"You must be hungry?" Her voice is gentle, a welcome shift from all the heaviness that came before.
Jareth blinks, almost startled by the question. He glances down at his stomach and feels the emptiness gnawing at him, the kind that settles deep and stubborn after days on broth and pain. He takes a second, but he gives a small, wordless nod. The admission is quiet, almost sheepish, but honest.
Naomi lets out a soft laugh, tucking a stray braid behind her ear. "I'll fetch something from the galley," she offers, moving to gather the last of the bandages and toss them into the basket. "Don't get too excited; it's only the cook's root soup tonight. Bit thin, but it'll do you good."
He grunts, already bracing himself for disappointment. "Long as it's warm and doesn't taste like seaweed, I won't complain. What's in it?"
She falters at the door, fingers pausing at the hatch as she tries to recall the day's menu. "Potatoes, onions, a bit of carrot… and radishes." The last word comes out reluctantly.
Jareth groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Radishes. Figures." He could never stomach the taste, even as a child. The memory of his brothers sneaking them onto his plate brings a grudging, half-hearted smirk to his lips. "You lot plannin' to finish me while I'm weak, is that it?"
Naomi laughs, her voice bright in the quiet cabin. "I'd tell them to leave them out, but the galley's chaos tonight. If you're lucky, maybe there's bread left. Or a sweet roll, if the twins didn't eat them all." She hesitates, searching his face for a sign that he's truly alright, that this banter isn't just for her sake. Satisfied, she adds, "I'll be quick. Try not to get into trouble while I'm gone."
He gives her a crooked grin, settling deeper against the pillows. "Can't make any promises. You never know what sort of mischief I'll get up to." The words are teasing, but there's a real warmth in them; a trust he's only just offered her.
Naomi turns, pausing at the threshold. For a moment, she stands in the soft wash of the lamplight, silhouetted by the glow, her wings faint and shimmering. "You want tea, too? Or just water?"
He considers, then shrugs. "Tea, if you've got it. None of that mint stuff, though. Somethin' strong."
She nods, then slips out, the door closing quietly behind her. The air in the cabin settles, heavy with the scent of herbs and the fading echo of her laughter.
Jareth lets his head fall back, staring at the beams above. The pillow is still in his lap, and he's grateful for it—his body's betraying him in ways he thought he'd left behind in his youth. The memory of Naomi's hands, gentle and sure as she tended his wounds, lingers on his skin. He can still feel the ghost of her touch, the brush of her fingers against his thigh, the way her braid drifted over his chest. He exhales, slow and deeply, trying to steady himself.
The silence grows companionable. In the distance, voices carry from the main deck: a burst of laughter, the clatter of boots, the rhythmic stomp of the crew as they go about their business. He can almost pretend for a moment that he belongs here. That he isn't just some broken, exiled prince hiding behind scars and bluster.
He looks around the cabin, taking in the clutter of Naomi's efforts: clean cloths folded with care, vials of tincture lined up in a neat row, a mug half-filled with tea gone cold on the table. She's made this place feel less like a prison, more like a refuge. More like home.
Naomi moves quietly as a mouse through the galley, footsteps light, careful not to wake the old planks. The world outside is black and wild, but here, the kitchen glows with the last warm light of the night, the lantern swinging gently over her head. She rummages for the battered tin of coffee beans, finding it tucked behind a stack of chipped mugs and a sack of barley, her fingers nimble and sure from the weeks spent learning the Rose's rhythm. The kettle, still half-full from earlier, goes back on the heat, and she sets about ladling out a bowl of soup Nerrick left simmering for the night-watch: radish and root vegetable, floating in a thin, peppery broth.
Her thoughts are half on the soup and half on Jareth. She's grown used to his hunger, the way he never complains, just endures, stubborn as rock. The captain's appetite is legend among the crew, whispered about with awe and a gentle bit of mockery, but tonight, she's glad for something normal to focus on. It keeps her mind from wandering to the memory of his hand in hers, the way his voice went soft when he spoke of home, of brothers and things lost.
She almost misses it: the subtle shift in the shadows at the foot of the stairs. The corridor should be empty at this hour; the Rose is hushed, most of the crew deep in their hammocks or on the quiet watch above. The only sound is the soft burble of soup in the pot and the tick of the kettle building to a simmer.
As Naomi sets the mug beneath the pattered tin percolator, she feels the hair on her arms rise. She glances up, ears twitching, senses prickling in warning. At first, there's nothing—just the usual gloom clinging to the bottom deck, the hush that comes when the word is between tides. Then, as her eyes adjust, she catches a flicker of gold.
Eyes. Watching her from the dark below the stairs.
Her breath hitches. For a moment, she stands frozen, the mug in her hand halfway to the table. The glow is unmistakable. Not lantern light, but the old predatory shine of a beast who's known darkness longer than most men have drawn breath.
Gorran.
The recognition sends a ripple through her. Her wings ache at the memory, a dull throb pulsing down the delicate veins where his claws once touched. She holds herself steady, jaw set, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. He stands just beyond the reach of the lamplight, broad shoulders blocking out the sliver of moon that finds its way through the porthole. Something glints in his hand: iron, maybe, dull, and heavy, held loose at his side. Even without seeing the shape clearly, she knows what it means: a warning, or a threat, or both.
Naomi forces her breath steady. She keeps her gaze cool, refusing to let him see fear. The kettle whistles high and shrill, filling the silence with an anxious note. She doesn't break eye contact as she lifts it off the flame, her motions careful, slow.
Gorran does not speak. The gold of his eyes is all teeth and contempt, narrowed in a look that says he's not finished with her. The weight of that look presses against her chest, but she refuses to back down. She pours the water over the grounds; the steam curling up between them, a thin veil of safety she pretends is thicker than it is.
Her voice is quiet but steady, pitched so it carries through the hush, giving nothing away. "You shouldn't be here," she says, not quite a question, not quite a challenge.
For a long moment, the only answer is the creak of the ship and the whistle of the wind outside. Then, slowly, Gorran steps forward, letting the iron catch what little light there is. He says nothing, but the intent in his movement is clear—a warning, a promise, a test. He's not crossing the threshold, but he wants her to know he could.
She keeps her eyes locked on his, steady as she can manage. The bowl of soup shakes just a little in her hands, so she sets it down on the counter, refusing to let him see weakness. "Captain'll have your hide if you try anything," she says, softer now, but with steel in it. "He told you to stay below."
Gorran's lips curl back in a slow, bitter smile, the flash of fangs unmistakable. He doesn't answer. Instead, he lets the iron drop, hitting the stair with a heavy thunk. Naomi flinches at the sound, but only for an instant. He picks it up again, running a thumb along the length of it, almost idly.
The moment stretches thin and taut. Naomi straightens with her shoulders squared, her eyes never leaving his. She knows what iron means to her kind; burns, blisters, sickness that runs deep. She can smell it from here, sharp, and metallic, a threat painted in all the old stories. But she refuses to give ground.
Gorran takes one last, slow breath, then turns, melting back into the shadows, the gold of his eyes lingering a moment longer before vanishing down the stair. The threat is left hanging, thick as storm clouds, promising there will be more to come.
Naomi waits, breath shallow, until the creak of his boots fades. Only then does she let herself shiver, wings trembling just enough to betray her nerves. She sets the mug and the bowl on a tray, hands careful but quick, moving with a practiced efficiency that's all muscle memory and adrenaline.
The walk back to Jareth's cabin feels longer than it should. Every step echoes with the memory of Gorran's stare, the warning in his silence. She keeps her chin up, refusing to hurry, but the pressure doesn't lift until she's closed the door behind her, sliding the bolt home with a sharp click.
Inside, Jareth sits propped up on the bed, arms folded across his chest, eyes dark with worry. He looks up as she enters, taking in the tightness of her shoulders, the way she moves.
"Everything alright, lass?" His voice is gentle, but there's an edge to it; a readiness for trouble that never quite leaves him.
Naomi nods, setting the tray down on the table. "Galley's empty tonight. Soup's got radish, but it's hot. Couldn't find the tea you wanted, so I made coffee." She keeps her voice light, but her hands betray her, fingers trembling as she pours.
Jareth doesn't miss it. He sits up straighter, frown deepening as he watches her work. "You sure you're alright?"
She hesitates, the truth crowding her throat. For a heartbeat, she wants to tell him about Gorran, the iron, the way the dark feels different when she knows he's watching. But the words don't come. Instead, she turns, offering him the bowl, with a shaky smile on her lips. "I'm alright. Just tired, that's all."
He takes the bowl from her, his hand brushing hers, warm and steady. He studies her for a long moment, searching her face for answers she won't give. Finally, he nods, accepting the lie. "If you say so, Dove."
She sits across from him, drawing her knees up, watching as he eats. The cabin feels smaller now, the warmth of their earlier comfort chased out by the cold lingering at the back of her mind. But she doesn't let it show. She sits with him, quiet and close, letting the hush between them settle into something almost peaceful.
She monitors Jareth for a long while after the meal, waiting for the steady rhythm of his breath, the subtle shift of his shoulders beneath the covers. He dozes in the soft lamplight, lines of worry eased at last by exhaustion and warmth. The soup bowl sits empty by his hand, except for the little graveyard of radishes pushed to the side. Her own bowl remains half full, sitting on the table when Thorn brought it in.
She listens for any signs that show he might stir; any mutter, any roll or grimace that might mean he's restless. His only answer is the gentle, uneven rise and fall of sleep. He'll stay under for hours, the fatigue of recovery holding him as tightly as the blankets. Satisfied, she eases out of the hammock, careful not to let the boards creak or her wings brush the lamp. Collecting both bowls, she stacks them together, tucking the spoons inside to keep them from clattering. A last glance at Jareth reassures her: he is deep in the slow, stubborn rest of someone too tired to be disturbed by any noise short of cannon fire.
The door closes behind her with the softest click. The corridor outside is thick with the scent of salt and old wood; everyone else is asleep or busy with their own midnight tasks. Down the narrow hall she glides, feet barely touching the planks, cradling the bowls close to her chest. The first steps are simple, almost peaceful—a small comfort, a familiar routine of tending to another, keeping busy so memories can't catch up.
At the turn for the galley, the ship's spine stretches ahead, silent except for the faint lapping of water outside. She passes through the hatch, then down the stairs before pausing for a heartbeat, listening for crew. Nothing. The way should be clear.
She rounds the landing and stops short. Someone stands at the base of the stairs. The pipe catches what little light leaks down from the deck above, flashing dull and deadly in Gorran's fist. No hesitation this time. He blocks the narrow space, boots planted, chest heaving with slow, measured breaths. His gold eyes are fixed on her, steady and cold.
No more shadow-games. He steps into the weak lantern light, blocking her path completely. The way his hand closes around the pope leaves no doubt to what he means. Her wings draw tight against her back, and her arms stiffen where she hugs the bowls to her ribs.
She takes a breath, forcing calm into her voice. "I just need to pass. I'll wash these and go back. I won't bother you."
He doesn't answer, doesn't so much as blink. The pipe swings up faster than she expects, all coiled muscle and malice. The first blow catches her just above the knees, sickeningly hard. The iron sears through cloth and skin, and she goes down before she can think to run or scream. Bowls scatter, one shattering, the other spinning away under a bench.
Her knees buckle, and she collapses onto her side. The pain isn't clean: iron burns, biting deep, making her whole leg spasm. The smell is instant: scorched linen, burning skin, the sharp bite of old metal. She drags herself upright, hands clawing for something to hold, anything to put between her and him.
He follows her down with the slow certainty of a man who knows she won't escape. Crouching, he levels the pipe between them, the blackened end just inches from her arm. She watches for any twitch that might warn of another blow.
"Did you think you could keep ignoring me?" His voice is hoarse, thick with accusation. "Did you think a word from you was all it'd take to make everyone forget what happened below?"
She squeezes her eyes shut, fighting back tears. "I… I didn't do anything to you, Gorran! I'm just trying to help. I heal whoever needs it. That's all I ever did."
A smile, thin and crooked, splits his face. "You act like you're better than the rest of us. The captain's lil charity. But you're still just a zhirr—still soft, still breakable." He shifts his weight, the pipe's tip glancing across her shin, threatening another strike.
She shakes her head, swallowing her fear. "I don't want trouble. I only want to clean up and go back! If I crossed you, just tell me what for. Please… Don't do this. Not over a grudge that isn't mine."
He leans in, breath hot and hour, pipe pressing now against the raw burn on her knee. "You just don't get it, do you? Every day you're here, you take more from the crew. A little more trust, a little more power. You think I don't see it? You whisper to the captain, patch him up, stand at Borin's side. You make the rest of us look weak."
She tries to draw her legs away, but the pain is blinding. The iron has left a welt already; angry, blistered, impossible to hide. Tears spring to her eyes, but she blinks them away, voice brittle but unbroken. "You're wrong. I don't want anything from any of you! I would've helped you too, if you let me."
His lips curl in contempt. "I don't need your help. I need you to remember your place." He jabs the pipe again, forcing a gasp from her as it connects with her thigh. "Zhirr don't last on pirate ships. Not for long. Eventually, the captain won't be able to protect you."
A cold rush of anger and shame flares through her at the sound of that word. Zhirr. Gorran spits it like rotten meat, the slur twisting in her gut. The sting of it lands deeper than the iron, stripping her of the fragile safety she's built since boarding this ship. The last time anyone called her that, she was seventeen, small, powerless, and trapped in a nightmare she never speaks aloud. A trembling starts in her hands, but she clamps down on it, digging her nails into her palm.
He takes a step closer, the deliberate pace all wrong, too familiar. The way his shoulders hunch, the way his eyes narrow, even the roll of his wrist as he flips the pipe jolts memories she has tried for years to bury. The corridor seems to shrink, shadows thickening, air pressing against her lungs. Her pulse thrums in her ears, pounding out the same helpless rhythm as all those years ago. A thin, broken whimper escapes her lips. She tries to swallow it, but the taste of fear is sharp and metallic.
Blood trickles down her shin, hot against the burn, every nerve screaming. She cannot run. Both knees throb with a pulsing ache. She drags in a breath and forces herself to move, not away, but forward. If he wants to end this, he'll have to look her in the eyes.
One hand darts up, catching the slick, cold length of the iron pipe. The contact sends another shock through her nerves, skin searing where it touches the metal, but she doesn't let go. Her voice comes out strangled, more desperation than defiance. "Don't call me that. I'm not— I'm not your prey." She wrenches at the pipe, her fingers slipping on her own blood.
Gorran's grip is iron. He leans in, using his weight to twist the pipe away from her, but for a heartbeat, she pulls it sideways. The effort nearly makes her faint; her legs feel hollow, shaking so hard she thinks they might give out. Still, she kicks out with her good foot, connecting with his shin. The blow is clumsy, robbed of strength by pain, but it earns a sharp curse from him.
The fight is brief, ugly. Gorran's hand slams into her shoulder, spinning her so her back hits the wall. She freezes. The chill of the timber, the darkness, the way his body pins her—all of it collapses years together, old terror mixing with new agony. Breath rasps out in shallow gasps, memory, and pain merging until she cannot tell which is which.
He snarls, voice raw. "I said, remember your place." Fingers clamp around her throat, thick and unyielding, lifting her onto her toes. The iron pipe clatters to the floor. She claws at his wrist, nails scrabbling for purchase, vision blurring at the edges. Her wings flutter in panic, desperate to break free, but he squeezes harder, thumb digging beneath her jaw.
All sound recedes. The world narrows to the press of his hand, the stink of iron and sweat, the pounding in her head. She can't breathe. All she can see is gold eyes, cold and inhuman, studying her for weakness.
There's a flicker of movement at the end of the corridor, and a shadow breaks loose, boots slapping the plants. Aerik, the top man, coming running, voice cracking the silence with a barked warning. "Oi! Get off her! Now!"
Gorran jerks back, startled by the intrusion, but his grip only tightens for an instant. Naomi's legs buckle, knees hitting the floor. Stars burst behind her eyes. She hears Aerik shouting, feel the hands tearing Gorran's arm away, the sick wrench of air flooding her lungs again.
The corridor spins as her body crumbles sideways, her cheek pressed to the cold wood, pain radiating out of every bruise and burn. Aerik is yelling; the words jumble in her head, too distant to understand. Gorran's boots scrape, then vanish, the clang of the iron pope ringing out as he's forced to drop it. Somewhere in the chaos, Aerik's hands are gentle, cradling her head, his voice lowering to a frantic whisper.
She tries to answer, tries to focus, but the world tilts as darkness closes in at the edges. A last breath shudders free, and then everything slips away. The corridor is silent, save for Aerik's desperate calls for help, the frantic rush of feet as other crew stir.
The echo of Aerik's shout drags Jareth from a restless, uneasy doze. His eyes snap open, every muscle bracing for a fight that hasn't quite started. The world blurs for a moment; darkness, lamplight, and the shape of a hammock swaying empty in the shadows. That's wrong. Naomi should be there. He calls her name, quietly at first, testing the air for any sign she might be close.
A noise catches his ear. Boots thudding fast across planks. His eyes sharpen, the old Stonewall Sight kicking in, letting him read the gloom better than most. He listens for voices, any hint of Naomi's humming or her small footsteps, but hears only chaos in the halls beyond his door. The back of his throat tightens as memory returns. He glances down, cursing under his breath when he remembers the state Naomi left him in. All he has is a battered pair of underwear and a blanket he somehow kept tangled around his waist.
On the dresser, his greatcoat waits, neatly folded with the collar brushed out. He pulls it on, doing the front up with rough, unsteady hands, muttering the whole time. "Never known a healer to be so damn thorough," he grumbles. "Next time let me keep the damn pants, at least."
The trunk at the end of his bed holds what he needs. He roots through it, finding an old pair of moth-eaten trousers and pulls them on, wincing as the motion pulls at the wound Naomi stitched below his ribs. His side throbs as he continues to grumble. "Can't believe I let her cut it all away," he mutters, catching his breath. "Half the crew's probably seen less of me than she has now. Damn it."
He hauls himself upright, gripping the wall as his knees threaten to give out. His body feels heavier than he remembers, pain clinging to every step. The wounds run deep with a long, angry gash below his ribs, cleaned and packed with herbs, two jagged cuts along his thigh and knee, old bruises blooming across his chest and shoulder.
The captain's quarters have never looked so clean. Naomi's work is everywhere, from blankets folded, floors swept, his gear arranged with a care that makes his throat ache. He can't afford to linger. There's trouble brewing outside; he can feel it in his bones.
The door swings open, letting in a rush of salt air and the uncertain noise of the upper deck. Crew pauses when they spot him, surprise flickering across their faces. Some straighten, hats in hand. Others just stare, waiting for orders or explanations. Jareth doesn't slow. He strides out, the ache in his side sharpening with every step.
Before he makes it to the main stairs, Callun barrels toward him, wild-eyed and anxious. "Cap'n! You alright? You shouldn't be up, sir, Wren said you needed rest—"
He raises a hand to cut the carpenter's mate off. "I'm on my feet, ain't I? I heard runnin' and raised voices. Something's wrong. You see anythin'?"
Callun nods, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid the news might chase him down the deck. "There was a commotion below. Some boys said it was Gorran."
Darrow, the orc master gunner, lumbers into view, voice carrying over the deck like thunder. "Fight broke out, Cap. That lass of yours, she's hurt. As far as anyone saw, it was Gorran. Aerik dragged her up to the med bay."
The words land like a punch. Jareth's hand clenches at his side, anger flickering in his eyes. He doesn't hesitate, cutting a path across the deck toward the stern. Each step is a trial, his thigh screaming, his side hot and wet where stitches pull.
At the door to the infirmary, he pauses just long enough to steady himself, one hand pressed into the frame. Inside, lamplight pools across the crowded space. Borin lies pale and unmoving in the far cot, a half-unfinished dwarven leg beside him, still smelling of forge and oil. Near the main table, Aerik stands guard, sleeves rolled, jaw set in a line of guilt and worry. Wren, the elf physician, is already elbow-deep in bandages.
A small and trembling shape curls under the blankets. It's Naomi, and her wings are clamped tight against her back, the tips quivering with pain.
Aerik's gaze snaps up as the door opens. "Cap'n? I thought you were—well, hell doesn't matter. She's here, sir. Took a hell of a hit." He glances back at Naomi, eyes full of apology. "Didn't get there fast enough."
Jareth's tone is sharp, but not unkind. "Tell me what happened." He nods at Wren. "And you—let me see."
Aerik shifts his weight, hands wringing the hem of his shirt. "I heard somethin' in the galley, somethin' like a crash. By the time I got down, Gorran had her cornered. He had iron, Cap. Hit her with it more than once. She tried to fight, but…" He trails off, shaking his head. "He called her somethin', too. Zhirr. Didn't sound too friendly."
The word tightens every muscle in Jareth's body. He nods for Aerik to continue, though his attention flicks to Naomi's form under the blanket. "He choked her, Cap. Wasn't lettin' go. I had to pull him off. Didn't get there as quickly as I should have, but she's breathin' now."
Jareth growls low, anger shimmering in his gut. "Gorran wasn't supposed to leave the lower deck. Who let him out?"
No one answers, and the silence grows heavy as the crew shifts uneasily.
He asks Wren, voice low. "Why does iron matter so much, Wren? This ship's full of the stuff. You tellin' me that's what burnin' her?"
Wren nods, his hands busy winding fresh linen around Naomi's knee. "It's different for fae, Cap. Iron's poison to them. Doesn't just cut the skin, it seeps in… burns, blisters, it makes the nerves go wild. Makes hard for magic to heal. Old magic, new magic, doesn't matter. Iron ruins the pattern."
Jareth shakes his head, frustrated. "We're floatin' on iron nails and bolts," he hisses out. "Every damn beam's got iron through it. How's she been managin'?"
Wren wipes his hands, voice quiet but clear. "Small amounts fixed in place aren't as bad. Skin gets tough, builds up a tolerance. But a pipe, cold 'n loose, pressed to the skin… that's another story. Like acid, for her kind. Hurts deep, might linger."
Jareth watches Naomi's face, his gut twisting as he notices the pain in her features. He moves closer, kneeling beside the cot. The smell of iron, sweat, and crushed herbs fills the space. He wants to reach for her hand, but pauses as his uncertainty makes itself known.
Naomi shivers under the blanket, eyes squeezed shut, wings trembling. Wren lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Naomi, Cap's here. You hear him?"
Her eyes open, unfocused, her pupils wide in the lamplight. She looks at Jareth, a flicker of recognition passing across her face. Her voice is raw and a little more than a whisper. "You're up."
"Aye, lass. Couldn't sleep with all this racket," he says, joke falling flat in the tension. He watches her carefully, his hand finally coming up and resting atop hers. "How bad?"
Wren answers for her, unwrapping the bandage to reveal an angry burn, red and blistered, already weeping from where the iron touched her knee. Her skin is mottled with bruises, blood trickling from the torn skin. "Nasty, but not fatal. She's strong, Cap. Most fae wouldn't be talking at this point."
Naomi tries to sit up, but Jareth places a hand on her shoulder, gentle but firm. "Easy, lass," he murmurs, "stay put. You're not runnin' anywhere tonight."
She swallows, struggling to get a hold on her stutter. "H…He called me Zhirr. Like he did a few days ago. I… I haven't heard that word in years." Her hands shake as she tugs the blanket closer. "He… He meant it."
Jareth's jaw tightens in anger as he thinks back to the time that Gorran had said that word. He didn't understand it. But now he does. "You won't hear it again, lass. I promise you. I'll see it."
Aerik glances at the door, voice tight. "He's locked up. Two Brambles are on watch. Want me to fetch him?"
Jareth shakes his head. "No. Let the bastard sweat. I'll deal with him when I'm ready." He turns his attention back to Naomi. "No one's layin' a hand on you again. I'll make sure of it."
Wren glances up, his eyes meeting Jareth's. "She needs rest, Cap. The iron'll take a while to heal. She might not walk right for a bit. Keep her off her feet if you can."
Jareth lets out a grunt, nodding. "She'll stay in my quarters, then. Safer there." He looks at Aerik. "See that the world gets out—no one's bothering her. Not for any reason."
The elf nods, relief clear on his face. "Aye, Cap. I'll make the rounds."
Wren glances up once more, his eyes meeting Jareth's. "You need anythin' for your wounds, Cap? You're still bleedin', by the look of it."
Looking down, Jareth shakes his head, stubborn as ever. "I'll live. She comes first. Patch her up. I'll be in the hall if you need me." He stands, swaying just a little, his hand pressed to his side. Every muscle in his body aches, every wound burning like a fresh brand. He forces himself to ignore it, focusing only on Naomi.
He leans down, voice quiet and only meant for her. "I'll be outside, Dove. Holler if you need me."
Her hand finds his, squeezing tight, gratitude written clear in her tired eyes.
He leaves the infirmary, closing the door behind him. The corridor is empty, the ship's timbers groaning under the weight of the midnight swell. He paces the length of the hall, jaw clenched, every step a reminder of the pain etched into his skin. The gash in his side pulls tight with every breath, blood seeping through the fresh bandages Naomi had tied only hours ago.
He pauses, staring at the ceiling as the ship rocks. "Gorran, you hairy bastard," he mutters. "Should've tossed you overboard when I had the chance." He clenches his fists, forcing the anger into something useful. There's justice to see, but Naomi comes first.
A few minutes later, Wren emerges, wiping his hands on a blood-stained towel. "She's stable. Sleeping, now. Burn'll scar, but she'll walk. You want to see her again?"
Jareth nods, ducking back inside. Naomi lies still, her breath shallow, one hand curled against her cheek. He sits beside her, careful not to jostle the cot, watching the rise and fall of her chest. The anger slowly fades, replaced by guilt and a heavy, stubborn hope.
Wren hovers nearby, bandages and tinctures at the ready, waiting for Jareth's permission. Only after he's sure Naomi is breathing steadily, does Jareth finally nod, pulling his coat aside so the wounds on his side and thigh are visible. Wren works fast with absolute focus, his hands as gentle as they can be. The stinging wash of spirits and the bite of fresh linen nearly make Jareth flinch, but he grits his teeth, keeping his eyes fixed on Naomi.
The physician ties off the bandage with a knot sharp enough to make a statement. "You'll need to stay off your feet, Captain, or at least stop trying to chase the crew around before sunrise."
Jareth grunts. "Aye, I'll take that under advisement." He winces before a persistent question that's been scratching the back of his head rises. "You said it was a burn, right? So why's she bleedin'? Burns don't bleed." His voice is rough, suspicion crawling under his skin. The sight of the blood on the bandage unsettles him more than he'll admit.
The elf glances over at the faerie, brow furrowed with concern. "It looks like a burn, aye, but with fae it's never that simple." He hesitates, the words piling up behind his lips. "Iron does more than scorch. It… disrupts. I'll try to explain."
He sets the needle down, then wipes his hands. "Fae bodies are woven with more than just flesh and blood. There's a kind of aether; you can think of it as a web of energy that's threaded through every part of them, tying their bodies to what we call the Veil. Most of the time, that web closes wounds before you can blink. It's what lets them heal so fast, or shrug off things that'd kill other mortals."
The words tumble out too quickly, layered with medical jargon. "When iron touches that weave, it tears it. Not just the skin, but the network underneath. Instead of sealing up, the body panics and tries to fix it like a mortal wound, so the blood vessels break; the magic that should knit everything together instead leaks out. You get what's called an aetheric haemorrhage; it bleeds because the magic can't close it."
Jareth stares at him for a moment before giving a flat, unimpressed blink. "Alright, Wren, slow down. I'm not one of your magisters. Pretend I'm a block of wood. Give it to me plain."
Wren huffs a laugh, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Alright, put it this way: Heat burns close a wound. Skin gets sealed; nothing comes out. Iron, though, makes a fae's body forget how to heal. It burns, but instead of closing, the wound opens up and bleeds. Their magic leaks out; sometimes it looks silver at first, before it goes red. And it keeps bleeding because their body's confused."
Jareth lets that sit for a moment. "So it looks like a burn, but really it's a tear in… what? Her magic? That's why she can't stop bleeding?"
Wren nods, relief clear in his eyes. "Exactly! The danger isn't just the burn on the skin; it's that the iron scrambles the magic inside. If you don't fix it, the wound gets worse, not better. We call it Veil Rot when the magic fails and the body falls apart from the inside. Doesn't take much iron, either. Even a scrap can do it."
"Damn," Jareth mutters, glancing at Naomi. "How long's she going to be like this? She always hidin' it? Ship's got iron everywhere."
The physician wipes sweat from his brow, voice dropping lower. "It's not the nails in the hull, Cap. That's all fixed, part of the structure… her body's learned to live with it, like a callus. But loose iron, iron that moves, or hits the skin hard? That's the danger. And she's stubborn, doesn't like to complain. Half the crew probably never noticed, but I'd bet she's been careful ever since she landed on the ship."
Wren's explanation hangs in the air, the last word trailing off into the slow, persistent creak of the ship timbers. The physician's voice softens, but Jareth hears none of it now. He stares at the blanketed form of the cot, hands flexing at his sides. The fury that's been simmering in his gut has settled into something sharper, something colder.
This shouldn't have happened. Not here, at least. Not after every rule, every threat, every command given since Naomi landed in his quarters. Everyone knows that they have revolved around her safety. He made it clear, from the lowest deckhand to the oldest Bramble: you don't lay a hand on her. You don't corner her; don't let old superstitions bite at her heels. You treat her as crew, or you're gone.
There's no middle ground, and almost all of them listened. Almost.
His jaw works as he buttons his coat, eyes scanning the floor, then the length of Naomi's pale arm where it slips from the blanket. Even now, bruises bloom along her wrist. They're faint, but there. Each one feels like a nail hammered straight into his pride. One man ignored the law. One man thought he could get away with it. Gorran's name burns in his mind, a rot that's lingered since they took him aboard.
He's given too many second chances. He knows it; he's always known it. Tonight, the mercy runs out.
He leans in close to Wren, voice so low only the elf can hear. "She wakes, you tell her I'm in my quarters. Soon she's fit to walk, you come find me. Until then, nobody else sets foot in here. You hear me?"
Wren's nod is immediate, eyes wide. Before questions can slip free, Jareth straightens. The coat fits too tight across his ribs, but he forces his arms through the sleeves anyway, gritting his teeth against the pull on his half-healed wounds. The ache barely registers. Anger sharpens everything. He moves through the door without looking back, boots thudding against the boards as he heads for the captain's quarters.
The air inside feels different now; it feels colder. Every surface cleared by Naomi's careful hands. Even the scattered mess of papers and tools have been neatly stacked. For a moment, a pang of guilt cuts through him. She had done all of this for him, kept the world at bay while he slept. That care is what Gorran tried to break.
He pulls the drawer open, and the wood sticks just a little, as if the ship herself resists what's coming. The pistols rest at the back, each one nestled in the faded lining like a relic from another life. The Widow's Call and The Saint's Mercy. Old names, and even older grudges. He weighs them both, the cold iron settling into his grip like memory. One for each hand. The bandages on the handles have been replaced recently, Naomi's work, he knows it by the knot she ties at the base. That thought anchors him. He slips both weapons into the inside his coat and snaps the buttons closed.
It's not a perfect world. Far from it, but there are lines that don't get crossed.
The walk to the brig is slow, but it's not by choice. Every step grinds fire through his side, legs trembling beneath his weight. It doesn't matter. He keeps moving, voices around him hush as he passes. The crew that meets his gaze sees something new as well as something old—something that reminds them what kind of man holds this ship together.
No one offers to help. No one asks what happened.
At the door, two men stand guard. He recognises the younger one, its Belvor, a Bramble. He fixes the boy with a look that would freeze a storm at sea. "Get out. Both of you. I don't want witnesses. I don't want any damn chatter on the deck. Clear off now."
They scatter, boots pounding in the corridor, glancing back only once before turning the corner.
Now the space is empty, and he stands before the iron-barred sell, a lantern flickering overhead. Gorran sits inside, arms chained to the wall, head lolling forward. His wrists belled where the cuffs have bitten deep. Even like this, there's a smirk on his face, the kind that comes from too many nights spent thinking that you're untouchable.
Jareth drags a chair against the floor and sits, placing himself between the bars and the moonlight. The pistols are hidden but not forgotten. Silence stretches between them, thick and waiting. The Captain's eyes stay cold, never leaving Gorran's.
"Wakey, wakey," Jareth says, his voice low. He keeps it light and almost conversational, but every syllable carries weight. "You look like you've had a long night. Can't imagine why."
Gorran lifts his head, gold eyes finding Jareth's in the dark. "You here to finish me, then? Or just gonna run your mouth?"
A tired smile flickers at the corner of Jareth's mouth, gone almost as soon as it appears. "I could do both. You'd deserve worse after tonight. You know what you did?"
The silence that follows isn't one of confusion. Gorran knows, of course he does. Instead, he spits blood to the side, a slow, deliberate show of contempt. "Your faerie whore needed reminding she's not special. Just another mouth on this ship."
Fury ignites fast and white-hot, but Jareth holds himself in check. His hands don't move. His eyes never blink. "That's where you're wrong, pup. She's crew. She's under my protection. Every soul on this ship is mine to keep or to break, and you just made it real clear which end you want."
Gorran snorts, defiance etched deep in every line of his body. "You always had a soft spot for the pretty ones. Makes you weak. That's how men like me take your ships, Redbeard. You get soft, you make exceptions."
The pistol is cold against Jareth's palm, hidden beneath the coat. He doesn't pull it out yet. Instead, he leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper that cuts like salt in an open wound. "See, you think this is me being soft. But it isn't. It's about order. About the only thing that keeps two hundred desperate men from cutting each other's throats. Every time you touch what isn't yours, you tear a piece out of that order."
He deliberately pauses for a moment. "You had chances. Too many. I told you when you signed on: my ship, my fucking rules. You've walked away. You could've kept your bloody head down. But you had to push. Always have to be the big dog, don't you?"
Gorran's jaw tightens, hands flexing in the cuffs. "You ain't so different, Jareth. You just got better manners. What makes her worse more than me?"
The sound he lets out is a short, humourless laugh. "You want the truth, pup? Nothing. Not by blood, not by rank. But you crossed a line. Not the first, but the last. I warned you. I warned everyone." His fingers drum the pistol's grip twice, a warning in itself.
"You laid hands on my crew. You used Iron. You tried to break what you couldn't scare. Now you're here, and you're going to answer for it."
Gorran spits at his feet, the sound loud in the hush. "Do it, then. Shoot me. Or are you still hiding behind your 'rules'?"
The cell door swings open, the groan of iron echoing in the cramped brig. Jareth doesn't hesitate as he steps inside, his boots grinding against the straw. The key slips into his pocket, locked away. There's no one here now but the two of them, and every inch of Jareth's presence fills the narrow space.
"Rules," he scoffs, voice low and gravelly. "I make the rules here. You think I won't do what's needed because I play at captain? You think because I've spared your sorry hide this long, you've got some kind of immunity?" He's pacing down, the weight of each step like the slow windup of a storm. "I've gutted men for less than what you did tonight."
Gorran tries to match his bravado; the shift in the air is sharp. He leans back, but the chains keep him from putting any real space between them. "You just gonna talk me to death, Redbeard?"
Jareth ignores the bait. He draws closer, looming until there's nothing left between them but the reek of sweat, blood, and old iron. His face is shadowed, eyes burning steadily. "You listen to me," he snarls. "Every bastard on this ship knows the line. We fight, we drink, we bleed together, but we never turn on our own. You broke that, and you did it for nothing but spite."
The first fist slams into Gorran's jaw, sudden and brutal. Bones crack under the force; blood spatters across the wall. Jareth doesn't look away. "You think hurting her makes you strong? You think iron gives you power over something you'll never understand?" The words are bitter, but his breath is rough, like the grind of old gears. "You're nothing but a cowardly pup with a grudge."
He paces back, rubbing his knuckles, eyes never leaving his prisoner. "I know men like you. I was raised by worse. Men who taught me that the only thing that matters is what you can keep, what you can hold, what you can hurt. You want fear? Fine. Be afraid of me, Gorran. Be afraid every damn time you close your eyes. Because I'll be right there in the dark with you."
A foot connects with Gorran's ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, coughing, blood, and split trailing down his chin. "You want to know why you're not dead yet?" Jareth asks, his tone a little too quiet, a little too steady. "Because I want you to remember this. I want you to feel it every time you breathe. You don't touch what's mine. Not the ship, not the crew, and not her."
There's something in the way he says 'mine' that's more than just captain's authority. It's possessive and raw. Even Gorran seems to catch the change. For the first time, the defiance falters, and a bitter smile flickers through the pain. "So that's it, huh? All this bluster, all this blood—she's just your little keepsake?"
Jareth's hand closes around Gorran's throat, squeezing just enough to press the point. "She's here because she's earned it. She belongs because I say she does. Not because of you. You want to measure strength, measure loyalty? You'll lose every time. She's got more heart in her little finger than you've got in your whole damn body."
Gorran wheezes as his eyes bulge, his voice becoming rough. "You gonna kill me, Cap? You finally gonna do what you should've done the first time?"
A slow, chilling smile curves across Jareth's face. "Oh, you want death now? After all your talk? See, that's what separates men like you from men like me." He releases Gorran, letting him sag against the chains, gasping. "You take what you want. I hold on to what matters."
His fists move again, quick and practiced. Every blow is measured, not wild. A jaw cracks, teeth split, but he never breaks eye contact. "You never belonged here, Gorran. You never had the bloody spine for it. I'm done letting you poison my crew."
He crouches low, speaking directly into the battered man's ear. "You want to make it right? You beg. You want to live? You crawl. But you're done making others pay for your weakness. You understand me?"
Gorran's answer is a choked grunt, but Jareth doesn't need words. The power's shifted, and he made his point. Or at least he thinks he has.
The door swings half-open, but Jareth's boots have barely crossed the threshold before Gorran coughs, spits blood, and spits words that are far more poisonous than what he's said before. He rasps Naomi's name, stringing it down with curses, filth, and the venom that makes even the rats in the hold quiet down. "She's nothin', Captain. Always thought the fae's wings would look better torn. I'd have taken more than from her, you know. She'd have screamed for me if you hadn't—"
The rest doesn't make it out. Jareth's jaw works, his nostrils flaring. He stands there for a moment as his fists curl, every line of his body hardening with something old and ugly. For a heartbeat, he stares at the ceiling, breath dragging in slow and heavy. Then, his ice-cold gaze drops back to Gorran.
"On second thought, maybe I'm not finished here," he mutters, voice carrying a different weight now. There's no bark, just the steady, measured certainty of a man who's passed the point of mercy.
He strides back, looming over Gorran. The werewolf sneers, but the mask slips; there's something hunted in his gold eyes. Jareth grabs his snout, grip vice-tight, the bones shifting beneath his callused fingers. The wolf thrashes, but the chains rattle uselessly. Jareth's thumb digs in, slow and relentless, his words barely above a whisper.
"You want to talk about her? Fine. Say it to my face." He twists the snout, making the bones creak, the sickening sound beginning to fill the space around them. Gorran howls, the noise muffled by the iron hand crushing his muzzle. Jareth's face doesn't change. As he stares at Gorran, there's no anger in his eyes, only a cold, deadly patience, which shows in the lamp's thin glow.
Most men's eyes would burn with anger, or go dull with the promise of violence. Not Jareth's. Gorran's panic grows as he realises there's nothing behind them but a glimmer like moonlight on black glass; lucid, sharp, and uncanny. He stares into those eyes and sees his panic fractured, split, and reflected through a thousand crystal facets.
Hollowborn, the crew calls him, but nothing about these eyes are empty. They shine with a cold, unsettling clarity, the light bouncing off the mirrored lattice in his irises, turning them glassy and sharp, less like a man's and more like polished stone catching the last of the lantern glow. It's not just focus that fills them, but a complete, cutting detachment: eyes that reflect everything, reveal nothing, and leave Gorran staring into his own fear instead of any hint of mercy.
Pressure builds as the cartilage cracks. Jareth leans in, voice low enough that only Gorran can hear. "You'll never touch her. You'll never touch anyone on this ship again." The snout finally gives—a pop, a wet snap, and the scream that follows is high and animal sounding. Gorran bucks as he thrashes around, but Jareth doesn't let go until the wolf goes limp in the chance, his nose twisted at a brutal angle.
He stands there, breathing hard as he stares down at the broken creature gasping on the floor. His hand reaches into his coat, drawing both pistols with a practised ease. "You think you're hard to kill, Gorran? Let's put that to the test."
There's no last words or a warning as the first shot buries itself in Gorran's chest. The second rips through his throat, splattering on the far wall. The reek of powder hangs thick as stillness falls. Jareth reloads slowly, his eyes never leaving the body as it twitches, then falls still.
A third shot, then a fourth, echo into the iron-bellied dark of the hold, each one final. He puts his pistols away as he stands over the corpse at last before he finally exhales.
In that moment, Gorran's fading mind latches onto the last thing it sees: the captain's eyes. Not the eyes of a monster or mage, but something stranger. In most folk, the magic glows soft and deep, coloured by what lives inside. In Jareth, the surface is glassy and almost wet; the iris flecked with mirrors that are sharp, cold, and as brilliant as cut stone. Every light in the brig bends and breaks across those eyes, scattering in patterns that defy sense. The wolf's last focus is that there's no warmth there, no room for mercy—just that relentless, perfect focus, like a hawk watching the wind.
Jareth holsters the guns as he drags a crate in front of the cell and plants himself on it before he pulls out a battered flask, tipping it back with a long swallow. Silence hangs heavy. He rolls his neck, voice hoarse as he mutters to himself. "Never again. Nobody lays a hand on my crew. Nobody lays a hand on her. Not while I'm drawing breath."
He waits until the blood has pooled, until the shaking in his own hands subside. Every instinct screams for more violence, for some way to chase the guilt from his gut, but the only thing left is silence and the dull ache of old wounds. He runs a hand through his beard, staring at the floor.
Gorran's body lies twisted, snout ruined and blood soaking the straw. The cell reeks of spent powder. Jareth sits for a long while, thinking of nothing and everything: old lessons, broken promises, the way the world never lets him keep what he loves.
The air hangs thick with cordite and dread as Jareth finally drags himself upright. For a long moment, he studies what's left of Gorran and the mess he's made; it's nothing noble, nothing pretty, just the simple end of a bad dog. His breath escapes in a tired huff as he mutters, "Should've tossed you over sooner, you rat bastard."
Bending to grab Gorran beneath the arms, he feels the stitches along his own ribs tug and bite. Every bruise and tear screams in protest, but there's no one else for the job. Gorran's body, deadweight and slack, feels impossibly heavy, the big wolf's size nothing like the sinew and still of his own. Jareth grits his teeth and keeps at it, hauling the corpse out of the cell, through the dim-lit corridors of the Rose.
Floorboards creak. Footsteps gather on deck as word spreads. By the time he shoulders open the hatch, a half-moon of faces waits: hard-eyed sailors, green Brambles, and old hands who've seen what happens when a captain runs soft. Jareth squares his jaw and calls for the weights, voice steady, deep.
"Need a hand over here," he barks. "Bring the rope and some weights. Let's not have him float up and scare some merchant's brats."
Older crew step forward without hesitation, but some of the youngest hang back, wide-eyed, faces pale in the dawn light. A few can't look at the blood, at the twisted snout and limp hands. Jareth clocks it, guilt pricking beneath the sternness, but he buries it deep. Lessons like this are ugly but necessary.
As the irons are lashed to Gorran's ankles, Jareth lifts his gaze, scanning the faces before him. "You see this?" he says, voice pitched to carry. "This happens when you lay hands on one of your own, when you forget your place. This crew's my family. Touch 'em wrong, threaten 'em, and you'll get worse than this."
The silence hangs heavy, the message plain as day. He looks to the sea, then nods to the men on the ropes. "Let's send him to whatever godling takes beasts like him."
On three, they heave. Gorran's body tumbles over the rail, vanishing into the endless blue. A heavy splash follows. For a moment, nothing moves except the waves.
Jareth wipes sweat from his brow and glances at the younger Brambles again. "He made his choice. You keep to yours and we'll get along fine."
He heads to his quarters before questions can find him, slow steps muffled against the planks. In his quarters, he strips off coat and breeches, tossing them in a heap. Red stains bloom across the linen, marking him as sure as any wound. The washbasin groans under the pump's flow, pink water swirling as he scrubs his hands and face. He finds a clean coat—old, with worn brass buttons and faded black wool—and fresh trousers. Everything about him aches: muscles, bones, the sharp pull of new stitches beneath bandages.
He leans in the mirror for a breath, tracing the haunted cut of his reflection, those strange Hollowborn eyes still sharp and almost too bright in the gloom.
Returning to the medical bay, he finds Naomi already stirring, head lifting drowsily from the pillow, mauve eyes confused and wary.
The gunshots must've woken her. She tries to speak, but he cuts her off gently, sitting on the edge of her cot, voice low and soft as his roughness allows. "Just rats in the hold, lass. Made a bit of a racket down there, but nothing to worry about. Wren's got it handled."
The elf physician nods from his station, bandaging a box of salves with tidy, precise movements. "She's right as rain, Captain. Rest'll do her good. If you want to take her back to your cabin, that's fine. She's safer there."
Naomi blinks, still fuzzy, brow creasing as she tries to parse the situation. Jareth lays a broad hand on her arm, careful not to startle. "Look. I know you don't like being fussed over. Neither do I. But after everything tonight? I'd rather keep you close. That alright with you?"
She gives a little nod, biting her lip. When she tries to sit up, her breath hitches. Jareth stops her with a word. "Hold on, let me." Arms sliding beneath her, he lifts her gently from the cot—slow, deliberate, mindful of every wound, every raw patch. His own body complains at the effort, but he manages, letting Naomi's head tuck against his shoulder as he carries her through the hall.
"You tell me if I'm hurtin' ya. I'm not about to have Wren come after me for busting stitches," he mutters, gruff but not unkind.
Naomi's voice is barely above a whisper. "You're the one with stitches everywhere. I should carry you."
He can't help but snort, warmth flickering behind the usual roughness. "Good luck with that. You'd drop me on the stairs and leave me for the Brambles."
Her soft laughter is the best sound he's heard in days. Back in his cabin, he settles her gently onto his bunk, tucking a blanket around her shoulders. She's already half-asleep again, the exhaustion clear in every line.
He sits beside her, watching for a long moment. He feels the urge to speak, to fill the silence with reassurances or promises he can't keep, but the words knot in his throat.
Instead, he stays close. He checks her bandages, makes sure she's comfortable, then slumps against the wall, exhaustion crashing over him in waves. The ship rocks, steady and familiar, carrying them both toward whatever comes next.
The world outside is full of violence and shadows, but for now, in this quiet cabin, there's only the hush of breath and the promise that's unspoken, iron-hard that nothing and no one will touch her as long as he stands guard.
Jareth barely feels the passage of time, only the ache of his wounds and the salt-thick smell of the sea seeping through the timbers. Sleep pulls at him in short, restless fits that are never deep enough. He wakes with a start, finding Naomi sprawled across his chest, snoring softly, cheek pressed against his sternum. Her braid has half-come undone, a dark line tangled over his collarbone.
A frown creases his brow as he shifts beneath her. "Oi, lass," he mutters, voice thick with sleep and something gentler beneath. "What're you doin' over here, not on the damn bed?"
Naomi stirs, slow and groggily, blinking herself awake. She squints at him, then at the wide berth she's abandoned, a sheepish flush creeping across her cheeks. "B-bed's too big," she mumbles, stutter blurring the words, eyes half-closed. "Didn't like it. Feels like I'll f-fall in. And you… you don't belong on the floor, 'specially not with those stitches."
Rubbing her eyes, she gestures vaguely at the mattress. "Big enough for both. S'not right to leave you on the boards."
He huffs, a dry, almost amused sound escaping. "Aye, well. Not like I sleep pretty, either. You'll have to get used to elbows." Carefully, he lifts her by the shoulders, setting her upright. The movement's gentle, as if he's afraid she'll vanish if he's rough. With a grumble, he pushes off the cabin wall, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. His body protests every inch, but he ignores it, focus sharp on her.
Around the room, shadows slide and flicker, the lamplight casting narrow bands across the plank floor. The ship groans in the water, a steady lull. Jareth crosses to the far side of the bed and throws back the covers, motioning for her to lie down first.
"Alright then, move over. Can't have you freezing, or the crew'll think I'm losing my edge." His tone is light, but something in his eyes lingers, exhaustion, maybe, or the weight of things unsaid.
Naomi settles, curling small against the far edge. He climbs in beside her, rolling onto his back with a sigh, arms crossed behind his head. For a while, neither of them says a word. The silence is easy, not sharp. No accusations, no old ghosts rattling the boards, just the slow, simple comfort of bodies too tired to keep pretending they don't need each other, at least for warmth and company.
Wind rattles the glass, and the night beyond presses close. Every so often, a shout or footfall reminds Jareth that life is still going on, despite what's happened below decks.
Jareth finds himself watching the ceiling, letting his mind drift. The old nightmares prowl around the edges; memories of iron and fire, the faces of those he couldn't save, the men he's buried. Even now, with Naomi beside him, he knows peace is just a borrowed thing, a scrap salvaged from the wreck. But it's more than he's had in a long time.
A low murmur from her side breaks the quiet. "Thank you. For… not leaving me alone tonight."
He glances over, seeing the sincerity in her eyes. "Don't mention it. You saved my hide first. Suppose we're even for now."
Her mouth quirks in a tired smile. "Not even close."
A rough chuckle leaves him, low and genuine. "You keep score all you want, Dove. I'm not goin' anywhere. Least not 'til I can walk without limping."
She sinks into the mattress, breath finally steady. In the quiet, he hears the faint heartbeat of the ship, from the creak of boards to the hush of water against the hull, and the distant call of a gull carried on the wind. It's not peace, not really, but it's a promise to keep fighting, to keep each other safe. That, for now, is enough.
Jareth lets his eyes fall closed, the aches in his body fading beneath the warmth beside him. The world outside is hard, wild, and full of loss. Inside these walls, there's a kind of safety, imperfect, maybe temporary, but real all the same.
Tomorrow, the sea will come calling again with all its hungers and hazards. For tonight, though, there's shelter in the small space between two people, not lovers but survivors, each holding on in their own way. Nothing more needs to be said. He listens to the slow, even rhythm of Naomi's breath and lets it anchor him, steady as any compass.
Sleep takes him at last. It's not deep, not dreamless, but it's enough. On deck, the wind changes. Below, the Sunlit Rose glides into darkness, carrying her battered, stubborn crew toward morning, and whatever hard-earned peace they can find.