The captain's quarters aboard the Sunlit Rose are never quiet. The old ship breathes the rhythm of the sea; timbers groan, glass rattles, every draft tinged with the brine and age of endless voyages. In the close air, the scents of old wood, oil, and the ever-present salt mingle with fainter traces of parchment and ink: remnants of a thousand ledgers, letters, and logbooks scrawled by Borin's precise, unhurried hand.
Maps hang on the wall, overlapping like the scales of a noble beast—some new and sharp-edged, others yellowed, their corners curled and brittle, the routes and hazards of half a century traced out in crabbed, faded script. Nautical instruments line the shelves beside battered books in a dozen of languages. At the centre is Borin's desk; broad, battered, and stained with spilled rum and ink. It groans beneath piles of sharps and ledgers, each one a story of storms weathered, cargos delivered, and a thousand choices that mark the difference between survival and ruin at sea.
Tonight, a single lantern swings overhead, casting the small cabin in gold and shadow. The light settles on Borin himself, hunched in his high-backed chair, his spectacles glinting as he pores over a sheaf of manifests. Tough age has drawn him inward, there is nothing frail about him. He is still, mistakenly, the soul of the Rose: a man whose calm presence commands the deck, whose voice slices clean through a storm, whose expectations weigh heavier than any anchor.
For all his years, Borin has never wasted words. He sits in silence, but there's a purpose behind the set of his jaw, the quiet tap of his pen against the wood. He is waiting. And as the hour deepens, the door creaks open, admitting a gust of colder air—and Jareth, all shadow and solidity, filling the frame.
Jareth dips his head as he goes inside, pausing just long enough for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The light picks out the sharp lines of his face: the thick man of black now, now faintly streaked grey, falling widely across his brow and collar. He looks tired, but there's an energy beneath it; the kind of tension that sits on his shoulders, in the way he never quite unclenches his hands. His gaze meets Borin's with a flicker of wary curiosity.
"You wanted to see me, Captain?" His voice is steady and low, coloured by the habit of discipline and long nights holding command.
Borin doesn't look up right away. "Aye, lad. Close the door, if ye please." He gestures to the chair across the desk. Jareth sits, shifting his weight as the timbers creak beneath him. For a moment, the two study each other in the lantern's glow—a captain and the man he has slowly, methodically, shaped to replace him.
The room is thick with memory. Jareth glances around, noticing anew how much of himself he's learned to see here: the charts he's updated, the log entries penned in his own careful script. He's spent more and more hours in this cabin over the past three years; not just called in for orders or reports, but for discussions about supply routes, crew discipline, port negotiations, and even storm-watch duties on nights when Borin claimed fatigue and handed the ship to his second.
It was never obvious at first. After that rough first year as second mate, Borin simply began to lean on him more by delegating him jobs that, in earlier days, would have stayed the captain's alone. Jareth found himself overseeing watch rotations, then choosing which cargo to take when money was tight, then settling crew disputes before they reached Borin's ears. One autumn, he was left to negotiate a dangerous passage through the ice; the next, Borin put him in charge of bartering for repairs at a foreign port.
All of it seemed natural enough: just the evolution of trust, or the needs of a tired old captain.
He hadn't noticed the pattern until much later, when every additional responsibility felt both like a test and a kind of gift. He's accepted each one with the same stony determination that got him through his exile—never questioning why, just refusing to fail.
Now, as he sits across from Borin, the shape of those years presses close. There is a quiet in the old captain's manner tonight that Jareth can't quite name, but it sets his nerves on edge.
Borin leans back, spectacles sliding to the end of his nose. His gaze, which is as usually as keen as frost, softens for a moment as old affection mixes with pride. "It's been eight years, Jareth. Eight years since I dragged yer sorry arse out of that spit in Syverna."
Jareth's jaw tenses at the memory. "I haven't forgotten," he whispers, but his eyes flick away. Those early days are never far from his mind; he remembers the taste of cheap ale, the ache of exile, the rage that threatened to swallow him whole. Borin had seen him at his worst, offered him a place when he'd had nothing but the ghosts of his dead brother and a name that was poison everywhere east of the sea.
Borin's face breaks into a small smile. "Ye were all bones 'n' fury, back then. Look at ye now. Ye've kept the crew in line, kept the ship running—hell, I think ye even know where every last barrel of salted fish is stored." His smile fades into something more thoughtful. "I started givin' ye jobs because I needed the help, truth be told. Didn't think I'd ever see the day I'd want ta hand the old lass over. But ye made it easy, lad. Took ta it like ye were born for it."
Jareth's shoulders tighten, the compliment sitting awkwardly on him. "I just did what needed doing," he says, though even he hears the uncertainty in his voice.
Borin snorts softly. "Aye, ye did. But ye never complained. Even when ye thought I was bein' unfair. Even when I threw ye inta the middle of a mess with no warnin'. Some men break under that. Ye didn't."
Jareth starts at the old desk, the wood scarred and ink-stained, and feels the years settle over him all at once. He's no longer the lost boy Borin found, but sometimes he fears the sea will never be enough to wash that boy away.
Borin's voice drops, gentler now. "I was testin' ye, Jareth. Little by little. I didn't plan it, not at first. But the more ye stepped up, the more I trusted ye ta take on. It's not just about steerin' a ship or barkin' orders. It's about knowin' yer crew, knowin' when ta push and when ta pull back. Ye've earned every job I've given ye."
A silence stretches between them, broken only by the creak of a lantern and the distant pulse of the waves. Jareth reflects on Borin's baffling assignments: endless account audits, late-night vigils, and the subtle guidance to mediate conflicts instead of letting them escalate. The Bramling was there, watching, ready to help Jareth through the tough times, but he let him face more and more challenges on his own.
Jareth looks up, something wary and hopeful in his eyes. "You… think I'm ready," he says, not quite a question.
Borin's smile is thin, but real. "Ye've been actin' like a captain for longer than ye realise, lad. The men follow ye, and not just because I say so. They listen. They trust ye to get 'em home." He leans forward, elbows braced on the deck, his voice low and urgent. "That's more than most captains ever manage."
Jareth shits in his seat, the weight of those words landing harder than he expects. For years, he's carried the memory of exile like an iron shackle—his father's rejection, his brother's murder, the taste of blood and betrayal. Borin's faith in him is a gift, but it is also a burden: the fear he will fail, that the violence in him will surface at the wrong moment, that he will never be anything more but the angry boy cast out Valereon Keep.
He wants to ask Borin why he keeps him so close, why he trusts him after so many men have proved false. But instead, he asks, "Why now?"
Borin doesn't hesitate. "Because I'm getting' old, Jareth. I feel it in me bones every time the weather turns. There are things I can't do anymore, ladders I can't climb, and storms I can't see through. I'd rather hand the old girl to someone who I know will keep her right, instead o' risking it."
He reaches for a book at the edge of the desk, its cover battered and spine mended with waxed thread. He pushes it toward Jareth: The History of Aurelian Fever, its gold letters dulled by age,
Jareth frowns, picking it up, turning the pages beneath his heavy hands. "What's this for?"
Borin's expression grows serious, the pride giving way to something darker, something older. "Ye deserve ta know what happened. Why yer family turned on ye. Why ye could never have stayed, no matter what ye did." He taps the book with a finger, voice low. "It's not just about kings and crowds. There's sickness in yer bloodline, lad. In more ways than one."
Jareth's chest tightens as Borin explains the curse that has haunted his family for generations. The fever that turns love to suspicion, hope to greed. He listens, silent and unmoving, as Borin describes the symptoms: the golden sheen, the trembling hands, the hollowed eyes of men who once loved only their kin but ended up loving only their hoard. He thinks of his father's gaze growing ever more distant, of his uncle's bitter laughter, of the day he was driven from the only home he ever knew.
"It ain't yer fault, Jareth," Borin says softly. "It wasn't yer father's father, not really. That fever eats men from the inside out. Makes 'em see enemies in every shadow. That's why he couldn't believe ye… why he let ye go instead of holdin' yer close."
Jareth closes the book before opening it again. His hands are steady, but his heart is in turmoil. For so long, he has hated his father for his blindness, for his weakness. Now, the anger feels hollow, replaced by something like pity or grief.
He doesn't speak. He can't, at least not at first. He only nods, the gesture stiff but grateful.
Borin's voice softens again. "Yer not yer father, Jareth. Ye also ain't yer uncle. Ye've proved that, every day ye've stood on me deck. I put every burden I could find on yer back, and ye carried them all." He lets out a long, quiet breath, for a moment, he is not the captain or the mentor, but simply an old man who is both tired and hopeful.
Jareth's nose twitches, a restless gesture he can't quite suppress. The silence lingers, heavy with the gravity of everything Borin has laid bare. For a moment, Jareth's hand hovers near the battered spine of the book, his fingers tracing the edges as if searching for an answer in the rough, cracked leather.
He frowns as his gaze drifts between the old captain and the open pages, his mind circling a single question he can't yet voice.
The younger pirate runs a thick hand through his beard, as if smoothing away uncertainty. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, gruff, and edged with suspicion more than softness. "How do you know all this?" He holds Borin's gaze, blue eyes narrowed not in accusation but in cautious curiosity. "Aurelian Fever, the curse, what it does to a man's mind. There are things in here I've never heard, not even when I was still in Valereon. Not even the healers spoke of it like this."
Jareth forces himself to pause, letting the words settle between them like the shifting of the ship in a slow swell. "You've seen a lot, Borin. But this—" He taps the book, the gesture almost accusatory. "This is more than sailor's talk."
Borin doesn't flinch from the scrutiny. Instead, he shifts in his seat, one hand rubbing thoughtfully at his knee, the other resting atop the worn wood of the desk. His expression glows distant, the lines in his face deepening as he sifts through decades of memory.
"Aye, well," Borin says, his accent thicker with memory, "that's the thing about bein' Bramlin', lad. We're restless by nature. Never could settle long on any one coast, nor any single life. I saw most of the world by forty than most men do in a hundred." He glances at Jareth, something rueful flickering in his gaze. "Spent more years travelin' than tied ta any one flag. It's our way; my people, we trade, we carry messages, we learn the stories that ain't meant for outsiders. That's what got me inta this life, truth be told. Curiosity and a knack for hearin' what others miss."
Borin leans forward, voice dropping a notch. "I first heard about Aurelian Fever from a dwarven healer in the mines below Andarath. He was patchin' up a gold miner… poor bastard was half-mad from touchin' something he shouldn't. Saw the shine in his skin, the wildness in his eyes. Borin's eyes lose focus for a moment, reliving old shadows. "The old Dwarf told me there are some sicknesses coin can't buy yer way out o'. Said the fever had a taste for kings and Wyverns both. I thought it was just a story. But over the years, I saw more; merchants ruined by greed, noblemen grown paranoid, whole families torn apart over inheritance."
He sits back, the chair creaking beneath him. "When I started sailin' east, I met a Wyvern scholar in the port o' Lysira. She had a library big enough ta drown in, full of old tales—some about the curse, some about yer kin, even. She's the one who gave me that book." The Bramling nods at the leather-bound volume, his lips tightening at the corners. "I read it cover to cover. Didn't believe half of it at first. But after meetin' ye, hearin' what happened in Valereon… the pieces fit. Too close ta be a coincidence."
Jareth listens, brow furrowed, his fingers absently drumming on the edge of the desk. He weighs each word, sifting for anything that sounds like flattery or invention, but only finds the solid truth of a man who's crossed a hundred harbours and lived to remember every single one.
Borin's tone softens, not in pity, but in quiet conviction. "I know because I made it my business ta know, Jareth. Too many men go blind ta the world outside their own halls. I could never abide by that. The seas taught me that there's always a deeper current. There's always somethin' beneath the surface, waitin' for a fool ta ignore it." He taps the side of his nose. "I was never that sort o' fool."
For a moment, Jareth looks away, his eyes tracing the knotwork carved into the desk's edge. He clears his throat, his voice as rough as gravel. "You ever think maybe you know too much for your own good?" He tries for a faint smile, but it comes out as a crooked twitch of the lips, the old humour fighting through a haze of exhaustion.
Borin lets out a short, barking laugh. "Maybe so. Maybe that's what kept me alive this long, eh? Or maybe it's just stubbornness. Either way, I've seen enough ta trust my own eyes—and I trust you, Jareth. That's the long 'n' short o' it."
The cabin settles into a quieter hush, the ship rocking gently as the night draws on. Outside, the wind rattles the shutters and somewhere above, a gull cries a lonely sound that is lost to the immensity of the sea.
Jareth's knuckles tap in a slow rhythm on the battered desk, his gaze falling to the gold-stamped title of the book. He doesn't speak for a moment. The weight of what's been learned and what he's been asked to carry settles into him like a ballast. It presses down in a way that's all too familiar, drawing out the question he's tried to keep buried since the first hint of the curse.
He grunts, voice rough as a winter's dawn. "If it's in the blood, who's saying I won't end up the same?" His eyes meet Borin's, storm-blue and haunted, sharp as cut class in the lantern's glow. "Captain's got the coin. There's always more coming in—shares, plunder, whatever we scrape from the holds. How do I know I won't… turn?" He doesn't hide the bitterness in his tone. "Ain't like I haven't watched men lose themselves to gold before."
Borin considers this, his brows drawn low in thought. He sits back, folding his arms, the chair creaks beneath his weight. He doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches, but not unkindly. It's clear Jareth is searching for truth, not comfort.
Finally, he shakes his head, beard rustling against his collar. "No, lad. That ain't how it works. Not from what I've seen, nor what the old stories say." He gestures to the book, a thick finger tracing the edge of the worn cover. "It's not the blood alone. It's the hoardin' that does it. The hunger for more, the need to clutch it all for yerself. When a man starts ta see gold as life itself, when it's not just coin but an anchor in his soul… that's the danger. That's when the fever creeps in."
He pauses, letting the swinging light of the lantern dance over the maps. "A captain sees plenty of coin, aye. Holds it, counts it, keeps it safe for the crew. But that's the difference. A true captain doesn't keep it for himself. The Rose's gold belongs ta all hands. Ye pay the shares, ye pay the debts, ye keep the men alive and the ship afloat. It's when a man starts thinkin' it's all his, when he locks it away and guards it like a beast, that the sickness takes root."
Jareth scowls, the motion pulling tight at his scar. "So long as I don't go burying treasure and hissing at the crew, I'm safe?" He tries for a smirk, but it's thin; too much of the old fear lingers behind it.
Borin's mouth quirks, the shadow of a smile. "That's the gist o' it. But there's more, if ye want the truth. There are tales that are as old as the sea about coins that carry the curse all on their own. Not every piece of gold is just metal. Some are marked, or haunted, or made for darker purposes. They say if a man comes across one, picks it up, it can worm its way inta his mind, twist him until he can't bear ta part with it. I've heard those stories in ten ports and a hundred languages. No one can say how many are true."
But Borin shrugs, practical as ever. "But most of what I've seen, Jareth? It takes more than touchin' a coin or two. Takes time. Takes a man who already has the hunger for it. I've known plenty o' folk—captains, merchants, even kings—who've handled mountains o' gold and never caught the fever. Ye've got ta want it, deep down. Got ta need it so bad ye'll bleed yer own for just one more piece."
Jareth lets the words settle, his gaze unfocused as he thinks through every coin counted and every hold emptied since he came aboard. He remembers the lean years: the fear, the fights over scraps and share, the times he saw greed turn good men ugly. But he also remembers Borin, handing out every last ration, settling debts before thinking of his comfort, never letting the crew forget that the Rose's heart was theirs to share.
He grunts again, softer this time. "Never gave a damn about gold. Not really. Only ever wanted enough to keep the ship moving, keep the men fed. Wasn't what drove me to sea."
Borin nods, the approval clear in his eyes. "That's why I trust ye, lad. Ye know what matters. It's not the coin; it's the hands ye work beside, the sails overhead, the ship beneath yer boots." His voice is firmer, warmed by conviction. "Long as ye remember that, the fever won't touch ye. And if ye ever start dreamin of locks and chests and hidin' what should be shared, ye come to me. Ye let me know. No shame in it—only fools ignore the old stories."
A quiet falls again, this one less heavy, edged with a sense of understanding. Jareth straightens, some of the tension sliding out of his shoulders. He doesn't say thank you, not outright, but the set of his jaw, the way he meets Borin's gaze, speaks for him enough.
He finally lets out a breath, rough and deep, like a man surfacing too long underwater. "I'll keep my head. I always do." The promise isn't loud, but it's iron; real and unyielding, just like everything he's learned from the old Bramling before him.
Borin just nods, eyes shining with quiet pride and the wisdom of a thousand crossings. "I know ye will, Jareth. I'd never given ye the Rose if I had doubted it, not for a moment."
Borin lets the quiet hang for a moment longer, then slams his palm down on the desk with a sharp thud that makes the lantern jump. "Anyway, onta the happier stuff!" he declares, his voice echoing off the close walls with a force that seems to banish the shadows. With a spring in his step, Borin hopes down from his tall chair, landing solidly on the planks. He gestures briskly to the far end of the cabin, his white beard bristling in the lamplight. "Come on, lad! Don't just sit like yer waitin' for judgment. There's somethin' else you need ta see."
Jareth's brow creases, suspicion fighting amusement as he rises from his seat. He follows the old Bramling toward the door Borin is already fussing with. The hinges give a protesting squeak as he pushes it open. Beyond is a small, private cabin—its walls twined with dark wood, a single porthole spilling in a band of moonlight, and at its centre, the largest bed aboard the Sunlit Rose.
The memory hits Jareth at once. He'd slept in this room only once, three years ago, when they docked in Tarith's Crossing for a brief two days. That was the first time he'd met Naomi, and Borin, always preferring dry land when given the choice, had insisted Jareth take the cabin while he found comfort in a rented cot ashore. Jareth hasn't thought of the space since, but now, standing it its threshold, it feels unexpectedly significant: another piece of captaincy sliding into place, whether he's ready or not.
He blinks, taking in the room's neat order—the sturdy trunk at the foot of the bed, the battered bookshelf wedged beside a rack of heavy coats, the faint scent of pipe tobacco and lavender oil lingering in the air. He glances down at Borin, one eyebrow climbing high. "What's all this, then?" he grunts, as if wary of a trick.
Borin's eyes glint with satisfaction. "This, my boy, is yers now. Captain's quarters, proper and true! Comes with the bed, the desk, the window, the lot. If yer gonna run the Rose, ye might as well do it in comfort."
Jareth can't help but stare at the bed—a monstrous thing by ship standards, long enough for a Grendeli, the frame thick as a wharf pilling. "And where will you sleep, then?" he demands, arms crossing over his chest, his voice sliding toward a kind of familiar, exasperated fondness. "You can't seriously think you'll take a hammock after all these years in this room. You'll get yourself tangled, and then who'll keep the men in line when they find you upside down by morning?"
Borin waves him off, already enjoying the banter. "I'm quite happy with a hammock, thank ye! Slept in worse places than that, likely will again. Ye forget, I was born on a ship half this size. A bed's wasted on me. Besides, at my age, a little sway helps with the aches."
Jareth's mouth tightens, half-smiling, half scolding. "You're four hundred and three years old, Borin. You need an actual bed, not just a canvas tied up like a roast."
But Borin's not budging. He plants his fists on his hips and grins up at Jareth, the look of a man who's survived too much to take orders from anyone, not even his own protégé. "The only one who actually needs a bed this big is ye, Jareth. Seven feet tall and all elbows. I watched you almost break me old cot last time ye tried it! If I left ye ta the hammocks, the crew'd be fishin' ye out of the bilge by sunrise."
Jareth grunts, refusing to let him have the last word. "Not what I asked, and you know it. Why'd you even have a bed like this to begin with? Don't tell me it's 'cause you fancied yourself a bloody giant."
Borin's face splits into a sly grin, years rolling back from his eyes. "I'll tell ye why, lad. After we mutinied against that bastard Valick—may the sharks choke on him—I figured I'd earned a bit o' comfort. The Black Ghost was all blood and shadows back then, nothin' like she is now. When we hauled Valick overboard and took the ship for ourselves, I marched right down there, ripped out that old brute's rack of a bunk, and ordered the biggest damn bed the dock carpenters could build!" He laughs, the sound booming with genuine pleasure. "Told 'em it was for my bad back. Truth is, I just wanted to erase every bit of Valick I could, right down to where I laid me head."
Jareth snorts, shaking his head, the weight of the story settling in his chest. "So you took a worship, named it after a flower, and ordered a bed fit for a Thrundeli. You ever stop to think you might be a little mad, old man?"
Borin's eyes twinkle, never missing a beat. "Only way ta live, boy. This ship has survived storms, pirates, mutinies, and more than a few fools. Madness is another kind o' luck." He claps Jareth's arm, voice turning gentler for a breath. "The Sunlit Rose is yers now, and so is everythin' in it. Even the bed. I expect ta see ye use it, and if ye complain, I'll have the whole crew in here see how well the new captain fits."
Jareth grumbles, but there's a glint of reluctant amusement in his eyes. "You try that, I'll have Vak nail the door shut. See how much luck you have then."
They stand together, the air thick with the strange blend of pride and nostalgia that only comes after shared battles and hard-won trust. Borin looks at Jareth—not as the captain he's becoming, or the mate he once was, but as the son he never had, the man he had always hoped he'd find to take the helm.
"Go on," Borin says, stepping back. "Have a look. Try the bed. Gods know ye've earned it."
Jareth hesitates for only a heartbeat before letting his guard fall away. As he steps fully into the room, the space shifts around him; no longer marked by Borin's long stewardship, but claimed by his own presence, his own story. It's his now… not just a cabin, but the quarters of a captain, shaped by the trials they've weathered together and ready for the burdens and legacies that are his alone to carry.
For a moment, he stands beside the bed, hand resting on the sturdy frame, feeling the ship's slow heartbeat through the wood. The past and future meet here, in the dim lamplight: the storm and calm, the exile and the promise, all carried forward by a name and a legacy he's finally ready to claim.