In the deep hush of the captain's quarters, Jareth lies awake, enveloped by an absolute darkness broken only by a faint strip of moonlight that slithers in through the porthole, casting a silvery glow upon the ancient plants and the heavy, dark timbers overhead. He's not yet used to the room—nor the bed itself, which dwarfs him less by size and more by strangeness. Everything smells in its way: not the mingled sweat and salt of the crew's quarters, but the subtle ghosts of tobacco, lavender, and dust, each whiff a reminder that this space belonged to another man until a few hours ago.
The Rose creaks around him, her hull shifting with each slow heave of the waves. Out on deck, the wind whistles low and constant, and the masts groan above. He pulls the thick blankets up to his chest and stares into the dark, picking out shapes of Borin's possessions which are now, by all rights, his: a battered trunk, a sea-worn chair, the stub of a candle melted to the sill.
He lets his hand drift over his chest, smoothing the bristling red and brown hair. The feel is grounding and familiar, and for a moment he closes his eyes, willing himself to drift into the sort of dreamless sleep that has always come after a day at sea.
But it won't come tonight.
The unfamiliar comfort of the bed only unsettles him further. He almost misses the swing of the hammocks, the press of bodies close by, and the smell of tar and salt.
For a long stretch, he listens: the soft snorting filtering up from below, to the distant slap of water against the hull, to the shudder of timbers as the ship breathes. It should be enough to lull him, but his mind to too active, circling around the same frayed thoughts.
Naomi. Her name is a dull ache, easier to suppress in the crew's company, or in the wild, brief comforts of port. For three years he's kept her at bay—sometimes with ale, sometimes the easy distraction of a willing sailor or two. There have been nights in the hammocks, half lost to sleep, when one man pressed close and let himself forget, if only for a while.
But now that's over. He's captain. There's a line between himself and the rest, and if it was ever blurred before, it can't be now. The thought of it makes him uneasy in ways he's still learning to name.
Tonight, though, there's no one to talk to. No arms to lose himself in, no straightforward conversation or riotous laughter from the crew. Just the emptiness of the bed, the echoing hush of his new quarters, and the low, steady pull of memory. Naomi creeps in the around the edges, sharper than usual. He thinks of her in flashes—mauve eyes, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair snags the sun like silk. He sighs and pushes the thought aside, determined to let her have him, not tonight.
Eventually, a simpler need breaks the spell. He feels the familiar pressure in his belly, and grunts softly. "Figures. Can't have peace for five minutes," he mutters, voice scratchy with fatigue. He kicks off the blankets, pushing himself upright. The boards are cold beneath his bare feet as he stands, stretching out his long limbs. The air inside the cabin feels stuffy tonight, so he leaves his shirt off, then steps into his trousers, leaving the rest behind.
There's a small ritual in the act—a quick, habitual apology whispered to Welios under his breath, for what he's about to do. "No disrespect, old man," he grumbles, as if the sea god is listening. "But it's either the ocean or my boots, and I know which I prefer." The words are half a jest, half a prayer; an old habit for those who spend their lives above the waves.
He moves quietly through the narrow passage just outside his cabin with his boots in hand, careful not to disturb the hush that has settled over the upper deck. The Rose glimmers beneath the moonlight, her lines etched in silver, the sails hanging slack in the mid breeze. The night air bites, it's sharper than usual, with the taste of land on the air; Tarith's Crossing is near.
For a long moment, Jareth simply stands at the rail, breathing in the night. His mind wanders—back to the old days, back to the all the reasons he ever took to sea, to the faces he's loved and less, to the weight of captaincy that is only now beginning to settle on his shoulders. It's not just the loneliness, not even the memories that make him restless, but the strange sense that something is shifting. Something is coming.
He loosens the waistband of his trousers, preparing to relieve himself over the side; another small indignity of command, but at least one he can keep private for now. He chuckles under his breath, already composing an apology he'll owe Welios in the morning if the old god is in a foul mood.
Just as he's about to let go, a glimmer catches his eye—a shimmer at the edge of his vision, strange and subtle, gold rather than silver, threading through the moonlight like a living thing. He blinks, uncertain if it's just a trick of the light or some trick of fatigue. But it lingers, brightening as he turns to look.
He pauses, trousers loose at his hips, and leans closer, curiosity overcoming caution. The golden thread glows against the dark wood, humming with a life all its own, and his breath catches in his throat, the urge to piss forgotten for a moment.
Jareth steadies himself, one large hand holding his trousers in place as he steps back from the rail. The moonlit deck is nearly silent, except for the faint hiss of water slipping past the hull, and the distant, rhythmic snore of his sleeping crew. The night air cuts through him, salt and chill layered over old wood and oil. He stands there for a moment, breathing the sharp scent, his eyes narrowing on the peculiar golden thread glimmering at his feet.
He crouches, his bare feet braced on the damp planks, and hesitates. There's something unnatural in the way the thread seems to pulse, as though alive and watching him back. He's never been the type to flinch from strangers—years at sea have taught him to distrust anything that glimmers when it shouldn't—but this is different. He reaches out, callused fingers stretching toward the thread. For a second, he feels a warmth humming just above the surface, like the memory of a fire left burning under ash.
His fingertips bush the air where the thread shivers, and a low, rich chuckle breaks the silence. The sound rolls over the deck, too confident and too real to be any figment of his imagination. Jareth's hands recoils, breath catching tight in his throat. He yanks his trousers up, fastening them in one quick, practiced movement, the simple action grounding him even as his pulse stutters.
He stands quickly, planting his feet wide, and squints in the shifting moonlight. Something shifts near the mainmast: a shimmer, gold-bright and unreal, rising out of the darkness. The figure that appears is impossible to ignore, towering even in the half-light, taller than any man Jareth has ever seen. He's wrapped in luminous threads that curl and flicker, casting their own glow across the deck. Jareth can't help but stare, unsettled by the feeling that every shadow has been peeled back to make room for this stranger.
The figure watches him with eyes like molten amber, the expression hovering between amusement and something far older. When he speaks, his voice is warm and resonant, curling around every word as though the very air listens. "Well, well. Even a Hollowborn such as yourself can sense a true bit of magic when it wanders across his path."
Jareth clenches his jaw, not backing away, but not daring to move closer, either. He squares his shoulders, arms crossed tightly over his bare chest, holding himself still. The old instinct to reach for a weapon flickers through his mind, but there's nothing at hand but his own body.
Still, he tries to hold the stranger's gaze, fighting the sense of being studied like a curiosity.
"Who in hells are you?" His voice is rougher than usual, like gravel scraping over stone. He keeps his tone steady, refusing to show the unease that crawls just beneath his skin. "You got a name, or are you just here to watch me piss overboard?"
The figure laughs, a sound as bright as it is unsettling. "Now that would have been a sight." His golden threads ripple and tighten around him as he steps forward, each movement fluid and impossible to track. "But no, Captain Winsler, I'm not here for that spectacle, Though, I must admit, I do appreciate a good entrance."
Jareth bristles, his fists curling. He feels exposed, the weight of the stranger's attention pressing in. He does not like being unarmed and does not like being surprised. He holds himself tall, jaw set, but his heart thuds too quickly in his chest, a sound he hopes the stranger cannot hear.
"You know my name," Jareth growls, suspicion flooding his expression. "So what, you a spy from Tarith's Crossing? You've got till the count of three before I toss you over the side, magic or no."
The stranger's mouth curves into a slow, knowing grin. He shakes his head, the golden threads of his hair shifting with the movement, catching the moonlight and scattering it across the deck.
"Oh, there's no need for threats, Jareth. I am no spy, no man at all, not in the sense you mean." His eyes glint, bright with ancient mischief. "You've met gods in storybooks, but never in person. I thought it was time you met the one who's been weaving your thread from the start."
Jareth stares, mouth pressed to a hard, flat line. Every part of him wants to scoff, to dismiss the claim as madness or trickery, but the air hums with a weight he can't ignore. He glances down once at the golden thread near his feet, then back up, face set and defiant.
"Gods don't show up on old ships in the middle of the night," he says, voice hoarse and stubborn. "If you are who you say you are, then prove it. If not—" he shrugs, broad shoulders shifting, "—then you'll regret coming aboard uninvited."
For a heartbeat, the stranger's smile widens, his form burning even brighter, the deck between them shimmering with unreal light. But he does not advance, and his tone softens, almost fond.
"You're a stubborn one, Hollowborn or not. No wonder your fate is such a tangled knot."
Jareth scoffs, the sound rough and sharp in the quiet night, and turns his back on the glowing figure. He doesn't want to look at the thing calling itself a god—not with the old anger rising inside of him. His gaze settles on the horizon, jaw clenched and eyes cold with distrust and something deeper; a brittle, old anger that is older than he is.
Distrust churns in his gut, tangled with the deeper, older hatred. It's instinctive: bred into every Thrundeli, passed down from the stories whispered in dark corners and around dying fires. The gods may rule the sky and sea, but they never made his kind. They never cared for them. When the Second War of the Gods ended, the gods' pride was broken, but their cruelty lingered.
He remembers the oldest tales, the ones the Dwarves and Grendels told when fires burned low. And how, centuries after the war's end, Thrundeli children vanished in the night—gone without a trace. No one spoke of it openly, not at first, but soon enough the truth crept into the light: the gods stole those children, whisked them away and left no ransom or trace behind. It wasn't until decades later, when the first bones began to surface in the riverbanks and the roots of old trees, that the horror became undeniable. The gods killed them. They sought to erase the Thrundeli, to punish the bloodlines that brought the war to a bitter, mortal close.
Even now, so many years later, the bones are still being found—small remnants of a hate that refuses to rest.
Jareth does not look back at the stranger, but his shoulders are rigid, every muscle strung tight as a bowstring. He hates that the gods ever cared enough to notice his kind at all.
The figure sighs and lifts his eyes to the sky, his expression flickering with frustration. His golden threads pulse with a strange, restless light, the air thick with the scent of old storms and unspoken words. He speaks upward, his voice laced with a tired sort of blame, "Farros, you never could leave well enough alone, could you?" There's a bitterness there, a twist of regret directed to the night above—as if the heavens themselves are responsible for every wound left unhealed.
Jareth turns sharply, lips drawn into a hard line. "I don't care which one of you started it," he snaps, voice low and rough. "I don't care about your silly little feuds, your wars, your excuses. You think the godlings ever cared what happens to us down here? They never gave a damn unless it suited them. And now you're here, on my ship, talking about fate like it's something I should thank you for."
He fixes the stranger with a flat, assessing stare, his arms crossing over his broad chest. The moonlight catches the scars at his wrists, on the roughness of hands built for war. He weighs his next words, choosing them carefully, not wanting to give more away than he must.
"You said you've been weaving my 'thread' from the start. What does that mean?" His voice is colder now, wary but edged with a kind of exhausted curiosity, the kind that only comes from having lost too much to ignorance.
The stranger laughs—a warm, echoing sound that rolls across the empty deck. He shakes his head, the golden threads of his hair swirling around his face as his amusement grows. "So you really have no idea, do you? Not even a guess." He presses a hand to his chest, as if wounded by the ignorance, but the glint in his eyes betrays nothing but pleasure.
"Allow me to introduce myself then, Captain. My name is Oses." The name hums through the air, charged with the weight of legend and myth. "God of Fate, weaver of the world's threads. I have watched you from the very first breath, followed every knot and tangle of your life. You might not have seen me. But I've been there—every moment you thought was your own, every turn you thought you'd chosen."
Jareth watches him, face unreadable, but the distrust that is already carved deep remains. Still, something in Oses' words strikes a chord. There is too much weight in the air, too much truth buried in the stranger's knowing smile. He gives a stiff nod, the closest thing to an invitation he is willing to give.
"Suppose I believe you," Jareth says, his voice quiet but heavy. "Suppose you are who you say you are. Why are you here? Why now?"
Oses' smile fades, replaced by a new seriousness as his gaze shifts past Jareth, toward the dark horizon—toward the shore where the lights of Tarith's Crossing glow faintly in the night. The golden threads that wind around his form flicker, casting a pale light across the deck, as if drawing a line from Jareth's heart to that distant place.
He answers without looking back, his voice softer now, less playful. "Because the thread pulls tighter, Captain. Because fate does not wait, not forever. You sail toward what you've always been meant to find—and someone waits for you there, just as tangled in this web as you."
Jareth stands silent for a moment, the question burning on his tongue before he lets it slip free. The wind shifts, carrying the salt of the sea and something sharper; his own anxiety. He narrows his eyes, watching the godling's every movement, the lines around his mouth deepening with suspicion.
He closes his mouth, jaw working as if chewing the words, then opens it again, his voice even and rough. "What's Naomi got to do with any of this?" The words are blunt, delivered with a steady intensity, every syllable weighted by something he's not ready to name. His brow arches, a single line of challenge drawn clear across his face. He hates the way the name sounds in his own voice, hates even more that it's the first thing that comes to mind.
Oses does not answer right away. He only smiles, the sly, knowing curve of the lips that says he's far too amused for any mortal's comfort. The gold in his eyes glimmers, and for a moment, Jareth wonders if the godling has been waiting for this exact moment, baiting him with every pause and silence.
The god lets the silence hang a little longer, as if savouring the tension, then tilts his head. "Did I mention anyone's name?" Oses' voice is light, almost teasing, but there's a sharpness underneath, the hint of a blade hidden in velvet. He folds his hands together, threads of gold flickering between his fingers, and looks at Jareth as though measuring the weight of his soul.
Jareth feels heat rise up his neck, his skin prickling beneath the collar of his shirt. He forces his gaze away, scowling at the deck, frustration pulsing just under his skin. The edges of his ears redden, a betraying flush he can't hide in the pale moonlight. He's not used to being surprised, not like this.
He clears his throat, not quite trusting himself to speak again, not when the godlings' words have struck right through him. "You're the one spinning riddles," he mutters, refusing to meet Oses' gaze. "You talk about threads, about fate, and then you look at Tarith's Crossing as if it's written in blood. Don't tell me you don't have someone in mind."
Oses only shrugs, the golden threads pulsing with quiet laughter. "You're the one who brought up her name, Captain," he says, his tone almost gentle. "Seems to me you already know who waits at the end of your thread. Or are you just looking for someone to blame?"
Jareth's jaw tightens, hands curling into fists at his sides. He hates the game, hates being played with. He wants to snap, to tell the godling to get off his ship and take his riddles with him, but the words lodge behind his teeth.
The god's gaze is steady, unblinking, and for all his anger, Jareth can't quite look away.
He draws in a slow breath, shoulders broad and rigid as the deck creaks beneath him. The world feels smaller, closed in by godlings and fate and all the things he's spent a lifetime running from. He sets his jaw and stares out at the sea, the question still burning, but now tempered by wariness and something dangerously close to hope.
Oses lets out a low hum, the sound neither approving nor disapproving—simply amused. He regards Jareth for a heartbeat longer, golden eyes bright against the night. "It's late, Captain. I'd say it's time you went back to bed. You'll need your rest for what's coming."
Before Jareth can bite out a retort, before he can even so much as spit out another question, Oses vanishes. The gold and silver threads unravel into the shadow, leaving nothing behind but the ordinary dark and the restless hush of the seas. The deck feels emptier, and Jareth's skin crawls at the abrupt stillness.
He grits his teeth, cursing under his breath as he rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the tangled strands in frustration. "Bloody godlings," he mutters, glaring at the place where Oses stood. "Always showin' up when a man's got his pants half off, never sayin' a damn thing straight."
The reason he came out here in the first place returns to him with a vengeance. Grumbling to himself, Jareth turns back toward the edge of the ship, bracing one hand against the rail. He relieves himself with another muted apology to Welios, not daring to linger in case some god decides to drop by uninvited. The cold air bites his bare skin, and the silence presses in close. He breathes out, letting the salt air carry away what's left of his irritation.
Jareth pads back toward the captain's quarters, tugging his trousers up as he steps side. The cabin greets him back with stillness, the air heavy with the faint of scent of sea water and old wood. He eyes the bed—the bed that Borin insisted was now his, all wide and inviting—but something in him rebels at the thought of using it tonight. He scowls, shaking his head.
He crosses the room, digging through the trunk at the foot of the bed until he finds what he's after: the old hammock, rolled tight from years of use. With practiced hands, he hooks it between the wall beams in the fair corner. The motions are quiet, nearly silent, and soon enough he's climbing into it, folding his enormous frame as best he can.
He lets the fabric cradle him, the old comfort of it more familiar than any mattress. The gentle sway soothes the last edge of his nerves. He grumbles again, voice low. "Bed's not for me. Not tonight, anyway."
Sleep comes slow, but it comes, softened by exhaustion and the dull ache of being with by gods. The night drifts by, broken only by the distant slap of waves and the occasional break of timbers. Outside, the stars shift overhead, and the hours slide quietly past.
Dawn breaks, and golden light streams into the cabin, warming the walls as it creeps across the floorboards. Jareth stirs in his hammock, shoulders stiff from the awkward position. He blinks against the light, swinging his legs over the edge. His head throbs with the stubborn remnants of unrest. For a moment, he sits in the hush, letting the day settle around him, gathering the scraps of himself that the night scattered.
The door opens with a cheerful bang. Borin pokes his head in, followed by two crewmen lugging a coil of rope between them. The old Bramling's eyes are sharp, taking in Jareth's rumpled shirt and the dark shadows under his eyes. "Up late, were ye?" Borin's tone is half-question, half-accusation, but there's no judgment in it.
Jareth grunts, rolling his shoulders. "Didn't sleep well. Ship's noisy." He doesn't offer more. He doesn't talk about gods or golden threads or anything what happened out on the deck. Let them think it's just nerves, or the weight of the new bed, or the usual worries of a man running a ship.
The crew shuffle in behind Borin, carrying on their morning duties. There's a flicker of curiosity in their glances, but no one asks. Jareth stands, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, nodding toward the porthole. Sunlight pours in, bright and clear. The coast is a thin line on the horizon.
"By the looks of it," he says, voice gravelly but certain, "we'll be at Tarith's Crossing by midday. Make sure the men are ready."
Borin nods, satisfied. The old ex-captain claps him on the arm, and the crew move on. Jareth stays behind for a moment, letting the new say settle in, determined to keep his secrets to himself.
Once Jareth and the others file out, Jareth takes a slow breath. He glances around the space, scanning the battered desk, the tangled sheets untouched on the bed, the hammock still swaying with the ghost of his weight. He stretches his arms overhead, rolling the tension from his neck, then sets about dressing for the day.
He shrugs into his frock coat—black, with brown lining and wide, dark cuffs, and the kind of coat meant to keep the worst out of the salt and cold. It's heavier than it looks, with deep pockets and sturdy seams, weathered by years of use but well kept. He pulls on his boots, thick-soled and stained from a dozen different harbours. That coat falls nearly to his back, swallowing most of his tall frame, but it suits him well enough. He brushes his hair back, tying it loosely at the nape, then straightens, eyeing his reflection in the small, tarnished mirror bolted to the wall. There's nothing of royalty in him now; just a pirate captain, rough-hewn and watchful, his eyes a sharp blue that has never carried the so called "shine" the gifted ones do.
He adjusts his cuffs, sets his jaw, and steps out onto the deck.
The morning air is brisk, carrying the brine of the sea and distant noise of gulls wheeling above. Jareth stands at the top of the steps, boots planted wide, his gaze sweeping across the deck, The Sunlit Rose is alive with motion: sailors move briskly between tasks, the slap of ropes and the low murmur of voices blending with the creak of the ship's timbers.
He takes it all in, watching for any sign of trouble.
He spots Vak, the Noctari helmsman, dark-skinned and angular, his large black eyes glinting as he checks the wheel's alignment. Near the rigging, two dwarves—Orvik and Seln—bicker over a tangle of copes, their short, stocky forms half lost beneath oversized hats. Orvik's beard is braided tight, studded with bits of copper wire, while Slen's is so wild it nearly hides his mouth.
At the mainmast, Gorran—the ship's werewolf, broad-shouldered and hulking, with shaggy hair and eyes like wildfire—watches everything with a restless energy, his lip curling when he catches Jareth's eye. The two exchange a silent glare, old grudges simmering just beneath the surface.
A Bramling, young but quick, named Tamber, shoulders a crate and staggers toward the galley. He nods at Jareth in passing, eyes flickering away before the captain can respond.
"Orvik, Seln—sort that mess or I'll have you both lashed to the mast," Jareth calls, his voice gruff but clear enough to cut through the morning. "Val, keep us steady. Gorran, see the new barrels are stowed. Tamber, mind your footing or you'll end up in the drink."
He doesn't shout, but the orders carry. The crew snaps, a ripple of movement as they fall back into rhythm. Jareth folds his arms, letting the work carry, watching the way the ship bends to his will, slow and steady.
Behind him, from the shadowed mouth of the stairwell, comes a soft, amused chuckle. Jareth turns, eyebrows drawn together, and finds himself face to face with a Faerie—one of the only fae ever allowed aboard the Rose. He's smaller than most crew, standing maybe five foot eight, built wiry and sharp-edged, with a kind of fox-like quickness in his features. His hair is a pale, ashy brown, cropped close to his head, and his eyes are a soft grey-blue; lacking the swirling, opaline glow that marks the truly gifted fae. Like Jareth, he is Hollowborn: one of the rare faeries born without a magic's shimmer. No light lint in his eyes, his skin holds no unnatural sheen, and even his moments are more measured, less ethereal than those of his kin.
Jareth fixes him with a flat stare. "What's so funny?"
The Faerie grins, leaning one shoulder against the rail. "You, Captain. Never thought I'd see the day a man tried to look important in something that dreary. All black and brown. No colour at all."
Jareth scowls, arms crossing over his chest. "And what's wrong with my clothes?"
The Faerie shrugs, the motion light and practiced. "Just sayin'. You're the captain now. Most captains want to stand out—red coats, gold trim, something that catches the eye. At least a bit of blue and green." He glances pointedly at Jareth's coat, then back at him. "Your crew will start thinking you're in mourning if you keep dressing like that."
Jareth gives a low grunt, almost offended. "Nothin' wrong with black. Keeps the stains off. Besides, I'm not here to be stared at."
The Faerie's grin widens, his expression warm but teasing. "You're captain. They're going to stare whether you like it or not. Might as well give 'em something worth remembering."
Jareth shakes his head, not quite ready to admit the Faerie might be right. He knows what the man is really saying: captaincy means more than orders and hard word. It means setting the tone, looking the part, whether he wants to or not.
He glances back at the Faerie, who now lingers at the edge of the deck, content to watch the sea. "What's your name?"
The younger man flashes a crooked smile. "Call me Thorn. Everyone else does."
Jareth nods, accepting the answer. The two stand together in the morning light, the only Hollowborn among a ship full of misfits. Neither of them shines, not in the way the others do. No glimmer in their eyes, no whisper of magic curling at their fingertips. For Jareth, there's a strange comfort in that—he has always preferred things plain, adorned, without any hint of the unnatural. He's never trust the shine. It makes people forget who they really are.
"Don't worry about my coat, Thorn," Jareth finally says, voice rumbling low. "If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for the crew."
Thorn laughs softly, clearly enjoying himself. "Whatever you say, Captain. Just don't be surprised if someone throws a bolt of scarlet cloth your way before long. Wouldn't want the men thinking you're still second mate."
Jareth grunts again, but the weight in his posture eases a little. There's something steady in the exchange—an understanding that goes deeper than magic or blood. He glances back at the sea, at the wake stretching behind the Rose, and knows whatever else changes, some things, like his coat and the stubborn men who sail with him, always stay the same.
Meanwhile, beneath the gentle blush of morning in Tarith's Crossing, the world unfolds with a kind of hush that belongs only to small towns at the edge of the sea. The sun filters through the thin curtains of Naomi's room, casting patterns across the wooden floorboards, illuminating the dust that floats lazily in the golden air. Naomi stands quietly before her small, worn mirror, her slender hands smoothing the soft fabric of her dress—a simple, knee length violet piece that falls gracefully to her knees, catching just the hint of light as she moves. Her skin is pale, and the dress flatters her gentle complexion, its colour making her eyes seem even more vivid.
She has just turned twenty-three; her birthday slipping past only a week before, on the second day of Starhearth, and she feels the years sitting gently on her shoulders. She's still petite, barely reaching five foot two, her figure delicate and birdlike, and there is a new steadiness in the way she moves. Her hair, deep and black as the ring of a raven, hangs down her back, parted by two neat braids that frame her face, as they always have. There is a softness in her mouth, an openness to her that speaks of someone who, at last, is learning to inhabit her own skin.
She has kept her stutter; it catches the edges of her words, gentle but persistent, a reminder of the shy girl she once was. Yet now, when her family asks her to join them for a day in the market, she doesn't hesitate the way she used to. Instead, she nods, her smile shy but genuine, and reaches for her sandals, sliding them onto her feet with practiced ease.
The house behind her is a familiar comfort, filled with the sounds of morning: her siblings' laughter drifting down the hall, her mother's voice calling gentle reminders, the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Naomi takes a breath, steadying herself before the day. She straightens the hem of her dress once more, then reaches for her small satchel—a faded thing, worn smooth by years of use—and slings it over her shoulder. Inside, tucked safely among her things, is the small, pressed flower her youngest sister gave her for her birthday. She runs a finger over it, and smiles, gathering her courage before stepping out into the brightening light of the morning.
Outside, the streets of Tarith's Crossing are waking up. Stalls open one by one, the air filling with the scents of breaking bread, fresh herbs, and the tang of salt from the sea. Naomi's sandals slap lightly against the cobblestones as she moves, her posture more upright than it once was. She keeps close to her family, but longer clings to their side; she lets herself drift a step ahead now and then, curiosity tugging her forward as she glances at the bright fabrics and the glint of metalwork, the jugs of wild honey lining the market stands.
Though her dress is modest by fae standards, the colour alone draws a few eyes as she passes. Naomi doesn't mind; she's learned that sometimes it is all right to be noticed, to be seen. She tucks a loose strand behind her ear, her cheeks tinged with a soft flush as a vendor calls out a cheerful greeting. She stammers a little when she responds, but her voice is quiet but steady, her words surer than they were only a year ago.
Her father, Aven, walks a step behind, his presence comforting and familiar, his gentle smile a steady reassurance. Her mother lingers nearby, keeping a careful eye on her children, but letting Naomi find her own pace. The siblings chatter as they wander from stall to stall, their laughter threading through the marketplace, the sound of a family at ease in each other's company.
The morning flows around Naomi and her siblings as they weave through the market, the sounds of Tarith's Crossing swelling around them. Darla and Deema walk to either side of Naomi, their voices tumbling over each other as they argue over which pastries are best. Deema insists nothing beats a honey tart fresh from the oven, her hands already sticky with sweetness, while Darla is adamant that her favourite is the lavender shortbread from the stall nearby.
Alvina trails behind, quieter than all the others, her sharp eyes cataloguing every merchant and stranger with a vigilance that seems older than her years. She smiles when Naomi glances back at her, a fleeting expression that softens the reserve she tries to maintain.
Asteria walks ahead, her steps brisk and unhurried, her presence commanding without trying. She tosses her hair over his shoulder, dark and gleaming like polished wood, and spares only occasional glances back at her sisters. When she does, her gaze lingers longest on Naomi.
Naomi lets their chatter fill the air, her heart lightening with each easy argument. Still, as they pass a narrow alley that opens to the sea, her eyes wander out of habit. The horizon lies far below the rooftops, a thin band of silver and blue. Naomi catches herself looking for sails she knows she should not expect, searching for a ship that her dreams will not let her forget. Her breath hitches, soft and quick, before she forces herself back to the present.
Darla notices first. She bumps Naomi's shoulder with her own, grinning. "You always look for the water, Mimi. Every single time! What are you hoping to see, a mermaid?"
Deema snickers, biting her pastry in half. "No, no. She's hoping for pirates! Secret ones, hiding out at sea." Her voice drops to a whisper, as if sharing a delicious secret. "Or maybe one pirate in particular?"
Alvina's smile turns sly, and she nudges Naomi from behind. "Is that true, Nomi? Waiting for a ship to come in, or someone to leap off deck for you?" The teasing is gentle and light, a warm current beneath the tide of their words.
Asteria's voice cuts through the laughter, sharper than the others, her word crisp and clear. "Maybe she just wants to run off again. Like last time." Her eyes fix on Naomi, something hard glinting beneath the surface. "You always have one foot on the shore, Naomi. Maybe you should decide whether you want to stay or not."
A hush falls for a heartbeat. Naomi stiffens, her hand twisting around the strap of her satchel. Her stutter catches in her throat before she swallows it down.
Darla frowns at Asteria, her expression hardening. "That's not fair, Astie."
Asteria just shrugs, her lips set in a line. "It's true. She's always looking to the sea. Even after all this time."
Naomi forces herself to meet Asteria's gaze, her own eyes steady. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispers, her voice stronger than she expects. "I'm with you."
Asteria lifts an eyebrow but says nothing else, turning away to scan the market ahead. The moment lingers before Deema lets out a laugh, waving her half-eaten tart in the air. "Maybe we should buy Nomi a telescope, just in case! That way, she can see every ship from the air to the moon."
Alvina leans closer to Naomi, her voice soft and reassuring. "Ignore her. She's just sour because she's the tallest now."
Naomi exhales slowly, the knot of tension easing from her shoulders. She lets herself smile again as they pass a flower stall, the petals glowing bright in the morning sun. Her eyes flick one last time toward the distant water, but when she looks back at her sisters, she finds herself exactly she wants to be.
The hours drift gently, the market growing brighter and louder as the sun crests its highest point. The shadows slip away from the edges of the square, replaced by a thick golden light that sharpens the outlines of every awning and cobblestone. Naomi's family moves as a single, shifting cluster among the bustle, their arms now filled with wildflowers and bags of fresh bread, the spoils of the day multiplying with each pass through the square.
Just as the bells ring out from the chapel near the docks, Lukarius finds them. He appears with little warning, his broad frame parting the crowd with ease, a canvas bag hanging from each hand, a sly smile against his dark beard. His arms are laden with sweets wrapped in wax paper—honeyed nuts, little pastries, sticky plum tarts still warm from a backers oven.
Each niece receives a treat, a gentle tousle of hair or a wink, and his laughter rolls out, deep and content. Darla and Deema both clamour for the warmest tart. Alvina thanks him with a soft grin, while Asteria rolls her eyes but cannot entirely hide her pleasure as she bites into a crisp biscuit. Naomi receives her last, murmuring her thanks as she takes a delicate bite, savouring the burst of sweetness against her tongue.
Lukarius stands beside her, their calm conversation weaving through sights and sounds of the square. Naomi feels settled, anchored in the bright chaos of her family. She's halfway through a story about the bird's nest she found in the garden that morning when a movement by the market's edge pulls her gaze away.
For a moment, she blinks, thinking she must be mistaken, but the man standing just beyond the press of vendors is too familiar to be anyone else.
He stands out even in the crowd. Jareth has always been easy to spot—his size alone would draw eyes—but there is something more to him now. His hair is longer, falling in heavy, sun-faded waves past his shoulders, with streaks of pale grey at the tips as though the sea itself has left its touch. His beard is a deep, dark red, thick and untrimmed, framing his face and jaw in wild, coarse lines. He stands straighter than she remembers, his posture of someone who has grown used to command.
Even from this distance, there's a weight to him; a presence she can feel in her bones.
Naomi stops speaking mid-sentence. The sweet nearly slips from her fingers. Lukarius follows her gaze and catches the silent exchange that passes in the moment that follows. Jareth's eyes have found her, and though it barely lasts more than a breath, Lukarius notices the way both of their pupils widen, a quiet startle, recognition blooming across the distance.
Naomi's breath catches. It is as if her heart has skipped a beat and then stumbles back into motion. The world narrows. Everything blurs and falls away, even the noise of her siblings and the marketplace receding to a low thrum. She steps forward, uncertain at first, her sandals scraping against the cobblestones. She only means to move a little closer, but her feet take her further, following the pull she's tried to ignore for three long years.
"Jareth?" she asks, her voice barely above the hum of the crowd, as if she's not quite sure he's real. Her head tilts, eyes searching his face for every detail she remembers and every new thing the years have written there. Her ears flick, a nervous habit she's never managed to lose, the gesture quick and delicate.
He stands still, meeting her gaze without a flicker of surprise. If his heart leaps in his chest, nothing in his face betrays it. Jareth holds himself with the calm reassurance of a captain, his jaw set, his hands resting at his sides. The crowd shifts around them, but he is immoveable, a stone in the stream.
She takes another step, the space between them shrinking. She says, quieter this time, "You're back?" It is both a question and a truth she's afraid to hope for.
Jareth's eyes sweep over her, taking in her violet dress, her small frame, her braided hair as he remembers. He feels a strange pang, a mix of relief and regret. He forces himself to answer the same steady reserve he's learned to wield on deck. "Aye," he says, voice rough as ever, coloured by the salt air and years at sea. "We made port this morning. I was just—looking for supplies." He stops there, not trusting himself to say more. He can't let her see how hard it is to stand here, holding back everything that rises up inside of him.
Naomi nods, searching his face for something she can't name. Her family's voices begin to catch up, and she glances over her shoulder, her eyes darting to her father. He stands a little ways behind, watching with the cautious, quiet protectiveness she's always known. She gives him a silent, pleading look, a small tilt of her head. For a moment, Aven's brow furrows, but Lukarius steps in, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder and murmuring a reassurance Naomi cannot hear.
With a reluctant, fatherly sigh, Aven nods once. And Naomi smiles her thanks and slips away from her family, weaving through the crowd toward Jareth. She is aware of Asteria's sharp gaze on her back, the flicker of annoyance clear even without words, but she keeps her eyes forward.
She stands in front of him, close enough to see every single detail, the shadows in his beard, the scars time has left at the corners of his eyes, the deep, wary blue of his gaze. For a moment, Naomi forgets herself, and all she can do is smile—small, uncertain, but real.
"Are you… looking for something in particular?" she asks, her voice softer now, coloured by hope and nerves.
Jareth looks down at her, the old gruffness in his posture, but his words are more careful, weighted and chosen. "Just supplies. Maybe some quiet." His mouth quirks with the ghost of a smile, almost hidden beneath the beard.
She nods, her heart beating too fast. "If you need anything, I could show you around. If you'd like." The offer is shy, the uncertainty plain in her eyes.
Jareth gives a slow nod, his gaze never leaving hers. "Aye. I'd like that."
The day unfolds with a peaceful rhythm, the kind that sneaks past without warning. Naomi and Jareth walk the winding lanes of Tarith's Crossing, slipping away from the marketplace's bustle into quieter corners of the town. Naomi leads, pointing out the apothecary with its shelves of dried roots, the bakery with loaves cooling in the window, the small, shaded square where musicians sometimes gather. Jareth keeps pace beside her, towering above, but somehow matching her gentle steps with surprising care.
They move through the crowds, trading small talk that grows less awkward with each passing hour. Naomi carries herself lightly, always half-turned toward him, as if expecting him to vanish if she looks away for too long. There is a kind of quickness to her movements, the way she ducks between vendors, how her sandals scuff along the stones—Jareth finds himself watching her with a private amusement. She is delicate as a sparrow, darting and graceful, her hands expressive when she speaks, her laughter quiet but unguarded when he says something unexpected.
He lets her lead for much of the afternoon, offering small stories for her shy questions. When she asks how he has been, he shrugs, trying to play it off, but her steady gaze draws more out of him than he expects.
"I've been at sea, mostly," he says, his voice low and rough, "Seen my share of storms. Lost a mast to a waterspout once. Had a leviathan chase us all the way to the ice lands. Picked up a cargo of glass from the southern cities, ended up with nothing but sand after a deckhand dropped the crate." He pauses, a half-smile tugging beneath his beard. "Borin made me clean every last grain out of the hold myself. Said it's teach me not to trust a Dwarf with butterfingers."
Naomi laughs, the sound light and genuine. "Sounds… exciting. And a little terrifying."
He shrugs again, glancing down at her with something like fondness. "You get used to it. Sea's the same everywhere—cold, hungry, always ready to remind you how small you are." His eyes catch hers for a heartbeat. "But I'm captain now. Borin stepped back. The Rose is mine to mind, for better or worse."
There is pride in his voice, but also a weight. Naomi listens, attentive, her brow furrowing as she absorbs the gravity of his words. She asks about the ship—what it's like, how it feels to be in charge, if he ever worries about the men under him. Jareth answers as best he can, describing the ship's creaking timbers, the way the hull talks back in a gale, the endless balancing of rations, morale, and gold. He tells her about Vak, the Noctari helmsman never smiles but always finds the wind, about Gorran, who could wrestle a shark for fun, and about the quiet nights when the stars crowd the sky so thick you feel you're drifting through another world.
Naomi listens with wide eyes, her questions never forced, always curious. She tells him a little about her own life, about her family's small joys and worries, about her father's garden and her mother's gentle rules. Her voice grows stronger with each story, the old shyness giving way to warmth as the day stretches on.
They stop at the dockside stall for a spiced cider as the sun begins to set, sharing the drink and letting the conversation drift. Jareth finds himself noticing the way the fading light glimmers in her hair, the way her wings, folded close, seems to shimmer with the last blush of dusk. He never says so aloud, but he cannot help thinking how small she seems beside him, how she flits around a sparrow in sunlight. It is—he grudgingly admits to himself—almost unbearably endearing.
Hours passed without either of them noticing. Naomi finds herself wishing the day would never end, surprised by how easily she falls into step beside them, how much she misses his stories when he grows quiet. She wants to ask more, to keep him here for a little longer, but soon the town's lamps are being lit and the market begins to shutter for the night.
It is well past dusk when Jareth finally needs to return to the docks. The Sunlit Rose is ready to sail again, her crew gathering supplies and preparing for another night at sea. Naomi walks with him to the edge of the quay, her hands clasped before her, the breeze tugging gently at her dress and braids. Jareth is silent, watching the last sliver of daylight sink into the horizon, the ship looming large behind him.
Naomi knows she has to say goodbye. They stand there, two figures outlined by lamplight, the sounds of the quiet town muffled by the thickening mist.
Jareth breaks the quiet first. "Thank you, Naomi," he says, voice softer now, carrying the weight of things he can't name. "For the company, for showing me 'round. Been a while since I felt… welcome, anywhere."
Naomi shakes her head, smiling up at him with shy warmth. "It was nothing, really. I was glad to help. I…" Her words falter for a heartbeat, she looks as though she might simply turn and leave. Instead, she gathers herself, stepping forward. She looks at him, searching his face for a sign, then—without warning—throws her arms gently around him.
Jareth tenses for a moment, then relaxes, careful not to crush her in the circle of his arms. Naomi hugs him tightly, her cheek pressed to the rough fabric of his coat. She smells the salt and the sun of his life at sea, the faint trace of spice and smoke that clings to him.
"Thank you for coming back," she whispers, her voice trembling with a truth she has kept to herself for years. "It was… good to see you again. I'm glad I could say goodbye this time. Properly."
She steps back, her face flushed, her eyes glistening. Jareth looks down at her, his usual reserve softening. "Aye," he murmurs, barely above a whisper. "Properly, this time."
They linger, neither wanting to be the first to walk away, but finally, Naomi gives a nervous little wave and turns, heading back toward the lights of the town. Jareth stands a moment longer, watching her disappear into the night. Only when she is gone does he turn back to his ship, the warmth of her farewell lingering with him long after he has left the shore behind.
Naomi hesitates at the threshold, her hand lingering on the door, searching for the familiar warmth inside her home. The house is unusually quiet, every window dark except for a single, faint glow in the main room. She pushes the door open with her foot and steps inside, the old wood creaking softly beneath her sandals. The silence feels thick, unsettling after the brightness of her day.
Asteria sits by the cold hearth, long legs tucked beneath her as she skims through a book Naomi does not recognise. Her older sister does not look up as she answers, but there is a tension in the set of her shoulders, a deliberate stiffness that Naomi cannot miss.
Naomi slips off her sandals and lets out a small, tentative sound. "Where is everyone?" she asks, her voice gentle, careful not to shatter the stillness too suddenly.
Asteria flips another page, her jaw tight. "They went out for dinner," she replies, her tone clipped, "Said It was best you weren't there, since big crowds make you nervous." Her eyes finally lift, sharp in the dim light. "They left early, in case you wanted to spend time with your… friend."
Naomi absorbs the words, her heart sinking. She had not minded missing a meal in a busy inn—she knows her own limits—but there's something pointed in Asteria's tone that leaves her uneasy. She frowns, setting her bag down by the door. "I didn't ask them to… to do that," she says quietly. "I thought I was doing what everyone wanted I… thought I was helping."
Asteria closes the book with a snap. "You're always doing what you think everyone wants," she spits out, voice rising, "but you never stop to think about the rest of us. Or me." There's a flicker of hurt beneath her eyes, though she does her best to hide it under irritation.
Naomi feels a sting at her sister's words. "You're here," she points out, stepping closer. "Why aren't you w… with them?"
Asteria stands, folding her arms across her chest. "I didn't feel like celebrating after you ran off without a word," she snaps. "You left us all standing there, chasing after a man you barely know."
The accusation lands heavy, heavier than Naomi expects. She draws herself up, anger flickering behind her eyes for the first time in a long while. "You told me I needed to get out. To be braver. Now you're angry because I did? You can't keep deciding what's right for me, Calyndra."
The older sister's lips twist. "I'm not angry you left. I'm angry you never said anything. That you don't tell me what's really going on. Do you think I wouldn't understand? Or do you just not fucking trust me?"
Naomi feels her own voice growing sharper. "Every time I try to talk to you, you shut me down. I mention a man and you always—" Her voice cracks, but she pushes through, her words tumbling out. "You always bring up what happened in Hollowwake. Like it's a curse I have to wear forever. Like I can't have friends, or talk to someone new."
Asteria's face hardens, and for a moment, Naomi sees the eldest sister she's always tried to please, the one whose approval she has chased for years. "You can't be friends with strangers," Asteria says, voice cold. "You don't know what they'll do, Elora. You never think it through. That's why things happen to you—because you trust too easily."
Naomi's breath comes quicker, her chest tightening. She hates this, hates how easily Asteria's words make her shrink. But tonight, the memory of Jareth's calm presence and the quiet pride in his voice, gives her courage she didn't know she had.
"I… I'm not a child," Naomi says, her voice trembling but steady. "You can't keep holding that over my head. I made a mistake, but that doesn't mean I don't get to live my life. Do you want me to hide from everyone forever? Is that what you want for me?"
Asteria's eyes narrow, and the pulse of blue-violet flickers at her fingertips, her magic rising, unbidden, in a wave of anger. "I want you to stop making everything so difficult for this family. I want you to think about someone besides yourself."
Naomi's own magic flares in response, shimmering at her wrists, the air between them thickening with barely controlled energy. "I think about all of you. I'm tired of trying to guess will make you happy. I thought if I was quiet, if I did what you wanted, maybe you'd be proud of me." Her voice grows smaller, more wounded. "B… but nothing I do is ever enough, is it?"
For a heartbeat, neither sister speaks, the room charged with the tension of her magic. The air hums, faint blue sparks jumping between their fingertips, the shadows shifting with every unspoken word.
Asteria is the first to turn away, her jaw clenched tight. "Maybe you should just ask your silly little god to fix things for you," she bites out, the words sharp as broken glass. "Why don't you have him sweep you off to your pirate, since you seem to think you know everything now?"
The words land with a force Naomi doesn't expect, pain blooming in her chest. She opens her mouth, wanting to shout back, to tell Asteria that she never asked for this, that she only ever wanted to belong. But the fight leaves her, dissolving into a brittle silence.
Naomi stands frozen at the foot of the stairs, shoulders trembling, her head bowed as Asteria's words echo in the dark. The air in the room still tingles faintly with the charge of their magic, but the fight is over. Naomi's voice, too soft to be heard, slips out in Slyvh'an, the old language catching on the edges of her breath like a prayer half-remembered. She hugs herself tighter, wishing for the ache in her chest would dull.
She turns and climbs the steps, moving slowly, afraid her legs might give out beneath her. Each stair creaks in protests, but Naomi is careful, making herself small, wishing she could melt into the walls., When she reaches her room, she slips inside and shuts the door. She locks it, the old latch clicking with a finality that makes her flinch.
Behind the safety of her door, the tears come quickly, hot and silent. She sinks into her bed, curling around a pillow, her sobs muffled against the faded linen. He cries for a long time—until her throat is raw and her eyes sting, until even the pain seems to tire of itself. She listens as the house settles, the old boards shifting under the weight of the night. Sometime later, she hears Asteria leave, the front door closing behind her, footsteps fading into the quiet night. Naomi presses her hand to her heart, feeling the hollow place left by the fight, a wound that refuses to close.
For a while, she does nothing but lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the patterns of moonlight as they shift across the beams. But Asteria's last words will not leave her. The thought of Oses—her silly little god, as Asteria spat—returns again and again, winding through her mind like a thorny vine. She wants to be angry, to swear off every prayer she has ever whispered, but something in her refuses to let go.
Instead, she sits up, brushing away tears with the heel of her hand.
On the small table beside her bed sits a thin, battered prayer book, its cover soft from years of use. She hesitates, staring at it, wondering if she truly wants to open that door. But her hands move almost on their own accord, pulling the book into the lap. She slips through the pages, searching for the old prayers, the ones she has read a hundred times, searching for something—anything—that promises a reply.
Her fingers find a page near the back, words written in delicate Slyvh'an script. Naomi traces them with a trembling finger, her breath catching as she reads the invocation meant to summon Oses himself. The words are ancient, older than her mother's stories, and she whispers them aloud, her voice barely more than a breath.
"Osyraen, sirae thalen selyth, yl thael ven osira."
(Oses, turn your gaze upon me, for I am seeking your path.)
She waits. At first, there is only silence. Naomi's shoulders sag in disappointment, embarrassment threatening to swallow her whole. She presses her face into her hands, feeling foolish for hoping that the gods would care about her, even for a moment.
But then the air in her room shifts. A faint glow flickers at the edge of her vision, gold and warm, not like the moonlight but something richer, deeper. Naomi lifts her head, blinking through the last of her tears. The space before her bed shimmers, light gathering like a spun thread, the scent of old parchment and honey drifts through the room.
A tall figure appears, woven together from strands of living gold. Oses stands before her, taller than any mortal, his eyes bright with mischief and understanding. The golden threads of his hair and cloak seem to move with a life of their own, shifting and curling around him. He regard Naomi with a gentle, knowing smile, one eyebrow raised as if he's been waiting for her all along.
"Well," Oses says, his voice a melody played just for her. "You called, and here I am. What trouble could be weighing on your mind tonight, my little fae?"
Naomi's heart stammers in her chest. For a long moment, she cannot find her voice. She can only stare, her lips parted in astonishment. After everything—after the pain, the fight, years of prayers that went unanswered—here he is.
Naomi sits on the edge of her bed, the prayer boom clutched tightly in her hands, the weight of the old wounds settling in her chest. The golden glow from Oses fills the room with gentle warmth, catching on the old curtains, pooling in the quiet corners. For a moment, she almost forgets why she called him; almost forgets the ache in her heart, the bitter words that still ring her ears.
She lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes red-rimmed but steady. There's a hush in her voice, quieter than ever, so soft it almost in the space between them. "I… I was wondering, if you could—" she hesitates, looking down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. "If you could put me on Jareth's ship. Just for a while. I—" She swallows, her voice trembling. "I think maybe… my family would be better off if I wasn't here. Just for a little while. I—I just want to disappear for a bit. I think it would be easier for anyone."
She waits for laughter, or disappointment, or some sharp remark, but Oses only tilts his head, considering her. The golden thread shift and ripple across his shoulders, and his eyes, as bright as old coins, take on a strange depth.
He folds his arm, looking thoughtful. "You know, little fae, you should remember how fate works. I can nudge things alone, but I can't promise you'll stay in Jareth's life forever. That's not how the pattern is meant to be. You can't cut yourself from tapestry and tie yourself from another, not without a price. Even I can't predict every knot." He smiles, a hint of kindness in his expression. "But I'm feeling generous tonight."
Naomi's breath trembles as she nods, her voice so small it barely rises above a whisper. "I—I know. I know you can't make things perfect. I just… I just need to go. Even if it's only for a little while. I don't care if—"
Before she can finish, Oses lifts his hand. The light in the room seems to bend, the edges softening and blurring. He clicks his fingers, a bright, sharp sound that rings in Naomi's ears. In an instant, the warmth of her room vanishes, the scent of her home replaced by salt, cold and darkness.
There is no time to cry out, no time to reach for the bed or call for him to wait. One moment, she is sitting in the golden glow of her prayer, and the next, everything is gone.
The book slips out from her hand, landing quietly on the floor, the pages fluttering in the sudden absence. The quiet fills the house once more, nothing but moonlight and the slow, steady tick of the old clock in the hall.