She hasn't slept properly in days. The hours bleed together, marked only by the steady creak of timber and the shuffle of feet outside. The Sunit Rose rocks gently at anchor, sails drawn up tight, but even the lull of the sea can't soothe the ache pressing at her ribs. Time crawls, skips in fits, and starts. Naomi finds herself staring at nothing, listening for voices that won't come again.
Mornings begin with a headcount. Every name she recites from memory twists a little deeper, and each face that's missing leaves her raw. Tomas sits with her sometimes, hunched on a barrel, counting their dead on his fingers. Four hundred souls set sail for the island. Now the ship holds barely half that number. Two hundred and fifteen, after they carry Thalro to sea. Naomi's mind rebels at the emptiness, the spaces between each name. She still glances over her shoulder, expecting to see Thalro's wry smile, expecting him to reappear in the crowd. Even now, her heart stutters at the thought, before grief dulls it again.
She tries to work. Tomas keeps the crew together. He walks the decks, voice a low rumble, hands never idle. She watches him, envying his patience, his ability to say the right things even when his eyes are shadowed with exhaustion. Every time she passes the infirmary, her steps slow. The scent of blood and brine drifts from the doorway. Borin lies in the back, swaddled in lean linens, face pale and drawn. His leg ends just below the knee, wrapped and weighted with what looks like a block of time. Wren has spent hours in the dark, humming old dwarven songs as he fashioned a new limb. Naomi hasn't dared ask what kind of metal or rune-work lies beneath the wrappings. It frightens her to think of Borin waking, reaching for a part of himself that's simply gone.
At night, the ship is quieter than ever. The crew walks lighter, laughter stilled to hushed voices. When she tries to sleep, Naomi finds herself drifting in and out of memory. Sometimes she thinks she sees shapes in the corner, hears voices calling her name. The grief feels endless. Her hands tremble as she plaits her hair. Each ritual act, each bit of normalcy, is an anchor she clings to. Nothing quite fills the hollow space left by all they've lost.
Jareth's quarters offer a strange comfort. The space is vast, the bed a great mountain of blanks and pillows that seem to swallow her whole. She sits at the edge, knees pulled up tight, arms wrapped around her shins. The smell is… impossible to ignore. Pirate musk, sweat, seawater, and something older and darker from the wounds that never quite heal.
She's missed him.
Missed the sound of his boots on the planks, the soft grunt when he sits, the way his presence fills the room. She even misses his surliness, the way he would look at her on deck, brow furrowed in mock disapproval. She never thought she'd long for his complaints, his barking at the crew, or the sharpness of his orders, but she does.
A long sigh escapes her lips. This past week has taught her more than she wanted to know about loneliness. Even surrounded by survivors, she feels isolated. The ship's too big, the world too wide. She presses her cheek to her knees, eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of Jareth's chest beneath the blankets. He hasn't woken since they carried him in here. His breath rattles, sometimes deep and steady, sometimes quick, and restless. She checks the bandages every few hours, careful to keep his wounds clean, and speaks softly, just in case he can hear.
The worst thing in here is the smell. She tries not to flinch at it, but she's known no one who could smell so bad. She knows pirates aren't known for their hygiene, but Jareth seems to have taken it as a personal challenge. It's not just the sweat and seawater—there's something else, a sharp bite of old blood and fevered skin, the aftermath of curses and battle. Naomi wipes his brow, and changes the linens as often as she dares, but the stick lingers. Still, she would rather be here, enduring this, than anywhere else.
Guilt gnaws at her. Each time she looks at him, she's torn between worry and longing. She misses him—misses him more than she thinks is wise. The ache isn't just fear for his life, but something… something deeper. She aches for the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his voice, even when it's gruff and impatient.
As the night deepens, she rests her chin on her knees, watching him. The idea creeps in: she needs to undress him, clean him properly. But something about it feels wrong. She winces, cheeks heating, and mutters to herself. "Would Oses be angry if I called him to help me with this? I don't want Jareth to wake up and think I'm taking advantage. I just want to help. I just want him to be comfortable." Her voice is small, barely more than a whisper. It sounds foolish spoken aloud.
Fingers twist at the hem of her tunic. She images Oses' smirk, the arch of his brow, the sly way he would tease her for being too bashful about a practical problem. Then she thinks of Thirsyn, the gentle admonition that comes with her smile. Naomi closes her eyes, feeling the heaviness settle over her shoulder. She doesn't want to cross a line. She doesn't want Jareth to walk in shame or confusion, to feel betrayed by her care.
The lantern on the desk flickers, casting long shadows over the room. She glances again at Jareth's face; he looks softer in sleep, almost boyish beneath the scars and beard. There's an urge to reach out and brush the hair from his brow, to touch the lines that worry and pain have carved into his skin. Instead, she draws her knees closer, breathing slowly and deeply, willing herself to be patient.
He needs time. They all need time.
From somewhere around deck, a bell rings—the change of watch. She listens as footsteps cross the main hall, a steady rhythm in the stillness. The world keeps moving. Even when hearts break, even when the lost cannot return, the tides roll on. For now, all she can is wait.
The knock comes soft and steady, the sort of polite rapping that says this isn't an emergency. Naomi's ears twitch at the sound, catching the echo of two sets of footsteps in the hall. She calls out, voice gentle but firm. "Come in."
The door creaks open, and Thorn slips in first, sharp-eyed and quick with a reassuring smile. He's all loose limbs and simple movement, dark hair falling over his brow, every inch the picture of a lookout who can't stop watching the world. At his side, Veythar follows. The Drow is tall and wiry, with skin the deep blue-black of midnight seas and silver hair pulled back in a knot. His eyes are pale as dawn, almost ghostly white in the lantern light, and he wears a battered greatcoat cut close to the body, with a gunner's belt slung across one shoulder. Night after night, Veythar's quiet confidence holds the main deck ready. A line of old burns run up one side of his neck, hidden mostly by a high collar, and his voice always lands low and precise.
Thorn holds a tray balanced on one hand, the faint steam curling up from a bowl of soup. He steps lightly, careful not to jostle the contents. Naomi's heart sinks the moment she sees it. Hunger gnaws at her belly, but shame bites sharper. She hasn't eaten in… she can't remember how long. Worry has become a routine that swallows everything else. She imagines Jareth's scowl, the grumble he gives when she picks at food. Even now, his absence is a presence, lingering in a way she winces and tugs at one of braids tighter.
Veythar lingers near the door, a hammock folded nearly over his arm. He waits, silent and patient, eyes scanning the room. Naomi sees it and curses herself inwardly. Of course, they noticed. Of course, they've been keeping track. Every time she tries to slip unnoticed, the crew sees more than she wants them to.
Thorn flashes Naomi a half-smile, a note of worry beneath the bravado. "Figured you'd be up," he says, crossing to the table. "We bought you supper. Don't say no. Wren's been givin' us that look, and I'm not eager for another earful." He sets the tray down with a quiet clatter.
Veythar eyes land on the bed, his gaze lingering on the heap of blankets, and the faint pallor in Naomi's cheeks. "We thought you might need this," he offers, lifting the hammock. His voice is careful and soft. "You haven't left him in days. Crew started placing bets on when you'd fall over." There's a flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth, more sympathy than humour.
She doesn't have a quick reply. The weight of their attention sits heavy on her shoulders. Guilt prickles as she glances at the tray once more. Her stomach twists, part memory, part hunger. The sight of the soup feels like a challenge she isn't ready to meet. "Thank you," she manages, quiet. "I didn't… I'm not starving." Her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket.
Thorn lets out a gentle snort. "You never are," he says, keeping his tone light. "That's why I brought the bread. And there's honey in the galley, if you want it." He sits on the edge of the desk, close but not crowding her, his eyes fixed on hers. "No one expects you to act fine, you know. But you can't run on willpower and worry."
Veythar moves to the far side of the room, searching for a place to string the hammock. His movements are smooth and practiced, the quiet competence of a man used to working in darkness and silence. Silver rings glint at his fingers as he ties a knot to a sturdy hook above porthole, and then drapes the canvas, testing its strength. "We're not here to make you feel bad," he says. "Just making sure you rest somewhere softer than the floor." He glances at Jareth, then back at Naomi. "He'd say the same if he was up."
She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "He'd tell me I'm being foolish. That I need to eat. And then he'd complain about the soup." Naomi wraps her arms around her knees again, unable to keep the affection from her voice.
"Yeah, he would," Thorn agrees, a touch of warmth threading through his worry. "Never known a man to hate turnips with so much passion."
Reluctantly, she takes the bowl, the heat of it grounding her for a moment. The spoon rattles against the rim as she lifts it, the taste of the broth sharp on her tongue. It's easier than she expects, though her hand shakes as she eats. Thorn relaxes a little, watching her with relief. He glances at Veythar, who stands sentry at the window, arms folded, eyes distant.
A hush settles over the cabin. The creak of the hull, the sigh of the sea beyond, the faint rasp of Jareth's breath—these are the only sounds for a moment.
Veythar breaks the silence, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "There's talk of holding the rites for the lost tomorrow, after the sun's up. Tomas wants to speak. Borin too, if he's awake. We thought you might want to say something. Or not." His words fall soft as feathers, in invitation, never a command.
Naomi sets the bowl aside after a few sips, her appetite fading. "I'll try. I just… I wish I had better words." She glances at Jareth, then at the men. "I miss them. All of them. Thalro most of all."
The night gunner nods, his sharp features softening. "We all do. But you're not alone in this. None of us are."
Thorn straightens, a spark of mischief flickering in his eyes. "And if you try to skip the meal again, I'll tell the captain on you," he teases, the old bravado slipping back for a moment. "He'll make you eat double."
It draws a faint laugh from her; the tension loosening. "You would too."
"Bet your wings I would," Thorn grins. "Somebody's got to keep the peace." He pauses, growing serious. "You should get some rest. You're no good to anyone if you fall over."
Veythar gives the hammock one last tug, making sure it'll hold her weight. He steps back, arms crossed, his silhouette framed by the moonlight through the glass. "It's ready. When you're tired, just climb in. No one will bother you."
She nods, gratitude mingling with fatigue. "Thank you. Both of you."
As they head for the door, Thorn lingers. "You want anything, you let us know," he says, voice warm and firm. "No more starving yourself. Or I'll send Nerrick in."
Hours slip by as Naomi does her best to finish the soup Thorn left behind, the taste of salt and root vegetables clinging to her tongue. She keeps busy, anything to hold back the restless ache in her chest. The washbasin in the corner is brimming with fresh water—a minor miracle, considering the ship stores only briny casks. With a whisper of her mother's tongue and the memory of green, rain-fed springs, she shapes the salt out of the water, leaving it sweet and clean. A quick heating spell turns it warm, steam curling gently in the lamplight.
It… almost feels like home.
Across the room, Jareth lies sprawled on his massive bed, still heavy, one arm flung over his stomach. Sweat stains the collar of his shirt, darkening the rough linen. The stench of battle, fever, a week's worth of unconsciousness hangs thick in the air, growing worse by the hour.
This is a new low. Even for Jareth.
From her perch on the hammock, Naomi holds a pair of scissors in both hands. They're dull, the blades sticky with pitch from some forgotten repair, but sharp enough to do the job. She turns them over, weighing the idea of cutting away Jareth's shirt and breeches. If she could just get him out of his clothes, she could clean him up properly, maybe even stop Wren from making more pointed comments about "captain-sized mildew." The thought makes her blush, nerves buzzing in her stomach.
A sigh escapes, shoulders dropping. She doesn't have it in her to cut the fabric—too many memories in every rip and patch, too much fear he'll wake up and misunderstand. "This is ridiculous," she murmurs, voice thin. "I've fought ghosts, but I don't take off your clothes."
Frustration coiling inside, she mutters the old invocation, the one that put her on this ship. "Osyraen, sirae thalen selyth, yl thael ven osira." The syllables catch in her throat, a plea sent into the lamp-lit hush. ("Oses, turn your gave upon me, for I am seeking your path.")
The shadows shift at her feet. In an instant, Oses appears in the space between bed and basin, as if stepping through a trick of the light. He stands with his arms crossed, one foot tapping, half in sun, half in star-shadow. Tonight he stands tall and narrow, all long limbs and a wild tumble of black curls streaked white at the tips. His coat bristles with mismatched buttons. One eye is dull while the other flickers with an impatient gold. A crooked, knowing smile tugs at his mouth.
An eyebrow rises. "So, what is it now, little lantern?" His voice is smooth, faintly amused, the sound of trouble just before it happens. "Let me guess. You want the fate of the world changed, or maybe just a way to get out of this mess without wrinkling your conscience."
Naomi's blush deepens. She stands quickly, then regrets it when her knees nearly buckle. "I—I need your help. I can't—" The words tumble out, her stutter threading its way through her voice as she clutches the scissors in both hands. "Jareth's filthy, and I know I should clean him, but I can't— I mean, what if he wakes up and thinks— He'd be furious, or embarrassed, or— oh, I don't know…"
Oses stares, then throws his head back and laughs. The sound rings against the ceiling, echoing with genuine delight. "Is that it?" He shakes his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. "By the first star, mortals are impossible! You beg for miracles, cry for mercy, and then trip over your own blushes when faced with a bit of nakedness. You lot pray for big things, but it's the small ones that always bring you undone."
He plants his hands on his hips, voice rising in theatrical complaint. "Every time. In every age, it's the same! 'Oh, Oses, spare my family, save my love, help me undress my unconscious pirate captain because I can't bear to snip his breeches myself.' You know how many prayers I get about laundry and modesty? Too many. Far, far too many." The complaint softens with a wink. "You all want your heroes shiny and your hands clean."
She manages a rueful smile, biting her lip. "Sorry. I just… I thought you could make it easier."
Oses sighs, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "Not my domain, darling. You want courage, you find it in your own bones. You want clothes off a giant, you'll need either magic, or a little more serve than you think you've got." His tone turns almost kind. "Besides, what's the worst that happens? He wakes up, find you tending to him, and realises he's not invincible. Might be good for him." Oses leans forward, his gold eye glinting. "Build some courage, Elora. You've survived far worse than a pair of trousers."
With a final, teasing grin, he flicks a bit of imaginary lint from his sleeve and disappears as quickly as he came, leaving only the faint scent of burnt glove and starlight in the air.
Defeated, Naomi drops onto her toes, scissors clattering to the desk. She lets out a frustrated little sound, barely more than a squeak, and whispers into the empty room, "Damn it."
Her bare feet brush across the planks, light and restless, as she paces the width of Jareth's quarters. Naomi counts every knot in the wood, each worn whorl that marks where water once pressed against the timber, making her way from one end of the rug to the other and back again. Now and then she breaks her stride to skip, as if the movement might shake the worries loose from her chest. The lamp overhead throws soft rings of gold across the floor, catching on the dull shine of old brass and the faint scuffs that mark a captain's life at sea.
She keeps glancing at Jareth, sprawled motionless on his side of the massive bed, chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. Sweat and salt still cling to his brow. The cut of his jaw is softened by sleep, though grime smudges the line of his beard and a dark stain has settled into the folds of his shirt. Everything in the cabin smells faintly of salt, sweat and steel—a scent that used to unsettle her, but now feels… strangely like safety. Or at least, like something she can't bear to lose.
Magic comes as naturally as breathing, and for a fleeting moment, she wonders if she should use it now. Her mother taught her in the old words: how to banish a stain, freshen a shirt, scrub away every trace of the sea's wildness. There's a spell for every sort of mess, woven into lullabies and bedtime chores since Naomi was small. Her mind drifts to the easy way her mother would murmur a cleaning charm over muddy feet, a soft word and flick of a wrist, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of lavender.
It would be simple—too simple—to wash away the dirt and sweat, to leave Jareth spotless and clean while he slept, none the wiser. Her lips purse as she studies his face, silent in the dim light. Jareth would know, though. The man who can't abide anyone fussing with his things would wake up and sense the difference straight away. He'd grumble, mutter that magic doesn't belong on his skin, and demand to know what she'd done. Worse, he'd suspect something was taken from him; a bit of control, a bit of pride, stolen while he was defenceless.
Her feet stop at the edge of the bed. Naomi's fingers trace the crescent moon at her throat, the cool silver warm from where it rests against her skin. The necklace has become a talisman, always there, its weight both comforting and real. He gave it with little ceremony, dropping it into her palm with a quiet, "She said it's got blessings from the three of them. Welios, Utar, Ala—some bit about calm waters, steady magic, and finding your way through the dark, I didn't ask for the whole story, but she seemed to think it was worth the price." It was typical Jareth, never saying more than he had to, never calling attention to his own acts of care. Still, she's old enough to understand why he picked it out. Every sailor knows the stories; faerie magic and open water are uneasy friends at best. Anything that might keep the sea's hunger at bay is worth its weight in silver.
The chain slides easily beneath her hand as she clutches it, holding it crescent tight. All her life, magic has been her answer, the thing that kept her safe, but here she can't bring herself to use it. Not on Jareth. Not after all the ways he's tried to keep her safe, or the quiet way he trusts her, even when he doesn't say it out loud.
Her voice escapes in a quiet sigh, and for a moment, the whole room feels too big. She mutters to herself, trying to make the heaviness sound light. "You'd probably wake up grumbling, wouldn't you? Start lecturing me about 'old magic' and how you're not some helpless child." Her thumb rubs the crescent charm absently. "I couldn't do that to you, not when you'd hate it. Not when you always let me choose." Her gaze lingers on his sleeping form, the curve of his shoulder, the battered strength in every line. She lets go of the necklace, letting it drop gently against her chest.
Instead, she sits again on the edge of the hammock, knees tucked up close, letting the gentle swing soothe the tightness in her chest. She forces herself to breathe, to remember this is what Jareth would want: no shortcuts, no magic for the hard parts, just grit, stubbornness, and care.
Sleep drags at the corners of her mind, weighing down her eyelids and turning the lamp's gentle glow into a hazy wash. Naomi dozes where she swings in the hammock, knees hugged to her chest, the steady tick of the old brass clock carving out the hours. Each second blurs into the next. She tells herself, one more minute, just until he stirs, but it's hard to fight the warmth, the heaviness, the soft rhythm of her own breath. Half-sleep, she listens to the slow, stubborn heartbeat of the ship and waits.
A rough, guttural sound slices through the hush; a noise she knows as well as her own name. It's a warning, not for danger, but for patience: Jareth's grunt, that gravelly, reluctant admission that he's woken and is already annoyed by the fact. In an instant, every sense is awake. Naomi jolts upright, tips the hammock and tumbles out in a heap on the carpet. The jolt stings, but she scrambles up, fingers gripping the carved edge of the bed so fast her knuckles go white. Only her eyes peek up from the wood at first, peering through a wild fall of hair.
Jareth shifts beneath the blanket, a mountain rousing from slumber. His eyes blink slowly, unfocused, and raw. The lines of pain are deep across his brow, jaw clenched with the effort of moving stiff muscles from days of immobility. The air in the cabin sharpens, full of restless magic and the sting of sweat. She hovers a hand-span off the floor before she realises it, wings flared, heart racing in her chest.
He groans again, squinting through the dim light. "You're floatin' again," he rasps, voice little more than a growl. "Supposed to keep your feet down, remember?" The complaint is familiar, half-hearted, but it sets something warm sparking in her chest. Even groggy, even half-dead, Jareth is still the same.
Naomi drops to her feet with a soft thump, cheeks flushing. "Sorry," she whispers, fingers twisting in the edge of the quilt. "I'm sorry if I scared you. I was just—" Her words stutter out, the relief making her voice shake.
Jareth shifts, bracing an elbow beneath him, then flinches, a hiss of pain escaping his lips. "Sit down, would you?" His eyes flick to where she lingers at the wood of the bed, and for a moment he just studies her, as if he's making sure she's real. "Don't make me chase you 'round the cabin," he mumbles, trying to himself up, then letting out a muffled curse as his ribs protest. The effort alone seems to exhaust him.
Quick as thought, she's at his side, hands hovering just above his shoulder. "Don't move too much! You… you've been asleep for a long time. There's…. injuries." She bites her lip, not sure if she should say more, if he's ready for the weight that comes with waking up. "You should rest. Wren said—"
He cuts her off, the edge of command creeping back into his voice. "How long?" The question isn't sharp, but it's insistent. "How long've I been out?"
"Almost a week," she answers, eyes flicking away. "A bit more, maybe." Time has become slippery; she isn't sure of herself anymore. "The crew… we're safe, mostly. The ship's whole." Her words tumble out in fits and starts. She sees his eyes narrow at the evasiveness, senses the way his jaw tightens.
The silence stretches, filling the room with the throat of questions neither wants to ask. Jareth's gaze flicks to the basin, then to the hammock, and finally lands back on her. "Who'd we lose?" His voice is rough, cracked around the edges, but the steel is back; a captain's voice, demanding the truth.
She winces, gaze dropping to the knot in the blanket. "A lot," she admits quietly. "We lost… too many. Tomas kept count. We're down about two hundred." Her wings droop, shoulders curling as if she could shield herself from the memory.
He doesn't let up. "And Borin?" The name hangs in the air, heavy with dread and hope alike. "Is he…?" The words catch. She shakes her head, but he narrows his eyes, voice dropping lower, firmer. "Tell me. Now."
Her sigh is small but stubborn, a tired look sliding across her face as she straightens, meeting his gaze with a flicker of irritation. "You're going to use the captain's voice on me?" It comes out half a challenge, half a plea.
His answer is a dry, almost-smile, even as pain sharpens the lines at his mouth. "If I have to, yeah. I'll bark orders from this damn bed if I need to. Out with it."
There's no winning with him when he gets like this. Naomi throws her hands up, frustration giving her the courage to push back. "Borin's alive. He's not awake yet, but he's alive. He… he lost his leg. Wren and Renwick did everything they could. He's got something dwarven now, from the forge stores. He's stubborn." Her words grow steadier as she speaks, and a soft, weary relief flickers over her face. "Too stubborn to die."
Jareth lets out a grunt that's almost a laugh, rough but honest. "Figured as much. Tough old bastard. He'll outlive us all, peg leg or no." A flicker of pride passes over his face, mingling with pain and exhaustion. "Owes me a drink, anyway."
For a moment, the pressure in the room eases, and Naomi sinks onto the side of the bed, hands folded in her lap. She watches him, searching for signs that he's truly present, that the worst of the storm has passed.
Jareth shifts, jaw working as he takes in her pale face and trembling hands. "You look like you haven't slept in days," he mutters, softer now. "You eat? Or are you just waitin' for me to bark at you again?"
She rolls her eyes, a ghost of a smile curling at her lips. "I ate. Thorn made sure of it. Veythar, too." Her fingers toy with the edges of the quilt. "Not like you can complain. You smell like the bottom of the sea."
He gives her a long, suffering look, then huffs, the hint of a smile breaking through the stubborn set of his jaw. "Well, I can't exactly get up and wash, can I? Unless you're plannin' to haul me to the deck and throw me overboard."
Her arms cross and she fixes him with a flat, unimpressed stare, one brow quirking up in challenge. That pause—the one between his joking and her answer—goes on a second too long. He reads it in her composure, the small frown, the way she bites her lip. It lands then: she actually had considered dragging him on deck, storm, or no.
A slow, incredulous shake of his head. "You're kiddin' me, lass. You'd really try it?"
She shifts her weight, letting out an indignant noise as she puts her hand on her hips, eyes level with his, wings flickering behind her. "You've been out for more than a week, Jareth. That's seven days of you lying here, sweat and blood and whatever else is sticking to your skin! I know pirates aren't famous for their bathing, but this is…" Her nose wrinkles, and she glances aside as if bracing for a confession. "It's worse than usual. I didn't think it was possible, but you managed it."
A laugh rattles out of him, then trails off into a wince as pain shoots through his side. The grin that follows is real, broadening into a lopsided smirk. "So what you're sayin' is I stink worse than the bilge now?"
She doesn't blink. "Yes, that's what I'm saying." Her tone is blunt, edged with a sort of honestly only exhaustion allows. "And don't you dare act surprised! You know you do." She leans forward, lowering her voice. "Does that mean you'll finally let me wash you? You don't want any of the men coming in here. I know you, Jareth. You'd sooner let this ship go down than let Thorn or Fenn see you like this."
His scowl is stubborn, though there's a flicker of amusement under it. "Over my dead body, lass. I can handle a bit of grime." He shifts again, wincing as the pain flares in his ribs. "I don't need you fussin' over me like some—" He cuts himself off, catching the look in her eyes.
"I'm not fussing! I just—" Her voice softens. "I want you clean, that's all. You hate feeling this way. I can tell." She drags a hand through her hair, frustration simmering. "You're the captain, Jareth. You should look like it, not scare the men off with the stink."
A beat passes before he huffs, the protest rolling off his tongue. "They've seen worse. I've crawled out of the bilge after a week in stormwater, lass. Didn't die then, not dyin' now."
She presses on, stubbornness rising to match his. "You know it's not the same. I can fix it! Let me help. You're always helping everyone else… you let no one else take care of you." She nudges his foot with her toe, voice dropping lower. "You trust me, don't you?"
Jareth eyes her for a long moment, jaw working as he weighs the question. There's pride there, the bone-deep sort that doesn't bend easily, but also something gentler beneath it. "It's not that I don't trust you; it's the principle of it, Dove. Can't have you seein' me half-dead and naked. Ain't decent."
Her cheeks colour, but she refuses to flinch. "You've been nearly dead in front of me before, do you not remember when I stabbed you in the stomach with the sword during training? And it's nothing I haven't seen patching up the crew. I'm a healer. Besides, you'll barely remember any of this; you're so… tired. I'll keep my eyes closed if it matters that much." The words spill out faster, her patience thinning as she realises just how stubborn he's going to be.
He groans, half in protest, half in exasperation. "What, you want me to just lie here and let you cut the shirt off? What if someone comes in? If word gets out that I let a faerie give me a sponge bath, I'll never hear the end of it."
She rolls her eyes. "If you'd rather stay filthy, that's your business. But I'm not letting you rot away in your own sweat and pride. No one will come in. I'll lock the door and tell Thoen you're sleeping if I have to. It's just me. And you need this. You'll feel better."
A standoff lingers, the quiet filling with tension and challenge. Jareth's eyes narrow, and for a heartbeat, it looks like he might refuse again. But he lets out a long, grudging sigh, rubbing his face with a massive, callused hand.
"Fine. But if you tell a soul about this, I'll set the Brambles on you." There's no threat in the words, just a rough-edged affection, an acceptance that she's not backing down. "And don't try any magic tricks. Only water, not faerie sparkle."
Relief floods her face, a smile breaking through despite the exhaustion. "No magic. Just soap, water, and clean clothes. I promise." She moves to gather the washbasin and towels, already planning how to make the job quick and painless.
She glances back at the door as it clicks shut, the sound of the lock settling into place before she returns to the bed. The scissors are cold in her hand, but her hands are steady enough. Every snip through the coarse cloth feels like a small defeat, the fabric giving way in uneven lines. There's no hope for this shirt, not with the salt stains, the blood, the torn seams. She tries to keep her touch gentle, peeling the ruined cloth away from his skin, layer by layer, careful not to jar the wound beneath.
Light from the porthole finds the pale scar below his ribs. It's ugly, raised and pink against the rest of his skin, a reminder of that chaotic morning on deck; her hands, his blood, the crack of Borin's voice calling for more linen. She doesn't want to remember how much she panicked. Or how quiet he'd gone while they waited for help.
Her fingertips brush along the edge of the bandage as she speaks, voice softer than before. "I'll have to take these off," she says, giving him a look that asks for permission as much as understanding. "They need to be cleaned. It'll heal better once you're washed and patched up again."
The bandages come away with a faint tug; the edges tinged with rust-brown and pink where the wound is still healing. She draws a slow breath, focusing on the task. The gash has knit well enough; no fresh blood, just an angry line of new flesh that stands out against the rest. Her gaze flickers up to meet his. "Does it hurt still?" She asks, voice quiet but edged with worry.
A rough grunt answers her. "It's not so bad. Had worse." He shifts, wincing as the fresh air touches the scar. "You missed the bone, so count yourself lucky."
She rolls her eyes, trying not to smile. "I wasn't aiming for anything," she mutters, her hands moving deftly as she dabs at the wound with a clean cloth. "I still don't know how you stayed upright. Most people would've passed out on the spot."
A lopsided smirk plays at the edge of his mouth, stubbornness flickering in his eyes. "Stubbornness, I suppose. Borin's always said I got more stone than sense."
She studies his torso, letting her gaze linger. His chest, arms, and even the tops of his shoulders bear an odd, rough quality. The skin there is thick, almost pebbled, marked with faded scars and old bruises that haven't faded. She trails her fingers along one arm, feeling the difference. "You're… tougher here," she says, curiosity sharpening her words. "But your stomach isn't the same. Is that normal for—your kind?"
He makes an indistinct sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "You notice everything, don't you?" His hand comes up, absently rubbing the line of his jaw. For a moment, he looks past her, gaze turning inward. "Dwarves get it from the godlings, or so the stories say. Born of stone and stubbornness, all that. Our skin is thicker, hard to cut, hard to burn, harder still to poison. Most blades'll skip right off the arms, the chest, and back. Old Bramling women used to say we're the only ones who can sleep in gravel and wake up better for it."
He pauses, eyes returning to hers. There's a rare openness in his tone, the walls lowered just enough for the truth to slip out. "But the belly's soft. Always has been. Godlings made my kin strong, but not perfect. I grew up hearin' stories—some say it's a mark of humility, others say it's just where they ran out of patience. Thrundeli like me, with a giant's blood mixed in, we get the strength, but not all the armour. Bellies are weak, easy to hurt. My Ma used to warn me: 'Don't trust any Dwarf or Thrundel who bares their stomach to a stranger.' You only do that for family, or someone you trust."
She's quiet for a moment, hands working as she wipes clean the rest of the wound. The water in the basin is already tinged pink from the blood and salt she's lifted away. "So the rest of you is like… stone?" She asks gently but persistently.
A wry smile cracks his stubborn mask. "Feels like it some days. Good in a brawl, rubbish when you want to swim. Bruises come and go, but they don't leave much of a mark unless you take a real beating. Stomachs though… that's where it hurts. You did well, you know. With the bandages. Borin said as much, even though he'll never say it to your face."
The compliment makes her blush, but she hides it by rinsing out the cloth, focusing on the simple rhythm of care. "You're difficult to patch up," she admits, teasing a little. "If you keep fighting like this, I'll have to learn how to sew skin as well as clothes."
He lets out a tired laugh, letting his head fall back against the pillow. "Don't let Borin hear you. He'll put you to work in the infirmary, patching up every fool who stumbles through."
A faint chuckle escapes her lips as she stands over him, eyes sweeping across the tapestry of scars and half-healed wounds the fallen god's tendrils left behind. The marks are a testament to their ordeal beneath the earth, each line a memory of that desperate struggle in the drowned mines of Karith'ull. She lingers on the angry welts curling along his arms and chest, where the god's magic seared into him—marks that could have pierced deeper, had his skin not held.
The basin is heavy when she lifts it, the water clouded with sweat and the red-brown tint of blood. A whispered word, barely more than a breath, and the water clears, crystalline once more. Jareth's eyes flicker at the spell, his jaw tensing as if to comment, but she cuts him off before he can growl.
"It's just a cleaning spell," she says, voice soft but clear, almost defensive. "No magic for healing. Just makes it fresh. I'd rather use clean water than keep wiping you down with old blood and salt."
He grunts in reply, not quite admitting he appreciates it. Still, there's a quiet acceptance in the way he settles back, eyes turning to the planked ceiling overhead.
She leans closer, dipping the cloth into the cool water, wringing it out before laying it gently against his chest. The rag is soft; her touch even softer. She works methodically, careful not to pull at any scab or raw spot. The rag slides in slow circles, washing away sweat and grime, dabbing gently at every wound she finds.
Lavender drifts up from her skin; an old herbal perfume, subtle but warm. Jareth can't help but notice how close she's gotten. One of her front braids brushes his collarbone, the silken strands trailing over rough, battered skin. The movement is unhurried, almost intimate, her face close enough that he can see the faint blush along her cheekbones, the soft mauve shimmer in her eyes beneath the lamplight.
He finds himself staring at the way she concentrates, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, hands steady and patient. For a heartbeat, he's not captain or outcast, not a mountain of scars and old anger—he's just a man, with a fae woman sitting at his side, careful with every touch.
Heat crawls up his neck, a strange and foreign feeling. He hasn't known gentleness like this in years. Even before exile, he never let the palace healers fuss over him; maids did their work in silence, always at a distance, never this close. He's always managed on his own. Now, her presence feels both intrusive and comforting—a contradiction he can't sort out.
Naomi hums as she works, a quiet sound, lost between thought and song. She moves to his shoulder, careful around a gash that still looks angry and red. "Sorry," she whispers, as the cloth presses a bit too hard. "I'm trying not to hurt you."
His voice comes out low, rougher than he intends. "You're fine. Hardly feel it."
She glances at him, a smile tugging at her lips. "You're a terrible liar. Anyone would feel this." Her hand trembles just a little, betraying the nerves she tries to hide.
He tries to cover the flush on his cheeks with a grumble, shifting his weight as if that'll hide the discomfort. "Been through worse. This is nothin'."
Her brow arches as she lifts the cloth, meeting his eyes squarely. "You don't always have to act so tough, you know. Not with me." The words linger, softer than anything she's said so far, the warmth in them almost startling.
He huffs, uncertain what to do with the feeling that rises in his chest. "Old habits, I guess." The admission feels strange, raw. "Most folk don't care for honesty. Easier to keep quiet, let 'em think what they want."
She dips the rag again, squeezing it out, her hands steadier now. "You're not 'most folk' to me, Jareth. I'd rather you be honest."
Something in the air changes, the tension growing subtle but thick between them. Her braid slips again, this time falling across his chest, cool against the heat of his skin. He feels the muscles in his neck tense. Every breath seems to draw her closer.
She reaches for his arm, fingers brushing over another wound, smaller but still raw. Her touch lingers just a second longer than necessary. "Do you need to rest?" she asks, voice low. "I can finish later."
He shakes his head, words slow. "No, you're all right. Not tired. Not with you here." He almost bites the last part back, surprised by his own honesty.
A shy smile flickers across her mouth. She shifts, adjusting her knee on the mattress, and the movement brings her even nearer. The heat of her skin seeps into him, every point of contact making him more aware of how close they are. It's not just gratitude or duty keeping her at his side; he can feel it, something unspoken hanging between every word.
She wipes away the last streak of grime, her hand stalling at his collarbone. For a moment, neither moves. Her breath stirs the hair at his temple, her heartbeat loud enough for him to hear. It would be so easy to reach out, to close the distance, to forget every rule he's set for himself since exile. Instead, he lets the moment linger, heavy and full.
Finally, she breaks the silence, voice trembling only slightly. "There. You're clean. For now." The words are practical, but the meaning runs deeper.
He forces a grin, rough and crooked. "Rarely I'm taken care of, lass. You'll spoil me."
She glances away, cheeks blooming with colour. "Maybe you deserve it. Just this once."
A rare laugh slips from him, the sound rumbling in his chest, and for the first time in days, it doesn't hurt. For a moment, all the world shrinks to the quiet cabin, the soft lamplight, and the careful hands that see him not as captain or exile, but as something softer; something worth saving.
As she reaches for a clean bandage, she hesitates, eyes meeting his, something bright and uncertain flickering there. For a heartbeat, neither of them speaks. The silence isn't awkward; it's expectant, like the hush before a storm. He finds himself wanting to close that gap, to let her see just how much her care means. But he waits, letting her set the pace, because it's the only thing he knows how to do.
A hush settles between them as Naomi wipes her face, her cheeks still tinged with rose. The rag slips from her fingers, landing in the basin with a quiet splash. She glances away, fighting to steady her breath, the words catching in her throat before she speaks.
"I… I've done your top half, but I need to do your bottom half as well. Are you comfortable with that?"
Jareth doesn't answer right away. For a second, the question seems to hang in the air, heavier than any storm that's ever rolled across the Rose. He forgets how to breathe, jaw tightening as he stares at the ceiling, fingers absently tracing the line of his beard. There's nothing in his past that's prepared him for this: not the rough-and-tumble nights in dockside inns, not the brief encounters where need swept away all thought. Those moments were about hunger and escape, not trust—not this.
She waits, her hands twisting the edge of the fresh bandage. There's patience in her eyes, but also a quiet fear, as if she's bracing for rejection. He manages a nod, rough and sharp, trying to keep his voice steady. "Yeah. S'fine, lass. Do what you need."
Relief flickers across her face. She reaches for the scissors again, careful not to meet his eyes as she leans in, sliding the cold metal beneath the worn fabric of his pants. The blade snips through the cloth in short, decisive bursts, the sound loud in the stillness of the room. He focuses on the lantern light flickering above them, trying to ignore the heat crawling up his neck, the steady thrum of his heart.
She moves with gentle efficiency, cutting the trousers away and rolling the scraps aside. When she's done, only his underwear remains—a mercy he's grateful for. Still, her free hand comes to rest on his thigh as she shifts, bracing herself to wash away the grime and blood. The contact is innocent, meant only to steady her, but it lands like a lightning strike.
Jareth fights not to tense. He hasn't felt this exposed in years. The weight of her touch, the closeness, the way her braid brushes his hip, all combine to rattle something deep inside him. He covers his mouth and nose with his hand, using the gesture to hide the colour flooding his cheeks. For a moment, all the old bravado deserts him, replaced by a breathless, uncertain warmth.
Naomi works quietly, dabbing at a deep scrape along his thigh, then moving lower to clean the dirt from around his knee. Her hair spills across his leg, the faint scent of lavender blending with the sharper tang of antiseptic. Her touch is gentle, but not clinical—she's careful with him in a way no one has ever been. It's almost reverent, as if tending to the wounds of something sacred.
She glances up, eyes searching his face for discomfort. "If I hurt you, just tell me. I'll stop." The concern in her voice draws him back from the edge of embarrassment, grounding him in the moment.
He grunts, voice muffled by his hand. "You're fine. Just… cold, is all." He lies, not trusting himself to admit what really unsettles him.
Her lips curl in a shy smile. "Sorry. The water's not as warm as I'd like. I can fix that if you'd like." She waits with her fingers still on his skin, waiting for permission.
Jareth shakes his head, managing a low laugh. "Don't fuss. I've had worse baths in colder rivers." The memory brings a brief smile to his lips—a flash of childhood, washing in mountain streams with his brothers, the water biting cold, laughter echoing through the rocks.
She nods, her focus turning back to the task. The rag moves in slow, steady circles, coaxing away the last of the dirt. Her hand slides down to his calf, careful not to press too hard, her movements never rushed. Every so often, her arm brushes the inside of his thigh, sending a jolt through him. He holds still, barely breathing, afraid that any movement will betray the flush blooming under his beard.
He tries to distract himself, staring at the knots in the wood overhead, counting each one as she works her way down his leg. It doesn't help. His senses are tuned to every sound she makes—the rustle of cloth, the faint hum under her breath, the subtle weight of her touch. He's hyper-aware of how close she is, of the intimacy in this simple act.
At last, she sits back on her heels, wiping a stray strand of hair from her brow. Her cheeks are as red as his own, but she doesn't look away. Instead, she meets his eyes, something vulnerable and earnest shining there.
"All done," she says softly. "You're… you're clean. I'll put new bandages on now. Just stay still."
He nods, letting out a slow breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The tension lingers, but it's different now; less embarrassment, more gratitude, a quiet awe at how gently she's cared for him. For the first time, he lets himself look at her, really look, and something in him shifts.
He never expected to feel safe with anyone's hands on him. Not after everything. But right now, in this quiet cabin, with Naomi kneeling at his side, he does.
The silence grows between them, but it isn't uncomfortable. Naomi's hands linger over his knee, fingertips brushing his skin as she gathers the old bandages. Her motions are careful, almost too careful, like she's suddenly aware of every inch between them. When she peels the linen away from his stomach, her breath hitches; so soft he almost misses it.
Moonlight spills across the bed, painting silver bands over his chest and the pale scars she reveals. Naomi's brow furrows as she inspects the wound, the mark she left him with. Her thumb traces the edge, not quite touching, the ghost of her presence sending another small shiver down his spine. He watches her through half-lidded eyes, senses sharpened by pain and something else, something warmer.
She pulls fresh cloth from the basket, hands trembling just enough that he notices. For a moment, she busies herself with the bandage, trying to tuck the loose end under without looking directly at him. Her hair falls over her shoulder, nearly brushing his ribs. He could reach up and tuck it back, but something holds him still.
Her lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, she glances up, catches his gaze, then quickly looks away, colour bright on her cheeks.
Jareth shifts, trying to find a more comfortable spot, but every movement brings them closer. His knee bumps hers. The touch jolts through both of them, and she lets out a quick, nervous laugh, the sound as light as wind through leaves.
She wraps the new bandage, arms moving slowly and precisely, her face set in a look of fierce concentration. Her fingers graze his hip as she pulls the fabric taut. He feels the brush of her knuckles, the slip of her palm, each touch sending sparks low in his gut. The urge to say something, anything, rises—but the words never form. It's easier to stay quiet, to let the moment settle in the space between them.
He catches himself studying her: the lines of her jaw, the delicate point of her ears, the little frown that appears when she's focused. She looks so different from the night she landed on him. There's a strength in her now, a quiet fire that wasn't there before.
She knots the bandage, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "There," she whispers, barely more than a breath. "That should hold. I tried to keep it loose—you heal fast, but I don't want to make it worse."
His voice comes out low, unsteady despite himself. "You always this gentle?"
A smile tugs at her lips, shy but unmistakable. "Just with people who don't bite," she replies, glancing up with a hint of challenge in her eyes.
Jareth can't help it; a slow grin breaks through his usual mask. He sits up a little, wincing as the wound pulls, but he refuses to let her see him flinch. "Lucky me, then."
Naomi bites her lip, laughter caught just behind her teeth. Her hands fidget with the edge of the bandage, smoothing it down even though it doesn't need fixing. The lamp casts a golden halo over her hair, highlighting the strands that have slipped free. She's close enough that he can see the faint shimmer of her wings, the way they flicker with each breath.
Time seems to slow. Neither of them moves, both waiting for something they can't name to break the tension. The sound of the waves fills the cabin, a steady hush that matches the pounding in his chest.
Finally, Naomi gathers the old bandages, turning to toss them in the basket by the washbasin. The motion exposes the curve of her neck, the delicate shadow along her collarbone. He follows the movement without thinking, eyes lingering a second too long before he looks away.
She busies herself with the rag and bowl, but there's a new awkwardness in the set of her shoulders. When she turns back, she nearly bumps into him again, laughter escaping her in a startled rush. "Sorry," she murmurs, the word catching on a smile.
He shakes his head, meeting her gaze at last. "Don't be. You're the only one I trust to patch me up. The others'd leave me half-stitched and leaking."
Their laughter overlaps, light and honest, filling the small space with something almost like relief. He watches her gather herself, noting the way she presses her palm to her necklace for comfort, the crescent moon warm against her skin.
For a long moment, they simply exist together in the hush of the captain's quarters. Every glance, every touch, every caught breath lingers just a beat too long.
And when she settles beside him on the edge of the bed to clean up, their knees touch again, neither moving away. The moment holds, fragile and bright, as the world outside rocks gently on the tide.
Naomi tucks the blanket around his waist, fingers quick but gentle, and flashes a soft, reassuring smile. The cabin feels quiet now, with only the hush of the waves and the low groan of timber beneath them. She leans in, hands smoothing the edge of the blanket, making sure he's covered before pulling her knees up and sitting cross-legged at his side.
A hush settles in the captain's quarters, broken only by the faint slosh of water in the washbasin and the slow creak of timbers as the Sunlit Rose rides the midnight swells. Naomi gathers up the last of the bloody rags and drops them into a small bucket, her fingers deft and precise. The lamplight casts her shadow along the panelled wall: slender, a little hunched with fatigue, yet never fragile.
Jareth shifts, drawing the covers higher and settling the pillow in his lap as casually as he can manage, though his jaw is set in a line of stubborn embarrassment. He doesn't want her to see, but the memory of her hand on his thigh lingers; warm, careful, a reminder of things he hasn't let himself want for years. He looks away, scowling as if that might chase away the heat in his face.
She doesn't seem to notice, busying herself with the mess of bandages. When she finally turns, catching his gaze, there's nothing accusatory on her face. Only that gentle steadiness he's grown used to—something that both soothes and unsettles him. He clears his throat, rubbing at his beard, eyes half-lidded with an awkward sort of longing. "I've always known fae to use magic every time it suited them," he grumbles, forcing the words out casually. "Never seen one who'd rather do things by hand, especially not when there's a spell that could do it quicker. Any reason you didn't?"
Naomi tilts her head, eyes soft, lips pursed as if weighing what to say. She drifts a little closer, the hem of her dress brushing the floorboards. "Ever since Oses dropped me here—after I called for him, not that I'd do that again—you've given me choices. Even when you could have just locked me up or tossed me overboard, you didn't. You let me decide what to wear, what to eat. You gave me my own space." Her hands fidget with the tie of her apron, twisting it tighter. "I thought about magic. Not because I'm lazy. I wanted to make it easier for you, less messy. But… after everything you've done, I couldn't just take that choice away from you." Her voice is even, but there's an undercurrent—a hesitance that hints at something deeper, a truth she doesn't share out loud.
He watches her, frown easing. The tension drains from his shoulders as she speaks, and something in his chest tugs uncomfortably; pride and guilt, hope and a hundred other feelings he's never quite learned to name. "Choice, huh?" His voice comes out low, rough, almost a growl. "Not a thing most people think twice about out here." He glances away, jaw flexing as he works the words over in his mind.
Naomi's eyes flicker, searching his face for a moment before she moves to tidy up the table, stacking empty vials and rolling used bandages with deliberate care. "Maybe not," she admits softly, "but it's something I learned to value." Her hands tremble faintly as she works, but her back is straight, and she doesn't flinch from his gaze. "Sometimes, it's the only thing that makes you feel… safe."
A silence hangs between them, stretching as the ship sways and the candle gutters in its glass. Jareth lets his head rest against the headboard, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He tries for a half-hearted scowl, but the old shield doesn't fit as well tonight. "You didn't owe me anything, lass. Wouldn't have blamed you for usin' a bit of magic, if it'd made things easier."
A little smile tugs at her lips. "But then it wouldn't have been real. Not between us, anyway." She sets the bandages down, dusts her hands off, and finally lets herself meet his eyes; steady, unflinching, the blush rising in her cheeks barely visible in the lamplight.
He looks away, rubbing his face. The pillow in his lap is a shield and a curse, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Didn't think I'd care about that, not after everything." He almost laughs, the sound small and bitter. "Guess I do, though."
She stands quietly, her presence filling the space with something like comfort, but charge; a tension so subtle that neither is willing to name it. She brushes a stray braid behind her ear, glancing at the clock on the shelf as if it might explain the strange, private hush that's fallen between them.
After a while, she crosses to the bed, kneeling beside him, careful not to jostle the pillow or his wounds. Her hands, when they rest on the covers, are careful, offering warmth without pressure, closeness without demand. "You're healing, Jareth. That's all that matters to me."
He shifts, still tense but less guarded, the edge in his voice worn down by something gentler. "You're stubborn, lass. I'll give you that." The words are half a tease, half an admission.
A laugh, low and breathy, slips from her lips. "Only because I had to be."
Their eyes meet again, something vulnerable passing between them. Neither speaks it, neither needs to. The hush that follows is thick with promise, with everything that's left unspoken.
The ship rolls on, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Naomi's hand lingers on his forearm, her thumb tracing a careful circle against his skin; a simple, unconscious touch that sends a ripple through the quiet.
A flicker of moonlight slips through the stern windows, washing Naomi's hair in silver as she settles back onto the edge of the bed. The hush between them is warm now, not stifling—full of things neither quite dares to say. Jareth's hand tightens on the pillow in his lap, knuckles pale, as he forces his mind away from the way her thumb traces circles on his arm.
He clears his throat, roughening his voice with a practised ease. "You mentioned a while back… you had sisters?" The words tumble out more curious than he intends, carrying the echo of old memories and things unspoken.
Naomi perks up at the question, her mauve eyes brightening. Her ears give the slightest twitch, betraying the hint of pride that always creeps in when she talks about her family. "I… I do! There's Asteria—she's the oldest. Then Darla, then me. After me comes Alvina, and then Deema, our youngest!" She gives a small laugh, rubbing at a faint scar on her wrist. "It's why I know how to patch you up. I spent most of my years tending to scraped knees and bruised egos. Especially with the two youngest running wild."
Something softens in Jareth's expression as he listens, though he keeps his gaze trained on the shadows cast by the lamp. "Big family, then. No brothers?"
"Nope, just the five of us. My uncle Lukarius lived with us for a while, but otherwise, it was just the girls." Her smile falters for a moment as she glances down, fingers fidgeting with the blanket at his waist. "Asteria runs the house. She always has, even when our mother is around. Alvina, though. She's never home… She's off with the blacksmiths in the city most days. She's got a real knack for metalwork, even for a fae." Naomi's voice shifts, pride mixing with a faint wistfulness. "She can turn a broken horseshoe into a brooch, or fix a bend blade barely the tap of her hammer. My father always said she could've been born a dwarf with hands like that."
The words hang in the air, full of affection and just a hint of distance. She tugs her legs under herself, the edge of her dress brushing Jareth's shin, almost as if she's forgotten the space between them.
Jareth grunts in approval, finding it easier to focus on her stories than the raw, vulnerable place she's left him in. "Blacksmith, huh? Not a trade I'd expect from the fae." His lips curl into the ghost of a grin. "Suppose it keeps her out of trouble, at least."
Naomi lets out a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. "You'd think so, but trouble finds Alvina no matter where she goes. She's got a stubborn streak—Mama calls it 'iron-blooded,' like the stories say about the dwarves." Her tone softens. "Deema's more quiet. Not wild like people think fae should be, just… gentle. She'd rather read or play in the garden. I was closest to her and Alvina growing up. The other's well… well, Asteria and I, we don't always get along. She's good at being in charge, but sometimes she forgets not everyone wants the same things."
She hesitates, as if she's revealed too much, then shrugs it off with another small smile. "Sorry, I'm rambling."
He waves off the apology, eyes still hooded but voice steady. "Not ramblin', lass. It's good to hear about kin who look out for each other. Ain't always the way."
For a moment, Naomi sits in the quiet, her gaze drifting to the deck above, where the footsteps of the crew echo distantly. Her hand slips from his forearm to her own knee, but the ghost of her touch lingers on his skin.
She studies his face, curiosity threading through her voice. "What about you? I've never heard you talk about your family." Her tone is gentle, not prying, just a soft question offered in the hush of the lamplight.
Jareth stiffens at that, fingers tightening on the pillow. He doesn't answer right away, searching the timbers of the ceiling as if they might after some escape. After a long moment, he gives a slow shake of his head. "Not much to tell," he grumbles. "Wasn't the talkative sort back home. Kept to myself mostly."
She doesn't press. Naomi just nods, her understanding written clearly on her face. There's no judgement in her eyes, only that quiet, stubborn empathy she carries like a shield.
The cabin grows quiet again, filled only with the sound of the sea and the creak of the Sunlit Rose as she rides the gentle midnight swell. Naomi leans back, bracing herself on one hand, her braid slipping over her shoulder and catching the hollow of her collarbone.
A glimmer of mischief lights her eyes. "I'm surprised you lasted this long, letting me chatter on about my sisters. Most men would've tried to escape by now."
Jareth gives a low chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Hard to run with a busted gut and a pillow for armour." His smile is crooked, the first real one he's managed all night. "Besides, you make it sound like you're the troublemaker in the lot. Can't picture it."
She grins, shaking her head. "No, that's Alvina's job. I was always too busy trying not to get in the way." Her words come with a bittersweet tinge. "I just… wanted everyone to get alone, I suppose."
He studies her face, memorising the way her eyes soften at the mention of family, the way her hands move when she talks. The old ache of loneliness stirs in him, but for once, it doesn't feel so sharp. Maybe it's the salt air, or maybe it's the girl beside him, but Jareth lets himself believe, just for a moment, that the world outside can wait.
The hush of the ship is deep and steady, the sea a slow hush just beyond the walls. Naomi settles into the hammock across the bed, pulling her knees to her chest. In the lamplight, her hair falls like ink across her shoulders, her face half in shadow, but her eyes are soft.
Jareth glances down at his hands, rubbing the edge of the pillow with his thumb. It feels… wrong, holding pieces of himself back after she laid her family life out to him. His voice comes quiet, a little rough, words finding their way into the space between them. "Lass… back in '88. You'd have been seventeen, yeah? Same as me?"
She nods, toying with the fringe of the blanket. "I was. It was… not my favourite year." Her voice is careful, and she doesn't elaborate. The hurt in it is soft, not jagged, but he can hear the edges. "I stayed home mostly. Didn't go into town much. I think I missed a lot that year." She gives a tiny shrug. "Why?"
Jareth glances at her, then looks away, the question heavy in his mouth. "You ever hear anything… strange, 'round the markets? Stories about a place called Caerleon, maybe?" He tries to make it sound casual, but it comes out laced with something heavier.
Naomi frowns a little, thinking back. "I… don't know. I remember gossip, but not much. The markets were always full of talk, but I tried to keep my head down. There was a lot I didn't want to hear then." Her voice gets smaller as she speaks, fingers twisting the fabric tighter. "If there were stories, I probably didn't listen. I just wanted things quiet for a while."
He nods, not surprised. It would be too much to hope that she'd remember, or maybe it's a mercy that she doesn't. Still, the silence between them feels weighted now, full of what he hasn't said.
He tries again, gentler this time. "Ever heard of the Prince Turned Pirate?" The words are soft, almost hesitant, as if naming it out loud makes it more real.
Naomi tilts her head, thinking. She doesn't answer right away, searching the past. There's something familiar, a name half-heard, tucked away in memory. Her mouth opens, then closes again as nothing comes to her. "I… maybe? It sounds like something the sailors would joke about in the taverns, but I never paid much mind to that kind of talk. I wish I remembered more. I'm sorry."
He lets out a low, tired laugh, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. "Don't be. S'probably for the best." He waits a moment, watching the flicker of lantern light across her hair. Then quieter, with a hesitant hope: "You ever hear what the others call me? Not by name. There's a story—'Redbeard' they say sometimes. You heard it?"
Her eyes widen a fraction, the realisation dawning at last. She's heard Borin use it once or twice, a half-joking nickname in the mess or on deck when Jareth isn't listening. She hadn't thought about it before, not really. Now it lands differently, and she studies him for a long, silent moment. Her lips part as if to speak, but she only nods, waiting for him to finish, not trusting herself to fill the silence with words that might break whatever is balancing between them.
He watches her, studying the uncertainty on her face, the way she doesn't recoil or shrink away. It gives him courage he hasn't felt in years. His fingers drum against the pillow, restless. "Suppose you could say I'm the pirate they warn children about. Prince who lost his home. Man with too much blood on his hands." He laughs again, brittle this time, voice almost breaking. "Never thought I'd see the day where I'd tell someone that. But you—you're different. You don't look at me the way the world does."
She doesn't answer, just lets the truth settle in, her gaze gentle and steady as she sits in the hammock, knees drawn close. She's not afraid. Not of him, not of the story, not of the scars he carries in his voice.
She sits quietly in the hammock, legs folded close, the soft sway of the ship lulling some of the tension from the air. Her eyes never leave his face, but she gives him room to gather his thoughts, her patience a silent comfort. Jareth props himself up a little more, careful not to jostle his wounds. The pillow is still a shield in his lap, but his hands are free now, fingers tracing a path over the blanket as if searching for a foothold.
She shifts in the hammock, the canvas creaking as she pulls her knees close and faces him fully. In the soft light, Naomi's eyes are wide and unguarded. "If… if you want, you can continue," she says, her voice low. "I'm listening."
"I don't talk about it much," he says, voice rough at the edges. "But since you asked." He draws a slow breath, glancing down at the floorboards before meeting her gaze again. "I was the youngest, you know. Out of all of us."
Naomi nods, her brows knitting in curiosity. "How many siblings did you have?"
A small, sad smile ghosts over his lips. "Three. Vaelon and Lorent—they're twins. Then Thalric." His mouth works over the name, voice softer now, as if saying it aloud might summon his brother's shadow. "Thalric was closest to me. Only four years older, but seemed like more when we were little. He was… strong. Never afraid of anything. Not even our father." Jareth's thumb rubs over a faint scar on the back of his hand, his mind miles away for a moment. "You'd have liked him, I think. He'd have tried to outdo you at every turn, but he had a good heart."
He shakes his head, grounding himself before continuing. "In Thrundeli kingdoms, things work differently than most. It's not the oldest who gets the crown. Not like humans or the fae do. The firstborn, they lead the armies—stand at the front, take the first blow. The second? They're the diplomats. Sent out to talk sense into allies and enemies alike. The third, if you've got one, keeps the kingdom running—trade, forge, make sure the granaries never run dry."
Naomi listens, her expression thoughtful. "And the youngest… they're meant to rule?"
"That's right," he replies, a note of pride mingling with the sorrow in his voice. "We're raised knowing the whole kingdom'll be ours one day. Meant to study everything—war, peace, law, the old stories. Doesn't matter if you want it or not. You grow up in the shadow of your brothers, always watching, learning what they do right and what they get wrong." He lets out a soft huff, eyes flicking to hers. "My brothers… they never let me forget it. Used to joke I'd be a better smith than a king, the way I snuck off to the forges when I was supposed to be learning statecraft. Truth is, I just liked the peace of it. The heat, the noise… nobody asked questions when your hands were busy. Gave me time to think."
Naomi's smile widens at that, and she leans forward a little, her braid slipping off her shoulder. "So you really know how to make things? I'm not surprised. You look like someone who knows their way around a hammer."
He grins, the tension in his face easing for a moment. "Never was the best smith in the family. My brothers were stronger, faster with a hammer, but I didn't mind. I just liked the peace of it. The heat, the noise—nobody asked questions when your hands were busy. Gave me time to think. And when I needed space, I'd go down there, watch the old blacksmiths shape steel. Didn't matter who you were in the forge. You pulled your weight, or you got out of the way."
Quiet fills the room, thick with memories. Jareth's fingers press into the blanket, knuckles whitening as he draws strength to go on. "Truth is, I never thought I'd leave home. Valereon Keep was all I knew. Family, duty, all that. But when I was seventeen—" He pauses, swallowing hard, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere beyond her. "Everything changed that night. I walked in on my uncle, Tharim, standing over Thalric's body. Blood on his hands, on the stones, everywhere. Said he was doing what needed to be done for the kingdom." The words scrape raw in his throat. "He tried to kill me, too. I did what I had to. Didn't want to. But there was no choice. I killed him. Then the guards found us, and no one would listen."
He falls silent, jaw tight, the shame and rage lingering in his voice. Naomi doesn't interrupt, just lets the story settle, her gaze gentle and steady as she sits in the hammock, knees drawn close. She's not afraid. Not of him, not of the story, not of the scars he carries in his voice.
"I told my father what happened. Begged him to believe me. But he… he saw what he wanted to see." Jareth's eyes glisten in the low light, though he blinks it away. "He called me a murderer. Traitor. Cast me out of the only home I'd ever known. Stripped me of my name, my blade, everything."
Naomi's face is soft with empathy, her lips parting as if to speak, but she waits, letting him finish.
"I was just a boy," he murmurs, voice almost a whisper. "Seventeen, bleeding, half-mad with grief. They threw me out that very night. Never saw my mother again. My brothers…" He stops, breath catching. "Vaelon and Lorent, they had to watch me go. I wonder sometimes if they believed me. I like to think Thalric would've."
The waves knock gently against the hull, filling the silence between them. Naomi shifts, her hair falling forward as she leans her cheek on her knees, gaze never leaving him. "You miss them," she says quietly.
He nods, rough and unguarded. "Every day. Thalric most of all. He was the best of us." His voice is raw, unpolished. "It's been seven years, but some days it feels like last night. Can't scrub the blood from your hands, not really. Not even at sea."
Naomi's fingers twist the edge of her dress; her voice barely more than a whisper. "Thank you for telling me. I know it's difficult."
Jareth lets out a heavy breath, as if he's just laid down a burden he's carried for too long. "Don't reckon I've told anyone all of it, not in one go. Most folks just know the story that's been told about me. The 'Prince Turned Pirate' cursed, exiled, red-bearded bastard who took to the waves. Few care to ask what happened before."
A faint smile tugs at her lips, but there's a sadness in her eyes. "I'd rather know the truth than any story." She sits a little taller, voice firmer now. "Your uncle was wrong. And your father—he was blind to what mattered."
He studies her, searching her face for judgment, for fear. He finds none. Only steady understanding and a quiet resolve.
"Suppose you think I'm just as bad as they say?" He asks, voice gruff, but there's a vulnerability beneath it.
Naomi shakes her head. "I think you're braver than you know. And I think your brothers would've been proud."
He lets out a low laugh, not quite bitter, more tired than anything. "Doubt they'd say that if they saw me now. Half-drowned, stitched up like a patchwork sail, hiding behind a pillow." The attempt at humour is clumsy, but it lightens the air just enough for both of them to breathe.
Naomi's smile warms. "Maybe. Or maybe they'd say you survived. Sometimes, that's enough."
He runs a hand through his beard, looking away as he swallows the ache in his chest. "You sound like Thalric. He always said it wasn't about being the strongest, just about making it through. Taking care of the ones who need you." His voice cracks, but he pushes through. "I'm trying, lass. Not sure I'm any good at it, but I'm trying."
She shifts closer, hammock creaking, her feet touching the floor. "You are. Even if you don't see it."
He's quiet for a long moment, letting her words sink in. The moonlight paints silver lines on the cabin floor, the steady rocking of the ship a lullaby neither of them can ignore. Jareth's breathing slows, his shoulders settling as if the storm inside him has eased, even just for tonight.
Naomi's voice is gentle, a whisper that seems to carry throughout the whole room. "Do you ever wish you could go back?"
He doesn't answer right away. "Some nights, I'd give anything to walk those halls again. Hear my brothers fighting in the yard, smell the bread in the kitchens, see my mother smile. But the man I was then—he died that night, with Thalric. All that's left is me."
She nods, reaching out to touch his hand where it rests on the pillow, the gesture light, tentative. He doesn't pull away.
"You're not alone now," she says, voice firm and true.
He turns his palm upward, her fingers slipping into his, a small connection that means more than either of them can say. For the first time in a long while, the ache in his chest eases, just a little.
Their hands linger together, the moment stretching a beat longer than either intends. Naomi's skin is warm against his, the softness of her palm an anchor in the shifting light. When she finally pulls away, a blush blooms high on her cheeks. She tucks her hands behind her back, smiling in that sheepish, half-nervous way that makes her seem far younger than her years.