The last crates have barely clattered onto the Sunlit Rose's deck before Borin is in his element—grumbling and humming as he checks each receipt, spectacles slipping low on his nose. Jareth stands nearby, arms crossed and face turned to the wind, watching as the rest of the crew scatters into the dusk, eager for their own small freedoms after weeks at sea. The sky above Tarith's Crossing is painted in streaks of orange and violet, and the shouts from the harbour fade behind them as Borin finally tucks the last receipt into his vest.
"Not a bad's day haul," Borin mutters, flicking a thick finger down the scribbled list of purchases Naomi helped negotiate. "Flour, oats, salts—cheese that didn't bleed us dry. Even talked that butcher down on the pork." He glances up at Jareth, a smile tugging at his beard. "Ye didn't let 'em swindle us for once, boy. Might make a quartermaster of ye yet."
Jareth shrugs, feigning indifference, but the praise lands somewhere warm, deep in his chest. "Just did what needed doing. Town's not the worst for trading, I suppose."
Borin's grin broadens as he rolls up the papers. "Still got the same face ye wore on cleanin' duty, I see. Come on—let's find out if the Iron Flask's still got anythin' drinkable, eh?" He sets off with a brisk stride for a man half his height, and Jareth has little choice but to fall behind, the two of them weaving through the lantern-lit streets until the battered sign of the Flask creaks overhead.
Inside, the tavern is as thick with bodies as the air is with the scent of spilled ale and sweat. Borin claims a table near the hearth and climbs into a chair, waving for two tankards and a hunk of bread. The innkeeper serves them quickly, and the fire nearby snaps, pushing warmth into their bones after the salt chill of the docks.
Borin lays out on the receipts like cards, squinting at the totals, his satisfaction obvious. "Look at that, four sacks of flour, three oats, salt, cheese, dried apples, smoked fish—all well under price." He lifts the smallest slip. "And what's this? Mint, for nothin'!" he fixes Jareth a shrewd eye. "You charm that off some merchant's wife, or was there a fair hand at the stall?"
Jareth busies himself with the bread, tearing off a piece. "Was a girl at the market stall. Just decent, that's all."
Borin raises a bushy brow, amusement colouring his tone. "A lass, eh? Ye'll have ta do better than that. What's her name, then?"
Jareth hesitates, the question making him suddenly aware of his own hands, rough and ink-stained against the tankard. He tries to sound casual, but his voice betrays a note of discomfort. "Her da called her Naomi, I think. Just helped me get what we needed, made sure I wasn't robbed blind. Nothin' more to it."
Borin's beard twitches with a grin, eyes crinkling as she leans closer over the firelight. "Wings on her, was there? And ye let her do all the talkin'?"
Jareth scowls, feigning annoyance. "Not all the talking. She just—knows her way 'round a market, that's all. Folk here seem shorter than most, makes you feel like a giant among sparrows."
Borin lets out a warm chuckle, thumping the table with satisfaction. "Aye, and ye with that mountain shadow of yers—no wonder the lass took pity. Ye looked about ready ta sink the market with that scowl."
Jareth bristles, hiding behind a mouthful of ale, doing his best to look unmoved. "Better a scowl than an empty purse."
Borin settles back, taking a long drink before turning the conversation practical. "We'll be here a few days. Let the crew burn off some of their stink, get the Sunlit Rose stocked and sound. Ye do the same, lad. I'll not have ye broodin' over yer cup every night, even if ye do look more pirate than prince these days."
Jareth shrugs, but the edge in his posture softens as he glances into the fire. "Didn't expect a welcome in this place, that's all. Most look at me and see a beast, not a man. Didn't figure kindness from anyone, much less a stranger."
Borin's eyes narrow, gentle beneath the bushy brows. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of kindness, Jareth. Even a storm finds calm sometimes. Don't act like ye don't notice it. Yer still young, still learnin' the difference between keepin' folk out and lettin' somethin' in."
Jareth grunts, not willing to admit how the small kindness unsettled him. "She was just helpin,' that's all. Market's a madhouse. Not like she'll remember me tomorrow."
"Maybe she will, maybe she won't," Borin says, voice rumbling low. "But ye'll remember her, at least 'till yer next drink. No shame in that, lad. And ye handled yerself well. Did me proud with the trading."
Jareth lets Borin's words settle, feeling the Bramling's steady gaze linger on him as he idly rolls the tankard between his palms. The firelight dances over the rough wood, casting warm shadows across their corner of the crowded tavern. Around them, laughter rises from sailors and merchants, the smell of roasted meat wafts in from the kitchen, but Borin's focus is all on the young man across the table.
He watches as Jareth lifts his drink, but only sips it, never truly sculling it back the way so many around them do. After a moment, Borin leans forward, a curious glint shining behind his glasses. "That ale not ta yer likin,' lad? Or has the great Jareth finally grown soft on the road?"
Jareth huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he sets the tankard down with a muted thunk. "Soft's not the word. It just… never does much for me. I could drink half the cast and still see straight."
Borin's brow lifts with mock offence. "I'll wager yer just boastin.' I've seen sailors twice yer size drop after a few rounds at this very tavern."
Jareth smirks, tapping his thick fingers along the side of the mug. "Not boasting, Borin. It's my blood, not my pride. Thrundeli don't get drunk easy. Never have, even as a boy. There's something in it—maybe the Grendeli strength, maybe the stubborn Dwarven bones. I've tried every spirit from here to the edge of the continent and nothing much changes." His voice is almost rueful, as if disappointed in the simple human pleasure that always passes him by.
Borin lets out a low chuckle, folding his arms atop of the table. "Ah, that explains a few things. Yer lot were always tough as granite. My old Da used ta say Thrundeli could outlast anyone at a drinking table or in a brawl, but I never thought it was quite so literal. Must be somethin' in the mix, eh? Dwarves bred ta dig and endure, Grendeli born for the wild and the cold. Folk forget how those lines crossed—no divine meddlin,' just hard livin' and need."
Jareth's lips twitch at that, and for a moment, the weight of the day eases. "I heard a few tales myself. Some say the first of my kind came about by accident, others by stubbornness. Guess that's true for most things worth anything."
Borin laughs, shaking his head. "The world's full of stubborn folk, lad. That's how we're all here now, not just what the gods wanted." He takes a hearty pull of his own drink, then glances sideways at Jareth, his tone shifting from teasing to thoughtful. "So, all those years at sea, never even a head-spin? Not once?"
"Not even once," Jareth says, a trace of regret in his gruff voice. "Only thing I ever felt is the heat in my gut and a bit of ache in my bones. Makes it easier to keep watch, but sometimes I'd trade it for a night's proper sleep. Or a memory blurred at the edges."
Borin nods, expression softening with understanding. "There's a reason some of us seek the bottom of the bottle, and others are cursed to remember it all. But that's no curse for ye, Jareth. Means ye can always be the last one standing when the night grows long." He gives a short, proud nod, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.
Jareth leans back, crossing his eyes, suddenly feeling lighter for having spoken the truth aloud. "Means I have to put up with everyone's singing, too. You'd think sailors would be better at keeping in tune after all that practice." He flashes a crooked smile, the barest hint of warmth in his eyes.
Borin grins wide, his beard gleaming in the firelight. "Aye, and ye pretend ye hate it, but I've seen ye tapping yer foot along with ta rest. There's more of the old ways in ye than ye let on." He nudges the youngest man with a sturdy elbow. "That Grendeli heart and Dwarven stubbornness serve ye well enough. Never mind the gods."
A brief, companionable silence grows between them, filled only by the noise of the tavern and the crackle of the hearth. Jareth studies the amber liquid in his mug before glancing up at Borin. "Suppose it does. Still, you Bramlings have it easy—drink what you want, feel what you want, and remember what you wish. It's simpler."
Borin snorts. "Oh, is it? Don't let ta beard fool ye, lad. Half of us drink ta forget, and the rest drink for ta song. That's the actual difference: some folks drown their troubles, and other's face 'em head on." He leans in, voice soft but firm, a father's tone more than a captain's. "But I'll tell ye this; yer not foolin' me with all yer scowling. That girl at the market, the one who helped ye—she got through yer armour, even if it was just for a minute. That's worth a thought or two, even if ye don't admit it."
Jareth grunts, feigning indifference, but the edge of a reluctant smile plays on his lips. "She was just decent, that's all. In a world like this, a little decency stands out. Doesn't mean anything more."
Borin studies him, his gaze kind. "Maybe it doesn't. But keep yer eyes open, lad. Folks like that don't drift through yer life every day."
Jareth nods, quiet, his gaze drifting to the flames, letting the low music and laughter wash over him. The tavern, for all of its smoke and rough edges, feels less like a den of strangers tonight and feels more like a place he could almost—almost—belong.
The hours slip by as the fire in the Iron Flask dwindles to glowing coals and the clamorous crowd begins to thin. Jareth sits with his elbow on the scarred tabletop, boots planted solidly on the flagstones, his tankard now little more than a prop in his hands. Borin walks his way through another half pint, their conversation drifting from the ordinary complaints of ship and crew to old tales of misadventure and the kind of laughter only shared between those who have braved hard roads together.
Every so often, a burst of drunken song from the next table rises and falls, the melody crooked and the words half-remembered, but it fails to disturb the pocket of peace that Borin and Jareth have claimed for themselves by the hearth. Jareth listens with a wary half-smile as Borin recounts the time he bested a smug merchant in a contest of riddles, only to be outwitted by the merchant's clever daughter before dawn. The story winds down in Borin's gravelly voice, and Jareth finds himself laughing more easily than he has in months—a rough, genuine sound that draws a few surprised glances from the regulars, though none dare to approach.
Eventually, Borin leans back, stretching his arms with a satisfied sigh, the chair protesting under his sturdy weight. He eyes Jareth with the gentle wisdom that only comes from centuries spent shouldering the burdens of others. "We'll get the Sunlit Rose ready for the next crossin'," Borin says, "but there's no sense in rushin' when ta wind is against us. Let the lads enjoy ta town. Ye too, Jareth. No shame in breathin' east for a night."
Jareth nods, thoughtful, running a hand through his tangled hair. He's keenly aware of the hum of the tavern and the dull ache of weariness settling in his bones—a different tiredness rather than the restless unease that usually dogs his steps. This is the kind of fatigue that comes after a day well-spent, burdens briefly lifted, even if only by good company and honest talk.
He glances at Borin, the old Bramling already digging in his pockets for a few silvers to leave the innkeeper. "I'll see the crew back before sunrise," Jareth says quietly, that habitual sense of duty surfacing even in the lull of the night.
Borin gives a small, approving nod. "Aye, I know ye will. Wouldn't trust anyone else ta haul 'em home, and ye know it."
They both rise, the chairs scraping across the worn flagstones. The tavern has taken on the hush that precedes closing, with the barmaids gathering empty mugs and the last of the regulars slouched in corners, lost in their own stories and ale-soaked dreams. Borin tucks last receipt into his vest, adjusts his cap, and leads the way out, pausing at the door as he jumps up to clap Jareth on the shoulder.
"Get some rest, lad," he says, voice calm but commanding. "Tomorrow will come soon enough, and I'd have ye sharp for whatever trouble the sun brings."
Jareth grunts in agreement, but as they step out into the cool night air, he breathes deeper, the weight of the day softened by Borin's presence and the quiet acceptance that the old captain offers without demand or judgment.
Outside, the streets of Tarith's Crossing are hushed and empty, moonlight casting silver patterns over the cobblestones. The sea tastes clean and bracing, stirring the banners overhead and carrying with it the promise of another day—unwritten and uncertain, but somehow less daunting with Borin's advice echoing in his mind.
They walk together for a short while, boots tapping softly in tandem, before parting ways at the fork where the path splits—one way toward the ship, the other to the small lodgings where Borin prefers to sleep on land. Neither needs to say much more; in the comfortable quiet between them, everything has already been said.
Jareth makes his way back to the Sunlit Rose alone, his silhouette long in the moonlight. He does not dwell on the uncertain pull he feels toward the market girl, nor the memories of suspicion and judgment that clung to him in the square. Instead, he focus on the steady ground beneath his boots and the low lull of the harbour beyond, each step guided by the simple comfort of belonging—not just to a ship or a cause, but, for tonight at least, to himself.
He climbs the gangplank and finds the ship quiet, save for the distant laughter of a few lingering crewmates somewhere below the deck. Jareth leans against the rail, watching the lights of Tarith's Crossing flicker against the dark, and lets the tension drain from his shoulders.
Above, the stars are sharp and cold, the sky swept clean by salt wind. For the first time in a long while, Jareth allows himself to be still, listening to the soft creak of wood and water and the steady thrum of his own heartbeat. There will be challenges enough in the days to come—old ghosts, unfamiliar faces, and the hard work of the sea—but tonight, there is just the cool air and the memory of laughter with a friend.
And for now, that is more than enough.