The days slip by on the Sunlit Rose, each one marked by a new hush in the air. It's an odd sort of quiet, the kind that settles into the boards and lines, turning the chaos of a pirate ship into something softer at the edges. Most of the crew are too slow to notice, but for a man accustomed to feeling every shift of wind and mood, the difference is as clear as sunrise on the open water. Naomi's presence lingers in the small changes, and though Jareth will never admit it aloud, things feel less jagged with her around.
Mornings begin the same as always: boots hit the deck, voices echo up from the hold, and the tang of salt stings every cut and callus. Orders bark out sharp and short, and the world falls into its familiar rhythm. Yet there's a new thread waving through the routine, one that's grown only more obvious since that night beneath the stars, when he called her 'little dove' and let his guard down for the briefest moment. The nickname lingers between them—never spoken in front of crew, never teased—but when she looks up at him with those wide, startled eyes, he knows she remembers. The softness in her gaze is enough to keep his temper in check, more often than not.
In the early light, he finds himself watching her without meaning to. Some mornings she's quick with a greeting, her smile a shy flicker before she disappears into the business of the day. Other times, she's already busy with the quiet chores he's assigned her: checking the storeroom inventory with Thorn, tending to the small garden of herbs that clings to life in the galley's window, or fetching fresh water for the officers' table before the midday meal. He's made sure they're simple tasks, but each one serves a purpose. She needs something to anchor her, to give her a place aboard his ship, and these small routines offer that much, at least.
Sometimes he spots her in the shadows of the quarterdeck, listening intently as Borin lectures a pair of rookies on knotwork. The old Bramling is patient with her, more patient than he is with most, and Jareth feels a small, unreasonable surge of gratitude. There are times he catches her watching the crew at their games of dice or cards, her curiosity plain even when she tries to hide it. On rare occasions, he'll catch her at the rail during the sunset, face turned toward the wind, her wings lit gold by the dying sun.
Not once does he push her toward heavier work. Naomi's not meant for swinging the mainsail or manhandling crates twice her size. Instead, he trusts her with tasks that matter in quieter ways; taking notes during meetings when the language turns thick with dialect, helping with the accounts, mending torn maps, translating letters from half a dozen tongues. She has a mind for languages, and he's half convinced she could charm the salt out of the sea if she put her mind to it. Sometimes he catches her nose buried in one of the books he brought back from Ravnor's Crossing, the little collection that's grown into a small tower beside her cot.
The ship's library is something he'd nearly forgotten existed—a cramped alcove just below the main deck, stuffed with old sea logs, battered bestiaries, and ledgers nobody's touched in a decade. Now, the place has found new life. Books vanish and reappear in her wake, always in better order than they were before.
There's a peace in watching her settle, even if the rest of the crew hasn't noticed. Naomi still startles when voices rise, still keeps her back to the wall at mealtime, but there's less fear now, less of that haunted look. He sees her shoulders relaxing, the old anxiety ebbing, replaced by a steadier calm he can't quite name. She's finding her footing on the Sunlit Rose, step by slow step. Every day she proves herself: sometimes in small ways no one notices, sometimes in ways that draw an approving nod from Borin or even a rare word of praise from Thorn.
In those moments, he catches himself wanting to believe she really is part of the crew. It's not a feeling he's used to—not for strangers, and certainly not for fae—but he's learning to accept it, the same way he's learned to accept the old aches in his bones or the call of the tide. There's something right about having her here, and though he'll never voice it, he suspects the ship feels it too.
The morning rolls onward, each hour thick with the scent of brine and old tar, as Jareth moves across the deck of the Sunlit Rose. His boots thump in a steady rhythm, the cadence as much a warning as a comfort. Around him, the ship's pulse thrums with the work of hands and voices; each one familiar, each one belonging to a world that's built itself from a thousand odd pieces, none quite matching each but all holding fast.
A half-dozen figures are clustered near the starboard rail. He pauses, issuing curt orders with a flick of his hand and a sharp glance: "Dralin, those crates aren't going to stow themselves. Take Bram and Hekkan with you, and watch the weight on the far side." The first is a Dragonborn, scales as dark as river-stone, moving with a languid assurance that belies the brute strength in his arms. Bram, a Gnome with copper skin and a stock of white hair, tips his cap and darts off, quick as a rat between barrels. Hekkan, all broad shoulders and narrow eyes—half orc by the looks of him—lumbers after, muttering curses under his breath.
Near the rigging, two more men wrestle with a tangled length of line. The taller, an Aeravi, with dun-coloured feathers, lets out a series of clipped, irritated clicks as the wind snatches the rope. His partner, a quiet Thamuran, steadies the line with trunk and hand, patience written in every slow blink of his eyes.
Everywhere he looks, the ship is alive: men climbing, carrying, shouting, sweating. Each crewman moves with purpose. Jareth keeps his gaze sharp, noting who lags, who struggles, who needs a boot to get moving, and who might just need a word.
A flicker of movement catches his eye. Down the length of the main deck, an unexpected sight glides into view. It isn't the usual chaos of boots or barrels—rather. It's a precarious tower of books, moving at a pace that can only mean trouble. The stack wobbles with each roll of the ship, and for a split second, he wonders if some mischievous spirit has taken residence aboard the Sunlit Rose.
He strides forward, weaving between a pair of Scarthborn sailors mid-argument, his attention fixed on the danger in motion. A soft noise escapes him; a mix between a sigh and a growl. He plants himself squarely in Naomi's path. Both hands settle on the stack, halting its progress with careful, practiced ease. His expression is all captain's command: solid, unsmiling, the kind that books no nonsense, but the worry in his eyes is impossible to miss.
"Lass." The word comes out softer than it might have if spoken to anyone else. His brow arches, gaze moving from the books to her face. "That's a hell of a lot of reading for one morning. Plannin' to start a library of your own?" He tilts his head, the question gentle but edged with concern. "Or are you fixin' to see how many of these you can drop on the crew before noon?"
The look Naomi gives him—wide-eyed, earnest, with a hint of a smile trembling at the corners of her mouth—warns him he's stumbled into dangerous territory. She shifts her grip; the books threatening to topple over as she glances up. "I-I'm so glad you asked!" Her words tumble out, a stutter barely holding her excitement. D…do you remember the other day when I used your beard hairs to… you know, wrap you up in vines?"
A grunt escapes him, grudging acknowledgement flickering in his eyes. "Aye. Don't remind me. My jaw's still sore."
She presses on, cheeks flushed, too intent on her thoughts to notice his mock irritation. "W-Well, before that, I tried to work with the mast. I know it's dead, but when I reached out… I felt something. Not alive, but not gone, either. Like a… like a ghost, or a memory. I don't know what it was." Her fingers tap nervously against the cover of the topmost book. "I wanted to understand, so I started looking for anything that might explain it. And, um, that's why I need all these."
For a moment, the wind catches the edge of a page, fluttering it open to an old diagram of root systems, annotated in careful, spidery script. Jareth studies her, taking in the determined set in her jaw and the stubborn hope in her eyes. He almost smiles, though he buries it under the weight of his captain's mask.
"A ghost in the wood, is it?" His tone rough, but not unkind. "You fae and your mysteries." His gaze lingers a heartbeat longer, the line of his mouth softening as he scans the stack again. "Alright, lass. But don't go breaking your back… or anyone else's. Next time, ask one of the men to help. That's what they're here for. And if you find the answer to what you felt, you tell me. The Rose has enough ghosts as it is."
The ship rocks beneath them, the books swaying between their hands. Jareth gently steadies the pile, watching her with something dangerously close to fondness. The deck hums with life all around them, crew calling, laughing, and cursing the day's work, but here amidst the thread of falling books and questions with no easy answers, a new understanding grows as quiet and persistent as roots twisting through old timber.
He steps aside at last, releasing the stuck with a nod. "Go on then, dove. Just don't start any hauntings I can't finish." The words are gruff, meant for her ears alone, but a hint of a smile lingers at his eyes as she slips past, books clutched tight to the chest, her resolve stronger than ever.
The sun finds its way across the deck, slanting golden between the rigging and the warming curve of an old barrel perched beside the mainmast. Here, away from the bustle and shouting, Naomi settles herself, curling one leg beneath her and letting the other dangle above the creaking boards. A battered book sits in her lap, its pages worn soft at the edges and marked by a dozen careful hands before her own. The quiet murmur of men working fades behind her, lost to the hush that comes with words on paper and the slow, steady pulse of discovery.
A gust stirs the edge of her braid as she reads, fingers pressed into the hollow of the book's spine. The passage before her holds her rapt, every sentence a puzzling piece slotting into place within her mind:
"All living things hold memory, and so too does those shaped by loving hands. When a tree is felled, the heartwood may slumber, but the memory of sunlight, rain, and those who cherished it linger on. The soul of such a thing—call it a spirit or echo—can be awakened by care, reverence, or the gentle coaxing of magic. So it is that a staff, a mast, or a cherished family table may answer the call of the right heart."
A line of script runs beneath, added in a different ink by some long-ago scholar:
"Dead is a word for things abandoned. Loved things remember."
She reads this twice, three times, each repetition deepening her understanding and stirring the memory of her failed magic on the mast. At first, she held only emptiness, a silence where she'd expected the vibrant hum of nature's pulse.
Another section draws her attention:
"The most skilled fae and druidic hands have long whispered to these echoes. To rouse a spirit from slumber is not to restore life as it once was, but to kindle a bond—partnership between the memory of what once grew and the living soul who calls to it. Such magic is rare, for it asks patience, gentleness, and understanding. To force the slumbering wood is to shatter it forever. To coax, to tend, to honour its memory: these may awaken something new."
Her brows furrow as she drinks in the wisdom, heart racing with both excitement and frustration. No wonder her attempts with the mast failed; she'd reached for life and only found memory. She hadn't known to ask, to listen, to offer care instead of command. For a moment, her mind drifts to her father's teachings: the way he'd shown her how to speak with river-stones, how to listen to the wind's stories in the trees. "Magic is a conversation," he'd told her. "You can't demand what isn't freely given."
A faded margin note written in neat, foreign script, catches her eye:
"Heirlooms, relics, ship's wheels, old lutes; these hold more than the sum of their parts. Many a blade or a bow has spared a last favour for a loving owner, but only for those who offer memory in return. Treat nothing as dead; wonder what sleeps beneath."
She sits back, the barrel rocking ever so slightly beneath her. The words settle in her chest, heavy and hopeful all at once. The mast of the Sunlit Rose is not alive as a growing tree, but perhaps, because it's been cared for, climbed, mended, even cursed, and blessed in equal measure… maybe it holds a sliver of something more.
Her thumb traces a soft groove in the page, feeling the indent left by a quill centuries ago. Determination wells within her. There is more to learn, more to practice, but the path is clearer now. Next time she reaches for her magic, she will do so gently, listening not just to the rush of sap or the call of living roots, but for the faint, persistent echo of memory.
Across the deck, the sun glimmers on the taut lines and sun-bleached canvas. Naomi hovers above the barrel, her mind turning over every scrap of lore and memory pressed between the pages she's just read. The notion that the Sunlit Rose carries not just the weight of wood and sail, but something more—an echo of all who've called her home—leaves her restless and curious. To understand this magic, she must first understand the ship's heart, its legacy, and the line of hands that have kept it alive.
Her gaze sweeps the deck, seeking Borin's sturdy figure, but the Bramling is nowhere to be seen. The thought brings a flicker of disappointment, but she pushes it aside. Her eyes drift near the quarterdeck, where an Aeravi stands, a tall figure easily head and shoulders above most. He moves with the careful precision of a raptor, dun-coloured feathers glossy and well-groomed. His taloned hands adjust a block and tackle as he surveys the surrounding work with a steady, almost mathematical patience. A glint of silver rings along the edge of one wing where a charm dangles; a token of luck, perhaps, or just old superstition. Naomi has never spoken to him before, but today, curiosity presses her forward.
Beside him, a Thamuran stands at the rail, immense and solid, his dusky grey hide marked by intricate carvings, each one telling its own story. A trunk as agile as a sailor's arm holds the thick line, coiling it with calm strength as his deep-set eyes follow the horizon. He hums a low, resonant sound rumbling in his chest, blending with the creak and groan of the ship.
Nerves tangle in her belly, but she presses on. "Uhm… sorry, w-we actually haven't m-met," she manages, hovering just above the deck, careful not to get too close to the lines or the Aeravi's sharp, careful work. "I'm N… Naomi. You probably already k-know that, though." A hesitant smile flickers on her laps, hoping for warmth and not the stares she's grown used to.
The Aeravi, who moves with that careful, quiet assurance unique to his kind, tilts his head, amber eyes sharp but not unkind. "Naomi," he echoes, his voice smooth and melodic, with a soft accent curling around the syllables. "We've seen you, little wing. I am Tharuun." The way he speaks, each word measured and deliberate, as if he weighs every wound before letting it loose. He ruffles his feathers. The charm on his wing tinkling. "Borin is not on the deck. I think he's in the hold checking the casks and quarrelling with the quartermaster."
The Thamuran's ears fan outward in interest, trunk curling around the last coil of rope as he turns, his massive presence radiating a gentle, ponderous calm. "A pleasure, Naomi," he says, the words deep and rolling, like river-stones tumbling in a slow current. "Call me Ghaesh. I keep the lines and mind the weather when storms chase us." His eyes in a kind of smile. "The old Bramling grumbled about mouldy bread and leaking barrels… he's down below for certain, fussing like a nesting rook."
She hovers a little closer, emboldened by their easy manner. "Thank you. I just… I had something I wanted to ask him. It's about the ship, I think—well, it's about the mask, really. I–"
Ghaesh's laughter rumbles, low and warm. "Ask your questions, fae. The Rose keeps her secrets, but we all have stories." His trunk points toward the main hatch, encouragement wrapped in the gesture.
Tharuun, less given to open humour, studies her with a glint of amusement. "We watch, we listen. If you listen to the wood, you might learn more than Borin can tell." A feathered hand gestures to the deck beneath their feet, his eyes turning thoughtful. "A ship remembers its captains, and everyone leaves something behind. If you look closely, you'll see their marks; on the mast, on the rails, even in the knots and carvings. The Rose is older than most of us, and wiser by half."
Ghaesh shifts his weight, thick fingers adjusting the coil over his shoulder. "He's right. This old girl's seen a dozen of captain's since my first voyage. Some stay long; some, only a season. But Borin… he knows every inch. Ask if about the heartwood. He'll tell you if there's more to her than boards and pitch."
Naomi feels the knot of nerves untangle in her chest. Their acceptance is not loud, nor is it full of fanfare, but it's present, a subtle invitation, the kind that speaks of old trust and the slow magic of belonging. She nods, gratitude colouring her smile.
"I will, Thank you, both of you," she says, her voice steadier now. With a flutter of wings and a last glance of the two, she drifts off toward the main hatch.
In the dim corridors below deck, the air grows close and thick with the scents of pitch, salt, and aging wood. Footsteps creak over the beams above, but here the world is quieter, muffled by the heavy timbers and the constant slosh of the sea against the hull. Naomi's wings whisper as she glides downward, following the rise and fall of Borin's unmistakable grumbling. Somewhere nearby, the clink of casks and the low mutter of voices marks the heart of the ship's working spirit.
A lamp swings on a hook at the next turn, throwing amber light across the curved wood and the stacked barrels that line the hold. Shadows leap up, briefly catching the figures in half-profile; a web of work, patience, and small arguments echoing through the space. Near the far wall, Borin stands on a crate, arms folded, scowling at a younger crewman whose nervous energy betrays his experience. Beside him, Thalro, the Drow quartermaster, checks the ledger with careful, deliberate movements, his pale fingers tracing each entry while his silver eyes flick up with calculating precision.
Both men look up as Naomi approaches. Borin's face softens almost imperceptibly; the lines of age and worry etched into his features smoothing as he spots her. Thalro remains inscrutable, his expression revealing little, save for a faint tilt of his chin—a subtle mark of acknowledgment, but nothing more.
Passing just inside the lamplight, Naomi bows her head politely, wings folded tight at her back, the exhaustion of magic and questions still haunting the curve of her shoulders. "Borin, Thalro," she greets, her voice quiet but clear. "If it's not too much trouble… I was hoping to steal Borin away for a moment. There's… there's something I need to ask him. About the ship." The words come out steadier than she expects, buoyed by the need to understand the memory of the kindness she's been shown above.
Thalro's gaze lingers on her for a moment, sharp and appraising, as if weighing the request against his own mental tally of tasks. After a measured silence, he nods once, closing the ledger with a soft snap. "As you wish," he says, voice low and musical. "But bring him back before the barrels go missing. I need him to settle a dispute over the rye ration."
A flicker of amusement crosses Borin's face. He swings down from the crate, boots landing with a solid thump. "If they're arguing about rye, best to let 'em. Might settle the rest of the night's squabbles in one go." He jerks his head, signalling for Naomi to follow. "Come on, lass. Out of the way, yer scoundrels, give us a bit of air."
The younger crewman blinks at Naomi in open curiosity, but Thalro only steps back, melting into the shadows by the barrels as if he's always belonged there.
Borin leads her into a side corridor, the quiet growing thicker with each step from the bustle. Every plank underfoot creaks with its own memory, the wood whispering of old storms and quieter mornings, and Naomi falls in step beside him, her questions swirling like a mist between them.
Borin guides her further into the ship's quieter reaches, until the constant murmur of crew and sea fade into the soft, rhythmic creak of timber. Lanterns cast a muted, honey-coloured glow, painting shadows in shifting patterns across the walls. In this gentle light, Naomi can see the thoughtful lines etched deep into Borin's face, each a silent story. Her wings fold tightly as curiosity pushes words to the edge of her tongue, crowding against one another impatiently.
Once certain that the ship's hum and watchful eyes of the crew are safely behind them, Naomi lets her questions spill out, tumbling out with nervous haste. Her fingers twist anxiously in the fabric of her shirt.
"Borin, I… I need to ask you something," she begins softly, her voice barely louder than the creaking wood. "It's… about the Rose. I've felt something when I used my magic on the mast the other day. I don't really understand it, yet in one book I read, it says that objects made from natural things, like wood, aren't really dead. They remember things, feelings, echoes of how they were treated. And I–I just wondered when exactly the ship was built? And who captained it before you?"
At her last question, something flickers across Borin's features; a shadow that darkens the already deep lines around his eyes and mouth. His steps falter, feet coming to a slow halt, the sudden stop sending a quiet groan to the plants underfoot. Borin looks at her steadily, not quite suspicious, but guarded, as if considering how much truth to give her.
"Why's it matter, lass?" Borin's voice comes out gruffier than intended, the words shaped carefully, wary of opening old doors that are better left closed. "What's so important about who captained her before?"
Naomi draws in a careful breath, holding his gaze. "Because I've never felt something like this, Borin. T–there was… a presence when I reached out to the mast with my magic. Something there, something remembers. A–and if that book is right; if wood carries memories of its past… then knowing the history might help me understand it. Might help me c… connect with whatever I sensed."
The old Bramling exhales, a long breath that seems to carry the weight of countless unspoken memories. His gaze drops to the floorboards, to the wood scarred by decades of boots and storms, and Naomi waits quietly, sensing the hesitation swirling in him. Borin has always seemed unshakeable, a comforting presence against the wildness of the sea and sky; now she sees clearly how much he keeps locked away behind those steady eyes.
Finally, Borin speaks, voice quieter than before. "Aye, ye got a right ta know, especially if it'll help ye understand her." He clears his throat, squaring his shoulders as though bracing for the story. "Before me, the captain was a man called Valick. A right bastard of a man, fierce and cruel. He captained the Rose when she had a darker name: the Black Ghost."
Naomi's eyes widen slightly at the name, intrigue and unease mingling in her expression. "The Black Ghost?"
"Aye," Borin confirms with a bitter chuckle, deep and humourless. "She was a feared ship, under Valick. A ghost in truth, slidin' silent over waves at night, her black sails were like the wings of death himself. But the Rose, she weren't always that way."
His rough hand presses against the walls beside them, fingers tracing the weathered lines of wood gently, as if to soothe the ship's old hurts. "Long before Valick found her, the Rose was a proud navy ship of Durnhal, built centuries ago, back when the kingdom still ruled most o' Titania's western seas. That's why ye see oddities aboard; Those showers, fine quarters below the decks meant for officers. She was built strong, to last long after her makers were gone."
Naomi absorbs every word, following the invisible trail of Borin's memories, eager yet wary of the darker shadows still unspoken. "How did Valick come to have her, then?" She asks carefully, her voice soft and coaxing.
Borin sighs again, heavier this time, as if recalling it pains him deeply. "Valick found her broken, stranded on some nameless island. A fierce storm had torn her open, left her half-sunk and abandoned, or so he said. Any sensible captain would've left her to rot, but Valick weren't ever sensible. He saw strength in her bones, power in her timbers, and decided she was perfect for his needs. He rebuilt her, brought back ta life."
Naomi hesitates, already guessing at the rest but needing to hear it from his lips. "Was he the captain when Jareth joined?"
Borin's gaze darkens even further, pain edging at the corner of his eyes. "Aye. Jareth joined when he was young, younger than he ever should've. Valick wasn't kind ta lads like him, or any of the new crew. One wrong glance and he'd use the whip or worse ta teach his so-called discipline." His voice drops to a whisper, each word weighted with memory. "Valick ruled with fear and pain, never respect. That's the sort of captain he was."
"A–and the ship?" Naomi asks softly, the words almost hesitant, "Did he care for her at all?"
Borin shakes his head immediately. "Nay. He kept her afloat only because he needed her, never because he cared. It was me who kept the Rose seaworthy, me who patched her sails and stitched her timbers. I joined when I was barely more than a lad meself—just over a hundred, wide-eyed and reckless. But I saw her worth. I knew she deserved better. And so, After Valick… fell, it was me who reshaped her, me who stripped away her old name and her dark sails. Me who made sure she wouldn't be known as the Black Ghost any longer."
Naomi stares at him silently, the quiet power in his voice resonating deeply within her. "So you gave her the kindness she remembered."
Borin nods slowly, his expression easing slightly as he glances toward her. "Aye, I suppose I did, lass. She's more than wood and sails. She's got a spirit, a soul, as real as any sailor aboard. Treat her right, care for her, and she'll never let ye down."
Naomi's fingers brush against the plants gently. "Thank you, Borin," she whispers earnestly, eyes filled with newfound respect and understanding. "This helps more than you could know."
Borin glances up at her, with a quiet pride on his weary face. "Good. Yer not wrong, lass; objects like ships, they remember. They carry stories in their bones, in their timbers. They feel the hands that shaped 'em, the feet that walked their decks." He offers her a soft smile. "And maybe, yer the first ta listen closely enough to hear 'em."
The old Bramling straightens, glancing back down the hallway with a grunt. "Now, lass, I've got ta return before Thalro think I've vanished fer good. But ye—keep listenin', keep learnin'. The Rose has plenty of secrets for those willing ta listen." He pats the wood affectionately, then turns slowly back toward the crew's noise and life, leaving Naomi alone in thoughtful silence.
Watching Borin's broad shoulders back down the dim corridor, Naomi feels a renewed spark of determination ignite in her chest. Perhaps she has been approaching the mystery from the wrong angle. It's clear now that history alone won't unlock the ship's secrets. The feeling she encountered in the mast is deeper than mere collection; it's something woven tightly into the very fabric of magic and the intangible connections binding all things together.
Realisation pulses through her: she's been searching in the wrong books.
She spins in the hallway, her wings stretching out in a swift, decisive motion. A burst of air lifts her into rapid flight, the sudden gust chasing dust from the old wooden planks beneath her as she darts down the narrow corridor. Through the ship's shadows she weaves, an elegant blue of blue and silver. Determination quickens her heartbeat, matching the rapid beating of her wings.
Arriving at the door of the ship's library, Naomi pauses just long enough to cast a wary glance around, half-expecting crewmen to emerge and scold her for disturbing the sacred quiet of old books. When no reprimand comes, she pushes the door open; the hinges creaking softly with age and disuse. Inside, the room feels like stepping into a forgotten realm: shelves crowded with tomes, scrolls yellowed and brittle, their bindings worn smooth from the touch of countless hands.
Scanning quickly, her mauve eyes catch sight of books she never expected to find here, given the crew's notorious mistrust of magic. With deft hands, she selects several promising titles, building a stack precariously high. Her heart quickens at the possibilities held within their pages—perhaps among these hidden treasures lies the answer she needs.
With the books cradled securely, she takes to the air again, wings beating swiftly as she ascends. Wind whistles faintly in her ears as she darts up through the hatch onto the deck, the rush of air tugging at her hair and rustling the loose pages of the volumes she holds. Her heart pounds from both effort and excitement as she rises toward the crews nest; the solitary sanctuary high above the ship, where none can accuse her of being in the way.
Landing gracefully on the narrow platform, Naomi arranges the books around her, forming a careful half-circle of knowledge and potential. Settling comfortably with her wings neatly folded against her back, she lifts one of the heavier volumes into her lap, eyes tracing the faded, ornate cover:
Echoes Within the Timbers: A Treatise on Arcane Memory and Shipwright's Secrets, the gilded letters proudly declare.
Intrigued, her fingers tremble slightly with anticipation as she carefully lifts the heavy cover, the worn leather protesting with a muted creak. Her excitement, however, soon gives way to confusion, her breath catching sharply in her throat as her gaze falls upon the text within.
The words before her are bold, angular, and forceful. Heavy lines and sharp angles dance across the page, letters carved into the page like scars of ink and intent—Threnvarian script, the ancient tongue of the Thrundeli. The language of Jareth's bloodline, the kinship he rarely acknowledges aloud yet carries with unyielding pride.
Naomi's breath hitches in disappointment, frustration etching a gentle crease between her brows. She has always possessed an innate gift—one her father calls being Vellumborn, also known to scholars as Page-bound. Among the fae, such an ability is not rare; some, though they may falter in spoken tongues, find understanding in the written word. To be Vellumborn is to comprehend the poetry of letters and ink, absorbing meaning directly from parchment, even when the spoken equivalent remains foreign and unwieldy upon the tongue.
It's not something born into their bloodline; rather, it emerges naturally over years spent poring over countless texts, training the eyes and mind until written languages become second nature, as familiar as the breath and as comforting as home itself.
Yet Threnvarian, stubborn and proud, defies her gift. Her father could have taught her—he himself understands the Thrundeli runes as fluently as the ancient Elven tongues—but he never imagined Naomi would have any cause to use the language. He deemed it a language distant from their lives, an unnecessary addition to her already sprawling education. Now, facing the precise lines of Threnvarian text, Naomi feels regret pooling on her tongue.
The letters mock her, guarded behind walls of tradition and ancestral pride.
With a sigh, Naomi lets the book rest on her lap, gaze drifting absently down toward the deck below. There, unmistakable in posture and authority, stands Jareth. Her pulse quickens involuntarily at the thought of approaching him for help. She imagines his brows knitting together, the familiar crease of irritation or perhaps something gentler, at her audacity to ask him for help.
Heat rises gently to her cheeks, embarrassment mingling with her frustration. Can she truly approach him, book in hand, and express her ignorance? She pictures his reaction clearly; the rough rumble of his voice, the half-hidden smirk beneath the gruff reprimand, the subtle flash of pride that would show in his eyes at the chance to share his heritage.
The idea alone sends a fluttering warmth through her chest, confusing but strangely appealing.
Shaking herself from the thought with determined dignity, Naomi sets the Threnvarian text carefully aside, deciding not to ask just yet—not until she's exhausted all the other options. She carefully reaches for another book from her gathered pile. This one slimmer, born in worn green leather, the gold-etched title reading: Bound by Memories: How Ancient Wood Holds its Magic.
Flipping through the pages, Naomi releases a sigh of relief, muttering softly beneath her breath, "Why must these scholars always insist on using two different languages?" She scans the first few lines, relieved to find the text in flowing, familiar Sylvh'an script, the language of her people. Her shoulders relax slightly, tension easing as she settles comfortably back against the mast's sturdy support.
Carefully, she dives into the text, the graceful letters unfolding gently beneath her gaze:
"Though often mistaken for mere lifeless material, wood remembers. Each tree is alive long after it falls, carrying whispers of its growth within wings that mark passing years. But beyond this natural memory, magic itself leaves a deeper imprint. Objects, particularly those shaped by deliberate care, reverence, or cruelty, keep echoes of their treatment. A ship built lovingly remembers calm seas and kind hands, sailing true even in storms. Yet a vessel moulded by suffering, violence, and neglect may harbour shadows and discontent, memories heavy as Iron chains…"
The passage resonates deeply, sending a soft chill over Naomi's skin, her fingers tightening around the edges of the leather-bound volume. Her heartbeat quickens with newfound certainty—this, at last, is the truth she had glimpsed when her magic brushed against the Rose's mast.
The ship, like its timber, remembers.
With renewed determination, Naomi huddles deeper into the crow's nest, letting the words pull her further into understanding. Around her, wind whispers through rigging, sails creak gently, and below, life on the Sunlit Rowe continues, unaware of the secrets unfolding in ink and paper above.
Without warning, the Sunlit Rose lurches sharply forward, shuddering as though some great hand beneath the ocean has grabbed her keel and given a violent tug. The sudden motion sends Naomi sprawling sideways against the rough wood of the crow's nest railing. Her startled cry is swallowed by the wind. Instinctively, her wings snap wide open, steadying her just before she tumbles from her perch.
Yet she can't spare a moment of relief—for all around her, the carefully stacked books spill outwards in a cascade, leather-bound pages fluttering helplessly in the salty breeze. With desperate hands, Naomi lunges forward, grasping only a single book mid-air, clutching it to her chest as the others plummet over the edge of the crow's nest.
Far below, Jareth strides purposely across the deck, heavy boots echoing against sun-warmed timbers, unaware of the imminent chaos descending far above. One moment, he's fully absorbing the familiar rhythm of the ship, giving a sharp nod to a nearby crewman, and the next, the sky itself seems to rain literature.
A heavy, leather-bound volume strikes his broad shoulder first; the unexpected blow nearly buckling his knees with surprise. He stumbles sideways, cursing beneath his breath. Before he can gather his bearings, another book smacks his books with a dull thump, followed closely by another grazing past his elbow.
"For the love of all that's cursed!" Jareth growls sharply, jerking his head upward to glare accusingly at the crow's nest, his deep-set eyes flaring with irritation. High above, Naomi shrinks into herself, wincing visibly beneath the weight of his piercing gaze.
Anger boils beneath Jareth's skin, not entirely directed at her yet sharp, borne from shock and wounded pride rather than true malice. "Bloody hell, Naomi!" he bellows harshly, voice booming like distant thunder across the open deck. "Have you taken complete leave of your bloody senses?! Of all the daft places to bury your nose in a damned book—the crow's nest? Really?"
He bends with sharp, irate movements, scooping up the fallen books with rough carelessness, jaw tense beneath the thick red beard. His fingers grip tightly around one volume, reading the title aloud with a scow: "Bound by Memories: How Ancient Wood Holds Its Magic." His eyes flash briefly to Naomi, disbelief clear in his expression. "Godlings below and above, lass, what exactly are you playin' at here?"
A pause stretches between them; heavy with unspoken reprimand. Naomi's stomach twists uncomfortably, her heart fluttering anxiously against her ribs. Clinging tightly to the crow's nest railing, she hesitates, her voice trembling slightly as she calls back down, "I-I didn't think—I mean, I didn't know—the ship moved suddenly and—"
His glower cuts off her hesitant stamper, impatience flickering darkly across his face as he drops another book in the crook of his arm. "No excuses, girl. Just get yourself down here now. And put these blasted times back where they belong, before they cause more problems, or worse yet; flatten poor Borin if he comes wanderin' by!"
Flushing hotly with shame, Naomi tucks the Threnvarian volume under one arm, gently lowers herself from the crow's nest, and descends on slow, reluctant wingbeats toward the waiting captain. Upon landing, she keeps her gaze fixed downward, her shoulders drawn inward in silent apology.
Jareth, however, offers her no reprieve; irritation and wounded pride still shimmer within him, tightening the lines around his mouth and brow. Thrusting the stack of recovered books unceremoniously into his arms, he grunts sharply. "Next time, if you've gotta fill your head with words, do it somewhere sensible like below deck, out of everyone's way. I can't have my crew watching the skies for fallin' bloody dictionaries while tryin' to run a ship."
The roughness of his voice deepens unknowingly, cutting sharper than he intends. To him, it feels justified; mere discipline necessary for maintaining order aboard his ship. Yet to Naomi, his words strike deep, bruising tender skin, leaving marks he doesn't notice.
"Godlings, it's hard enough keepin' you from trouble without havin' to dodge a library in freefall," he continues, shaking his head irritably. "This ship's no scholar's archive, lass. It's not a place for careless whims or childish curiosity. You'll do well to remember that."
The sting of his rebuke deepens, Naomi's fingers tightening painfully around the books. Her head bows lower, strands of black hair slipping free from her carefully woven braids to shield her face, hiding the pained wince his harsh words evoke. A lump swells tight in her throat, choking off any apology or explanation she might offer, the silence between them thickening until it seems almost tangible.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is a dismissive rumble: gruff, oblivious to the hurt it inflicts. "Go on. Take those below deck where they belong. And for godlings' sake, try keepin' your foot—or wings—on solid ground next time. Can't have you injurin' yourself or anyone else with your flighty fae nonsense."
He twists away from her, clearly thinking that the conversation is already finished. His attention already returning to the running of the ship. The crewmen wisely avert their eyes, focused suddenly on tasks requiring immediate attention, unwilling to be caught in the fallout of their captain's displeasure.
Left alone beneath the weight of his reprimand, Naomi holds the books tighter against her chest, breath shuddering softly as shame, embarrassment, and something deeper—an ache she can't name for the life of her—settle heavily into her bones. Her wings droop low behind her, bereft of their usual buoyant grace.
Blinking fiercely against the sting in her eyes, she murmurs softly beneath her breath, almost to herself. "Yes, Captain. I-I'll be more careful."
Her voice is quiet, swallowed by the wind, too soft perhaps for him to hear, but it doesn't matter. The coldness of his dismissal speaks loudly enough.
As she turns to descend below the decks, her feet feel leaden, each step harder than the last. The books in her arms seem to feel heavier, their weight pressing down not just on her arms, but on her very heart, laden with guilt and a bitter sense of inadequacy.
Behind her, Jareth stands tall and commanding once more, the stern captain of the Sunlit Rose, oblivious to the hurt left in his wake. To him, the moment is already fading, another minor inconvenience in the long, tiring day. But to Naomi, it lingers, raw and painful—a reminder of how little she belongs within this hardened world of wind and waves.
Naomi's not sure how long she remains hidden deep within the shadows of the ship's library. Seconds blend seamlessly into minutes, those minutes grow into hours; time loses its meaning as she curls herself against the worn wooden planks, nestled between towering shelves that smell of salt and old parchment. Her knees draw up against her chest, wings tucked against her trembling shoulders as she tries desperately to push back the ache that swells behind her ribs.
Jareth's words echo in her mind, sharp and rough, like splinters lodged beneath her skin. Of all the scoldings he has given her since her stumbling introduction to life aboard the Sunlit Rose, none of them strike so deeply as being called 'girl'. A single, innocuous word—yet it lands like a blow, sharper than the sword she'd accidentally thrusted into his stomach during training. Naomi can't quite name why it wounds her more fiercely than anything else, why the mere shit from 'lass' to 'girl' feels as though he's pushed her further away from him. Perhaps it's because 'lass' had always felt personal, warm, and accepting.
Now, it seems he's placed an impassible barrier between them, as though she is no longer the small dove he so fondly named her beneath starlit skies.
At last, when her limbs have stiffened from remaining curled in her corner for too long, Naomi drags herself to her feet. She brushes a shaking sleeve hastily across damp eyes, trying to hide the signs of tears. Her heart aches with lingering shame, yet she knows she can't hide forever among shadows and forgotten books. She forces a slow, careful breath before stepping out into the narrow corridor that winds along the ship's lower decks, clutching one last book tightly against her chest.
Before she can escape safely above, the low, rumbling voices of two familiar men drift down the corridor toward her. Naomi pauses instinctively, pressing herself back against the rough wooden wall, even as guilt pricks at the back of her mind. She shouldn't eavesdrop, but when her keen ears catch the mention of her own name spoken in Jareth's unmistakable voice, curiosity roots her to the spot. Feet anchored firmly to the worn floorboards, Naomi silently shifts closer, holding her breath as snippets of conversation find their way to her waiting ears.
"Have you ever dealt with the fae, Borin?" comes Jareth's voice, tinged with irritation, impatience simmering just below his gruff surface. "Or am I the only man damned enough to have a Helgrynn flutterin' about my decks, leavin' chaos in her wake?"
The word 'Helgrynn' sends an icy stab through Naomi's chest, her fingers tightening painfully around the book. Even without knowing its exact translation, she feels the weight of its meaning; the sharp implication of trouble, of relentless mischief that has to be endured.
Borin's rich laughter echoes softly, a gentle amusement threaded carefully through his reply. "Ah, lad. Ye've got no notion of what real trouble is if ye think that gentle thing qualifies. She's hardly the disaster ye paint her out ta be. Fae are just different, is all—wild and curious like wind through the riggin', always seekin' somethin' more than the world's already given 'em."
Jareth grunts in clear disagreement, irritation sharpening his voice once more. "If different means havin' books rainin' down on deck or nearly puttin' a hole through my gut with a sword meant for sparrin', I'd say different's trouble enough."
Borin chuckles again, this time a deeper, rumbling sound tinged with warmth and patience. His voice adopts a fatherly edge as he speaks slowly, carefully choosing his next words. "Havrek, yer makin' mountains outta molehills. I've known many fae in me long years sailin', and I'll tell ye ta yer face; they mean no harm. They just see the world through fresh eyes. Ta a fae, everythin' is poetry and wonder, everythin' holds questions they can't resist answerin'. Recklessness, aye… but there's beauty and bravery in it, too."
Naomi's breath catches painfully in her throat. 'Havrek'—the word falls foreign and harsh from Borin's tongue, yet gentle enough to be meant as fond teasing. It must mean something akin to youngling, she thinks, a reminder of Jareth's youthful impatience that occasionally shines through his hardened mask.
Jareth's voice sharpens defensively in response, pride flaring beneath his grumbling stone. "Don't call me Havrek, old man. I'm no child playin' pretend at bein' captain. She's half-wild, quiet one moment and reckless the next. She's watchin' everythin' too closely, like she's tryin' to pull us all apart to see how we tick. I can't predict what she'll do next. And unpredictability on a ship means dangerous."
Borin sighs deeply, the sound heavy with wisdom and patience earned over centuries. "And how do ye think she feels, Jareth, thrown inta a world that ain't hers? She's not tryin' to dissect ye, lad. She's tryin' ta understand. This crew, this ship; they're foreign waters for her, and she's navigatin' blindfolded. Give her time."
Jareth makes a frustrated noise. "Time's what I don't have to spare, Borin! She's got to learn quickly, or she'll keep makin' mistakes! Gods know I've already spent enough energy cleanin' up after her. If there's another bloody hailstorm of books, I'll lash her to the mast myself."
Borin's voice grows sharper, a warning beneath his usually patient tone. "Careful, lad. Ye speak sharper than ye mean. Ye think it's nothin', but words cut deeper'n swords—especially ta a fae who's still findin' her place. Ye of all people should know that."
Naomi pulls back sharply, nearly dropping the book in her haste. Hot humiliation sears her face, burning brighter than before. The sting of their casual conversation, the way they speak of her as though she's not someone with feelings but some unpredictable force of nature to be contained, it stabs deep into her chest, twisting painfully. She clutches the book tighter, trying to quiet the ache of quiet shame and hurt spiralling through her.
They speak of her like an exotic oddity, a curiosity at best, trouble at worst. Her intentions, her attempts at understanding—they see them only as recklessness, as failures. Something to be corrected and controlled.
Tears sting sharply behind her eyes again, blurring her vision as she stumbles away, careful steps tuning quickly frantic, desperate to retreat before they notice her presence. Her wings quiver, fighting the instinct to take flight, to disappear back to the forests she once called home. But there's nowhere to escape now; she is trapped here, aboard a ship where she doesn't belong, surrounded by people who look at her with suspicion.
She's never felt more like an outsider, a walking disaster, a mistake the crew begrudgingly endures. Even Borin's attempts to soften the blow can't ease the ache left by Jareth's sharp-edged words.
They don't understand her; she realises bitterly. And perhaps they never will.
With a heavy heart, she moves swiftly back toward her cabin, every step echoing sharply in the silent corridors. The darkness around her grows heavier, mirroring every storm within, yet she presses forward, desperate to find solace anywhere but here.
Borin settles heavily at the long wooden table in the galley, its surface smooth and worn from countless meals shared among weary sailors. Tonight, the crew's raucous laughter and boisterous storytelling ebb and flow like the waves beyond the hull, filling the confined space with a comforting warmth. The aroma of stewed vegetables, salted pork and fresh bread drifts from the galley pots, mingling with the rich scent of polished wood and salted air. Around him, familiar faces pass plates back and forth—Dragonborn sailors crackling with laughter, Thamuran crewmates sharing quiet banter, Aeravi chuckling as feathers flutter beneath their collar. The diversity aboard the Sunlit Rose has always been Borin's pride and joy.
Yet, as he spoons thick stew onto his plate, Borin's sharp eyes scan the crew gathered in the lamplight. A pang of unease prickles at the edge of his consciousness as he takes careful stock. The room is full, yes, but not full enough to conceal the absence that strikes him suddenly.
Naomi is nowhere to be seen.
Turning slowly toward Jareth, he nudges the captain gently with his elbow, a question in his furrowed brows. "Seen the fae tonight, Captain?" Borin keeps his voice low, not wishing to attract unwanted attention. "She's usually floatin' about by now."
Jareth barely glances up from his bowl, shoulders hunched forward defensively as he mutters, "Not since her little storm of books. Reckon she's sulkin' somewhere, which is probably safer for us all." His voice comes off sharper than intended, laden with residual annoyance he hasn't fully shaken off.
Borin raises one thick eyebrow, the gesture weightier than words. He refrains from commenting further; the captain's simmering tension speaks volumes. Instead, Borin's thoughts wander inward. A quiet, growing worry forms in his chest like storm clouds gathering on the horizon, darkening swiftly into resolve.
When Jareth continues to eat without another word, Borin lets out a gentle sigh and rises silently, taking a fresh plate from the stack at the table's end. He fills it carefully; crusty bread, steaming strew, and sweet dried fruit tucked to the side. His knotted fingers grasp the plate protectively as he nods to a few crewmates and quietly slips from the galley, making his way down into the darker heart of the ship.
His steps echo softly into the deserted corridor, the polished wood creaking familiarly beneath his sturdy boots. Borin reaches the modest quarters Naomi has quietly claimed—a small room that was once his own. Memories brush at the edge of his mind, nostalgic whispers he gently sets aside as he pauses before the closed door.
Borin knocks lightly, careful not to startle. When silence greets him, he repeats the gesture, patient and slow. His keen eyes notice the gentle sway of the door; it's not fully closed, a slender invitation into the gloom beyond. Breathing softly, he nudges it open, the hinges whispering softly beneath his touch.
Inside, Naomi sits curled on the small cot, a book half-forgotten on her lap. Her posture startles as she glances upward sharply, eyes wide with surprise and wary defensiveness. Before she can speak, Borin smiles warmly, eyes gentle as he offers words in her native tongue.
"Lirae venae, Felyn-lira." (Peace to you, Little Faerie.)
The ancient language, with its lilting syllables and soft musicality, hangs quietly between them. Recognition blossoms slowly on Naomi's face, astonishment softening her guarded expression as the book nearly slips from her lap.
"You… you know S-Sylvh'an?" Her voice trembles slightly, tinged with a guarded hopefulness.
Borin chuckles quietly, the warmth of understanding lighting his weathered face. "Lass, I've sailed oceans longer'n most men've drawn breath. Faerie speech ain't somethin' ye forget once it's shared." He closes the door softly behind him, the dim cabin filling with quiet warmth.
Naomi's surprise ebbs into something more uncertain, her shoulders tightening again as she drops back to the book on her lap. Borin sees clearly the lines of tension drawing her slight frame taut.
"Somethin's troublin' ye," he states simply, voice low and patient as he settles himself comfortably into the chair near the bed. The wood groans softly beneath him, worn smooth by years of use. "Hidin' ain't like ye."
"I… I'm not h-hiding," Naomi replies instantly, voice fragile as spun glass, trembling beneath the truth she tries to deny. Her fingers curl anxiously into the pages, refusing to meet Borin's steady gaze.
Borin merely tilts his head knowingly. "Lass, I've been sailin' ships since ye were naught but whispers in the leaves. I know when someone's carryin' burdens best laid aside. Keepin' them locked tight ain't the way. Ye've got the look o' someone who's overheard somethin' that settled heavier than stone."
Silence holds stubbornly between them, thick with Naomi's hesitation. Eventually though, Borin's patience nudges her to speak. Her voice emerges carefully, edged with vulnerability. "I.. it shouldn't m-matter. It's… foolish to even care."
Borin folds his thick arms thoughtfully across his chest, expression patient but insistent. "Captain got under yer skin, eh? Lad's got a tongue sharp enough ta slice through riggin'—sometimes speaks without thinkin' how his words land."
Naomi flinches at Borin's accuracy, eyes widening before quickly turning downward again. Her silence confirms his suspicion easily enough, though her voice remains a hesitant whisper. "I… I only wanted to understand. To… to find a place here. But h-he sees me as reckless, as n-nothing but trouble."
Borin softens visibly at the tremble in her words, leaning forward with gentle sincerity. "Lass, ye might be reckless, like the wind blowin' where it will, but ye're not trouble. Recklessness ain't always bad. It's courage untempered, the heart's honesty speakin' louder than sense. Ye belong here more'n ye realise."
Before Naomi can reply, a faint creak from outside alerts Borin's practiced senses. Without turning, he knows instantly who lurks quietly beyond the slightly ajar door.
Jareth himself stands frozen, a shadow silhouetted in the corridor, rooted by the quiet words he wasn't meant to overhear.
Borin, his voice firmer now, continues carefully—his words directed at Naomi but their true target standing guiltily beyond the threshold. "The captain's gruff, aye. Thick-headed and stubborn as ironwood. But beneath all that sharpness is a heart that's softer than he admits. He's tryin' ta figure ye out, same as ye with him. Give him time, Naomi. He'll come around." Borin pauses deliberately, sending silent meaning toward the shadowed figure. "And if he don't, he'll be answerin' ta me."
Naomi nods slowly, still wounded but comforted somewhat by Borin's steady faith. Borin gently rises, leaving the plate of food nearby. His gaze flickers sharply to the doorway, sending a silent message directly to Jareth:
Do the right thing, lad.
Jareth, unable to bear the tightness in his chest any longer, silently retreats down the corridor. Guilt churns inside him, pride and remorse waging a silent battle in his soul as he ascends toward the deck. The night greets him with cool, damp air, the endless sky scattered with silver stars.
His hands grip the ship's rail fiercely, knuckles whitening beneath the pressure. The words Naomi spoke replay mercilessly in his mind: Reckless. In the way. Misunderstood.
He knows he spoke sharply, his words harsher than he intended. Her gentle curiosity, her earnest attempts at bridging the gap between her world and his—none of these deserved his bitter tone.
Yet, apologies have never been easy for him. They stick painfully in his throat, awkward and heavy as stones.
He stands at the rail, shoulders hunched against the wind, gaze fixed on the moonlit expanse of water stretching out to the horizon. The silence of the sea settles around him, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Somewhere between the roll of the waves and the silvered path of moonlight, he finally admits—if only to himself—that Naomi matters more to him than she should.
She has been aboard barely a week, yet somehow, she has anchored herself deeper into his thoughts than years of hardened routine ever could. It is unreasonable; he tells himself, but the truth remains; he cares about her more than he planned to, and that her gentle presence has shifted something fundamental in him.
Tomorrow, he promises himself quietly beneath the endless stars. Tomorrow he'll find the courage to say what he can't tonight. To make amends. To reach out toward the fae, who despite everything, has carved herself a place within his guarded heart.
For now, Jareth remains at the rail, letting the salt-laden air wash over him as the hush of night settles around the ship. The stars above seem colder than usual, indifferent to the turmoil twisting inside him. He knows dawn will arrive before he is ready, demanding apologies and explanations he has never been good at offering.
Tonight, though, the silence presses in, forcing him to reckon with what he has tried to ignore—how much it stings to know Naomi overheard his careless words, how much sharper the regret feels for every harsh thing he said to her today. She is more than just a complication or a stray Faerie on his deck. She matters, and the ache of that truth unsettles him in ways he cannot quite name.