“What are they called?” she asked as he handed her another of the strange, sweet fruits.
“They don't have names.” He took a bite of his. “These are 'the blue spotted ones,' and those over there are the 'yellow square ones.'”
“...They don't have names? But even if the kid didn't name them, haven't you?”
He shook his head softly as he stared into the soft colors of the fog. “I don't want them to have names.”
“But you're a scholar, an explorer! You're supposed to name things.”
“Am I?” Marcus looked at her for a moment before looking away. “That's what I used to think.”
“What...” She stared for a long moment.
“There's something fundamentally selfish in exploring, you know?” He sighed. “To desire so much of newness, of the unknown, and all for yourself. Sure, you write books about it, you keep logs and diaries so that other people can know what you found, what you saw, but you take something from a place when you are the first one there. There's a... power, in the unknown, and to explore it is to take that power for yourself. And so we might not be forgotten,” he laughed bitterly, “we name it, and pin it down, so that power will never regrow.”
“...I'm not sure I understand what you mean.” She stared at him, fruit forgotten.
“I'm not so sure either.” He sighed again. “But if I name what I find, then it isn't as new. It's used; it bears the weight of my memory instead of simply it's own.”
They were silent for a moment, as the mists rolled around them and the soft light flickered from nowhere in particular.
“That's an odd way of thinking about it,” she finally said.
“It's a work in progress.” He finished his fruit and stood. “We'd better get going. Chris will be waiting for us.”