The chill of Tarith's Crossing deepens as night settles its heavy hands upon the town. The lanterns by the docks sputter in the brine-soaked wind, their light wan and restless, stretched thin across cobbles slick with salt and old rain. From the deck of the Sunlit Rose, Jareth stands for a long while, watching the town's glow ebb and pool across the tide. The laughter of his crew has faded into a low rumble below, and the ship's timbers creak and sigh, settling for the evening.
But rest eludes him. Something in the wind—a smell of wood-smoke, a thread of cold—prods loose a memory he hasn't thought of in years. It's the cold that does it: not the numbing, biting cold of the north, but the kind that seeps into your coat, that reminds you of warmth by the absence of it. It reminds him of his mother's arms. Of how, as a child, he'd press himself close to her, the warmth of her embrace outlasting the frost on the windows and the sharpness of winter. There was a safety in that, once. Certainty, too. He wonders, as he slips his coat over his shoulders and makes his way down the plank into the lamplit dark, if he will ever feel that kind of certainty again.
His boots strike hollow against the quay, steady and slow. He doesn't think much about he's headed, only that the ship feels too small tonight, and the old ache in his chest too loud to drown. He moves through the town like a shadow—past shuttered stalls, overrun barrels, the old cats winding through puddles for scraps. The further he does, the quieter the world becomes, until the noise of the port is only a hum behind him, and all he can hear is the wind and his own pacing thoughts.
He isn't sure how much time passes before he finds himself near the water, at the far edge of the docks. There, beneath the pale shiver of the moon, is a figure hunched at the end of the pier—small, slight, unmistakably alone. He knows her before he even sees her face. There is something in the way she holds herself, shoulders drawn tight, long hair loose and blowing in the wind, that is both wary and heartbreakingly hopeful.
It's Naomi.
He stops at a distance, not wanting to startle her. She must hear him anyway—the fae always do. She rises, turning to face him, and for a moment, the old, uncomfortable awkwardness of being out in the dark with a stranger flickers between them. But her face is tired, the sharp brightness of earlier worn thin, and her eyes are wide, ringed with the silver traces of tears.
Jareth's heart gives a strange lurch. He should leave. Instead, he steps forward, letting the weight of his presence announce itself.
For a breath, neither speaks. Naomi hugs her arms around herself, looking down at the planks, her voice, when it finally comes, is thin and unsteady, as if she's had to reach deep to find it. "Wh-what are you d-d-doing out here?" she asks, the stutter plain and raw, her words catching in her throat like stones in a stream.
Jareth's brows knit with concern, but he lets the question sit for a moment before answering, his voice low and gruff. "Could ask you the same," he says, a wry, gentler edge softening the usual grumble. "Not exactly a night for wandering. Didn't take you for the sort to run off alone."
She tries to school her face, to smooth the tremor in her speech, but tonight the exhaustion clings to her like a second skin. Her cheeks colour as she offers a shrug, attempting a careless lie. "J-just n-needed s-some air. T-too noisy at h-home."
It's a terrible lie, and Jareth knows it.
He catches the twitch of her ears, the way her hands twist nervously in the folds of her dress. If there's one thing he's learned about fae in his years of saw, it's that their tells are as plain as the sunrise if you know where to look. And this girl, for all her care, is an open book—her pain, her tiredness, everything spelled out in the flick of her ear and the tightness in the corners of her mouth.
He doesn't call her out, not directly. Instead, he watches her for a moment, the awkwardness stretching between them like a bridge neither quite dares to cross. She's different from earlier—softer, maybe, or just stripped of all of her careful composure. He remembers, with surprising clarity, how steady her voice had been at the market, how sure her hands were as she counted out the herbs and haggled over mint. Now, she stands before him shivering, the stutter raw and exposed.
Still, he only inclines his head, gaze shifting from her face to the restless water beyond. "Not much to look at out here," he says, quiet, almost conversational. "Just the dark and the tide. Unless you're looking for something in particular."
Naomi shakes her head, her hair falling across her cheeks. "N-no," she manages, quieter now as she hugs herself tighter. "Just… w-walking."
He nods, accepting it, though he doesn't believe a word of it. He sees the lie for what it is—not meant to deceive him, but to protect herself. He recognises the instinct. He's lived through most of his life wrapped in half-truths, lies worn like armour to keep the world at bay.
He doesn't push her. Instead, he stands by her side, not too close, but not too far, letting the silence settle like a blanket over both of them. For a long minute, neither speaks. The moonlight throws both their shadows across the boards; the only sound is the gentle slap of water against the pilings and the distant creak of the Sunlit Rose at anchor.
Jareth glances sidelong at her, studying the rigid line of her shoulders, the way she bites her lip to keep it from trembling. He thinks of all the nights he's spent just like this, too tired to fight, too raw to pretend, and wonders what, exactly, has driven her out into the cold.
He finds himself wanting to offer comfort, to say something that will smooth the ache of her voice. But he's no good at comfort—never has been. Instead, he does what he knows best. He stands his ground, offers his silence, and waits, hoping that maybe, for once, it's enough.
Naomi cannot keep still, not when her insides are all in knots and her thoughts rattle like windblown leaves. The cold seeps through her dress and into her bones, but it is not the chill that makes her skin prickle—it is the silence, the knowledge that she can't keep herself closed for long. Even now, standing under the moon's pale gaze, she feels the urge to explain, to fill the air with words before her nerves consume her. She casts Jareth a look, one that is half defiant and half pleading as her lips tremble, her breath like a shaky cloud in the dark.
"I—" she starts, but her words hitch. She swallows, her hands twisting nervously in the gold-stitched fabric at her waist. "I'm… I'm sorry. A-about the stutter." Her voice is small and tense, as though she's bracing herself for mockery or dismissal.
Jareth's brow furrows, the line between his eyes deepening in concern. He opens his mouth to protest—he hadn't even considered it an offense, much less something needing an apology—but Naomi rushes onward, desperate to speak before she loses her courage.
"I—used to stutter all the time. When I was a child, it was bad. S-so bad I could barely speak at all." She laughs, a thin, self-deprecating sound that barely making it past her lips. "I—taught myself. Taught myself not to… not to stutter in front of people I don't know. Strangers, I mean. I practiced, so I could sound… normal." Her cheeks flush, a fierce colour beneath the moonlight, and she stares at her hands as if they hold the answer to her embarrassment.
For a moment, Jareth is silent, watching her with a steady and unreadable expression. The wind tugs at the loose tendrils of Naomi's braided hair, tossing them gently against her cheek. He wants to tell her there is no need to explain, that he has never cared for such things, but the look on her face—a vulnerable mixture of shame and defiance—roots him to the spot.
He is careful, then, to keep his tone gentle.
"You don't owe me any explanations," he breathes, the words heavier than they seem. "Not for that. Not for anything."
Naomi's lips press together, and for a moment she looks unconvinced, as if she has learned not to trust such reassurances, not even from herself. She shifts from foot to foot, the urge to move nearly overwhelming. With a nervous hum, she looks up at him through her dark lashes, and then, abruptly, gestures for him to follow her. "C-come on. I—can't say here. Not when I feel my skin's too tight."
She steps off the dock, her slippers barely making a sound as she finds the faint path that disappears between the trees. The woods at night are thick with shadow and memory, the undergrowth soft with fallen leaves, and the scent of moss and pine rides on every breath of wind. Naomi moves quickly, as if afraid that standing still too long will make her fall apart. She glances over her shoulder once, making sure he's following, then slows her pace enough for him to catch up.
Jareth matches her stride, boots heavy on the soft earth. He says nothing for a few spaces, letting the hush press in around them, the world narrowing to the crunch of twigs, the distant call of a nightbird, and the uneven sound of Naomi's breathing.
"Does it always happen?" he asks for a moment, his voice is soft, not prying but genuinely curious. "The stutter, I mean. Or only when you're upset?"
Naomi nods, her eyes on the path ahead, her fingers absently plucking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Mostly when I'm tired. Or—when I'm scared. Or angry. I… I got better at hiding it. My sisters tease, but they don't understand. It's easier to let them think I'm just quiet." The smile she gives the pirate is a quick and apologetic flicker. "I'm not. Not really. I just… don't like being watched. Not when I can't control it."
Jareth gives a grunt, a sound of understanding. "People are always watching. Looking for something wrong, something weak." His voice rough is as he speaks. "I used to worry what they'd see. Now I just… don't care."
She glances up at him, surprise flickering in her mauve eyes. "Is that true? Or do you just pretend not to care?"
He considers her question, the night's chill brushing over her scar as he breathes out slow. "Depends on the day," he admits. "Tonight, maybe I care more than I should."
They walk in silence for a few moments, feet finding the path almost by instinct, their shadows lengthening and joining as they pass beneath the tangled boughs. With each step, Naomi becomes more assured and steadier, her nervous energy bleeding out into the gentle movement, her voice easier when she speaks next.
"My sisters…they don't mean to be cruel. But they don't understand why I can't just… let things go. I hold on to things." She laughs, a breathy sound that shivers in the night. "Like words, or… or old hurts. I hold them close because if I let go, I might forget how much they mattered."
Jareth is silent for a while, then says, "Nothing wrong with remembering. I hold on to things too—memories, names, promises I wish I'd kept. Maybe we just have stubborn hearts."
Naomi for the first time this night, smiles. It's a fleeting, but it's genuine. "Maybe."
The woods open to a small clearing, the moonlight brightening as they emerge beneath the broad arms of an old oak. Naomi stops, folding her arms around herself as she tips her head back, gazing at the shifting sky between the leaves.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, softer now, the tension in her shoulders ebbing. "I don't mean to make things awkward. I just… needed to move. To talk. Or not to talk, I suppose." Her laugh, while a bit self-conscious, is still light.
Jareth steps closer, just enough that their arms almost touch, but he keeps a respectful distance, still sensing her need for space. "No need to apologise, lass," he says, echoing his earlier words. "Sometimes walking's the only thing that keeps the world from closing in."
Naomi looks at him—truly looks, searching his face for mockery, for pity, and finds neither. Only a strange sort of kinship, rough-edged but real. Her next words come easier, the stutter almost gone. "Thank you. For following. For not—" she falters, then lets the rest go with a shrug. "Just… thank you."
He nods once, the gesture solemn. "Any time."
Naomi gestures quietly to a moss-covered log resting in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. The bark is soft and cold beneath her as she sits, drawing her knees up, letting her wings at last slip free from where she'd kept them tight to her back. They spread behind her, a gentle stretch after hours of forced stillness, their edges catching stray beams of moonlight in a subtle wash of lavender and indigo. She finds her hands fiddling with the golden embroidery at her hem, her eyes fixed on the swirling threads while she gathers her thoughts.
She doesn't speak for a long moment. The hush between them is not awkward but filled with the night's slow magic—the distant call of a nightjar, the wind's soft hum, the restless whisper of her own heartbeat. At last, she dares to glance at Jareth, the words coming out halting and uneven, shaped by both curiosity and a need to understand the man beside her.
"I… I noticed, at the market earlier…" Naomi begins, her voice quiet but earnest. "You spoke… differently. When my father was there, you sounded almost… I don't know, polite? But when we were alone, just us, it was like you—" she hesitates, searching for the right phrase. "It was like you used different words, different… tones. Like you belonged in two places at once. Why is that?" She fully looks up, her mauve eyes shining with the question, both shy and steady.
Jareth stands for a moment, shifting his weight from one boot to the other, before settling himself at the other end of the log, careful to leave enough space for comfort but near enough to hear her without the need to raise her voice. His coat rustles softly as he sits, one elbow resting on his knee, hands loose between his legs. He considers her question, the flicker of a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth—a smile as much for himself as for her.
"It's habit, I 'spose," he says finally, his voice low and thoughtful. "The way you talk depends on who's listenin'. With your father, I had to mind my words. People don't trust men like me, not here. Most times, it's best to keep things simple—keep the rough edges hidden."
He glances at her, seeing her wings unfurled at last, the gentle rise and fall of her breath. There is something honest about her presence, as though she's never learned how to truly hide, even when she tries. He continues, almost reluctantly. "With you, I didn't feel the need. Didn't think you'd mind the salt in my voice. It's how I speak on the ship, how I am with people who…" He trails off, searching for the words. "With people who aren't lookin' for a reason to chase me off."
Naomi's brows knit together, thoughtful. She hugs her knees a little closer, wings folding gently behind her. "You mean… you can just change it? The way you speak, who you seem to be?"
Jareth shrugs, the motion broad and slow. "You learn to. If you want to be left alone, or if you want to fit in, you speak their language, use their manners. Some call it lyin' I think it's more like—" He pauses, searching for the right word, his gaze drifting toward the trees. "Like… putting on a different cloak, depending on the weather. Doesn't change what's underneath, but it makes things easier."
The fae absorbs this, turning it over like a stone in her hand. "I could never do that. Not… not really. If I try to be someone I'm not, it… it shows." She gives an embarrassed smile before looking away. "My sisters always say I'm too honest for my own good. O… or too quiet. I never know which."
A deep, quiet, and non-mocking chuckle escapes Jareth's lips. "Not a bad thing. Folk like us, we find our own ways through the world. Sometimes you hide behind words. Sometimes you just… hide."
Naomi looks up at him once again, her expression softening. "I guess I do both. Hiding comes easier than pretending."
He leans back, letting his gaze wander up through the branches, where stars glimmer faintly between the leaves. "Not just a choice, is it? Sometimes you do what you have to. Sometimes you're just tired."
The conversation settles into a gentle rhythm, the easy back-and-forth of people learning one another's edges. Naomi's stutter fades as she grows more comfort, her words flowing with a kind of tentative trust.
"Do you like it?" she asks quietly. "The ship, I mean. Being out there, away from all of this?" Her hands gesture vaguely at the forest, the town beyond, the whole world she's always known.
Jareth considers her question for a long moment. "There are days I do, aye. No one to answer to but the wind and the captain. No one askin' where you're from what, what you're worth. Some nights, it's enough just to keep afloat."
He glances at her, measuring her reaction, unsure whether to admit the next part. "But other times… it gets lonely. Folk on the ship, they talk, but most of 'em keep things close. You see the same faces, hear the same stories. Makes you wonder if you could ever belong somewhere that doesn't move."
Naomi nods, her eyes flickering with understanding. "I think… maybe I'd like to see the sea. Just once. Not as a sailor—just… just to see what it feels like. I dream about it sometimes. About going where no one knows me. About not being able to explain why I am the way I am."
Jareth smiles, softening under the moonlight. "It's not all adventure. Sometimes it's just cold feet and empty skies. But there's a kind of freedom in it, if you know where to look."
She hugs her knees a little tighter. "Do you ever wish you could stay somewhere? Or is it always… running?"
He doesn't answer her right away. The questions linger, hanging between them in the cool air. "I think about it, sometimes. Hard to imagine. Harder to trust it wouldn't turn on me in the end."
The fae nods, feeling the same ache in herself. The wish for a place to belong, the fear that belonging means giving up some hidden, precious part of herself.
The silence that falls is a gentle one, filled with the music of the woods and the subtle crackle of leaf and twig beneath their feet. Naomi finds herself smiling shyly at the comfort of being understood, the feeling settling around her like a new-woven shawl.
She glances over at Jareth, searching his face for some echo of her own thoughts. "Thank you," she says, the stutter is gone now, her words clear and sure. "For sitting with me. For talking. I'm not always good at… at this. But tonight… tonight I'm glad I tried."
Jareth's answering smile is a slow thing, warming the sharp lines of his face. "Me too," he says, quiet and sincere. "You make it easy."
They sit together in the quiet woods as the moments stretch and settle, the weight of exhaustion softened by the presence of another who does not ask for explanations. Naomi's wings have folded again at her back, the edges faintly trembling as the cool air deepens and the sounds of night creatures begin to rise—a subtle chorus of tree crickets, the sleepy rustle of birds in their nests. She traces patterns in the moss with her fingertips, stealing small glances at Jareth, whose gaze has turned reflective, cast somewhere far beyond the trees.
After what might be five minutes, or perhaps only the slow passing of a single breath, Naomi tips her face to the sky. The clearing is open enough to reveal a patchwork of stars, bright and restless, scattered across the night sky. She watches the slow arc of the constellations she knows by heart—each a silent marker of the house, the way her father once taught her, measuring how far Mirae's Lantern had climbed from the southern rim, and how the pale tail of the Fisher's Star signals that it is now past midnight. She lets out a quiet sigh, regretful and gentle, as the awareness of time's passage tugs her back to the world of obligations and the steady pull of home.
"I… I should get home," Naomi murmurs, gathering herself as she stands, her hand brushing against the folds of her skirt and the golden threads at the hem. "It's late. My family is most likely… worried." Her voice is apologetic, but there's a relief in her honesty, the comfort of not having to hide the truth.
Jareth nods, his movement slow and heavy, as though waking from a dream. He pushes himself up, brushing stray leaves from his coat, his boots grinding quietly against the leaf litter. He mutters something half-gruff, half-amused about the need to round up the last stragglers from his crew—"Never fails, some fool's always three pints deep when I'm lookin' to get 'em back aboard." His tone more companionable than before, almost soft, as if the act of sharing a quiet night has untied some old knot inside of him.
Leaving the clearing, Naomi leads for a short distance before Jareth overtakes her, and they walk side-by-side along the narrow path, the town's lights faintly visible through the trees.
Just as Jareth prepares to turn for the docks, Naomi hesitates, uncertainty flickering across her face. She lets out a tiny, indecipherable sound—something between a gasp and a determined hum—and in a flash of green and lavender, her wings flicker and she flutters up to hover directly in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Her hair catches in the moonlight, and for a heartbeat, her presence is startlingly luminous, like a spirit woken from moss and shadows.
Jareth blinks, surprised, but stops without complaint as he raises a questioning brow.
"I…I know this is weird," Naomi stammers, her hands fiddling nervously with each other, fingers twinning and untwining as if searching for courage in the motion. "But you're leaving tomorrow, right?" The question hangs between them, brittle, and earnest.
Jareth pauses, then nods, his voice softer than his rough edges suggest. "Aye. Captain'll want us off before the sun's too high." He studies her closely now, noting the way her ears tilt back with anxiety and the hopeful tremor in her gaze. "What's on your mind?"
She bites her lip, the blush rising in her cheeks even in the dim light. "Would it… would it be inappropriate to see you off?" The words come in out in a rush, clumsy with urgency, and she ducks her head as soon as they're spoken, as though she can take them back if she moves quickly enough.
For a moment, Jareth stares at her.
He's caught so completely off guard that he lets out a surprised, genuine laugh—the kind that slips free before he can think to hold it back. The sound is deep and warm, scattering the tension of the night. Without thinking, he reaches out and sets a broad, reassuring hand on her shoulder. It is a gesture that could be rough, but is instead careful and steady, grounding her with the simple weight of his presence.
"Inappropriate?" he echoes, shaking his head, softening the lines of his face. "Not a bit. Would be glad to see a friendly face before I go, truth be told. Don't get many of those in a port like this. Not for the likes of me."
Naomi's anxiety fades into a shy smile, her wings giving an almost involuntary flutter of relief. She looks down, tucking a loose strand behind her ear as she lets out a nervous breath. "It's just… tomorrow will be busy. The festival for Temera—she's the Goddess of Celebration and Dance. It's a big day for us. The whole town will be out, and it'll get noisy and crowded. But I'll find a way to come by the docks, even if it's only for a moment. I'd… like to."
Jareth grins, the expression softening even in his deepest shadows. "Then I'll keep an eye out. If I see a flash of green and gold, I'll know it's you."
She laughs, quiet and breathless, and the sound feels like the first genuine note of joy she's let herself feel all day. "It's most green," she admits, glancing down at her dress, "But I'll try to stand out."
The easy warmth of their exchange lingers as they part ways—Naomi heading for the lights of home, Jareth heading for shadowed docks where the ship waits. The air is filled with the distant promise of music and laughter, the kind of night where even wounds feel lighter, hope burns brighter. Each walks away with something new—a secret smile, a softer step, and the silent knowledge that tomorrow, in the crush of a festival crowd, they will look for each other among the swirling throngs and lanterns.
Naomi's return to the cottage is slow, each step along the mossy path weighed down by the memories of her sister's cruelty and the sting of old wounds reopened. She can already see the warm glow of the hearth through the windows, flickering gold and steady—a beacon of home, yet tonight it feels more like the light at the end of a long corridor she's reluctant to enter. When she slips through the door, it's as if the world narrows: the familiar scent of wood-smoke, thyme, and hearth-warmed bread wraps around her, and for a moment she is just a girl again, longing for comfort, dreading confrontation.
The common room is nearly empty. The hush is not hostile, but it is heavy, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Her mother's gentle touch is absent, her sisters nowhere to be seen. Only two remain: her father and her uncle. The fire paints their faces in lines of amber and shadow; Aven, upright and watchful in his chair, cane resting against his knee, and Lukarius, long-limbed and sharp-eyed, lounging with a quiet tension that bellies his casual posture.
As Naomi steps over the threshold, she hears her father greet her in their native tongue, voice both welcoming and expectant. "Eloràë, rynthal sa venyra, ilenar la," he calls softly across the room, the sacred cadence of her name in Slyvh'an both a comfort and a summons. (Elora, you have returned, come here.) She closes the door gently behind her, wishing she could dissolve into the shadows.
She hesitates just inside, the silence stretching. Lukarius is the first to move, straightening and fixing her a gaze that is both gentle and unflinching. "Eloràë, syrenna thar en sira?" he asks, his tone carrying the concern of an uncle who has watched her grow from cradle to womanhood. (Elora, are you all right now?) Naomi bites her lip, the familiar knot of her stutter tightening at her throat, but she answers honestly, though quietly: "I-ìrra, mavyr. Sira thar esen. Elyn… elyn ma syra liën." (I am… yes, uncle. I am all right. Just… just a little tired.)
Aven, his gaze softening, gestures to the fireside. "Veythir, taren syra." (Come, child. Sit with us.) Naomi folds herself onto the rug, hugging her knees close, eyes locked on the dancing flames. For a moment, none of them speak, the air thick with the residue of the earlier conflict.
When Aven finally breaks the silence, it is with the gentle authority she has always trusted. "Eloràë, Mavyr haeslen no syra ven arèwn, na Calýndrā… na olir syra thalen." (Elora, your uncle told me what happened, what Calyndra said… how she hurt you.) He says it quietly, but she knows the weight of it.
Naomi can feel the sting all over again; her fingers curl tightly in her skirt, and her voice, when it comes, is low and rough with emotion: "I… ìthar selien. Sira venyra, i sira sholir. Ylin… ylin Calýndrā lira syren, sira lir ta." (I… I know that she loves me. I know she did not mean to… to hurt me. But… but Calyndra is strong, and I am not.)
Aven's hand is warm and steady on hers, thumb brushing slow circles against the back of her palm. "No syra lir ta, Eloràë. Sira syrenna veythir. Sira syrenna alysséa. Veythir maes na." His voice is both a comfort and conviction. (You are strong, Elora. Stronger than you believe. Stronger than I sometimes remember.)
From across the flames, Lukarius' voice threads in low. "Na olir syra lira, sira." He shakes his head slightly, the lines of his face hardening. (She had no right, little one.) Naomi looks down, blinking hard. For a long time, she says nothing, and the men simply let her be, the Slyvh'an language a soft net holding her together.
Finally, she finds her voice, a thread of sound in the quiet room. "yl, aesron. Yhthrae… nael sira. Men sylthethna, men silyn." It is clear to them, she is being as honest as she can allow herself to be. (I know, uncle. I just… just feel small, feel broken.)
Aven squeezes her hand, a leaning forward so the firelight catches in his mauve eyes, earnest and unwavering. "Eloràë, ythrae ven sylael. Yl ven sylenya, yl ven thalë syra lira. Ynaen nael sira. Yhthrae yl syla thira. Men sylael ven." His words flow around her like a balm. (You are not broken. You are loved, you are here with us. I know it hurts. You are not alone, not now. We are here.)
Lukarius sets the mug aside with a quiet clink, and shifting closer, adds a faint, teasing smile. "Mavyr yl saelven, Eloràë. Men sael lysyr alysséa, ythrae. Lira syla aen ven saelven thal." (Your uncle is here, Elora. I will always stand with you, you are never alone with your family.)
The language of her childhood feels like a lifeline. With each word, each cadence shaped by generations, Naomi feels the knot inside her chest begin to loosen. She lets herself relax, just a little, letting the warmth and care in their voices soothe her battered spirit.
Aven rises then, slow but steady, and draws a thick woollen shawl from the bench to wrap around her shoulders. As he settles it around her, he murmurs, "Eloràë, veythir saelven. Yl lira syra, nael yl saelven. Ven syra alyssé, syra mavyros. Lira syla aen lyssera." (Elora, your father is here. You are safe, you are loved. With your mother, your uncle, your family. You are strong.) He presses a kiss to her brow, and Naomi closes her eyes, letting the fire and ancient words work their magic.
With the last of her courage, he leans into his side, feeling Lukarius' steady gaze and the fierce protection in his presence. She is not healed—there are wounds that do not close so easily—but for tonight, at least, she is sheltered by the unbreakable bond of family, spoken in a tongue that no pain can unravel.
And as the fire crackles, and the silence deepens, Naomi allows herself—just for this moment—to believe them. In this circle of warmth, with her father's and uncle's voices winding around her like a spell, she knows she is not broken, not alone, not invisible.
Naomi's breath deepens, slow and steady, as the warmth and familiar cadence of her father's presence finally lull her toward sleep. The lines of worry fade from her brow, her delicate wings slacken against the shawl, and she drifts, small and silent, into dreams—her head tucked against Aven's side, the pain of the night softened by the sound of fire and gentle, ancient words spoken just for her.
Aven watches her for a long moment, his own face shadowed with tenderness and regret. He feels the subtle weight of responsibility settle into his shoulders—a father's burden, heavy but always welcome. Without a word, he glances at Lukarius, his older brother, who sits quietly at the edge of the fire's light, eyes soft with old wisdom and memory.
Aven nods—a silent signal, the one they've used since his daughters were small. Lukarius stands, his long arms gentle as he reaches to gather Naomi in his embrace. He does it in a way only an uncle can: with a calm strength that never startles, a care that has carried each of the sisters through storms, sickness, and the rough years of growing. He slides his arms beneath her, cradling her head with surprising gentleness, her hair spilling across his sleeve like black silk.
He hums, a low note deep in his chest, shifting Naomi carefully as he rises to carry her. The old boards of the staircase creak, but Naomi doesn't stir. Lukarius glances down at her, the light playing on his lined, expressive face. "Do you think she knows," he murmurs, voice pitched for Aven alone, "that we speak in Slyvh'an for her sake, not ours?" His gaze thoughtful, almost wistful as he starts up the steps, careful not to jostle the sleeping girl in his arms.
Aven trails behind, the cane tapping softly with each ascent, his expression sombre and fond all at once. "She does, I think. Even when she was small, you remember how her words would get tangled in Common. But in our tongue—" He sighs, watching the way Naomi's fingers curl loosely in sleep, "—she could sing before she could walk. I suppose, a world that tries so hard to make her small, our language was always the place she could be herself. We just never stopped."
Lukarius cracks a small smile, a smile that speaks of years of watching kids grow up and move on. "It suits her, you know. The way she sounds when she isn't fighting for breath between words. She should never have to fight so hard just to speak."
They reach her room, the soft glow of the moon slipping through the window, painting faint blue lines across Naomi's little bed and the scattering of books beside it. Lukarius bends to lay her gently atop the quilt, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek before pulling the covers beneath her chin. Aven watches, his hand resting lightly on his brother's shoulder, silent in his gratitude.
For a time, the two men linger, listening to the slow cadence of Naomi's breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, the peace that finally settles in her small room. There is no need for words—only the shared memory of nights like this, years ago, with frightened children and old songs and promises that the world would not win.
Aven exhales, long and quiet. "Thank you," he says, the words barely a whisper, heavy with everything he means but cannot say.
Lukarius shakes his head gently, still watching Naomi. "We do what we must," he replies. "She's stronger than she knows. She'll find her way back, in any tongue she needs."
They move quietly from the room, closing the door with care, and make their way back to the soft light of the dying fire. The house is silent now, the shadows long and deep. There is nothing left to say, nothing left to do but keep the hearth burning for those who need it—and trust that, come morning, the wounds of the night will seem smaller, and the love that built this house will be enough to carry them all for one more day