It's been only a handful of days since Naomi received her new clothes and finally painted her cabin door, but the transformation is already plain to see. Jareth stands at the starboard rail, boots planted against the deck, arms folded as his gaze sweeps over the morning bustle. In every corner of the ship, he notices the way Naomi has settled. The changes are subtle, not enough for most to notice, but to him, they're unmistakable. Her back no longer bows so much beneath the weight of every passing stare. She no longer tucks herself away at the edge of every conversation, and the old, skittish uncertainty in her movements has softened. Naomi still startles whenever a voice snaps her way, and she still tries too hard to anticipate every need before it's voiced, but there's a new steadiness in her.
He's proud of her for it, though pride isn't the word he would say aloud.
None of this has eased the crew's superstitions, though. Jareth has caught the uneasy glances when Naomi moves through a group of men, the way some old sailors mutter and make a sign against the sky. Even after he barked out warnings and ripped down the bundles of thistle, knotted twine, and painted wards that appeared overnight in the rigging, the mood hasn't entirely lifted. Only Thorn seems entirely at ease; sometimes too much so, with his careless jokes and amiable smiles. The others, even after Jareth's growls and threats, hold fast to their stories. Their eyes slide sideways when Naomi walks by, and though they obey him, he can feel the charge of their fear clinging to the ship like salt in the air.
He doesn't have to look at Naomi to know she's aware. She sees more than she lets on, and he can sense her loneliness even as she tries to ignore it.
It's not this, however, that brings Jareth to the rack just after sunrise. He knows the world well enough to understand that kindness from the crew means little in the face of danger from outside. If Naomi is to be part of this crew, then she must learn how to defend herself. The collection of swords, cutlasses, and battered training staves lies in a messy pile atop the barrel at the bow. He sorts through the heap, picking up one blade after another, testing the weight, balance, and suitability for someone half the size of most of his men. His mind churns, considering not only what will fit her small frame but what she'll be able to handle at all.
None of these weapons are truly made for Faerie hands, and he wishes, for the first time, that he knew more about what she could do.
Footsteps approach, light and careful on the boards. He turns before she can call out, his hands finding his hips in a gesture that is half-impatience, half-reassurance. Naomi stands before him, sunlight catching on the ribbons braided through her hair. She looks up with cautious curiosity, her hands folded in front of her, shoulders tense.
"D… did you want to see me, Captain?" Her voice is quiet, her stutter soft but present, as she takes in the rack of swords beside him.
Jareth nods, his jaw set in its usual stern line. "I did. There's something you need to learn sooner rather than later. Every hand on this ship pulls their weight, Naomi. That means knowing how to defend yourself in case the worst ever comes knocking. You ever held a sword before?" His gaze is unblinking, fixed on her with the full weight of command.
She hesitates, a shy smile flickering. "Uhm… well, a wooden one, once… when I was little," she admits, her eyes darting away. "We used to practice—sometimes—with sticks. Does that count?"
His brow furrows, not unkindly, but with a blunt, sceptical edge. "A stick's not a sword," he says, voice low and flat. "Wood doesn't weigh the same, doesn't move the same. And it sure as hell won't save your life in a fight."
Naomi shrinks a little under his words, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I didn't think it would," she murmurs. "But… I tried a long time ago. Mostly for fun. My sister's and I—"
He cuts her off, not out of cruelty, but because he wants her to take this seriously. "That's not what I'm after. You ever actually trained with a real blade? Anyone teach you how to stand, how to guard, how to strike?"
She shakes her head. "No… just magic," she admits, almost apologetically. "Father said it was safer. Less chance to get hurt that way."
Jareth's mouth twists with a mix of amusement and frustration. "Safe, maybe. But safe doesn't always keep you alive. Magic fails, or runs dry. Steel's not picky about who it kills." His stone is still rough, but there's something gentler beneath it—a concern he cannot quite hide.
He picks up a narrow practice sword, rolling it in his palm, testing the weight. "I'm going to teach you. You need to know how to defend yourself, and I'd rather you learn it from me than from the wrong end of a blade. You understand?"
A small nod. Naomi's eyes, uncertain but determined, meet his. "I… I understand. I'll try my best."
He studies her a moment longer, the hard line of his jaw softening. "That's all I ask. I'll be honest, you aren't built for fighting like the rest of us. But if you learn the basics, you might buy yourself time if trouble finds you."
He hands her the practiced sword, watching her fingers curl uncertainty around the hilt. "It'll feel awkward at first. Just hold it for now. Get used to the weight. We'll start slow."
Jareth stands off to the side, the sun glinting off the wide blade of his own broadsword. It is an impressive weapon; longer and heavier than any standard cutlass, a blade that needs a firm hand and steady will. He draws it up in a smooth motion, letting steel catch the light for a moment before he holds it up in a defensive stance.
"Watch closely," he instructs, voice rough but focused. Without further explanation, he moves through the series of steps: sweeping the blade in a practiced arc, shifting his feet in a lunge, bringing his body low and surging forward with a controlled burst of strength. The big sword seems like an extension of his arm, his movements measured and precise despite the blade's considerable weight.
He slows his pace for her benefit, running through the sequence again, each action broken into pieces. "When you step, push off with your back foot. Keep your shoulders straight. Don't let the blade drag you down. Try it."
Naomi nods, brow furrowed in concentration. She mirrors his stance, her smaller training sword held awkwardly in front of her. Her feet shifts just as he showed her, and she pushes forward, copying his lunge. For a split second, everything looks as it should; but then, instead of stopping cleanly, she slides forward, her boots gliding an extra foot or two across the deck. The momentum catches her by surprise. She wobbles, arms pinwheeling as she tries to regain her balance.
A pause settles between them. Jareth raises one bushy eyebrow, his mouth twitching at the corners. "That was… something," he grunts, unable to hide the bemused tone in his voice. "Try it again. Only this time, plant your feet. Don't go skidding off the edge."
Naomi's cheeks flush pink. She sets her jaw and nods, squaring her shoulders. "I-I will," she mutters.
Again, she steps into the lunge, copying the movements as precisely as she can recall. Once more, just as she reaches the end of the motion, her body glides forward, feet sliding across the planks as if someone had oiled the deck beneath her. She makes it even farther this time, nearly bowling straight into the coil of rope at Jareth's feet.
This time, a rumble of laughter escapes from him before he can stop it. "You're sliding, lass," he declares, voice rough with amusement. "You can't tell me that's normal for you lot."
Naomi's head jerks up in surprise. "S-sliding?" She glances down at her boots, confusion clear on her face. "I… I don't think so. I'm just… stepping."
Jareth shakes his head, still fighting a reluctant grin. "No, you're not. You're gliding halfway across the deck. You look like a cart that's lost a wheel." He steps in front of her, crossing his arms, and fixes her with a steady look. "Again. This time, mind your feet."
With growing frustration, she plants herself more firmly, repeating the motion with careful deliberation. Once again, her body slides forward as if carried on a gust of wind. She stares down at her feet, dumbfounded, wings fluttering anxiously at her back.
Jareth's eyes drop to her wings, suspicion dawning in his expression. "Are you using those?" He jerks his chin toward the delicate wings at her shoulders. "I think you're catching the wind."
Blinking in confusion, she glances at her wings as if seeing them for the first time all morning. "I-I don't think I am… they just do that when I move fast. I didn't notice it."
"Well, you're noticin' it now." He kneels, tapping her foot with the flat of his blade. "Try holding them still. Think about planting yourself. Don't let them push you forward. You're not a gull on a breeze."
A flush creeps across her cheeks, but she gives a determined nod and stands tall, wings pressed tight against her back. This time, her lunge is less dramatic; the glide is nearly gone, though she still manages a tiny, barely there slide.
Shaking his head once more, he now has a smile clear in his eyes if not his mouth. "Better. Still slidin', but at least you're not ending up in the drink."
Naomi lets out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Sorry. I-I can try harder."
A deep, amused sigh leaves him, but there's no real frustration in it. "No need to be sorry; just keep your feet under you. The sea's not as forgiving as I am." He gestures for her to reset her stance. "Again, from the top. And this time, try not to fly."
The lesson moves on once Naomi steadies herself, her feet planted firm on the deck and her wings tucked in tight. Jareth nods, satisfied for a moment, then gestures toward a different manoeuvre. He demonstrates, shifting his weight and pivoting on the ball of his foot, guiding the training sword in a low, sweeping arc. The move is more about control and balance than strength—keeping the blade close, guarding the body, shifting from defence to offence in a heartbeat.
He steps back and lets her mimic the motion. Naomi's arms follow the pattern well enough, but her shoulders hunch forward and her stance is too tight. The awkward tension pulls her off balance, and the sword tip wavers as she tries to hold it steady.
A rough grunt escapes him. Jareth moves behind her, resting his broadsword against the rim of a barrel. His heavy boots sound quietly on the deck as he steps into her space. He pauses, brows furrowed, searching for the right words. "D'you mind if I show you?" His voice comes out gruff, tinged with an accent that always thickens when he's uncertain or distracted. "It's easier if I just—set your arms and shoulders right."
Naomi freezes for a breath, glancing up, her eyes wide and searching his face. A small nod is all the answer he needs. A few years ago, she might have shrunk from any touch, but now she stands her ground, bracing herself. He gives a small, approving noise and steps in close, careful and deliberate.
One broad hand settles on her shoulder, warm through the fabric. The other gently nudges her elbow outward, straightening her posture and easing the tension from her arm. His hands move with a quiet confidence, never lingering too long, always focused on the lesson. "Don't tuck your shoulder like that. You want your chest open—it gives you more room to move, less chance of getting' surprised." His touch is solid, steady, and undeniably warm, the presence that steadies as much as it corrects.
Naomi tries to focus on the mechanics, but it's impossible to ignore the way the heat of his hands seep through her tunic. Her breath catches, heart thudding in her chest. Still, she listens, adjusting her stance as he instructs.
Once her posture is set, she glances up, voice small and sincere. "D-do you… do this a lot?" Her question comes out a little hesitant, but there's genuine curiosity in her tone. "Teach people how to fight, I mean. Show them how to stand and move?"
Jareth huffs a quiet laugh, his hand slipping away as he circles around to face her. "Most folk on this ship already know their way 'round a sword," he says, his tone growing more familiar, more comfortable in the space between them. "Borin keeps everyone in shape with drills every few weeks. No one here's green, not for long."
Picking up the training blade, he weighs it with one hand, and offers her a faint, crooked smile. "As for me, I just learned growin' up. Something you pick up, if you're lucky. Or unlucky." His gaze flickers away for a moment, the answer short and final, closing the door on any deeper probing.
Naomi watches him, biting back another question. Instead, she lets her attention drift to the sword in her hand, running her fingers along the hilt. "You make it look easy," she says softly, almost to herself.
He shrugs, all practicality and rough grace. "That's the trick. Make it look easy enough, and nobody thinks to challenge you." His eyes meet hers, steady and unflinching. "Now, try it again. Don't think about it; just move."
She nods, confidence returning as she resets her stance. With his guidance, her form begins to take shape, and though her arms still tremble and her movements lack the force he shows, there's progress. Jareth lingers at her side, his voice gruff but encouraging, correcting when needed, never pushing too hard.
The morning grows brighter as the lesson shifts. Jareth lowers the training sword and reaches behind him, unfastening the heavy broadsword from its sheath across his back. The weapon, unmistakably his, glints with a muted, dangerous light as he holds it steady in one hand. The size and weight suit him—nearly as long as Naomi is tall—broad-bladed, the grip worn smooth by years of use.
He sets the training blade aside, then rummages through the pile for a lighter steel sword and holds it out for Naomi to take. She accepts it, eyes drawn together in curiosity, her fingers tracing the polished guard. The sword feels foreign in her grip, colder and sharper than the wooden one. She lifts her gaze, searching his face, voice small but direct. "Why this one now? Are… are we not just practicing anymore?"
A faint smirk twitches at the edge of his mouth as he tests the balance of his broadsword, boots shifting on the planks. "You've got the basics. Time to try for real. Not every fight's fair, and not every blade's the same. If you're goin' to stand on this deck, you'll need to face the worst of it." He gives a single curt nod, eyes narrowing with something that's almost like approval. "We'll spar. I'll be your enemy for now, so no more gentle swings. You'll learn quicker that way.
She hesitates, looking from the blade in her hands to his. The difference and weight is daunting, but she steels herself, setting her feet as she's been shown. The breeze stirs her hair, ribbons catching the sunlight, and she tightens her grip on the hilt. "Will… will you go easy on me?" The words are a whisper, worry lurking in her voice.
He rolls his shoulders, his jaw set with certainty. "I won't hurt you," he promises, gruff but sincere. "But you need to see how close you come to gettin' cut down. Learn now, or regret it later."
Their blades rise in unison, and the duel begins. Jareth circles slowly, weight shifting from heel to toe, his steps measured, deliberate. Every motion is steady and in control: the big man never wastes energy, never lets his sword drift too fae from his guard. Naomi mirrors his stance as best she can, brow furrowed in concentration, arms tense but steady.
They circle each other, the creak of the ship's boards underfoot and the salt wind at their backs. Naomi's first attempt is cautious, her blade rising defensively, her weight balanced like he showed her. She moves in, trying to mimic their earlier flow. Their swords meet with a quiet ring, steel tapping steel.
Jareth parries her first swing, stepping into her space and bringing his blade under her wrist. "Dead," he says, the word low and sure. "That's the vein in your arm; cut those, and you'll bleed out before you can call for help." He pushes her back gently, eyes on her form.
Naomi bites her lip, trying not to let the criticism sting. She circles again, attempting another angle, this time leading with her left. The tip of his broadsword taps her ribs, just below the curve. "Dead again," Jareth remarks, his voice flat but never unkind. "Right there; lungs. You won't last two breaths with a blade in that spot."
They shift and pivot, Naomi's brows furrowing as she attempts a different approach. Her blade comes up, and for a moment, she almost has his guard open—almost. With a twist, he catches her sword and nudges her elbow aside, the broadside of his own blade resting gently against her neck. "That's your carotid. Dead. Blood leaves the body faster than you can think." His gaze is steady, clinical, as he instructs.
With each correction, Naomi tries to adjust, learning from every mistake. Her grip steadies, the initial fear giving way to growing focus. She steps in faster, blade aimed toward his shoulder, only for Jareth to sidestep, letting her own momentum carry her past him. The flat of his sword finds her lower back. "Dead. Spine; lose that, you're not standin' again."
Breath coming faster, she presses on, determination flaring in her eyes. She tries a feint, darting to the left then lunging right, but Jareth's blade intercepts hers, and, with a quick flick, points at the centre of her chest. "Heart," he says quietly. "It's over in seconds."
There's a pattern now; an unspoken rhythm to their movements. Naomi learns to expect the gentle tap of steel, the sharp word—dead—followed by a brief explanation. Each time, Jareth's voice is rough, but not mocking. There is a kind of pride hiding in the careful way he corrects her, the measured distance he keeps, and the rare, flickering spark in his eyes when she finally avoids one of his blows.
Their footwork grows more dynamic. Naomi's body twists and ducks, wings fluttering unconsciously with every near-miss. Jareth pushes her, just enough to challenge, never enough to frighten. When she lands a glancing touch along his coat, he nods with a grunt of approval: no smile, just a glimmer of satisfaction.
As their swords clash and slide, sweat beads at Naomi's temple, her hair coming loose from one of its ribbons. She stumbles, catching herself, and straightens under Jareth's watchful gaze. "Again," he urges, voice stern but charged with something like encouragement. "Don't let up now."
Steel flashes, boots scuff against the deck, and the sun climbs higher above the ship. With every pass, the gap between them narrows—not just in skill, but in something unspoken, a tension building in the sharp air and the measured breath they share. Every mistake is met with a lesson, every improvement met with the subtle approval only Jareth knows how to give.
Jareth won't admit it—maybe not even to himself—but Naomi is proving him wrong at every turn. She moves better than he expected, shoulders loose and head up; each dodge brings a little more confidence into her limbs. With one of her front braids slipping free, strands of dark hair now frame her flushed cheeks. She looks wild, and untamed. Something about it sends a strange thrill through him. He isn't sure what it means, and there isn't time to dwell on it.
The deck sways beneath their boots, the clash and scrape of steel echoing over the morning hush. Naomi circles him, her new grip steady, eyes sharp and bright. Jareth keeps his movements slow, letting her think she's closing the gap; letting her find the openings she leaves, seeing if she'll trust herself enough to strike.
A heartbeat later, he gets his answer.
A gasp cuts through the morning, sharp and high. He means to ask what's wrong, but the world narrows, his own senses catching up to the sharp ache blooming in his gut. The pain is sudden, deep, and hot; a bright, sickening pressure that radiates through his core and steals the air from his lungs.
For a moment, he can't breathe. He blinks once, twice, and then looks down.
Oh. Oh no.
The point of Naomi's sword is buried in the soft flesh just below his ribs, bright blood already welling up around the steel. For a moment, he can only stare, mind struggling to process what's happened. There's a curious distance to the pain, as if it's happening to someone else.
His knees want to buckle. Every breath burns, and the taste of copper blooms thick and bitter at the back of his throat.
Naomi nearly drops the sword in her panic, horror twisting in her features. Jareth lets out a rough, broken sound; something between a growl and a cough. He doubles forward, hand clamping over hers, fingers stained with his own blood.
"Don't," he grates, jaw clenched. "Don't let go. Keep—keep your hand on it. Don't pull it out, not yet. Call Borin, quick as you can." Every word grinds out of him as he forces himself to not look at the wound, not even look at the blood: the sight of it turns his stomach, makes bile rise in his throat. He wants to close his eyes, to pretend it isn't there, but Naomi's voice jolts him back.
Her panic shreds the silence, sharp and trembling. "Borin! Please! H-help! I n-need you now—please!" The words tumble out, barely coherent, wild and desperate.
The sound of footsteps thunders up the deck, heavy and fast; he knows that rhythm anywhere. Bramlings, fast and sure. Jareth clenches his jaw, holding Naomi's hand and the sword in place, fighting the urge to let go. He bites back a curse, focusing on the rough wood beneath his boots, anything to keep from looking down again.
The pain pulses through him, savage and bright. Every breath grows shorter, shallower. The ship tilts and sways, but Jareth refuses to fall, refuses to show more weakness than the blood soaking through his shirt. The air feels colder now, sharp and damp. He can taste fear, metallic and raw, on the back of his tongue.
Don't let go. Don't look down.
Somewhere deep in his chest, something old and frightened stirs. He keeps his grip tight, willing himself to stay upright, even as the pain claws deeper, demanding every ounce of focus he has left.
The last thing Jareth registers is Brem's wide, worried face looming above him, arms thick as the ship's masts, crowding his fading line of sight. Then everything goes black. The world slips out from under him, the sting of his gut swallowed up by darkness, and he lets himself drift.
Awareness returns slowly, like a tide creeping up the sand. The world feels muffled, distant. His first sensation is an ache, dull but deep, blooming in his side. Next comes the roughness beneath his hand; a strange, homespun cloth, not at all like the linens of a royal sickbed but sturdier, with the unmistakable texture of plant fire and careful stitching. Bandages, wound thick around his midsection. Someone has done a thorough job.
He shifts, testing the edges of the pain, finding it manageable if he moves gently. A faint grunt escapes before he can stop it. The small sound breaks the quiet.
A thin, hiccupping sob drifts into his awareness. Naomi sits hunched beside the cot, nearly folded in half. Her knees are pulled to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around her shins, and her head bent low. The undone braid hangs limp over her shoulder, half-unravelled, its ribbon clutched and twisted between trembling fingers. Her face is blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying. Even the delicate tips of her ears have turned a dusty pink, almost feverish with emotion. Tracks of dried tears stain her cheeks, and her nose glows raw above the curve of her mouth, which quivers every time she tries to draw a steady breath.
His grunt draws her eyes at last. Naomi flinches, then shoots upright so fast her knees knock the stool. Wings snap open; thin and transparent as dragonfly glass, sunlight catching and fracturing through them, waiting the low cabin walls with watery green and blue. Her voice comes in a rush, all the worlds tumbling out together.
"Oh—oh, Jareth I'm so sorry—I didn't… I swear I didn't mean to, I never thought… I didn't know, you were just there and then there was so much blood, and Borin said you needed stitches and he had to get Brem and Urol just to turn you over… there was so much blood… your shirt is ruined and I still haven't cleaned it up, and they said you might not wake up straight away and what if… what if—"
She breaks off with a sob, twisting the ribbon in her hands. Every inch of her trembles, shoulders hunched and lips pressed thin to hold back more tears.
Jareth can hardly keep up with her, half-dazed as he props himself up on one elbow. He tries to muster his usual gruffness, but it comes out tired and rough-edged, the words softer than he means. "Stop that now, lass. You'll flood the room with all those tears. It's nothing. S'only a scratch."
For a moment, he almost believes he's soothed her. Then Naomi's wings flare wider, catching the light and buzzing with agitation—a sound more like wasps than birds. Her eyes flash. She moves closer to the bed, the movement full of agitation instead of her usual grace, as her voice lifts with a conviction he's never heard from her before.
"It was not just a scratch! You… you could have died! Borin said it went in deep, and he had to stitch it closed, and there were three people just to roll you over, and there's still blood in the deck boards! You shouldn't even be up! Why doesn't someone make all the clothed sword-proof? Or… or put a warning on them, so no one gets stabbed by accident! Why was I even holding a real sword? I didn't know I hit you! Why would you even let me—" Her words tangle fast and breathless, her hands fluttering helplessly as she paces beside the cot, ribbon twisting together.
Jareth studies her, a slow, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his despite the pain. She's flustered; angry even, but it's the first time he's seen that spark. The familiar self-blame is there, but underneath it, there's a flare of real fire.
"You'll not have me in a tin can for sparring, lass," he mutters. Gruff but gentler than usual. "And you did fine. Only a fool expects to learn swordplay without getting a few scrapes…. Though I don't usually let the trainees gut me on the first go." The words come out with a rumble, half a joke, half the truth.
Naomi glares at him through the sheen of tears, the wild braid swinging as she shakes her head. "That's not funny, Jareth. Y-you needed stitches! Borin said you were out for almost an hour and that I should've kept my hand on the sword until he got there, but I—" She stops, the memory making her breath hitch, hands pressed to her eyes. "I didn't know what to do. I'm so sorry. I'm never picking up a sword again."
Silence settles, thick as old rope. Jareth sits back, the pain from the wound rooting him to the cot. It's hard to see her like this, guilt and worry written in every trembling line of her body. He wishes he could tell her it's nothing, that he's seen worse, but his mind keeps circling back to the flash of silver, the quick flare of her eyes as she swung—a warning and promise, both at once.
With ease, he eases a hand onto the cot's edge, palm open. "Come here, lass. Sit. There's no haem done. Stitches heal. And you; next time, keep your eyes on the target and don't look away."
Naomi bites her lip, uncertain, but she slides onto the cot's edge, still clutching the ribbon in shaking hands. Her eyes never quite meet his, but the distance between them shrinks, just a little.
"You scared me," she whispers with a trembling voice. "I never meant to hurt you."
Jareth lets out a breath, rough but warm, and lays his head back against the thin pillow. "Aye. You scared me too. Didn't think you had it in you." His lips twitch, and for a moment, the pain recedes, replaced by something softer. "No more cryin' over me. I'll live."
Naomi wipes the tears from her cheeks, breathing in slow, shaky gulps as she shifts her gaze to the bandages that across his midsection. She stares at them for a long moment, eyes tracing the rough, fibrous weave of the linen: its surface slightly shiny where Borin has scorched it with plant fire to keep the edges from fraying. Every stich is visible where the cloth pulls tight, holding his injury in place. Her frown lingers, delicate brow furrowed with worry.
"Are they holding okay?" She asks, her voice so quiet that it nearly disappears beneath the faint creak of the hull and the distant voices on deck. She doesn't clarify what she means, but the meaning is plain: not just the bandages, but the stitches beneath them.
Jareth flexes his fingers experimentally, letting his palm settle just above the wound. The ache is still there, deep and heavy, but nothing fresh leaks out from beneath the line, and the pull of movement holds firm. "Feels tight enough," he mutters, voice rough but sure. "Hurts like the Nine Hells, but it's not coming open. Borin knows his work. Won't have me leakin' blood on the deck twice."
Naomi nods, but her frown doesn't fade. She traces the pattern of the weave with a trembling fingertip, then lets her hand drop to her lap. "Born didn't want me in the room while they were doing your stitches," she murmurs, words sticking as if she's ashamed to admit them. "I nearly… I almost didn't let them guide me out." She pauses, searching for the right words, fighting for calm. "I… I've healed others before. My parents, my sisters, friends. I know how to help, but… but they didn't want me using my magic. Gorran came in and said I'd done enough with my… Faerie antics." The last words come out brittle, broken at the edges. "But Borin let me bandage you up. He told me where to press and what to tie off. He trusted me. The others just… watched."
Something tightens in Jareth's chest, the old anger flaring at the mention of that damned Werewolf. His jaw grinds as he lets out a rough sigh, shifting on the cot as much as the pain will allow. "You shouldn't have had to hear that," he grumbles, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "You're crew now. If any of them give you trouble for using magic—" He stops, the threat dying on his tongue. "It's not right. Not on my ship."
Silence settles and Naomi studies her hands, her nails digging into the length of the ribbon still wrapped in her fingers. After a moment, she speaks, softer this time, searching his face for something she can't name. "Is it true, then? They don't trust me. My magic, I mean." Her voice falters as she glances away. "I've always known about the things they put up; the charms, the salt, the old bits of silver strung up on the rigging. I see it all. I know they think it wards off my 'bad luck'." As she speaks, her thumb finds the crescent moon pendant at her throat, the sea-glass stone catching the light. She turns it beneath her fingers, the gesture soothing and almost absent.
The question hangs between them, heavy and hesitant. Jareth is silent for a heartbeat, watching her hands twist around the pendant, the fine chain slipping between her fingers. He can see the strain in her shoulders, the careful way she guides herself, even now. His chest tightens, the guilt coiling somewhere deep.
He draws a slow breath, watching her in the soft light. "Old habits die hard at sea. Superstitions run deeper than the bilgewater, and half the crew were born believing fae bring storms. Doesn't make it right." His voice is firm, but there's an edge of apology beneath the gruffness. "They'll come 'round, you'll see. Give 'em time. They've seen less magic than most; half of 'em fear what they don't understand."
Naomi gives a small, hesitant nod before she perks up a little, brow furrowing as something crosses her mind. "I heard Gorran mutter something when he left." She speaks almost absently, the words tumbling out before she can second-guess them.
Jareth shifts on the cot, pushing himself upright once again with a grunt. The fire returns to his voice, rough and edged with steel. "What did he say?"
Naomi hesitates, fingers tightening around the crescent pendant as she tries to remember exactly what she heard. "I… I didn't catch all of it," she starts, voice barely above a whisper, gaze fixed on the bandages circling his waist. "He… he said something about me being the captain's pet." The word feels foreign and awkward in her mouth, and her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she glances up, searching his face for any hint of what it might mean.
There is a pause. She fidgets with the ribbon, wings fluttering in nervous little jerks. "I wanted to ask what he meant, but… he just glared at me. He told me to stay back and let the real crew do their job." The memory clearly unsettles her; the sting of confusion and something else, perhaps wounded pride, lingers in her words. "I don't understand. Is that… is that something bad?" She's earnest, voice thin but honest, her innocence laid bare.
Most would feign innocence, or pretend not to care. But Naomi's question is unguarded, as plain as the trembling in her voice. If it were anyone else, Jareth might've doubted the naivety, called it out as a lie or a game. Yet in Naomi's open stare, in the careful way she watches his reaction, he sees the truth. She is sheltered; more than he would have guessed. Even now, after what's she's seen, there are parts of this world she simply doesn't understand.
A slow, heavy anger creeps throughs him. He clenches his jaw, teeth grinding as the insult sinks in. The phrase is old as salt—every sailor knows the tales. Captains taking women from the shore, keeping them close as amusements, sometimes as lovers, sometimes as status. It's an accusation that gnaws at a man's character, especially from someone like Gorran. The two of them have circled each other with suspicion for years, never quite trusting, never quite friends.
The implication is a blow not just to his authority, but to the unspoken trust he's built with Naomi. The idea that she's nothing more than a pretty thing to be kept—or worse, pitied—ignites something fierce in him.
He swings his legs over the edge of the cot, boots hitting the floor with more force than intended. Pain flares up his side, but he welcomes it; it grounds him, reminds him not to do anything foolish. His hands curl around the edge of the mattress, steadying himself as the blood rushes hot and fast through his veins.
Movement catches his attention—Naomi has sprung to her feet, her wings lifting high behind her, iridescent membranes quivering in the low light. She plants herself in front of him, arms stretched wide as if she can hold back a storm with nothing more than her will. The transparency of her wings turns cold when the lamplight catches, lending her an otherworldly aura that only intensifies her determination.
She meets his gaze, eyes wide and urgent. "Wait… what are you doing?" Her voice is small but commanding in its own way, the question soft yet firm, laced with a mix of worry and defiance.
Jareth steadies his breathing, forcing his anger to settle. "I need some air," he mutters, his tone gravelly. "Not about to let a word like that stand. Not here." He pushes himself upright, careful not to strain the stitches, his height dwarfing Naomi's slender form. There's an energy simmering beneath her skin, the kind that would send lesser men running to the deck to find trouble. Yet, even now he reins it in, refusing to let it explode outright.
For a moment, neither of them moves. Naomi's wings flicker, catching every glint of light; her stance is both protective and pleading. "I… I didn't mean to cause trouble," she says, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I just wanted to know what he meant, that's all. I didn't… I never wanted to—"
He cuts her off, eyes dark and steely. "You've done nothin' wrong, lass." The words are softer, but there's an edge of finality. "Some men talk more than they think. That's all it is." He works his jaw, searching for words that don't sound like an oath or a threat. "On a ship, you stand by your crew. Anyone who forgets that gets reminded."
Naomi shifts her weight from foot to foot, still uncertain, her hands wringing the ribbon over and over. "So… it's not a good thing, then. To be called that."
Jareth exhales sharply, the anger ebbing but not gone. He leans back against the post, eyes narrowing with a rueful sort of amusement. "No. It's not." His gaze flicks to her wings, then back to her face. "But I've been called worse by better men." He says it lightly but there's steel underneath. "And if Gorran wants to test his luck, he's welcome to try. This ship's not run by superstition or small minds. Not anymore."
A silence falls between them, heavier now but not so sharp as before. Naomi folds her wings in, letting them droop behind her, shoulders slumping with relief and exhaustion.
He studies her; the set of her jaw, the dampness of her cheeks, the bravery it must take to stand between him and his own temper. It's the courage he recognises, even if she doesn't see it herself.
He takes one last look at Naomi, reading every tremor of her wings, the worry clouding her eyes. But something in him has already shifted. Anger burns a slow path through his veins, stubborn as old tar and just as impossible to watch out. There's only one way to put this matter to rest.
Without warning, Jareth pushes past her, sidestepping her outstretched arm. She calls his name, voice sharp and breaking, but he barely registers it. His stride is purposeful, every muscle in his wounded side protesting, but the Thrundeli blood in his bones drives him forward. The pain is distant now, nothing compared to the storm inside his skull. Wood creaks beneath his boots as he barrels through the narrow passage, every step building in force.
Naomi, startled but determined, darts after him. Her wings catch the light filtering in from the porthole, the gossamer edges shimmering as she hovers close behind. "Jareth, w-wait! What are you… what are you planning to do?" Her voice trembles between pleading and worried, the rapid flutter of her wings filling the passage with a low, anxious hum. "You can't—Borin told me to keep you in bed! He said… he said I wasn't to let you out of my sight!"
He doesn't answer at first. The corridor narrows as he barrels on, one big hand reaching for balance as the ship rocks beneath them. Every jostle reminds him of the stitches tugging at gut, but the slow-burning fury keeps him upright. His breath is shallow but determined, jaw set, eyes narrowed ahead.
Behind him, Naomi struggles to keep pace, barely brushing the ground as she flies. "Jareth, please," she calls, her voice tight with panic. "Too much movement is going to tear your stitches! Just… just slow down!"
A sharp pop fills the hall as he cracks his knuckles, muscles flexing beneath the bandages and loose shirt. The air between them thickens with the scent of sweat and something more primal; defiance, maybe, or the need to prove a point that goes deeper than hurt pride.
He doesn't look back, voice low but certain. "This is my ship, lass," he grunts, pausing only to draw in a breath. "If there's a problem, I deal with it. Crew looks to the captain, not the other way around." His words are curt, a growl barely tempered by the pain dragging in his stomach. "No one talks that way about my crew. Not while I'm breathin'."
Naomi hovers closer, brows burrowed, her ribbon-tangled braid swinging as she struggles to keep her panic contained. "You shouldn't be up," she whispers, "Not after what happened… Borin said—"
"Borin ain't the captain," he interrupts, never slowing. "And I'm not lettin' Gorran spread rot under me nose. I'll handle it." The words leave no room for argument, but there's no anger directed at her. Only the grim, stubborn resolve of a man who has spent his whole life refusing to let others dictate his fate.
Around another bend in the passage, a startled deckhand leaps out of his way, eyes wide. Jareth barely registers the reaction. He's aware, dimly, of Naomi's shadow following him, the frantic beat of her wings a counterpoint to the steady thud of his boots. He can feel her worry, pressing at him as tangibly as the ache beneath his bandages.
Above them, daylight slants through a grating, catching the web of Naomi's wings. She glows for an instant, a streak of fragile light trailing beneath the captain's storm-dark figure. "Please," she tries again, desperation sharpening her words. "If you get hurt again, Borin… Borin won't trust me again."
He rumbles out a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. "Not your job to keep me out of trouble, lass. Never was." One hand balls into a fist at his side, thick fingers twitching as he approaches the stairs to the main deck. "But it's a captain's duty to keep the ship in line. And I mean to remind a few men what that means."
A pause. He slows just long enough to glance over his shoulder, eyes catching hers for a heartbeat. There's something fiercely protective in his gaze, the unspoken promise of a man who claims his responsibilities, blood and all.
"If you're scared, stay below. If not, stick close. Just don't get in the way."
Naomi doesn't hesitate. The moment Jareth's feet hit the deck, she bursts up from the shadowed stairwell, wings slicing through the light like shards of glass. The morning sun catches the iridescent panes of her wings, turning her silhouette into a flicker of colour above the shifting mass of the crew. Most keep their heads down, pretending not to notice the captain's fury, but a tension hums in the air as all eyes drift toward the unfolding spectacle.
Gorran lounges at the rail, arms folded, a smirk carved into his grizzled face. He's so sure of himself, so certain that his size and bark will hold back anything that comes his way. But Jareth barrels forward, broad shoulders set, each step the warning rumble before a landslide. There is nothing uncertain about the way he moves now; every muscle taught with purpose, boots thudding hard enough to make the deck shiver beneath his weight.
He closes the gap in a handful of strides. Gorran's smirk flickers just as Jareth draws back a fist, the movement swift and almost graceful for a man so massive. The blow lands with a sound that silences the morning: a wet, cracking thud, followed by the sharp, startled yelp that tears from Gorran's throat. The impact sends him back folding as he topples toward the sea.
Time snaps tight. Naomi's breath catches. She reacts before thought can take root, flinging out a hand, her magic hungry for an anchor. All around her, the subtle water woven through the morning air—dew, mist, and the latent breath of the ocean—answers her call.
Her eyes blaze, shifting from their usual mauve to a storm-lit violet. The periwinkle hue along her jaw, ears, and hands deepens, veins of colour tracing up beneath her skin like rivers feeding the tide. Dark hair lifts, billowing upward in defiance of gravity, threads of black haloing her head as if caught in an unseen current. For a moment, Naomi's entire body glows, winds kindling with pale blue fire at the edges, each transparent segment brightening as if dawn itself flows through her veins.
A ribbon of water forms between the ship and the sea, coiling around Gorran with unyielding strength. He thrashes midair, boots kicking at nothing, mouth open in a scream as the water catches him, suspending his body above the white-capped waves. Every muscle in his body tenses, fingers clawing at the shimmering band that holds him.
The rest of the crew stands frozen, mouths agape. No one dares to move.
Jareth's confusion flares as quickly as his anger. One moment, he's ready to drag Gorran back over the railing and finish what we started; the next he sees Naomi—her magic filling the space between sea and sky, hair streaming upward, skin bright as lapis, her power a living thing. He reels at the sight, jaw set, eyes flicking from Gorran to Naomi, then down at the flintlock at his hip.
His hand drops to the weapon, grip sure and practiced. The cold iron gleams as he draws it, cocking the hammer with a snap that breaks the tension like splintered wood. He lifts the barrel, meaning to put a swift end to this; no more chaos, no more superstition.
Order will be restored.
Above the chaos, Naomi hovers, breath ragged, wings alive with blue fire and panic. The water still holds Gorran, her magic taut like a bowstring. For a moment, everyone on deck is caught between sea and sky, fear and fury, every eye locked on the tableau unfolding beneath the pale morning sun.
Magic surges through Naomi, though not in the way she's used to. What normally flows like sunlight and sap through her spirit now strains and snaps, the current cold and foreign against her nature. The water answers her call only with effort, moving in thick, whirling bands that flicker with the colour of her fear. Every muscle in her arm trembles as she keeps Gorran suspended above the churning sea, sweat beading along her brow. Her breath grows ragged, lips pressed thin with the effort of forcing something that doesn't come freely.
Splitblood fae, like herself, are born with more than one thread of power braided into their veins, but the elements don't yield to divided allegiance. Water belongs to her mother's kin, not to her. She must grip hard, driving her every will through every drop, never coaxing but commanding. It resists, heavy and sullen, never as easy as wind or growing things. It feels… wrong; fae magic is meant for partnership, not a battle of strength.
Nature will always answers her first; growing things, the living roots, the wild energy of plants beneath sun and soil. Water, though, takes more effort. It doesn't spring to her call like a sapling toward the light; it resists, demanding more of her will, more focus, a deeper strain that leaves her trembling with exertion.
Desperate to shift the balance, she flings her other hand toward the mast, reaching with her magic for the heartwood, searching for a pulse of green life. Usually, she finds the rush of sap, the comfort of roots and rings, the spirit of something that remembers the sun. This time, there's nothing. Not a thrum, not a whisper of life—only the hollowness of timber cut and shaped by saws, baked by salt and sun; all that was once living is now hollowed out for purpose. Still, for a flicker of a moment, she feels… something. Not the vibrant whisper of roots, but a dim, bruised echo. A memory left in the wood, or maybe something more; a presence she doesn't know how to name.
It leaves her unsettled, cold, and uncertain.
Her concentration falters. The water binding Gorran ripples as her strength wavers. She bites her lip, trying to keep the grip steady. Muscles burn; her wings tremble. This isn't what she's meant for.
Below, Jareth levels the flintlock, jaw still set with that stubborn fury. He sees the strain in her face and calls up, voice like gravel dragged across stone. "Cut it out, lass! You're gonna lose your hold and drop him! Let the bastard fall and be done with it!"
A burst of anger shoves through her fatigue. "Y-you cut it out!" she shouts down, voice raw and shaking. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare shoot him!" The command rings out, surprising even her with its force, her words sharp as the edge of a blade.
Her wings glaze with new light, veins of indigo running down each transparent segment. The air trembles with the effort of her magic; the water tightens around Gorran, holding him steady, but the sweat on her brow now drips to her chin. She risks another push toward the mast, senses groping through the dead wood, searching for a foothold that doesn't exist. The hollowness resists her, and the mystery of what flickered there gnaws at her.
Naomi's magic quivers at the very edge of collapse, the strength of water barely held in the curve of her outstretched hand. The failed attempt with the mast leaves her fingers tingling with something that's not quite disappointment, yet not quite dread. That's when she remembers her father's lessons in the quiet groves of home—nature doesn't limit itself to the obvious, Power can be coaxed from the unexpected: a scrape of moss, a curl of root, even a lock of hair if it's offered. Energy doesn't die; it only shifts its shape. Transformation is a law deeper than magic itself.
The memory brings a kind of clarity, sharp and sudden. She fixes her gaze on Jareth, scowling at his stubbornness, at his refusal to see the tangle he's making of things. It's only fair, she decides, he helps her now, if only as the focus for a new spell.
With a rough twist of her arm, she hurls Gorran in a controlled arc, the water releasing him at the last moment to drop him hard across the deck, where he lands with a gasp and a curse. A split second later, she swoops down in a blur of wings, hair wild and eyes burning. Before Jareth can even lower his gun, Naomi darts in and pinches a fistful of his beard, yanking out a few coarse hairs.
A startled shout bursts from Jareth, the kind that ricochets across the ship. "Saint' blood, girl! What in the nine hells was that?!" His hand flies to his chin, rough palm checking the sore patch where she's plucked him.
Naomi barely flinches at the outburst. "You wanted to help, didn't you? S-stop making it harder!" The words tumble out, a mix of nerves and grit, and for once, she doesn't look away.
She curls her fists around the coarse hairs, voice barely a whisper as she breathes the old words her father taught her. The magic leaps in her veins, sharp and quick as lightning. Before the beard hairs can fall to the deck, thick green vines twist up from her clenched hand, sprouting and thickening in an instant. The ship's deck shudders as the new growth snakes down and wraps tight around Jareth's ankles. They tighten with purpose, climbing over the worn leather, anchoring him in place as roots dig for purchase in the cracks between the boards.
She moves fast, arm still trembling from the spell-work, and slaps at the flintlock in his grip. The pistol clatters to the deck, skidding across the wood and coming to rest just out of his reach.
A hush falls over the ship, broken only by Gorran's coughing and the creak of the rigging in the morning breeze. Jareth stands rooted to the spot, confusion flickering across his face, the anger not for her but the whole mess he's now caught in. The vines tighten. He flexes his legs, testing the hold, and finds them stubborn as iron.
A storm of emotions churns in his chest; bewilderment, pride, and a grudging awe at the awe audacity Naomi displays. The crew stares, mouths open, caught between fear and fascination. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then finally growls. "What in the nine hells d'you think you're doin'?"
Naomi plants her feet and draws herself up as much as she can, though the effect is almost comical next to Jareth's towering frame. Her foot comes down on the deck with a sharp thump, an echo of stubbornness that makes even the closest sailors flinch. Her whole body trembles with the effort of holding her ground. Arms folded tight across her chest, chin lifted, eyes blazing.
"What do I think I'm doing?" Her voice comes up tight, but not from nerves. It vibrates with a frustrated, exhausted kind of energy, the kind that spills out only after too many nights of worry. "What do I think I'm doing? I'm stopping you from making a fool of yourself! And from putting another man in the medical wing before the day even started!"
A hush lingers on the deck, every crew member frozen by the sound of her anger. Even Thorn, perched on a coil of rope, raises an eyebrow, lips twitching in open admiration.
Jareth, arms pinned by the vines and the weight of every eye on him, scowls. He opens his mouth, ready to cut her off, but Naomi barrels right over him. "You're injured!" she snaps, the words tumbling out, breathless and relentless. "You could've died! You ignored what I said, and what Borin said! He asked you to stay in bed, and you decided your pride mattered more. You think that's clever? That's not clever. It's reckless! It's dangerous!"
He grunts, shifting his weight and wincing as the vines flex around his boots. "It's not as bad as all that," he mutters, half under his breath, half for the crew's sake. "I've had worse—"
Before he can finish, Naomi's heel comes down hard on the toe of his foot. The stomp is sharp enough to send a jolt straight up his leg, and he lets out a gruff noise of surprise. Her glare is molten, her jaw set. "I don't care what you think you need," she spits, voice trembling with passion and fatigue. "You got stabbed. In the stomach. Anyone else would still be unconscious, and you're out here throwing punches! You are not indestructible, Jareth!"
The anger on her face isn't just for him. It's for the ship, for the day, for the weight of everything she's tried to keep safe and calm since she set foot aboard. Her hair, wild from the effort of magic, has slipped the other braid, giving her a windblown, untamed look.
She's shaking now, but it isn't fear; he knows fear well enough to tell the difference. This is the trembling that comes from standing her ground, using magic she barely controls, from caring more than she can bear. Her cheeks are flushed, and her breath is coming fast, and she looks ready to swing at him if he tries another excuse.
He feels the eyes of the whole crew on them, sees the way Thorn's lips part in surprise, the way even Gorran, who is half-sprawled and half kneeling, stops to watch. There's a new tension on the deck, an uncertain hush that feels like it might snap at any moment.
Jareth tries to hold on to his authority, tries to ignore the sharp, stinging pain of his foot and the vines still wound around his boots, but the words catch in his throat. The urge to shout back is there, familiar as an old scar, but something in Naomi's face—a raw, earnest desperation—holds him in place.
He tries to reach for his gruffness, the old bark of command, but the sound that comes out is lower, a reluctant admission: "You done, then?" His voice is softer than he means, just for her.
Naomi, still breathing hard, lets her arms drop and steps back, a little unsteady, wings drooping with exhaustion. "Not until you promise to rest," she says, voice ragged but resolute.
His glare softens, if only by a fraction, and he gives a gruff nod. The tension in his shoulders slip away, just a little. "Fine," he mutters, voice just loud enough for her to hear. "But someone's got to teach these fools what happens when they mouth off."
She gives him a look that's somewhere between exasperation and fondness, and the vines loosen their grip, slithering away from his boots and back into the cracks of the deck. The air shifts, the tightness of the moment easing when Naomi finally releases her hold on the water, letting it splash onto the planks.
All around, the crew moves again; the spell is broken. Jareth stands free, but he doesn't step forward right away. Instead, he looks down at Naomi, studying the wildness of her hair, the shine of fatigue in her eyes, and the defiance still trembling in her frame.
He can't remember the last time someone stopped him with a stomp and glare. And even as his pride aches, he almost smiles.
After Naomi walk away, her wings sagging and her silhouette shrinking down the companionway, the deck seems to exhale. Crewmen shake themselves loose from the scene, muttering behind hands, moving as the day's rhythm tries to resume. The Sunlit Rose has always thrived on chaos, but this—magic and anger, vines and water, and a captain bested by a Faerie girl—leaves a strange quiet.
It doesn't last.
From the shadows near the mast, Gorran's voice drips out, low and rotten, meant only for Jareth but carrying out far enough that even Thorn's brow pinches. "Filthy fuckin' halfbreed," he spits, his lips curling with a werewolf's sneer, all teeth and old spite.
Something inside Jareth goes cold. He isn't thinking, not in the careful way Borin would want. He doesn't calculate the cost of his anger. He just moves.
The distance between them vanishes. Jareth's hand closes around Gorran's throat, rough and unyielding. He lifts the werewolf clean off his feet and slams him hard against the thick mast; the force echoing on the deck and sending a cluster of rope hooks clattering to the boards. It's not just discipline; it's a warning, sharp and ancient, drawn from a lifetime of seeing men like Gorran sink ships with superstition and poison.
Jareth leans in, his voice low and lethal. "You ungrateful mutt," he growls. "She just saved your hide. If you ever spit words like that again, you'll wish you never left your mother's den." His eyes bore into Gorran's, daring him to show a hint of challenge, to even think about shifting into something with fangs and claws.
But even as he pins the mutt, Jareth's body reminds him of its limits. Pain radiates up from his stomach, sharp and blooming, pulling sweat to his brow. He grits his teeth, refusing to show weakness.
Every muscle strains to keep hold as Goran claws at his wrist, choking out a curse that falls flat. "Let… go…" he rasps, but Jareth's grip only tightens, fuelled by a blend of anger and old pride.
All around, the crew holds their breath. Nobody moves to intervene. Even Thorn, who might joke at any other time, just stands still, a strange sorrow in his eyes.
Jareth finally releases Gorran, letting him drop with a thud that rattles teeth. The werewolf slides down the mast, coughing and clutching his neck, but Jareth's fury isn't satisfied. He rounds on him, voice rough with effort and pain. "You ever use words like that for anyone on my ship again, I'll have you tossed overboard, claws or no. You understand me, Gorran? You don't get to decide who's crew."
The words snarl out, every syllable laced with years of bitterness. Jareth can feel the stitches in his gut pulling, burning like fire, but his rage drowns out all else. The deck around them falls silent, even the wind seems to hush, watching the scene unfold.
Then pain surges; sharp, hot, and immediate across Jareth's abdomen. He grits his teeth; the world narrowing to a tight, throbbing ache as he feels the slow, unmistakable warmth of blood soaking through his shirt. The wound tears open, angry and wet beneath his palm.
Jareth staggers back, a hand pressed to his gut, blood trickling between his fingers. His vision swims for a moment, black dots crawling at the edge, but pride keeps him upright.
That's when Borin appears, moving with unexpected speed for someone so small. The old bramling pushes through the crowd, his face twisted in a scowl of monumental displeasure. "Stone and shadow, Jareth! Can ye not keep still for five blasted minutes?" Borin bellows, voice cutting through the hush like a bell in fog.
The captain tries to wave him off, but Borin plants his feet and reaches up, grabbing a fistful of Jareth's belt and hauling him down to his level by sheer, irate will. "Don't ye dare argue, ye stubborn great oaf. Ye want to bleed out in front of yer crew, or let a proper hand stitch ye up?"
Jareth manages a grunt, too proud to answer but too wise to resist. The world tilts as Borin and two deckhands shepherd him below, one on each side to steady his gait. Behind them, the crew scatters, murmuring in low voices, while Gorran slumps to the deck, rubbing his throat and nursing his wounded pride.
Every step below the narrow passage stabs fire in Jareth's side. The heat and pressure of his own blood turns his grip clammy, his jaw set in a grim line. Still, he refuses to let the pain show; at least not where anyone else can see.
Jareth lets himself be hauled away, jaw tight and pride stinging. The taste of salt and blood lingers, as does the sound of Naomi's voice, echoing through his mind: "You're not indestructible."
He might agree with her.
The hours crawl by in a slow, fevered blur, the scent of healing poultices and rough linen filling the small room. Jareth spends the better part of the day confined to the cot, Borin hovering close, all stern glares and thick, calloused hands that prod at his stitches and remind him—loudly—what happens to stubborn men. The ache in his side pulses in time with his heartbeat, but he endures it in silence, swallowing his frustration along with every draught Borin thrusts at him.
By the time the lanterns in the corridor burn low, a restless itch crawls through his bones. The air below deck feels too close, too full of old sweat and half-remembered dreams. He pushes himself upright, careful not to pull the fresh stitches, and shrugs into his coat, breath hissing softly between his teeth. Borin, thank the godlings, is snoring away in the far corner, a mug still gripped in one meaty fist. Jareth gives him a long look, half amusement, half gratitude, and then quietly slips out into the passage.
The upper deck welcomes him with a rush of cold air, sharp with the salt and clean as new linen. Above, the sky stretches wide and fathomless, the moon full and bright, its silver light pooling across the planks. For a moment, he pauses near the rail, breathing in the night, letting his senses adjust to the peace and the quiet that is so rare aboard a ship filled with too many tempers and old ghosts.
Movement catches his eye. Not far off, a shimmer of colour rises against the dark, and there—floating above the main deck, framed by moonlight and shadow—is Naomi. She glides through the air with a kind of ease he can't fathom, her hair nearly braided, the two front plaits curling over her shoulders. The breeze teases stray wisps free, making the ribbons flutter. Her wings, gossamer and iridescent, shift in the cool night wind, casting a thousand fractured stars across the wood below; the veins catch every hint of silver and blue from the moon.
He stands for a while, watching her move, struck by the quiet beauty of it: the contrast of her delicate silhouette and the raw, endless sky. A sense of calm settles over him, unexpected and gentle.
Eventually, he calls out, voice soft, so he doesn't startle her. "Not often you see fae flyin' after midnight. You settlin' in alright, lass?"
Naomi drifts down at the sound, her feet touching the deck with barely a sound. The glow from her wings fade to a soft gleam as she folds them behind her, tilting her head as she studies him. There's a question in her eyes, but she offers a tentative smile all the same.
"I… I couldn't sleep," she admits, her words muffled by the night. "It's quiet up here. Feels different. Less… heavy." Her hands fiddle with the ends of her braids nervously, winding the ribbon tighter. "I like the stars. The world feels bigger. Less closed in."
He nods, joining her by the rail, arms braced against the salt-worn wood. "Aye, it does. Sea's never so wide as when it's dark. You can almost forget the land's anywhere at all." His voice has lost its usual edge; tonight, it's softer, coloured by fatigue and something more fragile. "Borin'd have my head if he knew I was out here. But sometimes you've got to breathe, or you'll go mad."
Naomi's gaze flickers to his middle, worry etched clear on her face. "Does it… does it hurt?" Her hand hovers at her own stomach, as if feeling the echo of his wound. "The stitches. Borin said you tore them. I… I saw the blood."
There's no accusation in her voice, only concern; a thread of guilt woven through. She stands close, the lamplight painting faint gold over her dark hair, her wings shifting restlessly.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, the sound rough but not unkind. "Hurts less than it did, lass. Borin's patched me up before. Built for rough work, me. It'll heal." For a moment, he lets the silence stretch, watching the play of moonlight across her face, the trembling of her wings in the chill. "You did good, earlier. Not just with the fight, but with me. Could've been worse if you weren't there."
A frown tugs at her lips, and she draws in a slow breath, folding her arms against the cold. "You shouldn't have gone after Gorran. Not like that." Her voice is quiet but steady, a new firmness taking hold. "I know you were angry, but… but you scared me."
Jareth studies her, the moonlight catching the edges of his rough jaw and the lines of his brow. There's a softness in his expression, hard-won and wary. "Aye, I was angry. And maybe I should've stayed put. But sometimes men need remindin' who's captain, especially when they can't hold their tongues." He shrugs, glancing sideways at her. "Don't care what they think of me. But I won't have 'em talkin' down to you. You're crew now."
Naomi smiles, a small, honest curve of her mouth, her eyes shining with something close to relief. "Thank you," she whispers.
The deck rocks gently beneath them, each creak and groan of the old timbers blending in with the night's hush. Jareth shifts a little closer, drawn in by the quiet vulnerability in Naomi's posture, and the moonlight paints her features in silver and shadow. His arms fold across his chest as he glances sideways, the lines around his eyes softening with something like concern.
A question comes out rougher than intended, a low rumble meant to break the silence without shattering it. "You looked worn out, lass. After… all that magic." His gaze lingers on her, searching for something in the curve of her mouth and the angles of her shoulders. "That normal for you? Or did I just drive you half mad with all that carrying on?"
Naomi laughs, but there's no real humour in it; just an exhausted sound, fragile and small. She toys with the edge of her braid, twisting the ribbon tighter. "It's… magic is always tiring, I suppose. But water… water's harder." The confession slips out in a soft rush, her voice tiring, carrying a note of apology as if she owes the world an explanation of her limits.
After a moment, she continues, voice quieter, eyes fixed on the moving black line where sea meets sky. "Nature is my gift, but not all of it, not really. I feel roots and green things, growing things, they listen to me because I grew up with them. My magic runs through living things, not the tide. It remembers my mother—she's a Naiad, river-born. She can speak to any stream, any sea. I…" Her hands flutter helplessly at her sides. "I'm not the same. For me, water listens, but only for a little while. I… it's like a song you almost know, but it keeps slipping away. It's… borrowed. Not mine, not really."
Her wings droop a little as she speaks, catching the moonlight, the glassy panes shimmering with a deep blue undertone that hints at how tired she is. She breathes in, slow and steady, steadying herself. "I know I can't keep it for long. Not without feeling it after. Roots and leaves… those come easy. They grow because I ask, because I know how to speak to them. But water only hears me because it remembers her blood, through me. It never truly belongs to me, not in the way it does to a Naiad."
Jareth listens, quiet and intent, the gravity in her words anchoring him as much as the endless black sea below. He's never known much about fae magic, not beyond the old stories muttered over tankards or the warnings passed between sailors. Seeing it now; tired, real, and laced with longing makes something twist in his chest. He nods, the movement deliberate, as if storing the knowledge away.
"Doesn't seem fair, lass," he mutters, voice low. "All that power, but still a price to pay. You held your own today. More than most would've, truth be told." There's still a gruff pride in his words, an admission given grudgingly, the kind that means more because it's rare.
Naomi meets his eyes, uncertainty flickering there, but a small, genuine smile curves her lips. The fatigue is plain now: her skin carries a faint periwinkle hue along her cheekbones, and her posture is slumped with the effort she's spent.
"I… I had to do something. You weren't listening. And if you'd hurt Gorran, you'd only have made things worse. Someone has to keep you from being reckless," she says, her tone wavering between accusation and gratitude.
He gives a rough snort, not quite a laugh, and glances away to hide the softening of his features. "Aye, maybe so. Reckless is all I know. But you…" he stops himself, searching for the words, then shrugs, the lines of his body easing as the worst of the tension leaves him. "You did well, lass. I owe you."
Above, the stars gather, scattered thick and bright across the deck. Below the water laps quietly against the hull, the world briefly still. For a few heartbeats, all the trouble and superstition and unspoken questions between them fall away, replaced by the comfort of shared silence.
The night air is cool and crisp; a hush draped over the deck as if the world itself is listening. Jareth leans his weight back against the railing, feeling the rough wood press into his spine. The ocean's dark surface glimmers below, and the moon rides high, throwing scattered light across the ship boards. For once, there's no chaos, no crew shouting orders, no superstitious muttering in dark corners. Only this strange, honest stillness and the faint whisper of sails overhead.
A kind of boyish awkwardness slips in as she watches her, caught somewhere between pride and the nerves that come with saying too much. The words catch in his throat, and when he speaks, it's softer than he means, just above a whisper. "When I came up here, I saw you floatin' in the moonlight. Wings caught the light. Made me think of the doves we used to see when we made landfall in the south. Pale and white and a bit out of place among the gulls." He fumbles for a better way to say it, jaw working as he searches for the right words. "You got that look about you; peaceful, gentle. Different from all the rest. Makes me think of a dove, is all."
The compliment floats between them, tentative and unsanded, not quite polished but honest as sunrise. Naomi's wings flutter with a soft crackle, the transparent panes shimmering pale blur and lilac when the moonlight touches them. Surprise flickers in her eyes, and then a shy, disbelieving smile spreads across her lips. Her ears twitch, picking up a delicate periwinkle blue along the edges.
"R… really?" The word comes out lighter than breath, but the happiness beneath it is genuine, impossible to miss.
Hovering closer, she moves with a kind of assurance, curiosity brightening her face. "Did you just give me a nickname, Jareth?" Her voice is a hush, as if she's worried a louder sound would frighten off the fragile thing he's just given her.
For a beat, he can only stare at the rigging above, then away at the endless horizon, determined not to let her see how flustered he's become. His hand rubs absently at his beard, searching for the old captain's armour, but finding it full of holes tonight. "Wasn't meanin' to, if I'm honest. Just… saw a likeness, that's all. Doves are quick to fly, but they always come back. So, I s'pose…" He trails off, and the corners of his mouth twitch, reluctant but genuine. "Maybe it fits… if you want it. But only in private, mind. Don't want the crew gettin' ideas."
A soft laugh bubbles out of Naomi, the tension easing from her shoulders, her blush brightening as she tucks a strand of hair behind one pointed ear. "Alright, Captain," she whispers, warmth blooming in her eyes. "I'll keep it between us."
They fall into a gentle silence, comfortable now, watching the sky turn a deeper blue as a handful of shooting stars cut across the darkness. Every so often, Naomi glances sideways at Jareth, the nickname dancing in her mind, her heart still pounding with a secret delight. The ship between them sways, cradle-steady, carrying them forward to whatever comes next.
Jareth's voice cuts through the night, soft and sure. "Get some rest soon, little dove. Tomorrow'll come quick and I'd rather you not fall asleep on your feet when Borin finds us both out here."
Her answering smile is bright as dawn. She rises higher in the air, circling once, the light of her wings catching on the sails like spun glass before she disappears down toward her quarters.
Left alone, Jareth lingers at the rail, the sea wide and open before him, a quiet peace settling over his battered heart. For the first time in a long while, he lets himself hope just a little—that he's not alone out here. That some promises, even quiet ones, might be kept.