desert City Rhen, Chief Titus. This is his youngest son, Alek Titus. Stranger, I am in your debt.

Herondale Ser-

I had not even the slightest inclination of who Herondale Ser- might be, and until then I had never heard of anyone by the name of Titus. I regarded this Alek Titus before me with a new kind of respect for how calm he was in light of his situation, and at such a young age. It made me wonder who his father was, that he should have such strength in his bloodline. I am proud to say that, when my crewmen returned from the city and confirmed my suspicions about a desert raid, we departed the port of Rhen with the boy still aboard The Chronicler.
I may not have acquired any riches in silver or gold, but on that day, I gained myself a son.