The light on the deck has turned soft and gold by the time the call for the evening meal drifts from the galley. The steady flow of boots and bare feet carries most of the crew toward the smell of roasted root vegetables and thick stew, the air warm with the promise of a meal after a long day's work. Naomi remains at her place along the table, her elbows drawn in close and her fingertips tracing the ridged grain of the wood. The lines run beneath her skin like the veins of a leaf, something to follow so she doesn't have to watch the room empty around her.
A shadow breaks across the table, tall enough to swallow the fading light. When she glances up, Jareth stands over her, broad shoulders outlined against the doorway. In his hands, he balances two steaming bowls, the broth's heat rising into the cool air. His expression is unreadable, though there's a certain intent in the way his eyes hold hers. A curt nod toward the door follows. "Walk with me, lass," he says, voice low but firm, as though the matter's already decided.
The words jolt her from her stillness. Rising without knowing why, she falls into step behind him, careful to match his pace as he leads her out of the galley. The hallway carries a faint tang of brine and pitch, floorboards creaking in rhythm beneath their feet. Nerrick's antennae wag in faint approval when he sees the bowls. Kaspar makes room at the hatch with a flourish. The sea's last light meets them on the quarterdeck, and they cross the only door above the planks that isn't a hatch.
Inside, glass panes hold the bruised colours of dusk. The desk bolted to the deck is spread with charts and weighted with brass dividers and a bone-handled knife. A single chair waits behind it. Shelves carry the ship ledgers and a weathered bestiary. A bowl of limes sits in a brash dish as if someone set them there to catch the sun.
He closes the door with the heel of his boot of his heel and sets both bowls down on the desk, one in front of the chair, one in the space beside a rolled chart. "Aren't you taking your supper with the others?" She asks, the words small in the large room.
"I am. With you." He nod at the desk edge, polished by years of hands. "No second chair. Few come in here unless they're due for a course correction." The line isn't cruel; it's simple, true. He eases into his own seat and gestures for her to perch at the desk's side.
Wood creaks softly under her weight as she settles. The bowl nudges he nudges to her hands is warm. Broth shines along the surface, broken by root vegetables and a single leaf of bay. The spoon looks too bright inside the dark stew. "For me?" she asks, baffled despite the evidence. The handle feels unexpectedly heavy between thumb and forefinger.
"For you." He braces his forearms along the desk and waits a beat before he adds, "Thorn raised a flag. Said he's worried you're not eating enough." No accusations, only a fact set between them like a chart weight. His eyes watch for a flinch and find it—the small tighten beneath her jaw, the glance toward the door as if the corridor might offer a way around the conversation.
Words snag in her throat then slip free. "I don't like eating ahead of anyone," she whispers. "It feels wrong when someone might go without." Her gaze slides back on the spoon. It's safer to watch the light across metal than the way his expression changes.
"Do you think Nerrick can't feed this crew?" His voice stays low. "We stock for storms. We stock for losses. We haven't gotten either tonight."
"No… No, I don't think that," she says quickly, shaking her head. "He feeds everyone. I know that." Fingers tighten around the bowl's rim. "It's just… easier if I wait. Easier if I see everyone else take their first. Then the foot stops feeling like it was meant for someone else." She takes a breath. "Fruit is easiest." The last word escapes before she can catch it. She sits still, as if movement might turn a simple truth into a confession.
He turns his own bowl on the desk, thinking. "Easier how?"
"It's… clean," she answers, relief and shame tangling. "It doesn't… mix. It smells like itself." The stew breathes pepper and fat. Her stomach answers with a small, wary knot. "When food is heavy or loud, I can't find where to begin. I try," she adds quickly. "But it sits wrong. I feel as if I'm taking from someone who can bear it better."
Silence holds, not empty so much as careful. Outside, a gull screams and vanishes into the thickening dark. The ship creaks as it exhales. Jareth's hands stay easy on the desk; big hands, nicked and scarred, steady around the knuckles. "How long has it been like that?" he asks, not pressing the question but offering it a place to land, "for you?"
"A-as long as I c-can remember," she says before the safer answer can form. "I have f-four sisters. We… we learned to give the best pieces to the little ones and t-to the ones who ran fastest. I still… listen for empty bowls." Her mouth twists at herself. "E… Even if it's only in my head."
He sets his spoon down, face unreadable as he weighs that. "On this ship, no one earns their supper by speed. We portion for the number we carry and a margin besides. No one goes hungry so you can eat." He shifts before leaning in an inch closer. "You're crew. You take your share."
"I don't want a special plate," she blurts out. "P-please don't ask Nerrick to—" the rest sticks to her throat.
"It isn't a favour," he answers, straight as a line drawn with a ruler. "It's orders. Practical ones." He lifts the knife, taking a moment to look it over. A long blade with a bone hilt, well crafted. Rolling it in his palm and rolls it in his palm, not to scare, only because hands like to move when minds do. "We'll have something set aside that suits you. Plain. Warm. Yours. Fruit when we have it. I'll buy more at the next port that still has an honest market." The memory of the strawberry flashes across his features—brief and rueful. "You can choose the basket. I'll carry it."
The image, him at a quay with a sack of apples and lemons, almost makes her smile. She drops her gaze and presses the spoon into the stew, letting it sink until the broth laps the handle. "I don't want to hide in here to eat," she says. "People will think I'm being… kept."
"They can think what they like." He tips his chin at the door. "They don't command this room. I do."
"I don't want to be a secret," she tries, softer. "And I don't want to a spectacle."
"Then we find a middle." He taps the desk once with a forefinger, cataloguing options the way he might weigh sails against weather. "A plate before the bell. A plate after the crowd thins. A plate here when the noise crawls." His tone doesn't invite argument, but it doesn't box her in either. "You don't have to finish a thing you can't stomach. You do have to eat enough to stand your watch." The last line has steel, not aimed at her so much as the problem.
The spoon lifts half an inch; she lets it fall back with a faint clink that betrays how much of this frightens her even with kindness in the room. "I can try," she says. "I am trying." A breath pushes slow through her teeth. "It's easier when someone else is eating. I don't feel… greedy."
He takes his own spoon. He eats, not making a show out of it. When he swallows, some of the bracing leaves his shoulders. "Good," he says, as if reporting on the weather. "Nerrick didn't curse the pot today."
The line tugs a quick, startled laugh out of her. The spoon travels from bowl to lip, a small mouthful only—potato and a breath of broth. Nothing revolts. Her throat works, and the food finds a place to settle. She steps the spoon down, startled at her body for cooperating. His eyes don't pounce on the success, which helps more than praise would.
A few more bites follow. Between them, quiet opens where small talk can fit. He uses it.
"About a few days ago," he says. "When I barked on deck… when the books fell, when I used the wrong words." He holds her gaze, choosing not to look away. "It was poor work from me. I should've been better." There's no excuse in it; he doesn't dodge or soften it. He takes another measured spoonful as if to anchor the apology to an ordinary action.
The apology lands with the same clean weight as "walk with me" had. It thaws a place in her chest she didn't know had gone numb. "Thank you," she says, more quietly than anything else tonight. "I heard some things in the corridor, too." A pause. "From… from you and Borin. I'm trying to forget the worst parts. It's hard."
"I know." He doesn't defend himself further. "It won't happen again." He keeps it short; at sea, promises are best made spare. He gestures to her bowl. "Three more bites," he adds, practical as ever. "Then tell me what about it turns you away so I can tell Nerrick what to spare."
"Crowded bowls," she answers after one bite. "Wet meat… pulp." She grimaces as she speaks. "And the smell when the galley is loud. My head fills up and then my stomach does, and neither with food."
"Then we keep it simple." He points the knife toward the brass dish of limes. "Citrus cuts heavy smells. We'll slice the lemons in the galley when you come through." The knife turns and clicks down. "Bread with honey, cheese that doesn't bite. Fruit, which you already know how to make disappear."
That wins another small laugh. She gathers a carrot on the spoon and lets it cool against the bowl's rim. "I can eat in the galley when it's quiet. Or here when you're working." She clears her throat. "Just… don't send someone to fetch me with everyone watching."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He lifts his bowl and shifts an elbow so the desk shares its space with both their suppers. The posture says this isn't an indulgence; it's a routine being born. "If you vanish, I'll check the quarterdeck first, then the library, and then the crow's nest. If you're not in any of those places, I'll assume Thorn has lured you into mischief and start there."
She gives him a real smile, one that's sudden and bright as a struck match. "He would never," she says, then amends with a wry tilt of her head, "right away."
Wind nudges the panes, and ropes hum outside. The ship settles into night work as if they aren't altering anything at all. She tries another spoonful, and it goes down without protest. Jareth reaches into a drawer and sets a small cloth sack on the desk. Fruit bumps against each other inside as it thuds softly against the table.
"I took these off Nerrick before he could count them," he says. "Oranges. A few strawberries. A lime, for temper." He nudges the bag closer but doesn't press it into her hands. "If fruit is easier, that's not a failing. It's information."
Her palm rests on the drawstring, feeling the shapes against the hell of her hand. "You planned this."
"I like to use the word prepared." His mouth twitches at his own choice of word. Jareth pauses for a moment before he speaks again. "Your sisters," he asks, not to pry but to let her set the distance, "did they leave you any fruit?"
"They tried." Memory lifts, sharp and sweet. "I used to give the best pieces back."'
"Don't," he says, with a gentle finality that sits close to care. "Not here."
"I'll try." That promise feels truer than any vow she could make about stew and noise. Fruit is a language she speaks without stumbling. She looks at the sack again and dares a small, sideways glance at him. "Will you eat one with me now?" she asks quietly, "so it doesn't feel like I'm stealing from the larder."
He surprises her by answering at once. "Hand me the lime, lass." When she does, he cuts a thin wheel with the knife, and drops it into his own bowl. "There. Now the ship smells like something that doesn't crowd." He sets the knife aside and rolls an orange across the desk with the back of his knuckles, working the peel to loosen the oils, then starts it for her and leaves the spiral attached so she can finish it at her own pace.
They eat. Not much, not fast, not to please anyone but their own bodies. In the gaps between mouthfuls, talk finds easy ground—how Vak reads the feel of a helm in his bones, how Kaspar insists loose bolts have personalities, how Borin mutters at his ledgers as if the numbers might argue back.
He doesn't call it progress. He doesn't call it anything. He gathers both bowls into one hand and the knife into the other, then nods at the sack of fruit to say, 'That stays with you.' When he looks back, his face carries the same steady weight he uses at the wheel. "Tomorrow," he says, "we start the day early and quiet. Come by before the bell. We'll make a plate that's as simple as a map. No hurry, no crowd."
"Before the bell," she echoes, tasting how possible those words feel.
A faint rustle draws his attention back to the desk. Naomi, her nerves all in the small motion of her fingers, slides a battered book across the old, scarred wood. "Captain?" The word hangs in the air, softer than the lantern's glow. She hesitates, searching his face, her eyes flickering away shyly. "If you have a moment, I… well, I could u-use a little help. With.. with this." She glances down at the book, then up again, uncertain if she's overstepped.
Jareth pauses with the bowls still in hand, curiosity rising beneath his steady frown. He studies her for a moment, then gives a brusque—half permission, half habit—before turning to return the empty bowls to the galley. The door closes behind him, leaving the cabin in a hush broken only by Naomi's quiet breathing and the creak of the timbers. Minutes later, the captain returns, shoulders filling the doorway, closing the world out once more. He brushes his palms against the coat and crosses to his chair, sinking into it.
His eyes land on the book, brow furrowing as he leans forward. "What it, lass?" The gruffness doesn't hide the genuine interest behind it.
Naomi bites her lip, searching for the words that make sense of what she's feeling. "It's… something about the mast. There's a… a pattern, I think. I-I was working on it when the books tumbled. I can't read the language, not all of it. I wanted… wanted to ask if you'd be w-willing to translate for me. I'm not prying… I-I just… there's something in the wood. I tried reaching out with magic, and I felt… an echo." Her hands flutter, betraying her nerves. "It's not alive, not anymore, but there's… s-something old left behind. I wanted to know what it was, if the ship remembers."
He sits back, considering her with an expression caught somewhere between suspicion and amusement. The old Thrundeli tongue is a rare thing; few on the seas can read it, and fewer still would trust a fae with it. Still, he pulls the book closer, flipping through the pages with a slow, careful motion. His gaze sharpens as he runs his fingers through the ancient script. "You know ships like this were built for war?" His tone is almost conversational, but the edge remains. "She's seen things, this old Rose. Kairos XI, the Iron Threnody… means she's over four hundred years older than half the ports we visit. Wasn't meant for comfort or pretty words."
Naomi leans in, curiosity lighting her face. "Really? What do the old words say?" Her voice is soft, as if she's afraid of frightening off a secret.
Jareth adjusts the book beneath the lantern light, squinting at the page. With a grunt of discomfort, he reaches into his coat and retrieves a small, battered pair of spectacles that are wire-rimmed, old, and plainly repaired more than once. The gesture surprises her; she's never seen him wear them, never suspected the captain to need such things. He slops them on with a reluctant air, then fixes her with a wry, sidelong look. "You tell anyone about these, and you'll be swabbin' the decks for a month," he warns, but his voice carries a note of weary humour. "Stonewall sight's a curse on old blood. These help with the details."
His attention turns to the text. He mouths the old Threnvarian runes quietly, translating with slow, methodical care. The script runs in vertical lines, severe and elegant, with strange flourishes she can't decipher. "This… here," he says, tracing a phase, "talks about the soulmark of the mast. Says every mainmast is carved from the heartwood of a Grendeli oath-tree, bound by song and blood. They believed the wood remembers, even after it's been cut and worked. Old superstition, but…" He shrugs, acknowledging that some things are better left half-believed.
Naomi absorbs the words, her brow furrowing in thought. "That's why I felt it. There was a pulse, just for a moment… i-it was like a heartbeat, or a memory. But then it faded." She pauses, her tone more anxious. "I wanted to see if it was safe. With all the tension on deck, and… with your f-fight with Gorran… I just wanted to help. I thought m-maybe the mast was… unsettled. That's what I was trying to figure out. I didn't mean to interfere." Her voice trails off, guilt and apology winding together.
Fingers tap against the book. "You worried about the ship's feelings, lass? Or the crews?" The question isn't unkind, but it carries the bluntness of a man who's never learned to speak gently when he's confused. "Pirates handle their own. Crew fights, then they patch it up, or they don't. Magic… especially fae magic doesn't mix on ships. Water and wood don't always get along. You know what happens when you tangle the two."
He glances at her, his gaze searching. "Why'd the scrap with Gorran rattle you so bad, anyway? Seen fights before, haven't you?" he doesn't accuse, but he presses, wanting her to understand the code of the Rose.
Naomi's hands fold tightly in her lap. "I… Yes, I've seen fights, just not l-like that. Not with… not with that kind of anger. And never seen someone… someone I…" Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, searching the woodgrain for courage. "You were hurt. I thought—I thought if I didn't do something, it would get worse. I was trying to protect you, and everyone else. I thought if the ship felt steadier, maybe the crew would too."
A long silence settles as she absorbs her explanation. The captain's face softens, the iron lines easing, just a fraction. He understands more than he cares to admit. "Ship's carry old wounds, same as people. The Rose has more scars than most. But we don't always need magic to fix them. Sometimes you let things mend on their own."
He removes the glasses, folding them with care before tucking them away. "I'll translate for you. But on one condition—you don't go meddlin' with the mast again without tellin' me first. Don't you go drawing power through old timber and stirrin' up ghosts we don't want on board. And… if you're worried about the crew, or me, you talk to Borin first. He's got the sense I sometimes lack." There's a wry grin in the words, and a kind of trust too, hard-won and quietly offered.
She nods, relief clear in the soft set of her shoulders. "Thank you, Captain. I just want to help. I won't do anything without asking first." The promise is honest, a small offering in a world where trust is slow to grow.
Jareth, finally letting the tension ease from his posture, pushes the book back toward her. "Pick a page, lass. We'll start from the top. You tell me what you feel, and I'll tell you what the words mean. Maybe we'll learn somethin' new about this old ship."
She shifts on the edge of the desk, careful not to topple the ink bottle resting near her knee. With a tiny scoot, she leans closer, the scent of old pages and salt clinging to her hair. "C-captain?" Her voice wavers, barely above a whisper, as she finds the page she wants. "Page seventy-three, if you don't mind!"
Jareth arches a brow, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You know, you can call me Jareth. Least, when it's just us behind closed doors." He says it with a gruff warmth, like the offer costs him something, but he means every word. "No one's listenin' but the gulls. And they don't gossip as much as the crew." He pauses, and the nickname settles gently into the air, softer than his usual rumble "Dove."
At that, her ears flush a delicate periwinkle. The sound of her scribbling in the little book is nearly lost under the hush of the lantern's flame. The cover is warn, corners chewed and ink-stained from extensive use.
Jareth settles back, slipping his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. The metal frames glint gold under the lamp's glow, making him look older, and for a moment, strangely distinguished. He clears his throat, squinting down at the heavy script. "Right. Let's see here— 'The mast bears the memory of blood and song, bound to the promise struck beneath the Iron Threnody. Every ship's heart, it claims, is carved just not for strength but for remembrance; so that every gale, every battle, every sorrow carried by her bones will never be lost to silence…'" He reads with care, his voice rough but steady, letting each word hang still in the cabin.
Naomi's pen scratches quickly, catching phrases as if she's afraid they'll slip away. She clings to her notepad like a lifeline, flipping pages with nimble fingers as she jots down everything he translates. She glances up, wide-eyed with focus, lips moving silently as she parses the unfamiliar words. The flicker of candlelight dances in her eyes, turning them almost violet. "C-could you, uhm… repeat that last part? The one about remembrance?" Her stutter is almost gone when she's focused, the act of writing giving her hands something to do, her mind a place to rest.
He obliges, repeating the sentence slower this time, voice softer. "For remembrance. Says here that's why ships like the Rose live so long. They hold on to what's happened and carry it, even when everyone else forgets."
A hush falls, and for a moment, only the steady breathing of two strangers sharing secrets fill the cabin. The captain's gaze drifts to the little book in Naomi's lap, a half-smile flickering as he watches her tongue point out in concentration. She copies down every phrase he offers, the script small and curling, the letters crowding each other on the page.
He finds it oddly endearing, the way she pauses after every few lines to make sure she's understood, asking quiet questions about the words she can't quite catch. "You always write things down?" he asks.
The question surprises her into a small laugh. "I-I do! It helps me remember. Words slip away if I don't catch them." Her fingers brush a lock of hair behind her ear, the tip of it trembling. "And… and sometimes it feels safer. Writing things down. Less likely to say the wrong thing if I know what the words mean."
He grunts, shifting in his chair, the weight of the ship settling into his bones. "Could've used that habit when I was a lad. Might've kept me out of trouble." The smile lingers a little longer, reluctant but real.
The translation continues at a decent pace. Naomi's little book fills with Thrundeli phrases and their meanings, each line another knot in the rope she weaves between them. The world outside the captain's cabin grows quiet, the wind tapping gently at the windows, as if even the sea has settled to listen.
Every so often, she glances up, shy and searching. The space between the two narrows, built not from boldness, but from the quiet trust that grows in the steady passing of knowledge. For the first time, Jareth feels less like a captain, and more like something closer—a confidant, a teacher, maybe even a friend.
A hush lingers as their conversation winds down, leaving only the tick of Naomi's quill as she closes her little book. She stands, tucking the notebook against her chest, and hops down from the desk, the soles of her feet quiet on the wood. Her eyes dart to Jareth, watching for any signal that she's overstayed her welcome, but the captain merely inclines his head, motioning toward the door.
He trails after her, the faint clink of his reading glasses echoing in his pocket. Just as she slips her hand to the latch, he stops her with a gentle palm pressed against the oak, not forceful but enough to hold the moment. "Lass," he begins, voice rough with something softer beneath, "about what I said earlier—when I tried to set things right between us. You know I meant it, don't you? Wasn't just words."
Light from the corridor spills over her, painting her in a golden wash. She tilts her head up, meeting his gaze, the shy smile that's been flickering at her mouth finally breaking through. "I did, Jareth. I believe you," she answers, her voice steady in its quietness. "You didn't have to say anything, but I'm glad you did."
A slow nod, the tension in his shoulders easing as if she's lifted some hidden weight. For a moment, neither hurries to break the silence. Instead, there's space for honesty—a rare thing between captain and crew, and rarer still between two souls who've only just trusted the boundaries of each other's hearts.
His fingers drum on the edge of the door, awkward in a way that makes him seem younger than the grizzled lines across his brow. "I'm not good with apologies," he admits, eyes shifting away. "Or words, most days. But I'll try to do right by you. Even if I've got to learn it slow."
She laughs, soft as a summer breeze, the sound threading relief into the room. "That's alright. I'm not so good at this either." Her fingers worry the hem of her shirt, twisting at the loose threads. "It's… nice, though. To be seen. To know you mean it."
The words are simple, but the gratitude behind them carries weight. A sense of understanding settles between them, the kind built in the small, steady gestures of ordinary kindness: a translation, a quiet apology, the act of letting someone stay a little longer in the circle of lamplight.
Wind rattles the windowpanes, and outside, the voices of the crew grow distant, dulled by the sturdy timbers of the captain's cabin. He glances once more at Naomi, at the flush in her cheeks and the way she holds herself—gathering courage for whatever tomorrow brings. "You ever need anything—anything at all—you come find me, Dove. Door's always open, long as you knock first." His voice is gruff, but there's a thread of warmth there, strong enough to tether her to the deck, no matter how the world rocks beneath her feet.
She nods, the movement small but full of promise. "Thank you, Jareth. I will." Her gaze lingers a moment, searching his for any doubt, and finding only the steady, honest blue she's come to trust.
A breath later, he steps aside, letting her pass. Naomi slips through, pausing in the corridor, a secret smile tugging at her lips as she tucks her book against her chest. The door swings closed with a gentle thud, not a barrier, but a promise; something new and fragile growing between two people who have learned, at last, to speak the truth out loud.
A draught of cool air slips through the door as Naomi leaves, carrying the quiet scent of salt and candle wax back into the cabin. Alone again, Jareth lingers in the doorway, eyes tracing the shadow where she vanished down the corridor. The faint echo of her footsteps blends with the ship's slow breathing, wood creaking beneath a thousand memories and the distant hush of waves. For a while, he stands unmoving, hand resting on the latch, the glow of lamplight warming the battered charts and the forgotten mug on his desk.
Something shifts in the stillness—a weight he has carried for seasons, now just a little less. The cabin holds its silence, filled with the marks of a long life at sea: old maps soft at the creases, the battered chair pulled a shade closer to the desk, the faint trace of rosemary from Naomi's hands lingering at the edge of his senses. Her laughter, gentle and quick, seems to shimmer in the corners long after she's gone.
He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, gathering himself, then turns back into the heart of his cabin. His boots sound steady on the boards. He slides his glasses into their pouch, glancing once at the page where Naomi's careful script still lingers in the margins; a record of trust, and of something still growing between them.
The world outside has quieted, but here, with moonlight slipping through the glass and the inaudible murmur of the ship's bones, Jareth lets himself breathe. The burden of captaincy remains, but for the first time in too long, he feels the hope that comes from shared promise: small, stubborn, and impossibly bright against the darkness. The Sunlit Rose creaks onward through the night, carrying its captain and his new secret, neither as alone as they were at dusk.