The light that seeps through the thick glass panes is watery and gold, painting ragged bands across the battered desk where Naomi sits, legs folded beneath her and a well-worn book splayed open in her lap. The world outside still belongs to dawn: the hush of waves, and the steady creak of The Sunlit Rose as she rocks in the slow approach to land, the distant call of gulls that wheel above the shifting, haunted sea. It's early—too early for most of the crew, but not for Naomi and Jareth, who share the habit of rising before the rest.
Steam curls from her mug, the fragrance of wild mint and dried pear sweetening the salty air. Naomi is hunched over her page, pen tapping gently against the margins, and every so often her eyes flick up, following the pattern of the grain in the desk. Across from her, Jareth sits, already armoured in the quiet certainty of command. His hair is tied back, a deep brown threaded with silver streaks, thick and bristling with salt from yesterday's spray, his jaw is still shadowed with sleep, but his eyes are awake; watchful, blue as frost, fixed on the morning's charts. He eats with mechanical care, a bowl of dried fruit and oat porridge balanced beside his elbow, though he never lets himself settle until she takes her first few bites.
"Eat up, lass," he grumbles, voice thick with sleep and a note of rough concern. He nudges her bowl closer, spoon clinking against the porcelain. "Don't want you runnin' empty when there's work to be done." He doesn't watch her too closely, but he waits until she lifts a spoonful, only then turning his attention back to the ship's ledgers.
He watches Naomi with half-lidded eyes of a man who has slept little, but the lines bracketing his mouth ease whenever he catches her looking. The remains of breakfast; a bowl of oats, a crust of black bread, a tangle of sliced apples rest within easy reach, and every so often, he nudges the plate closer until Naomi, realising what he's doing, ducks her head and takes another bite.
The silence between them is companionable, broken only by the scratch of her pencil as she jots notes in the margin in her book. A breeze from the cracked window brings the scent of sea brine and distant, rain-heavy earth. When Naomi sets her mug down, a thoughtful hum escapes her, and she leans forward, fingers brushing the edge of a thick, rune-laden volume she's been studying since dawn. "It says here," she murmurs, voice low, almost shy. "If I can find out where the wood came from… there's a chance I could speak with the Oath-Tree that gave the mast."
Jareth's brow furrows, the rough lines of his face drawing tighter. "Speak with a tree?" His tone is sceptical, but not mocking; he's seen enough strangeness on the sea to know better than to dismiss her right away. "What's that supposed to mean, exactly? Trees don't have much to say, last I checked."
Fingers dance over the page as Naomi tries to explain. "Oath-Trees aren't like other trees. They're… living memory. Giants used to bind their vows to them—carve runes, braid tokens into the back. The spirit in the wood holds on, even when it's cut down. Sometimes, a fae like me can reach what's left. Listen to the old promises or the warnings." Her eyes flick to the window, where the island grows clearer. "If the mast came from the Oath-Tree on this island, maybe I could ask it for help. Or at least understand what happened here."
A long silence stretches, filled with the clink of a spoon against ceramic and the groan of the ship easing toward shore. Jareth finally leans back, crossing his arms. "You think the mast's still got some giant's ghost rattlin' around in it? Sounds like more fae business to me." The words come out gruff, but his gaze softens a little. "Still, if it keeps the Rose runnin', I'm not against tryin'. Just… be careful. No wild magic, nothing to spook the crew, We need the old girl in one piece."
The moment stretches, Naomi nodding with quick, earnest agreement. Then, as she flips another page, a stray thought catches, "You said we're stopping somewhere soon? An ancient Grendeli island?" Her tone is tentative, almost hopeful.
Jareth lets out a grunt, leaning back with his arms folded. "Aye. Karith'ull. Dead place, as far as anyone's concerned. Borin thinks there's something worth scavenging—old Wyrm Heartstone, if we're lucky. Ship's running cold at night; if we can find one, it'll help heat the crew quarters through the deep water crossings." He glances at the oats she's been neglecting, nodding at the bowl until she takes another spoonful.
Curiosity flickers in her eyes. "Why is it abandoned?" She asks, voice smaller.
His shoulders lift and fall. "Depends on who you ask. Borin says the gods themselves smote it, long before my time. Some say it's a curse; others say a war. Doesn't matter much now, the place is empty, but sailors say it's one of the few places heartstones can still be found in the wild." A faint frown crosses his face as Naomi unconsciously floats an inch above the desk, wings fluttering with excitement. "Careful, Dove. Keep your feet on the floor, yeah? You're gonna knock over my maps if you take off like that."
She settles, blushing as her wings fold in tight. "Sorry." After a breath, she presses on. "Wouldn't heartstones be for sale at some of the bigger ports?"
Jareth lets out a short laugh. "Aye, if you've got coin to burn. Few do. Wyrm heartstones fetch a price higher than a year's wages, and half the ones on the market are fakes for half-spent. If you want the real thing, you go hunting where old bones lie." He glances toward the sea-silvered window, a shadow crossing his features. "Karith'ull's risky, but it's worth the trouble if it means the crew doesn't freeze."
Naomi's attention drifts back to her book, her hands trembling a little as she traces the runes again. "The Oath-Tree the mast came from… if it's still there, I might be able to find its stump, or what's left of the grove. I could try to reach what's left… maybe learn something about the ship, or about the vows bound to it." Her voice is breathless, half-afraid, half-excited.
A pause settles as Jareth turns this over. For all his scepticism, he's seen enough strange things at sea not to dismiss her entirely. "If you're set on this, we do it by my rules. No wandering off. No poking at things you don't understand. You stick close, you eat every bite of breakfast, and you tell me the second you sense anything out of place. His voice carries authority, but there's a softness beneath it. "Deal?"
She nods, lips curving in a small, grateful smile. "Deal," she whispers, returning to her look, the promise of adventure and ancient memory mingling in the sunlit quiet of the cabin.
Jareth stands broad-shouldered and imposing as always, gathering up the empty bowls with a practiced efficiency born from years at sea. The scrape of ceramic against scarred desk wood rings low in the hush of the captain's cabin. Naomi rises well, careful to tuck her book against her chest. Every movement she makes is small and contained, as if she's afraid to disturb the quiet trust that has taken root between them over the last hour.
He swings the door open, and the light from the corridor slices into the room, sharpening every shadow. Just outside, a figure blocks the threshold—a wolfish silhouette, fur rippling in the gloom. Gorran's presence fills the narrow passage, and even without standing fully upright, he dwarfs the doorframe. For a fleeting second, Naomi can't help but stare. She's always known Jareth was massive, yet compared to Gorran, whose ears brush the top of the lintel, with arms that seem designed fit for uprooting trees… he looks almost human.
A deep, dismissive scoff rumbles from Gorran's chest, cutting through the lingering intimacy of the cabin. His yellow-gold flash with an old predator's contempt, and for the briefest moment, his lips curl back from sharp teeth. "You've got about half an hour, Captain," he growls, voice gravelly and accented with the peculiar harshness of the wild. "The island's closing fast." He doesn't spare Naomi a second glance; only glances down at her book, then at Jareth, as if whatever comes next is strictly business.
But before the conversation can shift, Gorran mutters something under his breath, the syllables caught somewhere between a snarl and a whisper. Naomi picks out a single, unfamiliar word—Zhirr. Its sound bristles in the air, barbed and ugly, meant to slide beneath notice. Except it doesn't. Naomi's ears prickle. She feels the insult sting her skin like a nettle, a word that, even without translation, feels like being swatted away.
She knows it instinctively, as if there Werewolf's language has roots that wind into her bones. Lunathrin; she's sure that's his native language.
She stiffens, making herself small behind Jareth's shoulder, her eyes narrowing in quick, silent calculation. He towers beside her, but the width of Gorran's shoulders, the predatory lean of his body, makes Jareth look almost ordinary. Jareth, meanwhile, stiffens not from offense but from a cautious, coiled readiness. He catches the word but not its meaning, his brow furrowing as he gives Gorran a look that's half question, half warning.
Naomi moves, stepping forward with an abrupt, awkward sort of grace. The bowls rattle as she gathers them, using the movement as a shield. "I'll take these back to the galley," she says quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You… must be needed elsewhere." She glances at Gorran, forcing a polite smile she doesn't feel, her fingers tight around the rough edges of the ceramic. It's as much an exit as a statement. The library and the galley are her safe places, her territory, away from the snapping jaws and pointed states of creatures who see her as prey, or worse, nothing at all.
Jareth's confusion is written plain across his face, though it's more irritation than anger. He heard Gorran speak, picked up the slight in the way the wolf's gaze flicked past Naomi as if she were already beneath notice, but he doesn't know the word. He bristles in his own way, shoulders rising, chin lifting—a silent assertion of authority in his own damn corridor.
"Don't start trouble," he says, the words low and sharp as he looks at Gorran. His tone brooks no argument, a warning honed by too many years of mutinous crews and hungry storms. There's no bared teeth, no raised hackles; just the quiet confidence of a captain who's held this ship together with nothing but his own stubborn will.
Naomi doesn't wait for further argument. She dips her head, clutching the bowls like a shield, her book still pressed tightly against her chest. She sidesteps Gorran with care, making herself as small as possible in the narrow passage, but she doesn't flinch or shrink. The insult stings, but it doesn't break her. As she walks away, the murmurs of the ship and the muffled noise of crewmen prepping for landfall fill her ears, grounding her in the everyday rhythm aboard the Sunlit Rose.
Behind her, the tension of the two men stretches thin, almost brittle, but Jareth holds his ground, not rising to Gorran's bait. He's no stranger to wolves on his deck—literal or otherwise. He watches Naomi's retreating form for a heartbeat longer than necessary, eyes tracing the path she takes, making sure she's clear before turning back to Gorran.
"You keep that tongue in check around my crew," he says quietly, never raising his voice. "We're all heading into hell soon enough. Don't need to start it early." His words are ironclad, not a threat, but a statement of fact; one that carries the weight of a man who's seen too much to be intimidated by fur or fangs.
Gorran grunts, halfway between agreement and annoyance. He lopes off, boots thudding against the planks, his massive form vanishing in the shadows below deck.
The galley sits quiet in the hour before the bell. Lantern-light pools on scarred boards; steam ghosts curl from a lidded kettle; clean copper hangs in a neat line above the stove. Naomi slips into the warm water, sleeves pushed to her elbows, and works a soft cloth in circles until the sheen returns. Stacking them on the drying board helps slow her pulse. The hush here is kind.
The door clicks shut, her ears twitch and her cloth stills. Turning toward the sound, she freezes.
Gorran fills the frame as if the doorway were cut too small for him. Fur bristles around a jaw made for breaking; one ear is nicked, the other turns forward as if scenting prey. He holds the latch a beat too long, then lets it settle with a soft rattle that feels louder than a shout.
"G-Gorran?" The name catches and stumbles. She sets one bowl down and keeps hold of the other, palms damp where ceramic meets skin. He doesn't answer at once. The Werewolf's gaze travels to the bowls, book, the kettle, and then back to her face, where he fixes her with a slow and unfriendly smile. "Galley's empty," he observes, voice a grind of stone. "Convenient."
A breath she didn't know was holding slips out. "Nerrick stepped away. I'm putting these back, and then I'll go."
"Sure you will." He pads two steps inside and leans his shoulder against the jamb as if he owns it. "Thirty minutes to landfall and the captain's pet decides the dishes need polishing." His mouth curls on the word 'pet.' "Busy morning for you, little bug."
The familiar sting of the earlier slur pricks her scalp. "Pet?" The laugh that escapes is small and startled, half disbelief, half defence. "I'm not… that isn't—"
"Right," he cuts in, pushing off the frame. "You only eat in his cabin. You vanish when he does. Man brings you fruit like a courting sailor and expects me to believe it's about your delicate stomach." His lips curl, and Naomi can see the glint of his teeth jutting from his lips. "Tell me, does he feed you before or after?"
Confusion slams into her first, quick and electric, cheeks prickling as heat follows. "A-after what?" The words slip out without calculation, genuine bafflement pushing any pretense of politeness. Gorran's nostrils flare with satisfaction, lips parting into a leer that flashes the canines beneath. His gaze drifts, pointed and unkind, toward the worn spot at her hip where the rapier sits snug in its scabbard. The leather, polished nearly to a shine by nervous fingers and new practice, betrays her inexperience as much as her presence does.
The wolf's voice drops, thick with insinuation. "You know what I mean." He doesn't wait for her to answer, cataloguing her with a lazy disdain. "He arms you. Hides you. Coddles you. A captain forgets his rudder when there's a fae flitting around underfoot. Storms always follow your kind—makes a man wonder what you're doing in his quarters all the time."
The implication takes a moment to land, but the intent behind it is sharp and deliberate. The crude guess barely registers, but the malice does, sinking beneath her skin in a way that makes her pulse stutter. Every sense sharpens as the kitchen, suddenly too small, closes around her. Gorran prowls forward, boots silent on the plank floor, his shadow swallowing up the lantern-light. A defensive instinct flares, and she takes a half step back, clutching the bowl with white knuckles, holding half way between his ribs and his reach. Her wings twitch at her back, not quite flaring, only bracing for what might come next.
Each detail of the galley seems painfully obvious: the knives glinting next to the battered chopping block, the heavy kettle resting above the banked coals, the drying herbs strung low along the shelves. Most importantly of all, the only door sits squarely behind the wolf, his frame blocking her path as effectively as any locked hatch.
"Leave it," she manages, forcing her tone steady even as she watches for any flicker of movement. The cloth in her palm trembles once, then stills, as if she's trying to make herself invisible.
Gorran slides along the table's edge, using the battered oak to block her in. His presence crowds the room, eyes catching the lantern and gleaming a dull gold. "Or what?" His voice thickens, some animal thread sliding underneath the syllables. "You going to splash me with soapy water? You barely have enough water in you to douse a candle, little weed. That's what you are; the captain's weed."
The insult claws at her, and the words come out tighter than intended. "Please don't call me that." She shifts her grip on the bowl, weighing it as if she might use it for more than soup or porridge. Another step back presses her into the table's edge. Again she tries, quieter now, voice stripped of everything but request. "Don't call me anything. Just go."
He ignores her, circling a half step closer, voice gone low and mocking. "I was old before you learned to twist ribbons in your hair. You don't belong on a ship made from bones you'll never understand." The sneer lifts, and the word cuts sharper than any knife in the galley. "Zhirr."
The memory rings in her memory—insect—its intent as clear as blood on the floor. The bowl lifts a little higher, a subtle shift, a threat of action if he closes the distance any further. Her wings twitch, and her throat tightens with nerves. "I know what that means," she whispers, calm barely masking the shake. "You think I don't."
He grins, teeth bared in something closer to a challenge than a smile. "Good," he growls, looming now, close enough that she can see the dark roots along his jaw, and the wolfish sharpness behind his eyes. "Because you need to understand this, too. Once he's done letting you build your little shrines, he'll remember you're just another fae turning the wind wrong. He'll throw you overboard to save himself the trouble. Mark my words, girlie, he's a captain first. Always."
The words drive the air from her lungs, cold and briny. She glances sideways, quick, calculating the space between her and the stove. The kettle gives a soft warning pop, metal tightening as the heat grows. Her mouth goes dry. "You should go," she repeats, the plea now an order, brittle as glass. "Borin could be looking for you."
"Borin's got his eyes on the captain, not you." Gorran's gaze flicks to the book on the far table; the one she carried so carefully from the captain's quarters. "Those reading lessons won't save you from the sea, or from me."
He reaches. Not for her face, not for her arms, but for the braid tumbling over her shoulder; slow, deliberate, and intent on savouring the fear he stirs. The move shreds what little patience she has left. With a tight inhale, she raises the bowl up in a single, instinctive swing, the motion crisp and unflinching.
Ceramic rings off bone with a sharp, undeniable sound. For a moment, neither of them move; the wolf, hand drawn back, staring at the fresh welt blossoming along his knuckles, and Naomi, arm rigid, eyes wide, wings flared just enough to catch the light.
Silence burns, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant crash of the sea against the hull and the quickening rush of her breath. For the first time, Gorran seems uncertain; caught between rage and the thrill of the hunt, gaze locked on her not with contempt, but with a predator's fresh interest.
He lunges. Clawed fingers snap forward, not for her face but for her throat, the sweep of his arm quick and ugly. Naomi's heart beats fast, every muscle screaming with instinct. Wings burst open; she leaps, all grace and terror, moving by sheer necessity. The bowl she'd wielded as a shield becomes a weapon in a heartbeat. Her arms whip around, striking him square across the temple with enough force to shatter clay and rattle bone. Shards explode across the floor, skipping worn boards and spinning into corners. The noise is sharp and final, echoing in the tight room.
A pained snarl rips from Gorran, the sound cracking through the cabin. His hand misses her throat by inches, slicing only empty air. Fury and humiliation burn in his eyes. He staggers back a step, blood welling at the edge of his brow. Noami hits the floor with a slap. She lands hard, her shoes slipping in the spray of the broken bowl. Every sense screams, run.
Before she can bolt, Gorran recovers, driven now by the thrill of the chase and wounded pride. In a blur of movement, he pivots, his shadow blotting out the lantern light. He moves too quickly; faster than she expects for something so large. Naomi ducks, trying to dart past him, but a clawed hand lashes out, snaring the delicate edges of her wings. Pain spikes through her back, hot and blinding. The grip is merciless, fingers digging into the fine bones, pinning her in place. Fear floods her, cold and absolute.
Gorran's voice drops, guttural, rough as gravel. "You run, I break them. Maybe I take a piece for luck," he threatens, the words as foul as the reek of blood on his breath. His claw squeezes, sending a jolt of agony through Naomi's chest.
She realises then, with a peculiar flash of clarity, that she stands at his waist; crotch height to a beast that towers over even Jareth. Something primal takes over. Without thinking, she balls her fist, and slams it upward as hard as she can, putting all her fear and fury into the blow. The impact lands, and Gorran's yelp is a wounded animal's scream: high, sharp, and full of sudden, helpless pain. He reels, body falling inward, knees buckling. The hand on her wings loosen just enough.
When a second chance opens, she snatches it. Naomi drops low, rolling away from the claws, sliding across the floorboards. She's not safe yet. Rage clouds Gorran's face, twisted now with pain and humiliation. He lashes out with a wild swing, but she's already upright, wings beating frantically for balance.
His tail, thick and muscular, flicks across the floor. Naomi's gaze snags on it; an idea burning through her panic. She dives, seizing the furry appendage in both hands. With all her strength, she twists and pulls, not stopping when Gorran howls. The cartilage gives with a sickening pop; the tail snapping sharply to the side, broken and useless.
He roars, more beast than man, tumbling to his knees. Both hands go to his tail, agony eclipsing all his rage. Curses in a language she assumes is Lunathrin pour from his mouth, voice cracking with pain: "Mell vrashta, yarrak!" The threat dissolves into helpless yelps. He writhes, curled around the wound, claws scorching bloody in the wood. Tears leak from the corners of his wild eyes, his chest heaving as he fights not to sob in front of her.
Naomi doesn't stay to savour the victory or offer pity. Breaths come in sharp, frightened bursts, she launches herself upward, wings propelling her past the tangled mess of fur and teeth. The kitchen blurs, her book laying forgotten on the table as she surges for the door. Her body aches where claws raked her, but terror fuels her flight.
The galley door slams behind her, echoing in the narrow companionway. Naomi doesn't look back. Every beat of her wings is a prayer to be gone, to find Jareth, to warn anyone before Gorran finds his feet again. The echo of the Werewolf's bellow follows her, a storm swelling behind the walls, and she knows with a certainty as cold as the sea, she cannot let herself be caught alone with him again.
Thorn steps out of the storeroom at just the wrong moment, and the world collides. Naomi slams into him with the force of a startled bird, wings splaying wild, a streak of mauve and silver flaring as she staggers. Thorn's reflexes catch her wrist before she can hit the deck, steadying her with a gentleness that never slips, though the sudden contact makes her cry out. The sound is sharp, a note of pure fear that echoes down the narrow corridor.
Wide, frantic eyes lock onto his, the mauve in them igniting to a startling brilliance, pupils slitted like a cat's, predatory and ancient. In that flash, all the glamour drops; nothing left of the human pretense. Truegaze, the fae call it: the unguarded, natural look of their kind, eyes stripped down to the wild core beneath the world's illusions.
"Naomi?" Thorn's voice slips between concern and curiosity. His head tips in that way he has, gently but searching, fingers holding steady to her wrist. "Your truegaze is showing. And…" He spots the blood where it runs down the membrane of her wings, catching the sunlight in threads of violet and red. "You're bleeding. What happened?"
The corridor closes in, thick with the scent of seawater and lamp oil. Naomi draws in a breath that shudders to her toes. Her lips press together, trembling as she weighs her words. The truth burns behind her teeth, but something colder—fear, or shame—locks her jaw tight. Gorran's shadows lingers at the back of her mind. If she speaks, will anyone believe her over him? She's new. He's not. Every second stretches, heavy as an anchor.
A half-formed lie falls out, thin and raw. "U-uhm… N-nothing. I just… I cut my wing on a kettle hook." She tries for a steady voice, but it wobbles. Her gaze slips sideways, searching for an escape she knows she won't find.
Thorn raises an eyebrow, lips pursed in open disbelief, but he lets it pass. The line between them holds, a fragile thread of trust. He doesn't push. Instead, his expression softens, shifting to something gentle and almost conspiratorial.
"Well, come on, then. Let's get you to the medical wing before you drip all over the planks." His hand stays firm around her wrist as he steers her away from the galley's chaos. "Let's have our healer Wren look you over, hm?" Thorn's words float, light but insistent, guiding her down the passage as though nothing at all is wrong.
The corridor stretches ahead, lanterns swinging in their cages. Crew voices drift behind closed doors. Thorn glances sideways at her, catching every flicker of her expression, but keeps his tone casual. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Wings bleed easy. Fae or not, you've got to take care." His own voice had the warmth of old sunlight, steady as the ship's hull beneath her feet.
They pass a porthole, and the light catches her wings once more; torn where Gorran's claws caught, droplets trailing along the delicate veins. Thorn slows, letting her match his pace. He never questions her lie, but the care in his grip says he's not fooled.
Ahead, the door to the medical wing stands ajar, with the faint clatter of glass and the low hum of conversation spilling out. Wren, tall and sharp-eyed, sorts bandages along the far side of the table. He glances up as they enter, brows furrowing at the sight of blood streaking Naomi's wings.
"Well, someone's had a morning," Wren drawls, voice crisp as salt. He crosses the room in three strides, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's have a look at them. Sit, if you can." He points to the padded bench beside the cabinet, already gathering antiseptic and clean cloths. Thorn hovers close, offering quiet comfort, while Naomi folds herself onto the bench, wings trembling as she tries not to wince.
Wren crouches to examine the injury, fingers deft but gentle. "Looks like a clean tear," he murmurs, scanning the delicate structures with the focus of a craftsman. "Didn't catch the rigging, did you? Or something sharper?" His tone carries no accusation, but his eyes flick to Thorn for a heartbeat.
She shakes her head, voice small. "Just caught the edge of a kettle. Stupid, really." The lie lands heavier now, harder to hold as the sting of the wound makes her jaw clench.
Wren hums, unconvinced, but doesn't press. He cleans the blood, voice softening as he works. "You need to keep them wrapped for a day or two. No lifting, no flying, and no swinging galley bowls at anyone, all right?" The corners of his mouth twitch, a private joke hanging in the air. Thorn's eyes meet his, a silent understanding pressing between them. Whatever happened, they'll keep watch.
Lantern-light glimmers across the pale mauve of her wings, the stains already fading as Wren's careful touch restores a bit of order. Thorn kneels beside the bench, his fingers still resting at Naomi's wrist, anchoring her for a moment. His presence speaks more than any question; he's there, steady, even when the world narrows.
Lantern-light paints the restless shape across the medical wing as Naomi finds herself shrinking in the corner of the bench, trying to become smaller than she is. Thorn's hand still rests lightly on her wrist, but it isn't enough to quiet the thundering in her chest. Every muscle is tight, ready to flinch. Just as she gathers her breath to speak, the door snaps open with a groan that sends a jolt through her bones. For a moment, fear claws its way up her spine, but relief stumbles in when she catches sight of Jareth filling the doorway.
He stands there, broad and imposing, a shadow cut out of the morning. Jaw set, eyes narrowed, he scans the room with the sharpness honed by years of hard living. His coat is unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up, knuckles scraped raw; fresh proof that some part of the morning has already gone wrong. There's a storm under his skin, the sort that doesn't need words to be understood.
Before the flick of his chin, he orders Thorn and Wren outside; he doesn't need to say a thing. They read the message in his eyes and step aside, closing the door behind them. The click of the latch is the only punctuation needed. Naomi tucks herself tighter into the corner, folding her wings as small as they'll go, bandaged edges trembling down the slant of the lantern-light.
Jareth crosses the room with a slow, measured tread of a man who's just barely keeping a leash on something mean. He doesn't bother with soft words, but there's a careful edge to the question as he comes to stand in front of her. "Thalro saw Thorn bring you in here, lass. Tomas is tryin' to keep from tearing apart the lower deck. Now, I want you to tell me what happened." The tone says he's not here for fairy tales; he wants the truth and nothing less.
Her reply comes as a broken whisper, words dropping heavy in the space between them. "I'm not sure you'll believe me," Naomi admits, eyes fixed on the battered boards under her feet. The confession sits in the room like an anchor, pulling everything else down with it. Shame prickles her skin. She tries not to remember the look in Gorran's eyes, the sound his tail made when she broke it. Telling the truth is dangerous, but silence is worse.
Her hands twist in her lap, blood from her wing soaking the linen. She forces herself to meet his gaze, as her truegaze has since faded. The words tumble out, slow and halting at first, but then faster as if spilling makes it easier to bear. She tells him about the galley, the way Gorran blocked the door, the slurs, the threat. She doesn't dress it up or strip it down. Every detail lands between them, each one heavier than the last.
As the story unfolds, Jareth's expression hardens. Restlessness crawls up his arms. He paces, boots striking the planks with a dull thud. Big hands flex and clench, looking for something to break. Each time Naomi falters, his glare snaps back, wordless encouragement and warning blended in equal measure.
"What else?" he prompts, voice rough, cutting through her pause like a knife through rope. "Don't leave anything out. What'd he say?" His anger is all surface now, cold and sharp, a mask he wears to keep from splintering. The room feels smaller with every word.
Naomi hesitates, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. "He said… he asked if you fed me before or after," she finally admits, voice just above a whisper. "I didn't understand at first, but…" The words stutter to a stop. Her fingers dig into the fabric of her skirt.
Meaning lands with a soundless crash. Jareth's hand snaps out, knuckles whitening around the edge of the bench. In a single unguarded moment, rage explodes across his features; jaw locking, breath coming short, blue eyes gone to ice. He slams his fist into the timber wall hard enough to send a crack racing up the panel. The force shakes the dust loose from the ceiling. His voice, when it comes, is a low, trembling growl. "That bastard. That filthy, gutless son of a bitch."
He stalks away from the bench, turning his back for a moment, fighting the urge to do more damage. The anger in him is volcanic, an old thing, never far from the surface. The room crackles with it; raw, alive, and almost suffocating. "You got any idea what that means?" He spins back, voice rougher than gravel as his eyes lock onto hers. "He ever so much as breathes near you again, you tell me. You hear me, lass? This ship's meant to be safe for my crew. For you."
The promises ride the air like a blade. For a heartbeat, silence reigns. Jareth paces the width of the cabin, shoulders knotted with barely leashed violence. He glances at the bandage on her wing, then at the smallness of her frame against the bench, and something softer flicks beneath the storm.
His voice lowers, tight but gentler. "Why didn't you come find me right off? You ain't alone on this ship." It isn't an accusation; just tired regret, the kind that runs deep when a leader knows he's missed something important. His hands run through his hair, dragging back the strands that have fallen loose. Every moment is restless, heavy with blame he wears like a second skin.
The air between them is thick with unsaid things. Outside, the ship creaks, and footsteps echo down the corridor, but none dare to interrupt the captain's fury. He kneels just for a second, coming down to eye level. "You're crew," he says again, softer now. "That means you're under my protection. Gorran ever tries that again, he answers to me, not to the sea."
A shaky nod answers him. She folds her arms across her chest, the bandages pulling tight. Something knotted and scared inside her loosens, just a little.
Light from the lantern spills softly across the floorboards, catching the weave of Naomi's hair as she edges closer, her small hand finding Jareth's in a gesture that's both hesitant and unguarded. The contact is a question and a plea wrapped together, the kind that requires an answer from the heart, not the rulebook. Her fingers squeeze gently, betraying her need to be included, not left behind.
She studies the door as if Gorran's shadow might slip under it, then glances up, eyes bright with hope and a lingering trace of wildness. "Thank you, Jareth," she whispers, voice steadier now that she's anchored by his presence. "I know I shouldn't ask, not after this, but… do I still get to come ashore on Karith'ull? I was told not to fly, but if I walk, if I stay close… could I?" Her question hangs in the space, a thin thread pulled taut between courage and longing. The ache to see the oath-tree, to learn its story, sits plainly on her face.
He meets her gaze, exhaling a long, weary sigh that's equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement. The captain in him wants to say no, wants to lock her up in the galley until every risk is gone. But the man, the one who's seen her strength and fear, can't stomach the thought of her stranded while the rest go searching. His hand closes around hers, rough palm warm against her cool fingers.
A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, the kind that rarely escapes the press of his beard. "You're a stubborn one," he mutters, a glint of humour softening the blue in his eyes. "Should've expected you'd ask." The hand not holding hers gestures vaguely toward the bandaged wings. "Not gonna have you flying anywhere near the tree line, not with your back in that state. If you want the island, you'll get it. So long as you're grounded and stay close to me or Borin. Not a step off the path, not for any reason." The words come out with the finality of an order, but there's something beneath it; relief, maybe, or a quiet pride that she's not cowed by pain or threats.
His thumb brushes gently over the back of her hand, roughness tempered by a care that surprises them both. "You want that tree, you'll get it. But listen close, Dove. Karith'ull's no ordinary place. You see something you don't like, you tell me straight away. You get tired, you say so. You feel somethin' strange, you hold on tight and don't fix it on your own." The last is spoken softly, a memory flickering in his voice, an echo of that nearly split the crew before.
A nervous laugh stirs in her chest, breaking the tension that's been building since the galley. "No wandering. No wild magic. No heroics," she promises, trying to mimic his gruffness and failing in the gentlest way. "I'll stick to your side. You'll barely know I'm there."
"Good," comes his reply, short and satisfied. He stands, slow and deliberately, letting her hand slip free only when she's ready. The weight of command settles back across his shoulders, but for an instant, he lets the walls drop. "You're not a burden, Naomi. Not to me, not to anyone wort a damn on this ship. Don't let some old wolf tell you otherwise."
The words catch her by surprise, leaving her blinking back a tide of feeling she can't quite name. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes back. Instead, she nods, quick and fervently, eyes shining with gratitude.
A knock sounds at the door; a brisk rap that signals the return of Thorn and Wren, or maybe Borin, eager for news or worried for her safety. Jareth casts a glance over his shoulder, the edge in his posture returning as he prepares to step back into the fray. "You rest up," he instructs, his tone firm as he moves to the door. "Wren'll finish with those wings. I'll see to the wolf."
With a last look, he leaves, coat swinging behind him as he disappears into the corridor, every step echoing the promise that nothing and no one will ever hurt her again; not on his watch. Naomi sits quietly, the words he left ringing behind her ears. The pain in her wings fades under Wren's careful touch, but the sense of belonging, fragile and new, lingers long after Jareth's boots have faded from the hall.
The lower deck, for all its cramped shadows and peeling planks, holds the hush that promises trouble. Gorran's curses echo off the ribs of the Sunlit Rose, each word punctuated by the thud of his boots and the scrape of a crate shoved sideways. Thalro stands just behind the washroom, trying to talk sense into the wolf and only earning another growled threat for his trouble.
Jareth doesn't pause at the ladder. Rage sits under his skin, thick as blood, but it's leashed for now. Only his jaw betrays him; a muscle twitching in the beard, teeth working slow as a grindstone. When he speaks, it's not a shout, just a command: "Thalro, go on up. We'll be at anchor soon. Crew's got work to do." He jerks at his chin, and Thalro, knowing better than to argue, disappears toward the main hatch, boots thumping in a treat.
Silence creeps behind him, except for Gorran's heavy breathing and lingering, sour notes of anger in the air. Jareth closes the distance, his boots set wide, spine straight. Gorran looms, shoulders brushing the beams, but the size has never made Jareth hesitate.
"Had a job to do, Gorran. Seems you lost track of it," Jareth starts, voice thick and low, each word more bite than question. "So you went from my door straight to tormentin' a girl half your weight?" He's not shouting; he doesn't have to. The accusation carries heavy as chain.
Gorran's head lifts, eyes done sharp with challenge. The yellow in them flicks up and down Jareth's frame, looking for a sign of weakness, finding none. "She's not made for ships," the wolf snarls, lips curling. "Too soft. Too strange. Don't like the way she walks the deck—don't like her in your quarters neither."
A coldness settles in Jareth's eyes, a dangerous, focused calm that builds slow. "You don't get it, like it or not. She pulls her weight. She's crew, and you know my word's lore here." A pause, letting the message root deep. "What's it to you where she eats her supper? You jealous, Gorran, or just pissed you've never been invited?"
Gorran lets out a short, ugly laugh. "You sayin' she's just crew? I saw her creepin' out of your cabin, pretty as you please. Only seen her in there with you. Twice now, maybe more." His voice drips with mockery; the words calculated to wound. "You got a taste for wings now, Captain? She keepin' your bed warm? Is that why you feed her in secret?"
The sneer is a knife twisting in the old scar between them, every inch of their last fight thrumming under Jareth's skin. That old memory of Gorran's jaw cracking against the rail, the blood on the deck; Borin's voice in his ear, warning him what violence costs. Jareth's hand flexes once, curling and uncurling at his side.
"Careful," comes the answer, voice low enough that even the rats go still. "You watch your tongue."
Gorran steps in, chest to chest, his breath sour and hot in the close air. "Why? Afraid she'll hear me? Or maybe you're afraid the crew will. She's got you trippin' over yourself. Old Jareth, prince of nothing, crawling for a bit of fae tail. Don't think I haven't seen it. Every time she so much as sneezes, you're there to wipe her fucking nose. Crew's talkin'. You think she's special. Makes you soft, Captain."
The last word lands like spit on a wound. Jareth's calm shatters. Fists clench, knuckles pale. "She's crew," he grinds out. "Nothin' more, nothin' less. I make sure every man eats. You wanna gripe about fairness, you bring it to me. Not to her."
But Gorran only bares his teeth, leaning in until their foreheads almost touch. "You think you scare me, Winsler? You think anyone believes your little act? You're foolin' yourself. She's just another mouth; the only difference is you're feedin' her with your—"
The rest doesn't make it out. Jareth's fist crashes into Gorran's jaw, a brutal, perfect arc of motion. The blow lands with a crack that echoes down the length of the hold, snapping the wolf's head sideways and sending him sprawling across the floorboards. The deck trembles with the force of it. Silence floods in, as heavy and absolute as any storm.
Gorran lands hard, half-crouched, with a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. For a deep moment, even he looks stunned. The challenge hangs unspoken; the line drawn deep and final.
Jareth stands over him, breath coming slow and steady, his glare colder than the winter surf. "You cross that line again, you'll be swimmin' back to shore with broken teeth. I run this ship. She's crew, and if you touch her, you answer to me. You got me?"
The wolf glares back, pride refusing to let him look away, but there's caution now, a thin edge of fear sharpening the hate. Jareth doesn't blink or move, but every inch of him is a pure, coiled promise.
For a long, charged moment, neither man moves. Somewhere above, boots cross the planks, the living heart of the Rose carrying on. Down here, nothing breathes but rage and old grudges.
At last, Gorran wipes the blood from his mouth, tongue flickering over his teeth. "She's not worth this trouble," he mutters, low as a growl. "You'll see."
Gorran spits another string of blood onto the planks and levers himself halfway up, refusing to meet Jareth's eyes. A sneer twitches at the corner of his mouth, pride still sharp even as humiliation drags at his shoulders. He mutters something under his breath, words lost in the echoing dark, but one phrase rings clear: "Best keep your leashes tight, Captain. Wouldn't want your little pet to fly away now, not after all this."
The last word is all teeth and venom. Jareth feels something snag deep in his chest. The threat doesn't matter. The insult doesn't matter. It's the smugness, the way Gorran tries to crawl behind malice because he's lost. Rage—clean and uncertain—flares up, sweeping all patience aside.
A boot slams down hard on Gorran's tail, pinning him in place with the full weight of command behind it. The wolf yelps, snarling as he whips around, but Jareth doesn't give an inch. He leans down until his face is level with Gorran's, blue eyes cold and steady.
"You're not coming ashore, wolf. You're done. Stay put. Ship needs someone to clean the bilges, not someone who can't tell the difference between crew and prey." The words grind out of him, steady as keel; no room for doubt or mercy. "You cross her path again, you'll wish I tossed you overboard back in the narrows."
The pressure on Gorran's tail increases, earning another strangled growl. Muscles bunch along the werewolf's back, torn between pride and agony, but Jareth doesn't lift his boot. He lets the weight settle, lets the pain do the talking. "I'm not replacin' you. You did that yourself the minute you started acting like a beast instead of a sailor."
A twisted laugh bubbles up from Gorran, bitter and sharp. "That it, Captain? You scared the others'll see you for what you are? Hidin' behind a leaf muncher because you can't keep the ship together any other way?" The laugh cracks at the edges. "You're pathetic. Bringin' a nature rat to do a grown wolf's job. Can't believe you'd stoop that low."
Steel settles behind Jareth's eyes. "I'd rather trust a 'nature rat' who stands her ground than a dog who bites the hand that feeds him. You're crew because I allow it. Step out of line again, you'll see just how thin that privilege is."
The words hang heavy as iron. Gorran tries to twist away, but the boot holds firm. He snarls, low and dangerous, but there's no real threat left in it; not with the pain thrumming through his tail, not with the blood still wet on his jaw.
Jareth doesn't flinch, doesn't blink. The message is clear as daylight on calm water: this ship isn't his to tear apart. "You stay below. I see you on deck before we set sail, you'll be counting teeth for days."
A tense silence follows. Gorran, chest heaving, finally sags against the boards. His pride is battered, his tail throbbing, but he forces a mocking grin, refusing to cede the last scrap of dignity. "Maybe you like her spirit now, Captain. Give it time. Folk like her… they rot. You'll see."
The boot lifts deliberately and slow. Jareth straightens, shoulders filling the narrow corridor. "If you're still here when I come back, you'll be wishing for the open sea. This is the last warning you get, Gorran. Next time, you're gone."
Turning away, Jareth lets the threat linger. His boots hit the deck like hammers, heavy and final. Behind him, Gorran doesn't dare to rise. Not until the captain is halfway up the ladder, headed for air, for sunlight, and for a deck that's his to command.
For a long moment, nothing moves in the lower hold but the steady drip of water from somewhere behind the barrels. The message has been sent; loud, clear, and backed by force. No more lines will be crossed, not without a reckoning.
On deck, the wind cuts colder, sharper than before. Jareth exhales, letting the worst of the rage bleed off into the open sky. There's work ahead and trouble waiting on shore, but for now, he's captain, and his crew knows where they stand.
Mist clings to the water, swirling in lazy, restless sheets around the hull of the Sunlit Rose edges closer to the island. Karith'ull rises from the sea like the ribcage of some ancient, long-dead beast; black stone teeth gnawing at the pale sky. The trees along the shoreline stand brittle and bare, their limbs gnarled into unnatural shapes, tangled in old banners of moss and rot. Not a single leaf stirs in the wind. Ruined towers jut out of the hills, skeletons of forgotten buildings locked forever in a silent scream. What remains of the city spills down a ravaged cliff-side, empty windows watching the approach with a patience that chills the blood. No birds circle overhead. Even the surf breaks quietly, as if the sea itself is afraid to touch land.
A hush settles over the deck, broken only by the creak of the rigging and the slow, uncertain flutter of wings. Naomi stands near the railing, her silhouette slight against the grim sprawl of the island. She presses her hands flat to the wood, fingers splayed, as if bracing herself against something invisible. The lines of her body tense, every muscle caught halfway between flight and collapse.
A quiet question breaks from her lips. "That's it?" The words are barely there, carried away almost before they're spoken. Blue and purple wings flicker behind her, catching what little light escapes the clouds. Her eyes narrow, searching the distant shore for any sign of welcome or warning.
Karith'ull stares back, hollow-eyed and patient. There's no welcome. The ruin itself seems to breathe; something in the shape of the hills, the tilt of the broken pillars, the leaning black stones scattered like bones. It feels as though the island isn't just dead. It's hungry. Old magic and sorrow hang in the air, thick as fog, pressing down from every direction.
A soft, strangled sound escapes Naomi; a small noise of surprise, or fear, or pain. She doesn't seem to notice at first, but Jareth does. His attention snaps from the oncoming land to her, blue eyes sharp with a captain's wariness. "You alright, lass?" His voice is low and steady, a warning disguised as concern.
The answer doesn't come right away. She bites her lip, shoulders hunching as she tries to push the sensation down. Something gnaws at her senses: a hunger, a reaching, the prickling certainty that the island sees her, wants her, and remembers something it lost. She tries a lie first, hoping it'll be enough to send him back to the sea and the safety of things he understands. "I… it's nothing. Just… my magic picks up the land here. That's all."
Jareth isn't fooled. He gives her a look that could cut rope. "Don't lie. Not here. What's wrong?"
Defeat folds her in. Her hands curl tighter on the railing. "It's… not just magic," she confesses, her voice trembling. "It's like the whole place is reaching for me. I feel it pulling… like it wants to swallow me up. Everything about this island feels… off. Cursed. Or worse."
Jareth keeps his eyes locked on the shore, jaw clenched tight. A muscle twitches in his cheek, the only sign of the nerves running beneath all that scar and iron. He's never understood fae magic, never tried. But he knows curses, and he's heard enough of Naomi's honesty to trust her fear. His gaze flickers to her, then back to the black teeth of the island, weighing risk against necessity.
"We keep to the plan," he says after a moment, voice rough and final. "You stay close. You don't wander off, not for anything." His hand hovers just above hers on the railing, close enough to steady her if the need comes.
The silence stretches, drawn thin and taut between them. Below, the crew gathers, uneasy and alert. The ruins of Karith'ull crouch at the water's edge, waiting.
Nothing about this place feels safe. Not the island, not the air, not even the pull of the tide. Whatever waits on shore wants more than memories. Naomi feels it in her bones. Jareth sees it in her eyes.
Above, the gulls keep their distance, refusing even to cross the dead horizon.
As the anchor drops and the Sunlit Rose swings into the shadow of Karith'ull, the sky grows darker; clouds swallowing the sun, water dulling to lead. The promise of old curses and older secrets hangs heavy over ship and crew alike, marking the boundary between what was left behind, and what waits to be found.
Neither Naomi nor Jareth speak again as the boat is lowered. The island watches, silent and expectant, as if it already knows every name aboard. As if it's been waiting a very long time.