Jareth is not sure why he chose the bed tonight. Perhaps lingering joy from the morning, a rare peaceful moment, unique to calm seas and gentle breezes, before problems arise. Maybe it's the way Borin had looked at him as they finished supper, the old captain's sharp gaze landing and lingering as if to say, you're different tonight, boy. Not softer, but maybe a shade less weathered, as if the world has shifted by a margin that he cannot see.
He can't say for certain why. After choosing to sleep in the hammock, he climbed into the captain's bed with nothing on, just like the way he used to sleep in his old life. Maybe it's habit, or the faint taste of trust earned and borrowed from another time. For once, he lets himself sprawl beneath the thick blankets, shoulders wide and legs tangled, his bare skin against the coarse linen, the cold not biting as deep as it did before. The Rose rocks gently beneath him, the deep groan of her timbers lulling him close to sleep.
He dreams, but not deeply. He drifts in and out, surfacing to every familiar sound: the whisper of a line against the hull, the slap of water, the faint scrape of rope, the ghost of laughter somewhere below. He dreams of old corridors, Valereon's endless stone, and the feel of sunlight against bare shoulders. There is a memory of comfort, thick wool and the distant scent of lavender and dust.
The first sign that something is wrong is the weight across his ribs.
It's subtle at first, something his body registers before his mind. A heaviness, warm and soft, presses close against his chest, legs tangled with his own. He stirs, but doesn't open his eyes. Out of habit, his hand drifts along the length of a thigh, then higher, finding the gentle curve of a hip. His palm settles there, thumb brushing idly over the unfamiliar skin. The memory of countless nights drifts through his mind—nights spent half-awake, half lost in dreams, with bodies pressed close to the quiet hush of the sea weaving through every shadow.
He squeezes lightly, the act thoughtless and intimate. It's only then that his mind claws its back to reality.
He's not at any port. There are no women on this ship. He is hours away from Tarith's Crossing. The crew sleeps two decks below, every one of them male. He blinks, the haze of sleep vanishing in the rush of confusion and icy dread. His breath hitches as he forces his eyes open.
A single shaft of moonlight spills through the porthole, throwing silver patterns across the tangled sheets and the shape curled above him. The shape shifts: small, delicate, and unmistakably not a man. For a moment, he can do nothing but stare, his heart hammering in his chest, a string of curses gathering at the edge of his tongue.
Naomi is sprawled across his chest, her limbs wound awkwardly in the blankets, her long hair falling over her shoulder in a dark curtain. Her nightgown: thin, far too sheer, and loose at the collar, has slipped dangerously low, exposing a stretch of pale skin at her shoulder and collarbone. The fabric is bunched at her thighs, barely covering her legs. She blinks, her mauve eyes wide with confusion and embarrassment as she tries to make sense of her surroundings.
For a moment, neither of them speak. They look at each other, two strangers tangled together in a place that should have kept their worlds apart.
Naomi's cheeks flush crimson, her lips parting in surprise. She looks down, realising where she is and what she's wearing—or rather, what she's not. The horror in her expression is almost comical. She sits up quickly, scrambling to pull the nightgown higher over her chest, but the motion only tangles her further in the blankets. Jareth, more alarmed than angry, tries to collect himself, the captain's authority rising out of pure necessity.
He clears his throat, voice hoarse from sleep and the edge of a headache. "You want to explain to me," he says, every word rough and clipped, "what in the hells you're doing here, on my ship?" He fights his gaze from wandering, but it's impossible to ignore the way her nightgown clings, the pale line of her shoulder exposed in the thin light.
Naomi's hands fly to the collar of her nightgown, pulling it tight. She shakes her head, hair falling in waves around her face, eyes huge and desperate. "I… I don't know, I… I didn't mean—I mean, I asked Oses if he could bring me here, b-but…" Her voice breaks, the stutter more pronounced now, tangled with panic. "I d-didn't ask to… to land on top of you… or be d-dressed like this."
She looks mortified, her hands trembling as she tugs at the hem, trying in vain to restore some dignity to herself. "I was just… I was just in my room, and then he—he clicked his fingers, and now…" She cuts herself off, swallowing hard, her gaze dropping to the underneath them.
Jareth sits up slowly, careful not to dislodge her too roughly, but the sheets pull tight across his lap, the cool air suddenly too sharp. He scowls, his patience wearing thin, but it's not her he's angry at, at least not entirely. He runs a hand down his face, dragging his palm down his beard.
"Oses," he mutters, the curse a name on his lips. "That damned godling." He glances at Naomi, eyes narrowed as he searches her face for any sign of a lie. There is none. She can't lie. He knows that now. Everything she feels show plain on her face.
He tries to steady his voice, but there's still a roughness to it, sleep and surprise tangling his words. "You said Oses sent you here? What in the hells does that mean? And why—" He stops, staring hard at her, then at the state of her nightgown. "Why would you even ask to be sent here, lass?"
Naomi's mouth opens, but the words tangle together, the stutter stronger now. "I… I just… I was upset, and… and I didn't want to stay there, so I… I asked if he could let me disappear for a while, that maybe… maybe my family would be better off. I didn't mean…" She bites her lip, shoulders hunched in shame. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be… on top of you. I didn't ask for that part."
Jareth shakes his head, his voice softening just a touch. He's tired, confused, and every part of him aches with the effort of holding himself together. "All right, all right. Stop apologisin'. Just… Just get off the blankets, will you?" He gestures for her to move, needing space, needing to breathe and think. "Give me a moment. I need to figure out what the hell's going on."
She nods, scrambling off him and the bed as best she can, her bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft thump. She clutches the nightgown tighter around herself; her face hidden behind a curtain of hair.
Jareth swings his legs out of bed, sitting on the edge, back to her for a moment. He takes a long, steadying breath, running both hands through his tangled hair. He stands, moving to grab a discarded shirt from the trunk at the boot of her bed. He pulls it on quickly, tying the laces with shaking fingers.
He turns, eyes on the Faerie now, who stands in the corner, small and lost, the fabric of her nightgown bunched up in white-knuckled fists. He can't help but notice how she out of place she looks, in this place of salt, storm and danger.
He sighs, the sound deep and tired. "You need to cover yourself better," he says, his voice quiet, not unkind but firm. "It's not safe to go wandering about like that on this ship. Not with the men we have aboard."
Tugging down the nightgown as far down her legs as it will go, Naomi nods, her eyes still wide and filled with shame.
For a long moment, neither of them says anything. The ship creaks around them, the only sound being a distant gull in the night. Jareth is still reeling. The image of her—so vulnerable and so completely out of place—etched sharply into his mind.
At last, he finds his voice. "Look," he says, quieter now, almost gentle. "I don't know what games Oses is playing, but you're here now. We'll figure it out. But from now on, you stick close, you hear me? And keep yourself covered. For your own sake."
She nods, her shoulders trembling, but there is a spark of trust in her eyes, as if she knows he means to keep her safe.
The pirate draws in a slow breath. Trying to set aside the irritation that still cling to him. The moonlight slants across the bed, catching her hair in the pale line of her jaw. He feels the weight of responsibility settle heavier on his shoulders than ever before.
Letting out a low grunt as he stands, the heavy silence broken only by the quiet slap of his feet against the creaking boards. He grabs the blanket with one hand, wrapping it clumsily around his hips, the thick fabric bunched up at his waist. With his free hand. He rifles through the scattered pile of clothes beside the bed, hunting for his trousers by touch and memory. The room is dim, the cold air brushing past his bare shoulders as he moves, every muscle in his back drawing sharp lines in the pale moonlight.
Naomi keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, the tips of her toes pressing against the worn edge of the rug. She's still clutching her nightgown, her breath coming in nervous, shallow bursts. The urge to look up is overwhelming, but she fights it, willing herself to count the floorboards, to stare at the faded pattern of the trunk, to think of anything other than the awkwardness thickening the air between them.
But curiosity wins out. Drawn by the sudden motion as Jareth drops the blanket to pull up his trousers, she glances up and her gaze lands on his back: furred, wild, and unfamiliar, the thick hair following every muscle. Her eyes widen with shock. She follows the firm line of his spine downward, her breath catching when she sees his bare backside, sturdy and wholly unfamiliar. Naomi is frozen, unable to tear her gaze away fast enough, her cheeks flaring a vivid red. She's never seen a man so… exposed before, not, and certainly never a man so rugged, the hair on his thighs and lower back thick and untamed. It is not like the gentle stories told among her sisters, not even close.
Jareth, halfway through pulling up his trousers, senses her stare almost immediately. He turns, his brow creasing as he catches the startled look on her face. He ties the drawstring, pulling the fabric tight over his hips, and stares at her for a long, silent moment, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering beneath his stern features.
Naomi drops her gaze at once, making a small, strangled noise in the back of her throat, her fingers twisting nervously between her nightgown. Shifting from foot to foot, she glances around the cabin to see if Oses might have left her something more to wear. She sees nothing: no shawl, no fresh clothes, not even a scrap of fabric tucked into the corner. Her embarrassment deepens, her blush crawling down her neck.
Noticing her discomfort, the way she holds herself, the way her eyes keep darting hopefully toward every shadowed corner. He knows she must feel exposed, more out of place than ever, and he finds a rough sympathy for her in that moment. With a quick nod, he strides toward the cabin door. His voice, when it comes, is brisk and direct, softened only be the edge of practicality.
"Come on," he says as he opens the door with a firm hand. "There's a chest of spare clothes on a deck below. You can find something better than that nightgown, at least until we get you to the next port."
For a moment, Naomi hesitates, her eyes flicking up to meet his to search for any trace of irritation or judgment. She finds only a weary patience, the kind that comes from rough mornings and too many unwelcome surprises. She nods, gathering the nightgown as close as she can before she hurries after him.
They move toward the dark corridor together with Jareth in the lead, his long strides carrying him quickly down the narrow stairs. The hush of the ship is absolute, broken only by the distant murmur of water and the muffled creaks of timber as the Rose sways on the midnight tide. The air is cooler down here, tinged with salt and oil and the lingers memory of a hundred storms.
While the captain doesn't look back, his presence is steady. He's a shield between Naomi and the vast, sleeping world of the ship. He leads her past the closed doors of the crew quarters where the low rumble of snores rises and falls in the darkness. Naomi follows as closely as she dates, her small figure dwarfed by his shadow.
At the end of the passage, he stops before a battered trunk wedged beneath a narrow shelf. He drops to one knee; the boards groaning beneath his weight and flips the latch with a practiced hand. Inside, neatly folded but clearly worn by years of use, are shirts, trousers, thick socks, and an assortment of scarves and belts in every colour the sea offers.
He stands and gestures toward the open chest. "Go on." He says, stepping back to give her space. "Pick whatever fits. Most of it is too big for you, but we'll make it work."
Sinking to her knees, her fingers tremble as she shifts through the pile. A shirt, a pair of soft wooden trousers, a faded red sash that looks like it might have once belonged to a much smaller sailor. She looks up at Jareth, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Thank you."
Jareth only nods, arms folded across her chest as he watches her, making sure she has what she needs. He doesn't stare, nor does he rush her. There is an odd quiet between them now, born of confusion, exhaustion, and the strange, accidental intimacy of the night.
As she gathers the bundle of clothes, Jareth jerks his chin toward the small storeroom nearby. "You can change in there. Lock the door behind you, just as in case."
Giving a nod, she slips through inside with her arms full. The door clicks shut, leaving Jareth alone in the corridor, his thoughts tumbling over themselves in the dark.
He waits, one hand braced against the wall, his breathing slow and steady as he tries to make sense of it all. A girl falling out of nowhere, a godlings game, the ache of old memories and extra responsibilities piling on top of his shoulders.
Naomi emerges from the small storeroom, her steps hesitant but light as she hugs the bundle of her old nightgown to her chest. For a moment, Jareth almost doesn't recognise her. She looks nothing like the lost, frightened girl who appeared out of thin air only a short while ago. The sash is faded and knotted twice her around her waist and it clinches the shirt so tightly that the soft wool bunches awkwardly at her hips; the sleeves hanging past her wrists. The shirt itself, clearly one of his older one, is tucked into a pair of trousers that are far too long, the hems bunched up around her bare ankles. Still, she's made something of the ensemble.
Her hair has changed, too. The two braids at the front remain, framing her face, but the rest has been carefully plaited down her back, a neat line of black against the oversized shirt. It is a small act of order in the chaos, and it makes her look even smaller, somehow, wrapped in clothes several sizes too large for her.
She catches Jareth's eyes and, for the first time, offers a smile—shy, lopsided, but genuine. The look of her eyes is one of apology and humour, a silent acknowledgement that she knows exactly how ridiculous must appear to him. The tension in the narrow passage lifts, just a little. Jareth can't help the chuckle that escapes him, the sound low and rough, but warm. It comes out, unguarded, and for a moment he feels the edge of his exhaustion slip away.
Naomi looks nothing like a pirate, but she looks braver than she did earlier, and that's enough.
"You wear it better than Tamber ever did," Jareth manages, still grinning as he gives her an appraising look. "Might need to roll the cuffs a bit more, though, unless you want to trip and break your neck before dawn."
Naomi laughs, a small breathless sound that brightens her features. She glances down at her makeshift attire, tugging the belt tighter, then looks back at him with a glimmer of mischief that surprises them both. She steadies her stutter, her voice steadier than before, though a hint of nerves remain. "I… I think I could g-get used to it. Better than a n-nightgown, anyway." Her eyes flick to the closed the door further down the passage, the one that leads the crew's quarters. "So, um, I'll be sleeping in there, then?"
Jareth nearly chokes on the laugh that tries to follow.
Absolutely not, his mind snarls. He would sooner throw her overboard than leave her at the mercy of Gorran and the rest. His men may be loyal enough, mostly honest, but the truth is none of them can be trusted around someone as vulnerable as Naomi—not for long, and certainty not overnight. The idea of her in that cramped, noisy den of sailors makes his skin crawl.
He shakes his head, his voice coming out firm but not unkind. "No, you won't be sleeping there. Those bunks aren't safe for you. Some men might look out for you, but most wouldn't think twice if there's gold or worse involved. You'll have a room to yourself."
Naomi blinks in surprise, clutching her nightgown tighter, uncertain. "There's another room?"
Jareth nods. He runs a hand through his hair, recalling the ship's old layout: the way it was once a worship, most of its private cabins long since stripped out to make space for the hold. Still, one small room remains on the third deck, a narrow cell Borin used to take for himself when he needed to be alone. The memory is clear, and Jareth finds it easier to breathe, knowing she won't be tossed among the others.
"Aye," he says, gesturing for her to follow him once more. "There's a spare cabin near the stern. Used to be for Borin when he needed peace. You'll take it. Lock the door from the inside, and don't open it for anyone but me or Borin—understand?"
Naomi nods, the tension in her shoulders easing at the certainty in his tone. She follows him down another set of narrow stairs, past the cargo hold and into the quieter depths of the ship. The corridor here is darker, colder, but there's a certain privacy to it. Jareth stops at the small door set back from the rest, the wood battered but solid. He opens it, revealing a cramped but clean room with a narrow bunk, a faded blanket folded nearly at the foot, and a battered chest for belongings.
He steps back, allowing her to slip past him. Naomi surveys the small space, turning slowly to take it in. She sets her bundle down, turning to face him. For a moment, neither of says anything. The only sound is the steady thrum of the sea against the hull, a hush that fills the corners of the ship at night.
Jareth leans against the doorframe, his arms folded, his silhouette broad in the weak lantern light. "If you need anything, come find me or Borin. If you hear trouble, bar the door and shout. Don't let anyone in unless you're sure it's us."
Nodding again, her eyes shine with gratitude and a bit of wonder at his care. "Thank you, Jareth. Really. I… I didn't mean for it to turn out like it did."
He shakes his head, his voice softening, exhaustion bleeding through. "Not your fault." He holds her gaze for a heartbeat, then nods once and steps back into the corridor, closing the door gently behind him.
For the first time since she's arrived, Naomi finds herself truly alone, in a space that feels safe enough to let her guard down. She sits at the edge of the narrow bunk, the blanket pulled over her lap, and listens as Jareth's footsteps fade away down the passage. The quiet is heavy, but she welcomes it, letting herself breathe, letting herself finally rest.
Naomi sits alone in the tiny cabin, the hush of the night pressing close around her. The moonlight that slips through the porthole spills in uneven puddles, making the bare floorboards shimmer faintly. She gathers the blanket tighter around her knees, surveying the room with the cautious curiosity of someone who's not yet sure if she's a guest or a stowaway. Already, her mind turns over small comforts she could add: a trailing vine over the window, perhaps, or a patchwork rug to often the chill beneath her feet. She wonders if Borin would mind a splash of colour on the door. Maybe a bit of paint, or a carving if someone can lend her a knife. The thought distracts her for a moment, until a different unease creeps in: a sudden, sharp question she's never asked.
Who is Borin?
The question lands in her stomach like a stone. Naomi presses her lips together, fighting the urge to jump and chase after Jareth, to bombard him with questions. She has trusted Oses. She has trusted Jareth, or at least the Jareth she remembers from Tarith's Crossing, But she hadn't trusted herself, not with this.
The night stretches long, woven through the constant groan and sigh of the ship's hull, a slosh of water against planks. Sleep doesn't come, at least not truly. Naomi likes awake, heart thumping at every familiar sound: the drum of boots on deck, the low thud of something heavy rolling in the dark, the shrill creak that makes bolt upright more than once convinced the ship's breaking in two. When she drifts off, it's only for moments at a time. Each time she wakes, she listens hard for voices, for footsteps, for anything that means she's not completely alone. Nothing comes. She stares at the ceiling, her thoughts drifting in circles until finally, the dark thins, and the sky outside grows pale with the promise of dawn.
She rises before the sun, careful to keep silent. The ship seems impossibly vast this early, every passage unfamiliar and shadowed. Naomi wraps herself in her borrowed shirt, the sleeves hanging loose past her fingertips, and tiptoes out of her cabin. She flutters just above the ground, her wings beating in soft, anxious rhythms, hoping to avoid anyone who might be awake. The air is thick with the scent of salt and tar, each breath tinged with the ocean's chill. She makes her way through the narrow corridors, turning left when she means right, climbing one ladder only to end up back where she started. She gets lost twice, maybe more, each detour feeding the knot of nerves in her chest.
When she finally emerges onto the open deck, the sea opens around her in every direction; an endless, rolling plain of blue and gold, stretching further than she can imagine. The ship itself is a world of noise and movement, but for now, it's quiet. Naomi stands in awe, letting herself soak in the scope of it all, feeling impossibly small and alive.
Her peace doesn't last for long. A sudden creak somewhere behind her makes her heart jump. Instinctively, she looks for cover; the gaze darting to a cluster of barrels lashed together with thick rope. They're not much, but she squeezes behind them anyway, hoping that maybe if she keeps still, whoever is coming will pass her by. The air is damp and smells faintly of old apples and run. Her knees pull up to her chest, her breath shallow as she tries to make herself disappear.
It doesn't work.
A soft, musical chuckle rises behind her, warm and unhurried: a sound with more kindness than mockery. Naomi's heart seizes as she realises someone is standing just out of sight. Before she can even plan her escape, a bright voice carries over the deck. "You know," the stranger says, "for someone trying to be sneaky, you might want to tuck your pants in a little better."
She freezes, her face flaming as she glances down to see the cuff of one trouser leg poking out from behind the barrel. Slowly, she peeks around the edge, and finds herself face to face with a young Faerie she's never seen before.
He stands with his arms crossed, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He is taller than she is—lean and wiry, with a quickness in his stance that suggests he's used to dodging trouble. His ashy brown hair cropped close, mussed by the wind, and his grey-blue eyes glint with mischief, but none of the unnatural light Naomi is used to seeing in fae. There is no shine, no shimmer. He is plain, almost startingly so, a fact that puts her more on edge. He cocks his head, studying her with easy amusement. "Didn't think there was another Faerie on board," he says lightly. "Let alone one who hides worse than I do."
The shorter Faerie blinks, still half-concealed, her tongue too thick to form words. Her wings twitch nervously, the transparent membranes glinting in the drawn. She tries to answer, but shock renders her mute. Instead, she lets out a strangled noise and then—acting purely because of panic—she unfurls her wings and shoots upward, her small frame darting away so quickly she nearly knocks into a rope swinging from the mast.
Her flight is frantic and unsteady. She bolts to the highest place she can reach, slamming herself into the crow's nest with enough force to rattle the boards. She clings there, heart pounding, the rough wood digging into her palms as she tries to catch her breath. The world sways with the ship beneath her, and for a moment, she thinks she might be sick.
From below, the same voice drifts up; unruffled but still friendly. "Impressive launch. Bit noisy, though. I'd work on your landing."
Naomi buries her face into her hands, whispering furiously to herself. "Oh, stars above. What am I even doing? First, I summon a god, then I ask to be put here, and now I'm hiding from the only other Faerie on this ship like a runaway child." She tries to slow her breathing, talking herself down as if it might help. "Get it together, Elora. You're not a child. You're not—well, you're definitely not meant to be here, but you're here now, so make the best of it. Don't panic. Don't panic. Oh, what if he finds out I made a fool of myself already? Oh, stars. Oh, roots and rain."
Below, the older Faerie lets out a softer laugh. "You can come down, you know. I'm not going to bite. Captain might, if you keep hiding from him, but I won't." He leans on the rail, squinting up at her with a lopsided grin. "Name's Thorn, by the way. And before you ask, yes, I know the rules. I helped write half of them. But you're breaking two at once, which is impressive, honestly. Either you're very brave, or very lost."
Finally, she peaks over the edge of the crow's nest. "I—uh—I didn't mean to," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just… I needed somewhere to be. I didn't know anyone else would be—"
"Wouldn't be what?" Thorn interrupts, his tone playful. "Alive? Awake? Or fae?" He raises a brow, clearly enjoying himself. "You don't have to explain. Happens to the best of us. First day on the ship is never easy. Especially if you're not meant to be here at all." He gestures to the ladder with a tilt of his head. "Come on down. You'll get splinters up there if you're not careful. Besides, it'll just make the crew curious, seeing a Faerie clinging to the mast at dawn. They already talk enough."
For a moment, Naomi hesitates, her fingers gripping the railing tight. But something in Thorin's easy manner calms her, just a little. She inhales, squares her shoulders, and edges down from the crow's nest. Her wings flutter in uneven bursts, but she manages the descent without another accident.
When her feet finally hit the deck, she stands awkwardly, not quite meeting Thorn's gaze. He gives her a nod of approval, the ghost of his smile lingering as he studies her, as if measuring how much of her is courage and how much is nerves.
"See?" he says, voice warm. "Not so bad. The air's much nicer down here, anyway. Besides, if you're here, you must have the Captain's permission. Or maybe you've got a knack for trouble." He shrugs, clearly unbothered either way. "Welcome aboard. You'll fit in just fine."
The first golden threads of morning have not burned the dew from the sails when Naomi steps away from the mast, her wings trembling and her breaths still a little unsteady. Thorn lingers beside her, his playful smile never quite fading, his easy stance offering an odd comfort after so many hours adrift in uncertainty. Naomi tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes fixed on the planks at her feet.
She is painfully aware of how out of place she must look, draped in borrowed clothes, her posture stiff and awkward. The deck seems to tilt beneath her, the hush between them broken only by the slow, rhythmic slap of the waves against the hull.
She doesn't see Jareth until she hears the unmistakable thud of boots crossing the upper deck. The sound is purposeful and sharp, a cadence she already recognises even in her short time aboard. There is something in it that speaks of readiness, of a man always braced for trouble, and it sends a shiver up her spine, before she can even lift her head, the heavy door to the captain's quarters swing open, hinges groaning in protest.
Jareth steps out, a shadow cast by the rising sun, broad shoulders filling the doorway. He has dressed quickly; his frock coat pulled over yesterday's clothes, boots placed with hasty nots, but what draws every eye is the sword he carries. In his right hand, he grips a broadsword so massive it almost seems like an extension of himself, the blade longer and broader than Naomi has ever seen. The steel glints in the morning light, perfectly balanced for his size, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, the crossguard etched with old runes.
The captain's eyes sweep the deck with the cold calculation of a man who expects trouble. He raises the sword in a smooth, practiced arc, leveling it at the two figures standing at the mast. Thorin's eyes shoot up, but the older Faerie doesn't flinch, a spark of mischief lighting his face even as he lifts his hands in a mock surrender. Naomi goes utterly still, her lips parting as she takes in the sheer size of a weapon in her direction. Her eyes widen, a pulse fluttering beneath her pale skin, and for a moment she looks as if she might simply faint where she stands.
Jareth's gaze lands on her, and the memory of last night crashes back over him in a rush: the impossible arrival, the confusion, the silent, the disbelieving hours in the dark. For a moment, he hesitates, sword still raised, as if trying to determine whether any of it was real. The morning air is heavy, thick with tension and disbelief.
"Gods-fucking-damn it," he mutters under his breath, the words guttural and sharp. His grip on the sword tightens, then loosens as he shakes himself back to the present. He takes in Naomi's stricken face, the pale knuckles gripping the edge of her borrowed shirt, and something in him relents. With a rough exhale, he lowers his blade, letting the point rest harmlessly against the deck.
Thorn lets out a low whistle, eyes twinkling. "Now there's a way to say good morning. Was just showing our new stowaway the sunrise, Captain. Didn't mean to wake the beast."
The taller man fixes him a glare, but the back in his voice is more annoyance than anger. "You'll wake the whole bloody crew if you keep running your mouth, Thorn. Next time, keep the racket to the minimum. Some of us are still trying to get a wink of sleep." His gaze slides to Naomi, who looks as if she's trying to shrink inside her own skin. "You—"
Naomi manages a shaky, "S-sorry, I—" She stops herself, biting her lip. For a heartbeat, she almost says his name, but the sharp look he gives her cuts her off mid-syllable. She ducks her head, cheeks burning.
He rakes a hand through his wild air, his temper simmering just beneath the surface. "What the hell were you doing in the crow's nest at dawn? You looking to fall and break your neck on your first proper night at sea?" His temper boiled, but it was matched, to his own surprise, with a considerable amount of fear and concern for the fae.
Naomi's words tumble out, thin and unsteady. "I… I just… I couldn't sleep. I wanted to see the water. I didn't mean to… uhm…" She glances helplessly at Thorn, as if hoping he'll come to her rescue.
The other Faerie grins, shouldering the silence with his usual levity. "She landed up there like a barn swallow in a storm, Captain. Pretty good aim, all things considered. Couldn't miss it if you tried."
Jareth scowls, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "You let her climb up there alone?"
Thorn lifts his hands, palms open in the mock innocence. "Didn't let her do anything, Captain. She was hiding behind the barrels when I found her. Only said hello, and she shot up to the crow's nest like she was running from a wolf. Fastest I've seen anyone climb on this ship.
Jareth lets out a rough grunt, a sound caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. He drives the broadsword tip-first into the deck, resting hands atop of the pommel. The sword is almost level with Naomi's shoulders, the broad blade glinting in the morning light, and even Thorn glances at it with a renewed respect.
Fixing Naomi a stern look, his brows furrow. "If you get spooked, stay on deck next time. Don't go scrambling up the rigging unless you want Vak or Gorran dragging you down by your wings." He then flicks his gaze to Thorn, who only grins, untroubled. "And you—keep your mouth shut unless you mean to help. If she ends up hurt on your watch, you'll be on barnacle duty until your hands bleed."
Thorn snaps a crooked, mocking salute. "Understood, Captain. I'll keep her from climbing to the clouds."
Naomi swallows, nerves fluttering as she stands before both men. She casts a nervous glance at the broadsword, then back up at Jareth, voice barely above a whisper. "I…I didn't mean to cause trouble. I just… I wasn't thinking, I suppose."
Jareth's expression softens, just a fraction. "You need to be careful. This isn't Tarith's Crossing, and you're not the only one with business on this ship." He draws back a breath, the sharp edge of his irritation dulling into weary resignation. "Get yourself below deck and something to eat. I'll sort things out here."
For a moment, Naomi looks as if she might argue, but she nods, wrapping her arms around herself. She lingers just long enough for Thorn to give her an encouraging wink. "I'll show you the way," he says, lowering his voice so only she can hear. "And don't worry. Captain's bark is worse than his bite. Usually."
Jareth watches them leave, the tip of his sword scraping the deck as he pulls it free and rests it over his broad shoulders. The weight is nothing to him, the weapon forged to match his own towering height and impossible strength, an old reassurance in a world that offers few.
The galley of The Sunlit Rose sits deep and still beneath the restless feet of the crew, washed in the faint blue-grey light that seeps through the little windows high on the hull. The benches are empty, the long wooden table scattered with the remains of last night's bread, a chipped mug or two left by men too tired to bother cleaning up. The tang of salt and yeast fills the air, laced with the lingering memory of roast fish and garlic. Naomi's feet, bare and soft, barely make a sound as she follows Thorn down the steps, careful to keep close to the wall, her wings brushing the wood every so often.
Thorn leads the way, nimble and unconcerned, glancing over his shoulder with a quick smile as he finds the galley lantern and strikes it to life. The soft glow spills across his face, revealing the fine, sharp lines of his features, the arch of his brows, the play of expression that dances just beneath his eyes. He moves with a confidence that Naomi envies, as if he's never doubted his place aboard this ship, or the world.
"Kitchen's quiet this hour," he says in a low voice, swinging around the edge of the table. "Best time for breakfast, if you ask me. By the time the Dwarves wake, there'll be nothing left but crumbs and bones." He flashes a grin and grabs two wooden bowls, rummaging through the larder for yesterday's bread and a pot of dried fruit soaked in sweet brandy. Naomi hovers over the bench, uncertain, her hands twisting in the hem of her shirt.
She watches him work, her gaze sliding over his wings: ash-grey, not the radiant, iridescent sweep of a Kept Fae, but graceful all the same. His skin is a soft brown, marked by the faintest blue undertone at his temple, and his eyes are a pale-grey-blue, catching the lantern's glow without reflecting it.
Hollowborn, she thinks, though it still feels strange to see someone like him, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.
As Thorn slides a bowl toward her, Naomi's curiosity finally gets the better of her. She sits, the bench a little too tall for her feet to touch the floor, and after a moment, she speaks up, her stutter softened by the hush. "I… uhm, I hope this isn't rude, but… I was wondering, what sort of Faerie are you?" Her eyes dart to his face, then away. "I can usually tell; nature, fire, cave, water. But I can't, with you. I've never seen a Hollowborn before, let alone a faerie who's Hollowborn. I'm… a Tempered. That's why I look so… plain, I guess."
Thorn's grin doesn't waver. He spoons fruit into his mouth and chews for a moment, considering her question. "You're not plain, little sparrow," he says, mouth full, and then gestures at his own wings with a flourish. "You're Sylvani, I'd bet anything on it. The hair, the eyes, the way you look at every plant as if it's about to speak to you. My cousin back in Velmira was just the same."
Naomi can't help but laugh, pleased to be seen, if only a little. "You're not far off. My mother's a Naiad. Water Faerie. She married into a long line of Sylvani. But you… what are you?" She leans forward, the question clear in her voice.
Thorn's eyes glint with mischief. "Rukali, by birth. Stone Faerie. Born in the mountains north of Idrien, under the shadow of the old pines. You ever been up there?"
She shakes her head. "No, My father says the air's too cold for his wings."
Thorn laughs. "Aye, most fae don't care for it. I got out as soon as I could. Never took to the stone. I preferred the sea and a ship's deck under my feet." His face sobers a little as he turns his hand, showing her the hard, earth-coloured scars across his knuckles. "Lost my shine before I could even remember what it felt like. The Hollowborn, well, we don't fit anywhere, not really. Most ships don't take us. Too superstitious."
She studies him, her head tilted, the line of worry between her brows softening. "You seem to fit here," she offers, and Thorn shrugs, glancing at her with a faint, grateful smile.
"Captain's the only one who'd have me. Him and Borin." He brushes the bread toward her, nodding for her to take some. "You're lucky, you know. Tempered fae, you can still work magic. Hollowborn, we just get by with luck and quick thinking."
Naomi's fingers play with a strand of her braid. "I… I have to work hard for what I have. My magic's not much, but it's something." She takes a bite, feeling the sweetness linger on her tongue, comforted by the simple warmth of the galley.
They fall into an easy, quiet rhythm, eating together in the lamplight as the ship rocks gently around them. Naomi glances around, studying the details she's missed in her nervousness: the notches on the table, the old copper pots, the line of herbs drying above the stove. She lets herself imagining living here for a time, and the thought isn't as frightening as it was last night.
Just then, heavy footsteps creak on the stairs behind them. Naomi looks up, a little jumpy as the broad, grey-bearded man appears in the doorway. His hair is streaked with silver, and his eyes, sharped like an old wolf's, settle on her with a confusion that is not quite suspicion. She realises that this must be Borin. The rule-maker.
He pauses, his eyes flicking from Thorn to Naomi, to the empty table, then back to Thorn. He blinks, as if trying to make sense of what's he's seeing. Naomi's heart stutters, her hands curling tighter around her bowl. Borin says nothing at first. He just tilts his head, his eyes narrowed, as if waiting for one of them to speak.
Thorn offers a lazy wave, unconcerned. "Mornin', Borin. Bit early for a crowd, isn't it?"
Naomi, suddenly aware of every rule she's breaking, forces herself to smile, though it comes out tight. "G-good morning," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to… I mean, I was just…"
Borin holds up a hand, stopping her apology before it can grow. He studies her for a long moment, then shrugs. "As long as ye don't impede on breakfast, yer welcome in me galley." His words are gentle, though his eyes remain shrewd. Naomi nods, relieved, though her nerves flutter at the edge.
Before Borin can say more, another set of footsteps rings out on the stairs. Jareth appears in the doorway, hair still damp from a hurried wash, coat thrown on shoulders. He pauses when he sees Borin and Naomi together, then lets out a long, familiar sigh of defeat, as if this is exactly what he expected.
Thorn winks at Naomi, leaning closer. "Told you, little sparrow. No one's going to toss you overboard—not with that one watching your back."
Jareth fixes both fae a look that is tired, resigned, and faintly amused all at once. He nods at Borin, then glances at Thorn, eyes flickering to Naomi. "You settling in?" His voice is gruff, but not unkind.
Naomi nods, her confidence buoyed by the circle of small acceptance. "I think so," she says, her stutter hardly there at all. "I'm trying, at least."
Jareth grunts in approval, taking a seat beside Borin. Thorn makes room, and for a moment, the galley feels like it belongs to all of them. Naomi sits a little straighter, letting herself believe, for the first time, she might actually belong.
Borin doesn't say a word as he stands, just places his heavy palm on Jareth's shoulder, a simple signal that is impossible to ignore. Jareth gets the message, even before Borin tilts his head towards the hatch. Thorn and Naomi exchange a look, and Naomi gives a nervous nod, her hands still curled around the breakfast bowl. Thorn offers her an encouraging smile as the two men step out of the galley.
Jareth leads the way back up to the captain's cabin, the thud of their boots muffled by the gentle roll of the sea. The corridor feels narrower, with Borin behind him, a steady presence—one that always makes Jareth feel half his age, no matter how many times he tried to stand taller. The captain's quarters are still bathed in the pale light of early morning, and Jareth closes the door behind them, bracing himself for the conversation he knows is coming.
Borin wastes no time. He crosses his arms, fixing Jareth with a stare that is both patient and unyielding. "Who is she?" he asks, words simple, almost gentle, but there is nothing idle in his tone.
Jareth runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to sit. He leans back against the desk, arms folded tight across his chest, and meets Borin's gaze head-on. "Her Name's Naomi. I… She showed up last night. Not sure how, not exactly." He pauses, the words caught between truth and confusion. "She's a Faerie, that much I know. Came aboard without warning, right into my quarters—woke me up in the middle of the night, said Oses sent her. Not sure how much of that is real, but she's here now."
Borin's brows furrow, but his expression remains calm, giving Jareth space to fill the silence. But when the younger man just shakes his head, Borin speaks again. "Ye know the rule, Jareth. No women aboard. Not because they can't handle it, but because they shouldn't have ta. The things pirates see, the things they become…" He trails off for a moment, and when he looks back, there's a heaviness in his eyes. "No woman deserves the way the world treats men like us. And Faeries—they feel the world's cruelty more than most. Ye've heard the stories, boy. Ships lost ta the sea, crews vanishing after a fae woman was sighted on deck. It's not just superstition. Magic runs deeper on open water, and it runs on those who forget what it owes."
Jareth exhales sharply, his jaw tense. There's a chill to him now, a hard, pragmatic edge that always seems to surface when he feels the world slipping out of his control. "So what do you want me to do, Borin?" The words are clipped and sharp. "You want me to turn back, throw her overboard? I didn't ask for her. I don't even know what sort she is. For all I know, she'll bring down the whole ship before we're halfway to port."
Borin's eyes narrow, and for a moment, the old captain seems to grow taller, as if the weight of four centuries settles across his shoulders. "No, I don't want ye ta turn back. And I sure as hell don't want ye ta toss her out. That's not who we are, and ye know that. She's on this ship now, and whether ye like it, that makes her yer responsibility."
Jareth holds Borin's gaze, but the coldness lingers in his stance, the way his hands stay clenched, the way he stands between the desk and the door as it guarding both. "You made that rule," he says, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "So why break it now?"
Borin lets out a low, exasperated laugh: a sound that rumbles up from deep in his chest. "Because sometimes, boy, ye don't get the choose the tide. Sometimes the sea gives ye a castaway, and it's yer job ta see her safely ta shore. I made the rule ta protect women, not ta punish 'em. And as for the fae, well, the only thing worse than ignorin' the old tales is refusin' ta help when ye can. That lass is lost, whether or not she knows it. We're all she has, for now."
Jareth looks away, biting down the words he wants to throw, the ones about bad luck and fate and godlings meddling in mortal lives. He's so used to shutting doors, to keeping his world narrow and safe, that every instinct screams at him to send Naomi back. But Borin's steady gaze breaks through the wall of cold logic, reminding him what it means to be captain now—not just for the ship, but for the people on it.
"What do you want me to do?" Jareth asks again, the question quieter now, the hard edge fading as Borin's certainty works its way past his guard.
Borin's voice softens. "Ye gather her, introduce her ta the crew proper. Let the men see she's here with yer blessin'. Find a port soon; buy her proper clothes. If she wants ta stay, she'll need ta learn the ropes. If not, we'll find her a safe way back." He pauses, eyes kind but unwavering. "Don't get cold, Jareth. Not now. The world's already too cold for the likes of her."
Jareth's posture shifts, some of the chill melting out of his frame. He nods, letting the captain in him—hard and sure—sink, replaced by something steadier. "Alright. I'll see to it. She deserves that much."
Borin nods, satisfied. "Good, now get movin'. And don't let Thorn give her any ideas about takin' up knife throwin' in the galley. One Faerie on board is enough. Two? The gods alone know what'll happen."
Jareth almost cracks a smile, but the gravity of the moment stays with him. He opens the door and steps out onto the deck, feeling the first touch of sunlight on his face. For a moment, he lets himself hope that maybe—just maybe—the strange twist of fate will be easier than he fears. But he knows the sea, and the sea gives nothing for free.
The sun hangs heavy above the main deck, gilding every line and shadow of The Sunlit Rose in bright, unforgiving gold. Jareth stands atop the broad steps leading down the quarterdeck, every inch the captain now—back ramrod straight, shoulders set wide, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His voice, when he calls, splits the steady noise of morning work with a single, commanding note.
"On deck! All hands!" The words roll across the ship, carried by the wind and the weight of command. The crew respond in waves: first those nearest, then the rest, filing in from the holds, the rigging, the galleys, and gun decks. Two hundred men, a rough assembly of every size, colour, and creed that the seas can conjure, spread themselves in a loose, shifting half-circle on the boards below.
Naomi stands to his right, a small figure half-shadowed by his frame. She does not shrink away, but there is a visible tension set in her shoulders, in the way her hands grip the sash at her waist. The coat she wears is still too large, sleeves rolled up twice over her wrists, and her hair has curled in the wind. She keeps her chin up, determined, but her mauve eyes flick nervously over the sea of faces below.
Jareth surveys the crew: Vak, the Noctari helmsman, dark and quiet near the wheel; Gorran, the hulking Werewolf, arms folded over his chest as he looks among the taller men; Orvik and Seln, the bickering Dwarf twins whose copper-wired beards gleam in the sun; Tamber the Bramling, slender and sharp-eyed with fingers always twitching for a blade, and the younger deckhands, a scattering of Halflings and Humans, their faces open, some wary, some openly curious.
Further back stand the Huldras, half-giants wit knotted hair and heavy faced shadowed by heavy brows, deep voices rumbling softly as they take in the scene. There are two minotaurs as well, massive and horned, their chests crisscrossed by old scars and new tattoos, and a pair of stone-skinned Grendels, their grey hides gleaming dully in the light. Even among this patchwork of races and tempers, there is no other faerie in sight—only Thorn, standing with calm confidence near the foremast, arms folded, his grey-blue eyes amused.
When the deck is filled and the murmurs die down, Jareth raises his voice, letting it ring over the assembled men. "Listen close, lads. I'll make this quick." He glances sideways at Naomi, his face unreadable, before turning his gaze back to the crowd.
"This is Naomi." The name is crisp, echoing over the boards. "She's here as a guest. She'll be travelling with us for a while. You will treat her with the same respect you give me. If I hear a single word otherwise—one slur, one jest, one hand where it doesn't belong—I'll strap the fool who speaks to the mast and leave him there till the next port, or the next squall, whichever comes first. Am I clear?"
There is a brief, uneasy silence. A few men in the crowd shift their weight, glancing sidelong at each other. Someone lets out a low whistle, another mutters under his breath. Jareth's eyes snap to the sound, as cold and sharp as a drawn blade. "Did I stutter?" he growls, and the deck goes quiet again.
He lets the hush settle, watching the bravest among them for any sign of further trouble. Gorran bares his teeth in a faint, wolfish grin, arms still folded. Vak stands still as stone, but his gaze lingers thoughtfully on Naomi. Orvik and Seln exchange glances, but neither speaks. Even Tamber, so often eager to make a joke, holds his tongue, his eyes wide as they flick from Naomi to Jareth and back.
Behind the crowd, the two minotaurs nod once, silent as always, and the Grendels grunt their assent. There are a few more mutters, but no one speaks up again. Among the younger crew, the Halflings look at Naomi with open curiosity, and a human lad, barely more than a boy, offers her a tentative smile. Thorn gives her a brief salute, his lips curled in a sly, reassuring grin.
Jareth surveys them one last time, his gaze lingering on every face until he's sure the message has sunk in. Then he steps back, his voice lowering, but the steel in it never wavers.
"That's all. Back to work. Vak, keep us on course. Orvik, Seln—check the ballast. Tamber, mind the stores. Gorran, you and the Huldras see to the lines." The orders come quickly, his tone brooking no argument. As the men disperse, Jareth glances down at Naomi.
She stands still, her chin lifted, her expression determined but faintly shell-shocked. He nods to her, a gesture of reassurance meant only for her eyes. "You'll get used to it," he murmurs, his voice pitched low, roughened by the morning and the weight of the day. "They'll listen, so long as you stand your ground."
For a moment, the sun catches the edge of her hair, turning it to black-gold as she lets out a quiet breath. The crowd thins, the great machinery of the ship resuming its steady work. The Rose sails on, her decks awash in sun and salt, and the ship's strange new guest stands at the captain's side, a curiosity, and a challenge both.
Jareth lingers on the steps, arms folded, eyes never leaving the sea of backs that pass below. The rules have changed—perhaps for good, perhaps not. But for now, the Rose holds steady, her captain unflinching, her new passenger safe for another day.
Jareth remains at the top of the steps long after the last of his men have returned to their work, the deck settling back into its usual rhythm. He keeps his arms folded tight across his chest, gaze steady on the horizon where the sea blurs into the pale morning sky. For a moment, the voices below drift away, leaving only the creak of the ship beneath his feet and the steady slap of water against the hull.
He breathes deep, feeling the weight of extra responsibility settle in his bones. The decision to bring Naomi aboard, to stand before two hundred hardened men and demand her respect, marks him in a way no battle scar ever could. He glances sidelong at her—small, determined, out of place and yet, somehow, right where she needs to be.
He knows the days ahead will test both of them, that old rules will be challenged and new lines drawn in the salt and sun. Still, Jareth holds his ground, jaw set, every inch the captain. Whatever storms may come, whatever trouble brews among crew or gods, he will face it—standing between Naomi and the world, as unmovable as the sea itself.
With the wind rising and the sails snapping overhead, Jareth straightens his shoulders and fixes his eyes forward, resolved to keep The Sunlit Rose and all aboard her safe, no matter the cost.