The wind hasn't let up in days. It shoves across the deck of the Sunlit Rose, raw and relentless, bringing with it the string of old storms and the taste of brine. The ship groans as she rides the restless sea, her hull straining with every rise and fall, and the sails pull taut in icy gusts. It's the kind of cold that gnaws at men, getting into their bones no matter how tightly they wrap themselves in wool or oilcloth.
It's been six months since the Rose last made landfall. Some days, the ship feels less like a home and more like a floating cell. The crew wears evidence: faces lean, cheeks reddened by salt and wind, tempers burning out as quickly as they ignite. Their laughter, when it comes, is sharper than it used to be. Jests and stories turn pointed, drifting quickly toward mockery or argument. Even their jokes about stale bread and salted fish sounds less like humour and more like complaint.
Jareth stands at the wheel, hands steady on the smooth wood, gaze pinned forward. He's not captain, not officially, but his presence draws attention all the same. Where Borin is too short to see above the wheel's great spokes, Jareth's frame fills the space. His shoulders are broad and posture unyielding, but his expression is distant—focus not only on the shifting horizon but also on the trouble brewing below deck.
There's a restlessness infecting the ship. The men are hungry for more than food; their patience thins with every grey dawn. Their mutters rise with the wind, and even Jareth can't always tune them out. He knows this hunger—the longing for port, for distraction, for anything that breaks the endless monotony. What gnaws at him now is different, less a bodily need than something he doesn't want to name.
He feels the change in himself. His beard now grows thick and even more unruly. His hair hangs past his shoulders, heavy and wild from months without a trim, almost black except where the sun has faded a few stubborn strands. His eyes, usually hard and blue, seem darker now, more storm than sky.
Inside, he feels unsettled. Even the simple act of steering the Rose feels heavier. He isn't sure if it's the weather, the men, or something deeper that refuses to let him rest.
Below, laughter rises again, brittle with frustration. The men trade stories about old lovers and new ones they imagine waiting for them at the next port. They tease Jareth, sometimes with a wink, sometimes with a sharper edge: "Redbeard, when's the last time you took company that wasn't the helm?" The words roll off him, or he tries to make them, but he knows the men see the difference. He's not as quick to snap back as he once was.
He remembers how it used to be. Quick affairs in smoky taverns, men or women—it never mattered. He's left plenty behind, but none have settled in his mind the way Naomi has. Her memory cuts through the endless sea, more persistent than the cold, more distracting than the crew's needing.
He hates how she haunts him, hates that six months and a thousand miles haven't dulled the ache of her absence. He tells himself he's grown used to leaving things behind, but this feels… different. The restlessness that builds in his chest isn't just hunger for land, company. It's something else. Something that's heavier and impossible to shake.
At the far end of the deck, Borin appears, his small boots barely making a sound on the wood. The old captain moves with a certainty that only centuries at sea can give. He watches Jareth for a moment, silent, then leaps up onto a coil of rope beside him and claps a sturdy hand on Jareth's back.
"Oi, Redbeard!" Borin's voice cuts through the wind. "If ye freeze in place much longer, I'll start calling ye figurehead."
Jareth blinks, surfacing from his thoughts. "Keep jumping like that, and you'll break something," he says, voice rough. "The deck isn't as soft as it used to be."
Borin grins, unbothered. "Neither am I. But it's ye I'm worried about, standin' there like ye mean ta outlast the mast itself. The men are getting' restless."
Jareth gives a curt nod as he glances across the crew. "They always do. Give 'em a port and they'll start dreaming about the next."
"Yer not wrong," Borin replies, quieter. "But ye've always kept 'em grounded when I'm not around. Don't let them forget it."
Before Jareth can answer, the sound of heavy boots interrupts. The Werewolf, Gorran, strides towards them; his sheer size causing Jareth to appear almost slight. There's something wild in his eyes and an insolence in the way he carries himself. The crew gives space without a word.
Goran grins, flashing his long canines. "Captain. Redbeard." He gives Borin a nod, but keeps his gaze on Jareth. "The men have been growlin' about how long we've been at sea. Says it's getting to all of us… well, all except you." His smile widens, wicked. "That true? Or is just that you had a little goodbye from that pollen-breath before we left port?"
For a moment, Jareth simply watches him. He lets the tension build in silence, the cold settling into his bones. The crew has always liked to draw lines, to test who belongs and who doesn't. He's never understood the need for slurs or the pleasure men take in them, but he sees the hunger for conflict in Gorran's eyes.
Jareth nods toward the Noctari helmsmen nearby—a wiry, dark-skinned sailor named Vak, his batlike features standing out even among this odd crew. "Vak, take the wheel."
Vak steps in, silent and steady. Jareth turns fully toward Gorran, his presence filling the narrow space. He looks up into Gorran's yellow eyes, unfazed by the Werewolf's extra height.
"If you're close enough to hear, you're close enough to work," Jareth says to the other crew, his tone flat. The man scatter, but Gorran stands his ground.
Jareth takes a single, heavy step forward. He puts a hand on Gorran's chest and pushes hard enough to send him stumbling down the first few steps. The threat is apparent, and the challenge hangs between them.
Gorran recovers quickly, already rolling his shoulders, ready for the fight they both know is coming.
The air between Jareth and Gorran thickens, all pretense burned away by months of sea-borne friction. Gorran squares his shoulders, shaking out his thick mane as if to remind the world how little he fears the threat of a shove. The crew hangs back, some watching from the shelter of the rigging or behind barrels, their work momentarily forgotten. Even the wind seems to falter, waiting to see which way the balance tips.
Gorran bares his teeth in a jagged smile, one hand flecking as if itching for violence. "What's wrong, Redbeard? Gettin' shy, or just soft?" He lowers his voice, letting the insult coil tight and mean between them. "Or maybe you're still pinnin' for that little sapwing who saw ya off? Men say you haven't bothered with any warm body since."
The slur drags across the deck like a blade. Jareth doesn't react at first: his face is stone, unreadable, the wind tugging at his wild hair. His jaw works, a tic fluttering near his scar, and when he speaks, his voice is flat, dangerous in its restraint. "Careful, Gorran. You're about one word from being overboard."
A ripple moves through the watching men. Some look at Borin, half expecting the old captain to intervene. But Borin stands silent near Jareth, arms folded, eyes sharp beneath white brows. He's watching Jareth, not Gorran, weighing whether to step in.
Gorran laughs, but it's a brittle sound, no true amusement in it. "Hear that, boys?" he calls over his shoulder. "He's touchy, our Redbeard. Maybe the sea's got his heart, or maybe it's just gone soft." He tilts his head, pressing the advantage, words growing crueller, voice pitched to carry. "But she wouldn't look twice if she knew what you were. Not a real man. Just another half-blood mongrel prince. More stone than sense."
The words hang like salt on the wound. Jareth's hands flex, knuckles whitening on empty air. He doesn't blink, just closes the distant in a single, silent stride, now close enough that Gorran has to tip his chin to meet his gaze.
Jareth's voice is a low warning. "You say another word about her, and you'll eat it."
Gorran, reckless and desperate, spits out another insult. "Face it. She picked the wrong one. Should've left ya to the rats back in Caerleon. Maybe she likes her men with a bit of royalty… shame you pissed your crown away."
Jareth's control finally snaps, but when it happens, there's no wild swing, no bellow. He moves with the terrible calm of a man who's used to violence. His fist cracks across Gorran's jaw with brutal precision, sending the Werewolf reeling back against the nearest rail. Blood spatters across the deck. The crew gasps, some drawing back, others pressing closer, hungry for blood.
Gorran staggers upright, eyes wild. He lunges with the rage of an animal, his teeth bared. Jareth sidesteps, grabbing the front of Gorran's coat, and slams him into the rail hard enough to rattle his bones. The sound is like thunder in the frosty morning. Gorran lashes out, claws catching on Jareth's coat, tearing through leather and a drawing a thin like of blood across his ribs. Jareth barely seems to notice. He pins Gorran's arms, driving a knee into his gut.
All around, the crew is caught in a frozen hush—no one dares interfere, not even Borin, who watches with a storm brewing behind his eyes.
Gorran, breathless but unbowed, spits a tooth at the planks and snarls. "That all ya got, prince? Or are you savin' your strength for the next port wench?"
Jareth's grip tightens. He wrenches Gorran's arm behind his back, forcing him half-over the rail, their faces inches apart. The rage that burns in Jareth's gaze is cold, almost surgical. "Keep talking," he mutters, a voice so low only Gorran can hear. "We'll see who's listening at the bottom of the sea."
Gorran struggles, boots scraping on the wet boards, but Jareth holds him fast, the muscles in his arms trembling like cable under strain. He's in control now, the fight contained but trembling at the edge of violence.
"That's enough!" Borin's shout cracks across the deck, voice sharp with command. In that instant, it's as if the spell is broken. Jareth loosens his grip—just enough for Gorran to wrench free and stagger back, gasping for air, his jaw swollen and bleeding. The Werewolf's pride is wounded, his chest heaving with fury and humiliation.
Jareth stands tall, breathing hard, the knuckles of his right-hand split and raw. For a moment, he's every inch the terror the crew whispers about at night: a mountain of man, all scars, rage, and iron will.
Borin steps forward, his presence somehow filling the space between them. His gaze pins Jareth first, then sweeps to Gorran, disappointment heavy in his stare.
"Get back ta yer work, all of ye!" Borin barks at the crew, and this time, they scatter, no one eager to draw attention. He looks at Gorran. "And ye, go clean yerself up! And next time ye want ta pick a fight, ye'd better remember who's in command on this ship."
Gorran spits blood on the deck, shooting Jareth a look of raw hatred, but he turns away, limping off toward the lower decks, his pride in tatters.
The tension on the deck slowly ebbs away, leaving only the slap of the sea and the taste of blood in the wind. Jareth stands over the spot where Gorran fell, chest heaving, anger still bright and dangerous in his eyes. Born doesn't speak right away; he lets the silence settle, the memory of violence hanging thick as fog.
Finally, Borin speaks, voice sharp but low. "With me, Winsler." He turns without waiting for an answer, striding toward the captain's cabin, every inch the authority of the Rose. Jareth follows, jaw set, the tremor of adrenaline still running hot through his veins. The crew part in silence as he passes, some with respect, others with wariness.
The door to the captain's cabin shuts with a heavy thud behind them, sealing out the wind and the muted bustle of the deck. Inside, the light is low: filtered through thick glass smeared with salt, the air heavy with the scent of tobacco, lemon oil, and old parchment. The cabin is not large, but every inch of it is orderly, each chart and book precisely where Borin likes it. The only sound is the ticking of a brass clock and the distant thrum of the ship's heartbeat.
Borin stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, back to Jareth, framed by the stern windows and the distant, slate-coloured horizon. For a moment, he says nothing. The weight of what's just happened hangs in the air, sharp as the aftertaste of violence. Jareth lingers just inside the door, shoulders squared, fists still tight at his sides.
When Borin finally speaks, his words are soft and clipped, each syllable measured out like a captain counting coin after a bad run of luck. "Ye know the rule. We don't spill each other's blood on this deck." He doesn't turn, but the edge in his voice is sharper than any reprimand. "I made sure every man here understood that before he signed his name to the Rose. Especially ye."
Jareth's jaw works, but he holds his tongue. There's a scrape of old shame behind his silence, an echo of younger, wilder years. Borin lets out a long, tied sigh; a sound that seems to pull the sea itself into his chest. He turns at last, his face drawn with the gravity of command and years.
"Ye want ta tell me what got inta ye?" Borin's gaze pins him—steady, grey, and unflinching. "Because I know ye, lad. Ye've heard worse. Ye've let harder men spit worse filth, and ye walked away with a joke or a growl. So what was it this time?"
Jareth looks away, eyes tracing the grain in the oak beneath his boots. For a moment, he's young again, unsteady, all bravado burned off in the heart of the fight. "He went after her," he says, voice rough. "Kept pushing. Wouldn't let it lie."
Borin's lips press thin, but he shakes his head. "Words, Winsler. That's all they were. Ugly, aye. Meant to wound, aye, But just words." He glances at the faint blood smeared on Jareth's hand, and then at the row of books along the far shelf, as if looking among old maps and faded ink.
He shifts restlessly, irritation creeping into his tone. "This isn't the first time men's tongues have gotten sharper the longer we're at sea. I see it every voyage. The stories grow louder, the jokes filthier, and all anyone ever talks about is what they'll do when they reach the next port. Drink, dice, women." He spits the last one out like it's a pebble on his shoe. "As if there's nothin' better in all the world than tumblin' in some stranger's bed or wastin' coin in a smoky tavern." He shakes his head, a baffled frown drawing deep lines in his face. "I never understood it, and I don't care to try. All this voyage, always the same."
Borin's eyes narrow, the old frustration surfacing in his voice: an old tiredness that goes beyond simple annoyance. "Ye'd think a man would be glad to stand on a deck with the world spread out around him, but it's never enough. There's always this itch, this hunger." He scowls at nothing, a flicker of loneliness crossing his face, then pushes it down. "But that's not an excuse for what ye did."
Jareth stands silent, the weight of Borin's disappointment heavier than any blow. The deck's violence replays in his mind: the cold press of his hand on Gorran's throat, the red haze, the silence that followed. He remembers the faces watching him—some afraid, some admiring, now all wary.
Borin fixes him with a look that has broken harder men. "I pulled ye out o' worse than this, ye know. I've seen ye put a knife to a man's throat for less, back when ye were fresh off the exile. I took ye on because I thought ye could be better than what drove ye out o' Caerleon. But if ye keep lettin' anger drive yer hand, ye'll end up no better than the monsters we left beneath these waters. Do ye hear me?"
Jareth meets his gaze at last, his own anger spent, only exhaustion and regret left in its place. "I hear you," he says, voice steady and low.
Borin's tone softens, but only just. "Yer not alone out here, lad. Every man on this ship is watchin' ye, they're lookin' ta see what ye'll do when tested. They need ta know ye can weather a storm without tearin' down the rigging. I need ta know it too."
He crosses the small table, pours a finger of strong rum into two chipped cups, and pushes one toward Jareth. "Ye don't have ta drink it," Borin mutters, almost to himself. "But it helps, sometimes." He sips his own, then sets it down, hands braced on the edge of the table, knuckles white. For a moment, he's silent, looking out at the waves.
Finally, he speaks, softer still. "If the sea teaches a man anythin', it's patience. Ye don't have to answer every insult. Ye don't have ta win every bloody fight. Most days, ye just have ta hold fast and let the storm pass."
Jareth takes the cup, though he only stares into it. The words settle between them, heavy and honest. For a long moment, nothing moves but the shadows of gulls flitting across the windows and the slow, rhythmic pulse of the ship beneath their feet.
Borin lets out another sigh, the frustration in him cooling in resignation. "Clean yerself up," he says quietly. "And next time ye feel that anger, come ta me first. We can't afford ta lose a good man to foolish grudges. And I won't let this ship—my ship—fall inta the same ruin as before." His gaze hardens one last time. "Don't make me choose between ye and the Rose, Winsler. I'd hate ta see ye go over the other side."
Jareth nods, the promise hanging unspoken in the air. He leaves the cup untouched, turns to the door, and steps back out into the bracing cold. The moment the wind hits him, he feels both smaller and more certain, the captain's words settling deep, a ballast against the storm inside.
Behind him, Borin remains at the window, the sea rolling on, the same as it ever was; eternally vast, eternally endless, and to him, more than enough.