The market of Tarith's Crossing hums with vibrant life, a chaotic tapestry woven from the shouts of merchants, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the steady murmur of villagers bartering over goods. Beneath a bright noon sun, scents of fresh bread, sweet spices, and crisp herbs mingle in the bustling square, creating an atmosphere with rich energy—a sharp contrast to the solitude and quiet freedom Jareth greatly prefers.
He stands on the edge of the crowded market street, towering well above all of those who pass him by, his broad-shouldered frame casting an imposing shadow. His posture is one of guarded irritation, blue eyes narrowed slightly against the glare and the noise, already regretting his decision to step ashore. He had argued with Borin against docking here, insisting the bustling town would only slow their pace and empty their purses, but his captain was insistent: the Sunlit Rose needed fresh provisions, sturdy rope, and medicines to replenish their dwindling supply.
Besides, Borin had said with that infuriating patience of his, "Ye might find more here than ye think, laddie. Tarith's Crossin' has its surprises."
Jareth doubts that very much.
He hates crowds—always had—finding the crush of bodies claustrophobic and the persistent haggling of merchants deeply grating. More than anything, he loathes paying the full price, his quick tongue and quicker mind accustomed to securing better deals in shadowed ports where reputation alone was currency enough. But here, under the blinding openness of the sunlit square, negotiations felt more like a theatre—an unwelcome spectacle.
Drawing in a reluctant breath, he adjusts his cloak around his shoulders, more out of restlessness than necessity, the worn leather creaking slightly. His fingers brush absently against his scruffy beard—unevenly trimmed, hastily cared for with a dull blade earlier that morning. On his left cheek, where the beard grows sparse, a prominent scar slices across his skin. He pays it little mind, though the occasional curious glance from townsfolk reminds him it remains noticeable.
His gaze shifts through the crowded market, restless and impatient, until something delicate and serene abruptly catches his attention, drawing his eyes like a ship to a lighthouse.
Standing quietly at a small herb stall is a figure unlike any he's seen before. A young woman with a delicate frame and impossibly graceful movements tends carefully to a variety of herbs spread neatly before her. Ebony-black hair cascades elegantly down her back, bound in an intricate style that weaves gentle plaits around her face, framing her porcelain features. She moves as if in a dream, wholly untouched by the chaotic market around her.
She seems entirely out of place here, like a storybook creature briefly alighting in the mortal world. Jareth's irritation eases slightly, curiosity piqued despite himself. There's something captivating about her calmness. As he watches, he finds himself stepping closer, drawn by an impulse he can't quite explain, his heavy boots thudding softly against the worn cobblestones.
She glances up, startled by his approach, her large mauve eyes widening at the sight of him. Her breath visibly catches, and he suppresses a faint smirk; he's accustomed to such reactions, he understands his intimidating presence well enough. Yet, the softness in her gaze intrigues him—there's no fear, only surprise, and something else he can't yet decipher.
"Those herbs," he rumbles softly, his voice a deep baritone that carries easily despite his effort to it low, "you seem to know your way around them."
She fumbles briefly with the rosemary in her fingers, trying not to lose herself under his tense stare. "I-I've always been good with plants," she replies quietly, her voice soft and melodic despite her obvious shyness.
Jareth chuckles, the sound low and rough, but not unpleasant. Her nervousness eases something within him. He feels more at ease than he had moments before—at least the girl doesn't seem inclined to push overpriced goods onto him. He tilts his head slightly, his eyes lingering on her features, before he speaks again.
"Perhaps you could help us, then," he says, voice slightly teasing but sincere. "My crew could use healing herbs for our next journey. And someone who knows their true worth."
Her blush becomes darker, though her eyes brighten slightly at his suggestion. "Of course," she says voice steadier now, eyes darting nervously but intrigued by his rugged appearance. Her gaze lingers uncertainty on his beard again, perhaps noticing the uneven, rough way it grows around his scar.
Before Jareth can speak further, the steady tap of a cane against cobblestone interrupts their quiet exchange. A shorter—but taller than the woman—figure approaches, his presence instantly commanding despite standing at five feet and six inches. The newcomer's wild dark hair frames sharp features, his beard scraggly and careless, hinting at a man who once cared for his appearance but no longer found it necessary. His robes, elegant but slightly disheveled, speak to former refinement, though now he looks weathered and somewhat worn by the world.
His mauve eyes—strikingly similar to the girl's—assess Jareth swiftly, moving deliberately between the towering stranger and the young woman, suspicion clearly etched in every careful movement. His soft blue wings, shimmering gently in the daylight despite frayed edges, spread slightly as he moves to place himself between Jareth and his daughter.
"My name is Aven Gypsum," he announces, voice steady and deep, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Jareth. "and you seem to have taken an interest in my shop," he emphasises carefully, though the implication is clear: his interest, at least in Aven's eyes, seem entirely too focused on the girl rather than the stall itself.
Jareth straightens slightly under Aven's piercing gaze, respecting the older man's protective stance while a flicker of amusement briefly crosses his rugged features. He's no stranger to suspicion or wary fathers. He inclines his head respectfully, a smirk tugging slightly at the corner of his lips as he responds in his low, even tone.
"A fine shop," he remarks with a playful edge. "And even finer company." His eyes drift pointedly back to the young woman, who immediately blushes once more. "They call me Redbeard," he continues easily, not bothering to reveal more. His reputation precedes him often enough; his given name isn't something he offers lightly.
Recognition flickers instantly in Aven's eyes, suspicion darkening into something deeper and more cautious. His grip on the cane tightens visibly, though he maintains careful composure. "Redbeard," he repeats slowly, eyes narrowing slightly. "I've heard the name whispered along docks and among sailors who pass through. Trouble often follows those whispers."
Jareth doesn't flinch beneath Aven's scrutiny, older the older man's gaze evenly. "Not here for trouble," he replies plainly, voice firm but calm. "Just restocking supplies. Your town seems peaceful enough—something rare these days."
Aven continues to eye him, protective instincts clear in his posture, protective instincts clear in his posture. "Peaceful," he agrees, voice deliberate and cautious, "and we'd prefer to keep it that way. Especially when strangers arrive unexpectedly."
Jareth merely shrugs, unfazed by the guarded hostility beneath the man's polite demeanour. "You'll get no quarrel from me. My captain's orders are simple—just provisions and fair trade."
Jareth's expression remains cautious, and for a long moment, silence stretches between them. Jareth stands his ground, respectful yet unyielding beneath the man's older scrutiny. Finally, Aven gives a slight nod, acknowledging the subtle understanding that has passed between them. His posture eases only marginally.
"See that it remains that way," Aven says carefully, his eyes flickering briefly toward his daughter again. "We value peace highly, especially concerning matters close to home."
Jareth can't help but chuckle softly, his eyes crinkling slightly with genuine amusement. "I'm used to it," he responds evenly, voice holding a gruff but understanding warmth. "A father must protect what is his, it's only right."
His words seem to mollify Aven, though the older man remains wary. The girl finally speaks, stepping forward hurriedly, clearly embarrassed by her father's protective stance. "Please forgive my father's caution," she murmurs apologetically, eyes shyly flicking up to meet Jareth's gaze. "He means no offence."
Jareth waves her apology away slightly, his eyes softening slightly when meeting hers again. "None taken," he assures, voice a touch warmer now. "Every father does what he must."
He can't help but notice the subtle shift in the young woman's demeanour as the tension eases. She seems relieved, her slender shoulders relaxing slightly beneath the fabric of her simple gown. Her gaze, shy yet now brightened by a spark of genuine curiosity, flits once more across his rugged features, pausing momentarily at the scar that disrupts the coarse scruff of his ginger beard.
It isn't pity that lingers there, nor repulsion—rather a quiet, unspoken fascination that inexplicably sets him at ease.
With newfound courage, she steps forward, her movements graceful yet endearingly hesitant. "If-if you're not busy, perhaps you'd let me show you around Tarith's Crossing?" Her voice is warm, like the sunlit filtering through the bustling market stalls. "There are places here you might otherwise overlook."
Aven's reaction is immediate, the cane in his grip scraping audibly against the cobblestones as his eyes widen, a mixture of incredulity and exasperation crossing his features. He opens his mouth as though about to protest sharply but seems caught somewhere between parental protectiveness and astonishment that his usually shy daughter would willingly engage with someone who is—to his mind—an entirely untrustworthy figure. Aven's mouth closes, opens again, and finally settles into a comically disgruntled scowl, an expression that makes him appear simultaneously offended and baffled.
Jareth observes the exchange, his lips quirking slightly into an amused smirk at the older man's visible displeasure. He's had dealings with protective fathers before—suspicion and disapproval aren't new to him—but there's a certain entertainment in watching Aven's struggle with to balance paternal authority and dignity. The gruff pirate finds himself unexpectedly amused by the dynamic, especially given how earnestly the girl now looks up at him.
"I'd appreciate a guide," Jareth replies, the gruff edge of his voice softened by a hint of genuine courtesy, though the mischievous glint never quite leaves his gaze. "If your father doesn't mind, of course."
Aven clears his throat pointedly, glaring sharply at his daughter as though mentally pleading for her to reconsider. "Naomi," he finally manages, voice strained in an attempt at patience, "I'm sure our visitor can manage on his own. The market isn't exactly complicated—nor is it vast."
Naomi turns quickly toward her father. "Papa," she counters gently but firmly, "you're always saying how important it is to show hospitality to strangers. I think that includes helping them find their way." Her smile, shy but earnest, softens the edge of her gentle defiance. "Besides, you wouldn't want him to get lost now, would you?"
Aven splutters momentarily, utterly surprised. His gaze flicks helplessly between Naomi and Jareth, and for a brief instant, the elder fae looks like he might argue further. Then, seeming to realise he's lost this battle before it truly began, Aven's shoulders slump in exaggerated defeat, the dramatic resignation prompting a slight chuckle from Jareth.
"Fine," Aven grumbles begrudgingly, scowling fiercely at Jareth. "But not too far, Naomi. And keep the public places—very public places."
Naomi nods eagerly, her cheeks glowing with a soft triumph. She turns back to Jareth, her eyes sparkling, clearly delighted at having successfully navigated around her father's objections. Her initial shyness gives away now to a gentle enthusiasm, an openness that captivates Jareth far more than he had expected.
Realising she hasn't yet introduced herself properly, Naomi flushes and extends a delicate hand in a hesitant greeting, her fingers trembling slightly. "My name is Naomi," she murmurs softly, her voice gentle but steady, "Naomi Gypsum."
Jareth, after a moment's pause, gently takes her hand into his own calloused grip, his massive palm dwarfing hers entirely. The warmth of her skin startles him, unexpected yet strangely comforting. Her fingers feel impossibly soft, fragile almost, against his roughened hand, worn from years aboard ship, battered by wind, salt, and sea.
"Naomi," he repeats slowly, thoughtfully, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint, genuine smile beneath the scruff of his uneven beard. "A beautiful name. Suits you." His tone remains gruff but sincere, his blue eyes briefly holding hers with a gentle intensity before he releases his hand carefully, almost reluctantly, mindful of the faint blush rising higher on her cheeks,
Aven, watching closely, grumbles something indistinct under his breath, loudly tapping his cane against the stone pavement once more, clearly unimpressed by the overly polite exchange occurring right before his eyes. "Well then, if that's settled," he says pointedly, voice dripping with mild sarcasm, "perhaps the young lady can show our guest around, seeing as she's suddenly become an ambassador for Tarith's Crossing."
Naomi laughs softly, the sound melodious and infectious enough that even Jareth's tense shoulders ease further, tension fading entirely beneath her quiet charm. She glances at Jareth, eyes twinkling conspiratorially. "Don't mind him," she says warmly, humour dancing across her delicate features. "He grumbles often—it's one of his talents."
Aven's jaw drops open slightly in mock offense, but before he can retort, Noami lightly takes Jareth's elbow and gently guides him away from the stall, her touch cautious yet confidently leading him deeper into the market.
As she moves beside him, Jareth notices again how utterly tiny Naomi appears beside his towering form. Yet, despite the vast difference in their stature, there's a surprising comfort in her presence, an easy warmth radiating quietly from her small frame. She begins pointing out landmarks and stalls, her voice soft yet animated, her explanations detailed and thoughtful, revealing an intimate affection for the simple charm of her hometown.
The pirate finds himself oddly engaged by her gentle narration, observing her more closely now, seeing the sunlight catch faint highlights of the deep blue-black of her intricately braided hair, noticing how easily laughter comes from her lips, quiet yet genuine.
Despite himself, Jareth feels the edge of his habitual guardedness slowly slipping, replaced by a cautious yet genuine intrigue. Behind them, the pirate catches one final, exasperated glare from Aven, whose disgruntled scowl remains firmly in pace, arms folded as he watches Naomi eagerly lead the rugged sailor deeper into the crowded market. Jareth offers the older fae a fleeting smirk of amused understanding before focusing his attention entirely back on Naomi, letting her gentle voice wash pleasantly over him.
As they leave the shadow of her father's watchful glare, the noise of the market begins to fade into the background—a living, pulsing tapestry of life in which Jareth, for his first time since his arrival, feels only half-present. He falls easily into step beside Naomi, adjusting his long stride to her smaller, more delicate pace. Her presence, so quietly insistent, draws the eye and the ear; the busy clamour of merchants hawking their wares, the clipped calls of children running between stalls, and the raucous laughter of local man all became nothing more than a distant chorus.
Naomi glances up at him, catching his eye with a smile both shy and luminous. "What exactly did your captain say was needed?" she asks, her voice clear as a bell above the murmur of the crowd. "We often get pirate ships stopping in here, but most never have the courtesy to ask."
As she speaks, her wings—gossamer and faintly iridescent, edged in a hue that shifts between blue, purple, and silver in the sunlight—unfurl gently behind her. With a small, unconscious flick, Naomi hovers a foot or two above the packed earth, her toes no longer brushing the cobblestones. The movement is effortless and natural, a subtle display otherworldly heritage that leaves Jareth briefly transfixed. Her hair, caught by the wind, dances like shadow and starlight in the air behind her.
He clears his throat, forcing himself to look away from the graceful arc of her wings and focus on the matter at hand. For a moment, his tone is crisp and clipped, an echo of training from a life he rarely speaks of—" Borin wants enough flour, salt, and oats to last the month, with decent cheese if you've got it, and hardtack that won't fall to weevils within a week." He recites the list almost mechanically, the words polished and precise, as if delivering an inventory for some noble's steward.
But as Naomi drifts closer, curiosity softening her features, something in Jareth's demeanour changes. The rigid, formal voice drops away, replaced by a rougher, more practical cadence—the authentic voice of a man who's spent years living by tide and blade rather than gilded halls. He runs a hand over his unruly beard, fingers tracing the line of the old scar as if by habit.
"And the lads'll want ale, if you've any the kind that won't put them in the ground come morning." His lips twitch in a half-smile, the kind that never quite reaches his eyes. "Fresh fruit, too—something to keep the crew from rotting inside out. Dried meat, if you've got it, and herbs that won't fetch a king's ransom. Borin'll haggle with your market masters, but he's no patience for being robbed blind by city folk." There's a note of gruff humour in his words, a barely veiled disdain for the extortionate ways of land-bound traders.
He glances sidelong at Naomi, catching the glimmer of amusement there. "If you're clever, you can see who's got the honest scales and who's out to cheat a sailor. Seems to me you're clever." His voice drops, rumbling softer, as if confessing something not meant for other ears. "And I'll say this—if the crew some back with anything less than what's due, I'll hear about it for days. Borin's an excellent captain, but he's got a temper sharper than any blade aboard ship."
Naomi laughs, the sound bright and ringing as the breeze. She spins lightly in the air, her wings catching the sunlight and scattering it in glints across the dusty stones. "You must have your hands full, then, keeping your captain happy." Her tone is playful but kind, the teasing of someone not entirely used to speaking so openly with strangers. "I promise I won't let you get swindled—no matter what anyone says about pirates and faeries."
Jareth grunts, a sound that, from anyone else, might be rude—but from him, it carries a kind of rough warmth. "That'd be a first," he mutters, though a faint, reluctant smile tugs at his mouth. "Most folks look at us and see nothing but trouble. I suppose they're not always wrong."
She floats a little higher, turning mid hair to face him, her eyes filled with the same quiet, unshakable interest. "And what do you see when you look at us?"
He holds her gaze, thoughtful for a moment. "I see a town that minds its own, where folk ain't so quick to swing a blade for shout for blood. That's worth more than gold in my line of work." There is a sincerity in his words, a rare honestly he rarely shows to strangers. "You… you seem like you know your way around more than herbs. Takes courage, standing up to your father like that."
Naomi's cheeks flush a deeper pink, but her smile only widens, pride and gratitude mingling in her eyes. "Someone has to make sure the world isn't just run by men with swords and loud voices," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper, meant for him alone.
He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Don't let Borin hear you say that—he'd argue the point just to keep himself entertained. But you're not wrong." He glances at the stalls they're passing—brightly coloured, weathered signs, piles of fragrant spices and baskets of ripe fruit. The markets, for all of its chaos, feels somehow gentler with Naomi guiding him.
They pause at a stall where an old woman arranges bundles of dried lavender and rosemary in neat rows. Naomi hovers just above the ground, greeting the woman with a soft word in a language Jareth doesn't recognise. The old woman's eyes twinkle with delight, and she slips Naomi a handful of fresh mint without asking for payment.
Naomi then turns and offers the sprig to Jareth, her expression suddenly earnest. "For the headaches, the road can be hard, especially for someone who hates crowds."
He takes it with a surprised grunt, his rough fingers brushing against hers for the briefest instant. "Thank you," she says, voice uncharacteristically quiet. "You notice a lot, don't you?"
"I try," Naomi replies, lowering herself to stand by his side. "Sometimes you have to, if you want to see the good in people."
They continue on, weaving through the heart of the market, Naomi pointing out where the best bread is baked, which butchers are honest, and which stalls sell ribbons that catch the wind like bird wings. With each step, Jareth finds himself more at ease, the weight of his reputation and scars easing just a little in the warmth of her company.
By the time the sun has began to set, Jareth finds his arms burdened with parcels—bundles of salted fish, sacks of flour, and oats slung over his board shoulder, a crate of hard cheese wedged beneath one arm, and the scent of fresh mint lingering on his fingers. Naomi moves beside him with quiet purpose, negotiating prices, exchanging laughter with the vendors, and occasionally nudging Jareth when he grumbles at the sharpness of a deal or the clumsy attempts of a merchant to foist wilted goods on a foreigner. Somehow, with her guidance, the market's chaos becomes manageable.
He catches her studying him as they pause at the edge of the square, the supplies finally gathered in a neat, somewhat precarious, heap at their feet. Sunlight glances off the beads and tiny threads braided through her hair, and for a moment, Jareth finds himself unexpectedly grateful for her company.
She tilts her head, wings gently flickering behind her, and asks, "Will you and your crew be staying long?" The question is simple, but he senses the hope beneath it, faint but honest.
He shrugs, adjusting the weight of a burlap sack against his side, his voice low and easy. "That depends on Borin. He's the captain. Likes to see the crew get their pent-up energy out when we're in port—stretch their legs, drink themselves half-blind, remind themselves that the world's wider than the hull of a ship. Could be days, could be longer if we find good wind or trouble." He glances sidelong at her, a faint smirk curving at the edge of his mouth. "And a lot of them'll drink the tavern try if given half a chance."
Naomi laughs, her eyes dancing as she drifts closer, wings shimmering faintly in the sunlight. "You don't strike me as the type who enjoys crowds," she teases gently, and Jareth grunts his agreement, the sound rough but not unfriendly.
"I'd sooner face down a storm at sea than a market full of shouting merchants," he confides, his tone laced with wry humour. "People always want to sell a pirate twice what something's worth. At least a storm's honest about wanting you dead."
Naomi's giggle is bright and unrestrained, surprising them both. She hovers a little higher, the tips of toes skimming the dusty stones. "We do get a lot of your kind here, but most aren't as polite as you," she says with a sidelong glance that's equal parts curiosity and invitation. "But, if I may—why do you ask so many questions about the people here? Or…" She pauses, biting her lip. "Is it just me you're curious about?"
Jareth's lips quirk into a genuine, if slightly sheepish, smile. He shifts his weight, the scar on his cheek catching the light beneath his wild beard. "Suppose it's both. Couldn't help but notice everyone here is… well, a bit on the smaller side. Thought maybe it was the water or the food." He lowers his voice in mock-conspiracy, leaning in just enough for her to hear. "Or maybe fae in this town just like making giants feel out of place."
Naomi lets out a peal of laughter, drawing the attention of a passing fruit vendor, who offers a knowing smile before moving on. She settles back on her feet and explains, "We don't grow very tall, that's true. Five-foot-ten is the tallest anyone in my family has ever managed. Most of us are much closer to the ground—helps with flying, I suppose." She flutters her wings in emphasis, and Jareth, despite himself, grins at the sight.
He opens his mouth to reply, but a new presence draws his attention—a quiet, measured tread upon the stones, softer than any boisterous market-goers. A compact figure approaches, dwarfed by the surrounding commotion, yet moving with a self-assurance that commands respect. At four feet tall, Borin Dunmere stands as solid as bedrock: thick-shouldered and broad-chested, his white beard nearly brushing the hem of his tunic as it swings with each step. Brown hair, shot through with grey, peeks from beneath a battered old cap, and a pair of round reading glasses perches on the bridge of his nose, giving him a scholarly air at odds with the weathered lines of his face and the iron set of his jaw.
Borin surveys the scene with an appraising eye, his gaze lingering for a moment on Naomi—measuring, as any good captain would, the influence of a stranger on his crew. "Ye've done well, laddie," Borin remarks, his voice deep and gravelly, eyes twinkling with a hint of pride and mischief. "Couldn't have managed half as a whole with the lot of 'em sniffing around. I've sent a few of the lads to haul yer spoils back to the ship, so ye've got no excuse to keep standing about like a lost mast."
He turns his attention briefly to Naomi, offering a polite, brisk nod. "My thanks for helpin' this stubborn pup see sense," he says, a note of genuine warmth beneath his gruffness. "Takes a sharp eye and a fair tongue to keep from tradin' away his boots."
Jareth scoffs, but there's no heat in it, and Borin's lips twitch in amusement. The Bramling captain gestures toward the waiting crew, who are already hefting bundles and crates, making quick work of the morning's business. "Best get movin', Redbeard, Wouldn't want the market to think ye've settled in fer good. There's a whole world out there to swindle and sail, and ye've only just begun."
Jareth inclines his head, gathering the last of the parcels. For a moment, he hesitates, his gaze falling on Naomi as the bustle of the market swirls around them. The look he gives her is softer, more searching—a glimpse beneath the armour he wears in every crowded place, every unfamiliar port.
"Name's Jareth," he says finally, his voice low but steady, the words carrying a quiet weight as if offering a secret. "By the way."
Naomi's face lights up, her smile broad and radiant, the kind of smile that can warm a man against the chill of a northern wind. She lets out a small, delighted breath, and for the first time since their paths crossed, she feels the spark of a new beginning—unexpected, fragile, and precious.
"It's lovely to meet you, Jareth," she replies, her voice gentle but sure, as if she's just been giving something rare and important.
Jareth nods once, awkward but sincere, before turning to follow Borin and the crew, the heavy weight of supplies suddenly feeling lighter. As he walks away, Naomi stands at the edge of the market, her eyes following him, her smile lingering like a promise yet to be spoken.
And so, with the sun dipping westward and the air thick with possibility, Jareth leaves the market square behind—arms full, heart unexpectedly less burdened, and a name, at last, freely given.