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Chapter 11 - The Colour of Welcome

Naomi doesn't linger at the steps when the last of the crew filter away from the captain's address. Her heart still thumps unevenly as she tries to piece together a sense of belonging, a rhythm to her movements that will keep her from sticking out like a painted bird among crows. Jareth's order is apparent in her mind and ears, and she can feel the echo of his authority humming through the deck. He stands now, at the head of the ship, gaze fixed forward, all sharp angles and composure.

She knows not to disturb him. This isn't the time for questions.

Instead, she lets her feet take her where they will, weaving between men who move with the rough certainty of those who have spent most of their lives at sea. Every step, every jostle and thump, feels like a test she must pass. It's a kind of dance; quick, nimble, unseen when she can manage it. She makes herself useful where she can: passing a coil of rope, holding a bucket steady for a Dwarf with arms like tree trunks, sweeping up some spilled beans that roll in all directions across the uneven boards.

Guilt lingers at the back of her throat. The Sunlit Rose has never made unscheduled stops for just anyone. The whole crew knows they're losing an entire day to accommodate a girl who doesn't even belong among them. Naomi feels it in the way conversations hush when she draws near, the way laughter falters before it starts up again, the glances flicked her way and quickly withdrawn. She tries is smile at anyone who will meet her gaze, but most nod curtly and return to their work.

Jareth doesn't speak, but she feels his attention like a pressure on her back: watchful, measured, sometimes softening when he thinks she's not looking. In those moments, she's struck by how different he is from the memory she's carried these past three years. On land, he seemed awkward, almost gentle in the market's midday crush, all careful words, and shuffling feet, unsure what to do with his hands. He flinched at the noise, ducked his head, seemed embarrassed by the world's attention. Land Jareth, she thinks to herself, is a different creature—one born out of habit and discomfort.

But here on the sea, with the wheel beneath his hands and the salt wind in his hair, he becomes something else entirely. Sea Jareth is unyielding. His voice rings out with command, cutting through every protest, every challenge. He stands tall at the helm, boots braced wide, broad shoulders squared against the horizon. He belongs here. Naomi can see the transformation happen in real time: the way his expression hardens when the word is hard or the moon is tense, the way it softens at small victories or the rare, honest laughter of his men.

She can't help but admire him for it, even if it unsettles her.

As she navigates the decks, Naomi passes Thorn, whose simple confidence seems to cloak him even in the busiest corner of the ship. He leans against the rail beside Vak, the Noctari helmsman, whose skin is the shade of midnight and those wide, reflective eyes scan the horizon without blinking. Vak's head tilts in perpetual curiosity, silent as a moonlit tide. Thorn gives Naomi a wink as she passes, his eyes light with mischief. His gaze holds no suspicion, only mutual understanding—two unusual fae navigating an unwelcoming world.

Naomi's nerves drive her to keep moving. She makes her way toward two minotaurs tasked with shifting barrels near the foredeck. Their size alone sets them apart, both easily twice the width of any man she has never seen. One is sandy brown, horns curling back like a polished driftwood, she has learned his name is Brem. The other, darker in hide and hair, is called Urol, his horns thicker and marked with runes that glint faintly in the sun.

The barrels they move are heavier than Naomi's entire body. Still, she approaches, feeling the compulsion to help, even if it means being laughed at for her trouble. "D… do you need help to carry those?" she offers, her voice soft but earnest.

Both minotaurs pause, looking down at her with an almost identical expression of bemused surprise. Brem raises a brow, glancing at Urol, who shrugs. They each reach out and heft a barrel into one massive hand, muscles rippling beneath their thick fur, moving the weight with such casual strength and Naomi feels both awed and embarrassed. Urol nods politely, careful not to let his amusement show. "We got it, little one," he says, voice rumbling like thunder at a distance. "But thank you for asking."

Before Naomi can step back from embarrassment, Brem bends and plucks a small pail from the supplies. He sets it gently in her hands, then adds a battered tin cup and a tidy bundle of rags. "If you're wanting to help, bring these down to the galley for the cook," Brem says, his tone warm. "He'll need water and a clean-up before the next meal."

Naomi beams up at them, relief and gratitude washing through her. "Thank you, Brem," she says quietly, hugging the pail and tin to her chest.

Brem gives a satisfied nod, while Urol grins, his broad mouth crinkling. "Mind your footing, miss," he says, nodding toward the slick patch near the stern. "And watch out for Nerrick. He gets testy when he's hungry."

Naomi nods her understanding and turns away, her arms now full but her heart lighter. She weaves through the crew, the burden in her arms small but significant. Determined not to drop anything, she flexes her wings and lifts herself above the crush of bodies. She moves through the shafts of sunlight, skimming above Dwarves and humans alike, careful to avoid tangling her feet in the rigging or brushing too close to the burly orcs hauling the lines at the mainmast.

Unbeknownst to her, Jareth stands at the helm, his eyes tracing her path with a kind of silent calculation. He calls Vak over with a single jerk of his chin, stepping aside to let the Noctari take the wheel. For a moment, he watches at Naomi glides out of view, her silhouette outlined by the pale light that spills down the companionway.

Naomi drifts down the last few steps, careful not to catch her wings on the narrow wooden beams, and gently nudges the door open to the galley with her shoulder. Inside, the space is low-ceilinged and warm, filled with the thick scents of breaking bread, salt, and the sharper tang of dried herbs. She blinks in surprise, pausing in the doorway as her eyes adjust to the soft, diffused glow of the lamps.

Standing at the large wooden table is a figure unlike any she's seen before. The man—or at least, she thinks of him as a man—stands tall and broad-shouldered, his posture slightly stooped to avoid brushing the rafters. His body is covered in a soft, dense layer of pale, dust-like fur that gleams in the lamplight. Two wide, feathery antennae curl above his brow, twitching as he senses her entrance. His enormous eyes, faceted and gleaming, flash with a soft, curious light while his long-fingered hands work with surprising dexterity to knead a mound of dough.

He's mothfolk, Naomi realises, a race she has only ever heard mention in passing. In old stories, they were called the Lethari, moon-walkers, said to be drawn to the world's brightest lanterns and highest peaks. Now, here's one in the flesh, standing in a pirate ship's galley.

Naomi stands quietly, feet thudding against the planks, and clutches the pail and tin to her chest. She stares, trying not to be rude, and after a moment, clears her throat.

"A-are you Nerrick?" she manages, her stutter slipping in despite her best effort.

The Lathari's head snaps up, antennae swivelling toward her. He straightens, brushing flour from his hands and flicks the powder off his furred fingers. His face is a strange mix of gentle and uncanny, mouth hidden beneath soft, bristling tuffs.

"Aye, I am," he answers, voice deeper and smoother than he expects, almost melodic. "And before you ask, yes, I've seen the lamps in every port on this side of the world, and no, I'm not about to fly straight into the nearest lantern, whatever you may have heard." He pauses, eyes twinkling with amusement. "That rumour is an exaggeration. Mostly."

Naomi blushes, shaking her head quickly, wings fluttering behind her in apology. "Oh, I-I didn't mean… I've just never seen someone like you before. I didn't know Lethari sailed."

Nerrick laughs, the sound soft and almost chirring. He gestures her to step closer, dust motes swirling in the warm lamplight. "I could say the same for fae," he retorts, "and yet here you are, bright as dawn. You're not the first Faerie I've met here, though. That Thorn, he has a way of turning up where he isn't expected."

Naomi edges further into the galley, setting the pail and tin cup down at the edge of the table. She watches as Nerrick carefully arranges dough into neat rounds, his movements impossibly light for someone his size.

"I… uhm, I'm Naomi," she offers. "I was sent to bring these."

He gives a grand, flour-dusted bow. "Much obliged, Naomi. Anyone who brings water and clean cloths is a friend to the cook." His antennae twitch as he studies her face, the lamps catching the iridescence of his fur. "Most fae keep the forests, or so I've been told. What brings you to sea?"

Naomi hesitates, glancing at the pail. "It's… a long story," she murmurs. "I'm still not sure if I should be here."

Nerrick chuckles, returning his bread. "Most of us feel that way, first time out. This ship is full of strays and wanderers. Give it time." He pauses again, flicking his antennae toward her as if sensing the nerves beneath her words. "I promise, you'll get used to the lamps and salt."

Naomi smiles, her nerves easing just a little. "I'll try."

Nerrick gives a sage nod, then gestures to the tray of apples near the door. "Do me a favour, would you? Hand these to the deckhands. They'll be hungry after all this fuss."

Naomi knows, fathering a handful, careful not to drop them. As she turns, Nerrick calls after her, his voice warm with mischief.

"And if anyone tells you I sleep wrapped in the sails, don't believe it. That's only on the coldest nights."

She gathers the apples, careful not to bruise them as she cradles them in her arms. She grins at Nerrick's parting joke, her wings fluttering with relief as she turns toward the galley door. The next moment, she nearly collides with a wall of muscle dressed in a black frock coat. Jareth seems to materialise in the cramped corridor, his silhouette filling the doorway and blotting out the softer glow of the galley lamps behind her.

Letting out a startled, high-pitched squeak, her hands clutch the apples tighter to her chest. Her heart thuds in her ribs, and she stares up at him, wide-eyed, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

The captain's expression is unreadable for a moment, his pale eyes flicking from Naomi's flushed face to the apples in her arms and then back at Nerrick, who stands at the worktable, the flour-dusted picture of calm. Jareth tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing just a fraction, his presence impossible to ignore.

"Cook," Jareth says, his voice deep and steady, the familiar gruffness there, but layered now with something more searching. "You weren't on deck earlier. When I called the crew together."

Nerrick pauses, stands stilled above his bread dough. The effect is subtle but telling. The easy geniality fades from his posture, replaced by a certain formal stillness. His antennae are still, their gentle curve straightening just slightly as he meets the captain's eyes.

"I heard your summons, Captain," Nerrick replies, voice softer but no less firm.

But I judged the bread would not bake itself. And hungry men make for worse trouble than any change of orders." He wipes his hands on a cloth, then leans on the table, the lamplight turning his eyes a pale gold. "You gave me leave to run my galley as I see fit. I didn't think you'd want your new guest's welcome interrupted by the smell of burnt breakfast."

Jareth's jaw tightens, but he doesn't press the point. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest, boots planted wide in the narrow passage, anchoring him there. He looks from Nerrick to Naomi and back again, reading something unspoken in the way the cook squares his shoulders.

"You know the rules," Jareth says, his tone less an accusation and more than a test of boundaries, old arguments simmering beneath his words. "If you need somethin', you come to me. I don't want surprises on my ship. Especially not now."

Nerrick's response is cool, but there is a thread of humour running under it. "The only surprise you'll find from is a well-fed crew and a galley with fewer complaints than usual. I keep to my business, Captain. As always. And as for knowing the rules…" His antennae flick as he glances at Naomi, catching the edge of the lamplight.

The silence that follows is thick with unsaid things. Naomi stands between them, clutching her apples, feeling the tension ripple in the air. She shuffles awkwardly, shifting her weight from foot to foot, caught between their stares. Her wings droop a little, and she looks to Jareth, then to Nerrick, searching for some safe place to rest her gaze.

Jareth's eyes linger on Naomi for a moment, softening at the edges. He gives a quick nod, just once, and steps aside to allow her passage. "Go on," he mumbles, his tone meant only for her. "Those won't carry themselves to deck."

She stammers a nervous, "Y-yes, Captain," and ducks under his arm, brushing past him as quickly as she dares. Her wings flutter in her haste, stirring the floury air.

Naomi barely has time to shift her weight before she feels Jareth's grip on her arm, firm and unmistakable. His palm covers nearly her whole forearm, callused and warm. He leans close, his voice dropping so low it rumbles her skin. "Remember what I told you last night," he says, the authority in his tone brooking no argument. "Stay close. I want to see you, always." His breath stirs the hair at his ear, and for a moment Naomi can't remember how to breathe. She nods, her heart skipping wildly, and as soon as he releases her, she bolts. Her wings beat furiously, carrying her up and out of a tense pocket of air between the two men.

Jareth watches her dart away before turning back, his body shifting from the shadow of protector to the unmistakable posture of command. He closes the galley door behind him with a decisive sound, sealing himself and Nerrick into the stuffy and fragment space. The muted glow of lanterns turns the flour in the air to a swirling haze, dust motes circling like restless spirits between them.

Jareth stands tall, boots braced and arms loose at his sides, but there's nothing relaxed about him. The lines of his shoulders are tight, his expression hard. His eyes settle on Nerrick, and the quiet patience from before is gone, replaced by the full weight of the captain. "What did you mean by that last bit?" Jareth demands, his voice pitched low but sharp as a whetstone. "'As for knowing the rules'—if you've got the balls to say that to my face, you've got the balls to explain it. Go on."

Nerrick, who only moments ago was all gentle jokes and polite smiles, lets his mask fall away. He straightens, the easy roundness leaving his posture. The mothfolk's eyes harden. He wipes his floury hands on a rag, antennae twitching with something like agitation. His accent thickens, the softness gone. "You want it plain? Fine. I've been runnin' this galley since before half of your crew had a stubble. I've seen rules come and go. Captains try to put their stamp on every scrap of tradition. But you and I both know, Winsler, that some rules—actual rules—ain't about order! They're about fear."

Jareth's eyes narrow, the corner of his mouth ticking upward in something like a challenge. "Fear of what?" he shoots back.

Nerrick drops the rag on the counter, all pretense gone. "Fear of women on board, fear of fae magic turnin' the wind sour, fear of gods punishing us for things we can't control. You're not the first man to carry those rules like a badge. I've seen what happens when you bend them, and I've seen what happens when you break 'em. You brought that girl back, and every man on this ship knows it's a risk."

Jareth's jaw works, and his fingers clench at his sides. "That risk is mine to take. She's here because I said so. No man will lay a finger on her, and no one will test my word."

Nerrick snorts, the sound half laughter, half warning. "You think a captain's word can protect everything that prowls the world, Jareth? Or the sea? I've watched too many captains learn otherwise. You put her in the middle of a powder keg, and then dare everyone to light the fuse. It isn't bravery, it's hubris."

For a long moment, Jareth doesn't speak. His words are icer, his expression unreadable. Then he steps forward, his height casting Nerrick into shadow. "If you have a problem, you come to me. If you see trouble brewing, you bring it to me. That's the only rule that matters here."

Nerrick stares back, unblinking, wings shifting just enough to show his own unease. "I see plenty, Captain. But I also see a man who doesn't care easy. Just remember, rules exist for a reason, even if you're too proud to admit you need them."

The silence that follows is not quite comfortable, but it is familiar—the standoff that defines the uneasy peace aboard any ship. Jareth holds Nerrick's gaze. The two men locked in a silent battle of will. At last, Nerrick steps back, grabbing a loaf of bread to slice, breaking the spell. "She's a good kid," Nerrick says at last, softer. "Just don't make promises you can't keep, Captain. The sea always comes to collect."

Jareth turns toward the door, his jaw set. "Let me worry about that."

He leaves the galley with a last look, the heavy oak swinging shut behind him. Nerrick stands in the lamplight, knife in hand, antennae still, as if measuring the exact cost of every word left unspoken.

The air hums with a tension that is half anticipation, half relief. The shoreline of Ravnor's Hollow is finally within reach, the outline of the harbour growing harper beneath the shifting light. Most of the crew are swept up in the controlled chaos that comes before making port, but Naomi stands a little apart from it all. She has kept mostly to herself since the incident with Gorran, the Werewolf's wild-eyed threat still echoing in her ears. She hadn't meant to step on his tail. She only wanted to help. But the flash of sharp teeth and the low, guttural promise he would throw her overboard has left her shaken. The only thing that stopped Goran from following through was the shadow Jareth had cast over them.

Now Naomi hovers just out of the way, her small hands folded around a piece of paper that has grown a little wrinkled from her fidgeting. She waits until Jareth is momentarily alone near the helm, his attention half of the water and half on the constant flow of crew moving about the deck. As she approaches, Jareth glances down at her with a guarded, gruff expression that has become so familiar.

She hesitates, then extends the paper, her fingers trembling just enough to be noticed.

Jareth takes it, his brows raising slightly. He unfolds It with careful, almost exaggerated slowness. The words are neat and small, each item listen in a precise hand. At the top, in larger letters, it reads: ASK BORIN AND JARETH! Below, the requests are sparse: a jar of green paint, a small mirror, some books (any kind), a handful of plants for her room, a few rugs, extra blankets, and pillows. There is nothing excessive, nothing that could be called greedy.

He reads it twice, then glances down at her, still silent. Naomi fidgets, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She clears her throat, her voice a soft stammer that betrays her nerves. "I… I didn't want to be a bother," she says, barely louder than the creak of the ship. "I know we're stopped for… for my clothes, but I thought… If it's not much, maybe I could… get a few things for my room. I don't need them, not really. But I thought—"

Jareth stops her with a raised hand, his expressed more surprised than stern. "Is this all?" he asks, holding the paper as if expecting it to transform into something longer and more demanding. "My father always said Faeries could bleed a market dry. This is nothing." There's a note of disbelief in his tone, a gruffness that is dampened by the honest confusion in his eyes.

Naomi shrinks a little under his words, unsure if she has overstepped or disappointed him. "I need little," she manages. "Only… enough to make the room feel less empty. And the plants help with the air. And the green paint… I just thought it'd feel more like home. But you don't have it, if it's—"

Jareth interrupts again, this time his voice low and steady. "Stop that." His gaze pins her in place. "You're not asking for too much. If anything, you should be asking for more. I'd have thought you'd be after half the town with a list like this." He studies her for a moment, as if the careful neatness of her handwriting might explain her restraint.

Naomi swallows, her cheeks flushing. "I just… didn't want to assume you'd let me come with you. I thought I'd wait on the ship and… and if you saw any of these, maybe you could…" Her voice trails off, but her eyes linger on his, uncertain and searching.

Jareth snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. "You really think I'd leave you behind?" The gruffness is still there, but it's coloured with something softer—almost incredulity. "You're coming with me. If you want something, you ask for it. You stay where I can see you, remember?" There's a trace of the captain in his tone, but it's different when turned to her. Less command and more certainty. "Besides, half this list is things I should've thought of myself. Next time, you write it out bigger. Make sure I don't miss anything."

Naomi's eyes widen, the surprise plain across her face. "You… you want me to come?" The words hang between them, disbelief and hope entwined. He searches his face for a catch, but finds only a patient steadiness that makes her chest ache.

"Of course I want you with me," Jareth says, more quietly now. "The market's not so bad, Of you know where to look. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else pick your things for you." He folds the paper again and tucks it into his coat pocket as if it's something precious.

Naomi stands a little straighter, her nerves replaced by a flicker of excitement. "Thank you," she says, her voice still soft but steadier. "Really. I… I'll do my best to stay close, I promise."

Jareth's mouth quirks, just barely, at the edge. "See that you do." He glances ahead, where the shore is nearly close enough to make out the shapes of people on the docks. "We'll be there soon. Stay be me, and I'll make sure you get everything you need."

For the first time all day, Naomi's smile comes easily, a small and honest thing that lights her face. The sound of the harbour grows louder, and the promise of something new, something like belonging, settles quietly between them. Jareth glances down at her one last time, and though his face remains stern, there's an unmistakable warmth in the way he stands.

The docks of Ravnor's Hollow stretch out beneath a bright, cloudless sky, the boards warped and salt-bleached beneath a thousand boots and a hundred tides. The Sunlit Rose pulls in heavy with promise, her hull brushing the pier with a dull, familiar thud. Naomi stands at the rail, heart fluttering as she surveys the bustling shoreline. All along the quay, vendors hawk their wares, voices pitched high over the grumble of sailors and the rattle of chains. Gulls swoop low, scattering at every sudden movement, their cries sharp as knives above the sun.

Jareth calls out a string of orders, his voice a coarse rasp above the noise. Men leap to secure the lines and swing the gangplank into place, their movements swift, shaped by long habit and the silent knowledge that every delay costs coin. Jareth follows in Jareth's wake, clutching her borrowed shirt tight at the waist. Her feet, unused to the unmoving solidity of land, nearly betray her. She stumbles, knees buckling, the wooden planks coming up too fast. Before she can fall, Jareth's hand clamps firmly around her waist. He steadies her, his grip warn and certain through the fabric, setting her back upright with practiced ease.

She finds her footing and breathes a quiet, "thank you," cheeks warming with embarrassment as she straightens herself. Jareth releases her, brow furrowed, his gaze scanning the length of the dock for trouble.

"Watch your step," she mutters, not unkind but practical. "You're used to the sway. Land never moves right after a stretch of sea. Give it a minute."

She nods, flexing her toes against the solid planks as if testing the truth of his words. He motions for her to keep close, and sets a quick pace toward the heart of the market. Every extra step bring a barrage of scents: fish fresh from the water, hot oil, and battered potatoes, tang of citrus and the dry, green scent of crushed herbs. Naomi drinks it in, her eyes darting from stall to stall, but Jareth keeps his focus forward, jaw tight.

"I don't trust the markets," he grumbles, keeping his voice low. "Traders'll skin you alive if you let 'em. Price changes with the wind, and half these stalls sell nothin' but trinkets. Last time I let one of Borin's men handle a list, he came back with painted stones and dry glass. Always haggle, never pay first. And keep your purse close."

Naomi listens, nerves settling with each step as she absorbs the rhythm of his advice. She falls into place beside him, weaving past the thick knots of sailors and townsfolk, her gaze drawn to every flicker of colour and flash of movement. She clutches her list in one hand, her other trailing across the canvas awnings and battered crates. Jareth's presence at her side anchors her, every stride measured, every glance calculated.

They move together through the crush of bodies, and suddenly, Jareth's tone shifts. His words falter. He stops short, eyes fixed on a group ahead. The crowd parts, and Naomi follows his gaze. She sees a man and a woman, standing together beside a battered hull of a fishing sloop. Three children orbit around them, their laughter rising above the marketplace clamour.

The man stands out first. He is lean and strong, with burnt umber hair swept back from a lined face, a beard cut sharp at the jaw. His coat hangs open, showing a faded shirt and the heavy leather of an old sailor's belt. Even at a distance, there's a dangerous confidence in his stance, a way he holds himself with the ease of someone who's stared down more than one blade in a back alley. His eyes sweep the crowd, missing nothing.

Beside him stands a tall woman; taller than Naomi has ever seen. Her hair is raven-black, falling to her waist, with streaks of white flashing through uneven lines where it has been cut in the past. Her skin is pale, almost luminous in the sunlight, and her eyes are a piercing violet. She watches the children with a gaze that is both careful and distant. Her presence demanding a safe place even when she says nothing.

Of the children, two are unmistakably kin. The older boy looks around ten, his dark skin bright beneath the sun, with hair a wild tumble of curls, his eyes sharp as spring leaves. He is carrying a battered toy in one hand, his movements lively and sure. Beside him, a girl, looking hardly over four, mimics his every step. Her curls are even wilder, pulled back by a strip of red cloth, her skin the same dark bronze. She giggles as the older boy spins her around, her laughter bright as bells.

The third child is different. He is smaller, no older than eight, with pale skin that stands out against his companions, with a shock of white-blonde hair that catches the light. His eyes are icy blue, clear and thoughtful. He stands a little apart, watching the world with a caution that speaks of long winters and quieter storms.

Jareth's eyes narrow as he studies the man at the centre. Recognition flashes; hard, cold, and unmistakable. He doesn't say the name aloud. He folds his arms, the motion deliberate, his jaw tightening as he watches the group from a distance. Naomi feels the tension in him rising and looks up, her brow creasing in concern.

"I… is something wrong?" she asks, her voice so quiet the bustle of the market swallows her words.

He shakes his head, but the motion is slow. "Just… a familiar face. Not the kind you expect to see on a morning like this."

He doesn't explain, but his gaze lingers on the man. He watches the stranger bend, scooping up the smallest child with a practiced arm. The child wraps her arms around his neck, chattering about something only he can hear. The woman beside him glances over, her eyes sharp and unreadable. The tall boy leans in, pointing toward a booth where spiced cakes are set in neat rows.

Naomi studies the group, her curiosity piqued by the way the five of them move together—like a miniature crew, each one sliding into a place shaped by long habit. There is an ease between the man and children, a casual, practiced affection that says he has carried them before, and that he'll carry them again. The woman remains on the edge, protective but unapproachable, her arms folded across her chest as if warding off every uninvited glance.

While Jareth doesn't move closer, Naomi can sense the urge in him. His weight shifts forward, his hands curling as if to grasp the sword that's not strapped to his side.

Naomi steps a little closer, glancing from the family to Jareth and back again. She doesn't know the story, but she can feel it in the air between them like an old memory, unspoken and heavy.

She tugs gently at his sleeve, offering a quiet question. "Should we… keep moving?"

Jareth lets the question hang for a moment, his arms still folded, his gaze locked on the group. At last, he nods. His voice is rough, the words heavy with meaning Naomi can't quite catch. "Aye. There's business to do. No sense dwelling on ghosts."

He sets off again, pace brisk and controlled. Naomi falls in at his side, casting one last, curious look over her shoulder as the man and woman move away, the three children circling close. The market swallows them, the sounds of bargaining and laughter rushing in to fill the space where tension once stood.

Jareth strides ahead with Naomi close at his heels, the list already creased and soft at the edges from his broad fingers. He pulls it out of his pocket, scanning the contents with a practiced glance. He mutters the item under his breath, ticking them off in his mind: green paint, a small mirror, books of any kind, a handful of plants, a few rugs, extra blankets, and pillows. His lips pressed together as he looks for the first easy mark among the stalls, the list already weighing on his mind. He feels the pressure of every promise, the need to prove himself capable of this simple task.

The market stretches in every direction, alive with voices. The air is thick with the scent of crushed sage, sea salt, and sun-warmed fruit. Jareth's eyes land on a stall to the right, canopies striped green and white, a polished wooden sign reading 'Lira's Curiosities.' Mirrors of every shape and size hang from the tent poles. Their surfaces flash with sunlight, reflecting every movement in dizzying bursts of silver and gold.

He slows his steps, then looks back at his Faerie companion. His mouth quirks at the edge, the hint of mischief softened by the rough lines of his face. He leans down, lowering his voice so only she can hear.

"Pirates are a merchant's nightmare. Watch this," he says, his confidence edged with a dry humour, shoulders set with purpose.

Naomi hides her smile behind her hand. Glancing up with a mixture of curiosity and scepticism. Jareth's bravado is at odds with the soft flush of his ears, a tell he can't disguise. He squares his shoulders and steps up to the stall, motioning for Naomi to stay close but letting his presence speak for both of them.

The merchant, a small, wiry woman with a shrewd eye and a headscarf printed with birds, greets him with a knowing smile. She leans on the edge of her counter, arms folded, gaze flickering between Jareth's heavy boots and the small Faerie shadowing his steps.

Jareth's eyes sweep the collection of mirrors before landing on a full dressing mirror, set on a carved desk with a matching stool. It gleams under the canopy, the frame inlaid with patterns of sliver leaf, and mother-of-pearl. He glances at Naomi, who stares at the mirror, uncertain if he's misunderstood her request. Jareth gestures at the piece, setting his jaw in a line that dares the merchant to name her price.

"How much for that mirror? The big one, with the desk," he asks, his tone clipped and low, a challenge in every syllable.

The merchant doesn't blink. "That's the finest piece I have. Made from river oak, brought in from the northern coast. That'd be fifty gold."

Jareth snorts, loud and incredulous, as if she has just suggested the price of a small boat. "Fifty gold? For a bit of glass and wood? You're robbing a man in daylight!"

The merchant smiles wider, unbothered by his scorn. She cocks her head; the sunlight glinting on her earrings. "It's a fair price for fair work, Captain. Few see prices like this outside the noble quarter."

Jareth huffs, folding his arms. He leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. "I could buy five mirrors for that at any market in Tarith's Crossing. Thirty gold. That's generous."

The smaller woman taps her fingers on the counter, fingers on the counter, eyes bright. "Thirty? You must think me daft. The glass alone costs more than that. I have other buyers, you know. Forty-five."

Jareth shakes his head, his scowl deepening, but his interest is genuine. He circles the mirror, runs a rough hand among the smooth edge, then flicks his gaze back at the merchant. "As I said, midday robbery. It's worth twenty-five, at best. It's not even perfect, see there?" He points to a hairline mark near the corner, more habit than real critique.

She lets out a low laugh, eyes dancing. "Midday robbery, you say? You'd know, wouldn't you? I'll tell you what, Captain. I'll take forty and not a coin less. That's my last offer."

Jareth straights and squares his shoulders, and glances at Naomi, hoping for a flicker of support. He finds her studying the mirror, then him, her lips twisting with silent amusement. She sees the way he's trying to impress her, the stubborn set of his mouth and the pride in his posture. She shakes her head, a trace of laughter in her eyes.

He tries one last tactic, brow drawn low. "Thirty-five, then. You know as well as I do it'll sit there for weeks otherwise."

The woman only laughs again, leaning back. "I don't think so, Captain. Not with the way your fae friend is looking at it. Forty, or I sell it to the next ship's quartermaster."

With a begrudging sigh, Jareth reaches for his belt pouch and draws out the coins, dropping them onto the counter with a heavy clink. The merchant sweeps them up with practiced fingers, counting every piece before sliding the mirror and desk forward.

Jareth grumbles under his breath as he helps her set the mirror aside for delivery, then looks at Naomi, half-defensive, half-proud. "Could've talked her down further if she hadn't been so sharped," he mutters, running a hand through his beard.

Naomi can't help herself. Her laughter is soft but genuine, the tension in her shoulders easing as she studies the elaborate mirror and desk now marked as theirs. She glances up at Jareth, her eyes bright with humour and disbelief. "Thank you, Captain," she says, voice just above a whisper, "but… why that one? I only asked for a small mirror."

He looks away, feigning nonchalance. "If you're going to do it, do it right. You'll want space for your things. The desk'll keep the room tidy." He shrugs, as if the matter is settled, then gestures for her to follow. "Come on. Next is paint. And don't go thinking I'll get swindled twice in one day."

They slip into the crowd, Naomi trailing after him, her spirits lighter. She can't help but watch him, the set of his jaw, the careful way he keeps her close. It's not just the mirror that changed her mood, but the effort that sits at the heart of every bargain. She steps quickly to keep pace.

Naomi drifts beside Jareth, weaving her way through the bustling market as the morning sun turns every gold. Her eyes trace the patterns of the crowd, the way merchants hawk their wares, the glimmer of coins passing from hand to hand. She clutches her arms close, her fingers picking at the hem of her sleeve, distracted by the sheer volume of sound and colour. The thought of the green paints tugs at her, and a flicker of doubt crosses her face. Her brows knit in quiet worry as she glances up at Jareth, her head tilting with hesitation.

She speaks, her voice quiet and edged with uncertainty. "Do you… do you think they'll have paint here?" The stutter creeps in at the edges, but she presses on, determined to understand this new world. "I-I mean, I wrote it down but… I don't actually know if that's something you c-can buy in a market like this."

Jareth slows his stride, the press of the crowd shifting around him. He lifts his chin and surveys the stalls, eyes narrowed as he recalls his last time ashore in this port. The member comes to him in fragments: the scent of turpentine, a flash of blue paint on a merchant's hand, a row of jars catching the light on a shelf. He grunts softly, half to himself, half in answer to his question.

"Most places like this will have at least one vendor who deals in paint. Sells to the shipwrights and sign-makers," he says, voice low and steady. "I remember a fellow with blue on his knows last time we docked here. Keep your eyes open. Some of these bastards move their stalls around."

Naomi nods, her worry easing just a little as she matches her steps to his. She peers around, scanning the rows of tents and wooden counters, searching for any splash of colour. Her gaze lingers on a stall draped with faded sailcloth. The table is crowded with jars in every shade of green, blue, and red, the pigment bright even in the shade. She nudges Jareth, her voice quiet but hopeful. "I-I think that one, there. By the rope seller. The jars, see?"

Following her line of sight, he steers her through the knot of shoppers, his hand hovering close to her back, ready to steady her if the crowd surges. They reach the stall, and the merchant, a heavy-set man with a thick beard and paint-stained fingers, greets them with a wary look. Shelves behind him are lined with jars and tins, each labelled in a spidery hand.

Jareth leans forward, eyes scanning the labels. "Looking for green. Something deep, not too bright," he says, his tone brisk.

The merchant nods and reaches for a squat glass jar, holding it up so the sun catches the colour. "Forest green mixed it meself. Good coverage, lasts long in salt air."

Jareth studies the jar, rolling it in his hands. "How much?"

"Ten gold for the jar. Not a coin less," the merchant answers, folding his arms.

Jareth snorts, shifting his weight as if settling in for a fight. "Ten? I can get twice that for half the price in the city. I'll take it for five gold."

The merchant raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I have to eat, too. Eight. That's the best you'll get."

Jareth taps the counter with a thick finger, his gaze unflinching. "Six, then. There's a dozen stalls like yours between here and the wharf. None of them charge ten."

He considers, lips pursed. Naomi glances at Jareth, her eyes wide with nervous admiration. The silence stretches, and then the man shrugs, the faintest smile tugging at his beard. "Fine. Six. But you're taking the brush."

Jareth reaches for the coins, dropping them into the merchant's waiting palm. He bundles the jar and brush in a scrap of waxed paper, sliding them across the counter. Naomi gathers them up, her hands careful.

Clutching the bag to her chest, she smiles to herself, her face bright with relief. She turns to Jareth, her stutter softer, almost playful. "I've only ever seen my father bargain like that. He h-hates markets, but he always comes home with more than he paid for."

Jareth's expression shifts, the edge of pride in his voice softened by memory. "You did the same yourself, remember? Back in Tarith's Crossing, when I asked for herbs. You talked that woman into handing them over for nothing. I still don't know what you said."

Naomi laughs quietly, her cheeks colouring. "That wasn't… really the same. I just told her in Slyvh'an that you had a headache from all the noise. She said anyone with sense could see it, and she gave me the herbs for free. I think she felt sorry for you."

Jareth grunts, feigning irritation, though his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Sympathy's as good as gold in some places. Still, you did well. Maybe you'll have to do the talking next time. I think the paint man got the better of me."

She smiles, the tension easing from her shoulders. She hugs the bag closer, feeling a new confidence in the simple rhythm of their exchange. "I'd rather leave the bargaining to you, Captain. I'd end up trading the while ship for a jar of jam."

Jareth chuckles, the sound low and genuine, and gestures for her to follow as they blend back into the current of the market, the weight of the list lighter in his hand and something quieter, almost like ease, growing in space between them.

After the business of paints and mirrors, the afternoon drifts past in a haze of bustling markets and the low, constant hum of voices that seem to blend with the creak of distant ship masts. Every small stall offers something: rough-spun blankets dyed in strange colours, pillows so soft they almost melt beneath the hand, and rugs thick with the smell of lanolin and sea salt. Every item weighs heavily in Jareth's arms until, finally, he gives in and calls Thorn over. The other Faerie appears with a simple grin, his stride light as he gathers the burdens from Jareth, balancing rolls of fabric and bundles of linen as if born for it.

The clothing stores are tucked down a quieter street, their windows crowded with mannequins in faded silks and pale cotton. There's a hush here, broken only by the murmur of a tailor or the soft cling of pins in glass bowls. Jareth hesitates just outside the nearest shop, his jaw set and his gazed fixed on the uneven stones at his feet. It's not the shopping that gives him pause, but what he has to ask.

He beckons Naomi closer, lowering his voice as he bends to her ear. "Need to know your size, lass," he says, his gruffness betrayed by a faint, unmistakable blush at the tops of his cheeks. "Not somethin' I can guess." He clears his throat, trying to sound casual. "You mind tellin' me, or d'you want to pick it out yourself?"

A flush rises around Naomi's neck, but she meets his eyes, her hands knotting together. "It's… uhm… F2-Windpetal," she stammers, the syllables soft and almost lost beneath the noise. "That's… fae sizing. F is for Faerie… um, two means small, for someone short and light. Windpetal is… smaller on the shoulders and chest, a bit more room for wings, s-so nothing pinches or pulls. It's a common size at home. Not so much here."

Jareth gives a low grunt, nodding as if this makes perfect sense, though it clearly doesn't. "Small then, we'll ask."

The shop inside smells of lavender and pressed linen, racks of dresses and blouses tumbling together in a riot of colour. Naomi disappears behind a curtain, arms filled with light cottons and soft, fluttering skirts. The merchant, a woman with clever eyes and calloused fingers, helps her choose, marking the sizes on a folded scrap as she works.

Left to his own devices, Jareth paces the small shop, hands stuffed in his coat pockets. His gaze drifts from the shelves stacked with chemises and ribbons to a small alcove where the something catches the light—a dress, set apart from the rest, as if it waits for a story.

The dress commands attention even in this crowded room, its soft cream fabric gathered at the neck and waist in a way that suggests both grace and quiet confidence. Red blooms spill in an exuberant pattern across the sleeves and down the length of the full skirt, while pale violets curl among the stems. Every stitch, every bead at the hem, catches the light, alive with the promise of spring. The sleeves balloon gently before gathering at the wrist, the body flowing outward to a generous, almost regal sweep. There is a story in its colours, a warmth that seems meant for someone who craves roots and softness at once.

Jareth studies the dress, his mind's eye already seeing it on Naomi: the way the colour would set off her hair, the cut would flatter her smallness without making her disappear. With a short, wordless grant, he calls the merchant over, jerking his head toward the gown. "That one. You got it in F2-Windpetal?"

A brow arches, sharp and knowing. The woman turns toward the back rack, fingers flying over the labels. "Lucks's with you, Captain. Only one left in that size." She eyes him for a moment, then lays the folded dress on the table. "This one's special. Are you wanting your lass to try it on?"

His answer comes quick, low, and certain. "No. It'll fit." His eyes linger on the curtain where Naomi is changing. The thought of her stepping out and finding him haggling over the price of her clothes brings a discomfort he can't name, something tangled between pride and protectiveness.

The merchant seems to sense it. She crosses her arms, a wry twist to her lips. "I'd have expected a pirate to bargain hard for something so fine. That's the way things are here. You're not going to try?"

He sets his jaw and shakes his head, a refusal both gentle and immovable. "Not for this." There's no edge of apology in his voice, only a quiet certainty that stops any argument before it starts.

A sly smile flickers over the woman's face. "That's rare from your kind. I like it." She wraps the dress in thin paper and binds it with red string, her movements precise. "You keep surprising me, Captain. Maybe you're not the thief I took you for."

He accepts the parcel, tucking it away with care as if guarding a secret. As he waits for Naomi to emerge, he listens for the rustle of her skirts, the hush of her feet against the worn boards.

Behind the curtain, Naomi's voice drifts out, shy, and uncertain. "Are you… s'posed to bargain for these things?" She fumbles with the laces of a blouse, her words hesitant. "I never know how to ask. My mother always did that. She could get anything for half the price. Even a dress."

Jareth's gaze returns to the partition, the paper-wrapped bundle gripped in his fist. Something about haggling for her clothes sits wrong with him, like counting coins at a funeral. "Like I said, not this time," he calls back, voice softer than before. "Some things are worth the price."

For a while, the noise in the shop ebbs around him. He lingers by the counter, letting the weight of the dress settle in his hand. The merchant busies herself with ribbons and buttons, but every so often, she glances his way, amusement still sparkling in her eyes.

The curtain stirs and Naomi emerges at last, cheeks flushed from the effort, arms wrapped tight around herself in the unfamiliar blouse and skirt. The colours suit her, bringing out the warmth in her skin and the wild gloss of her hair. She turns, uncertain, and finds him waiting, his presence steady as an anchor.

Approval glimmers, understated but real. "Looks fine," Jareth says, his voice low. "We'll take the lot." There is no mention of price, no edge of pride—only a decision made and carried through.

The merchant beams, making a quick work of the tally, jotting down sizes and colours on her worn ledger. She promises delivery by sundown, her eyes darting between the Faerie girl and the tall captain who stands silently at her back.

As they step out into the sunlight, the city feels warmer, the press of the market less harsh. Naomi glances once at the package in his hands, curiosity flaring, but she says nothing, choosing instead to walk beside him, their steps matched as if by long habit. Each new purchase, each silent gesture, speaks of a growing trust; a language built on care and small, purposeful choices. The day, for all its awkwardness and expense, has given them both more than they expected.

Outside, the bustle of the port swells and recedes with the tide, sailors and townsfolk weaving patterns across the cobbled streets. The sunlit glances of the sea, dazzling enough to hurt the eyes. Jareth stands in the middle of it all, arms full of parcels and mind turning over the weight of every new responsibility. A glance to his side finds Naomi hovering a half-step away, arms curled around her bundle of clothes, her gaze searching his face for the next order.

"Best you go back to the ship," he says gruffly. "I'll be along soon. Thorn's probably waiting for help to carry your things."

A moment of hesitation lingers in her posture—shoulders tight, brows furrowed, as if reluctant to leave him alone in the busy market. She searches his expression, finds only resolve, and then gives a small, unsure nod. The wings at her back beat softly as she takes off, skimming over the crowd toward the distant line of masts.

Once she's out of sight, the noise seems to close in. Jareth squares his shoulders and lets the steady rhythm of the street guide his steps. He finds himself drawn by a flash of silver and pale blues; a small jewellery shop, its windows set with moonstone and opal that shimmer in even daylight. The sign above the door is weathered, painted with a curling rune he recognises from old sailor tales.

He steps in, boots scuffing against the worn flagstones. The cool air of sandalwood and a hint of salt, like rain after a storm. At the counter, a woman stands surrounded by gleaming silver and amethyst, her dark hair twisted up, her eyes shrewd but curious. She looks up as the bell over the door rings, her gaze sweeping over Jareth's size, his battered coat, and the old scars on his hands.

Her appraisal is quick and practiced, but he doesn't flinch. He leans forward, voice pitched low for privacy. "I've got a Faerie lass on my ship," he says, not bothering to lower his gruffness, but choosing his words with more care than usual. "The crew's not used to her kind. Neither am I. The old captain says the sea won't forget when magic crosses her path. The cook says I've put her in danger." A pause. "I don't want any trouble if I can help it. Lookin' for somethin' that might—" his fingers gesture vaguely, "—keep her safe."

At first, suspicion flickers in the merchant's eyes, but she softens, understanding the trouble that comes when old legends and young fae are set adrift together. "You are wise to worry," she murmurs, her tone quiet, but threaded with the certainty of someone who's lived long in port cities. "The sea and Faeries, they mix about as well as oil and a lamp flame. Even the gods know that." She reaches below the counter, producing a pedant that is shaped like a crescent moon, hammered silver set with a stone the colour of sea-glass. The chain is fine, nearly weightless.

Her hands cradle the moon charm as if it's a living thing. "This piece," she begins, brushing her thumb over the rune etched on the back, "was made by the Sisters of Welios out on Miralin's Isle. Blessed in the tide pools before dawn. It holds a thread of the ocean's calm; no storm can touch the wearer while they hold it. That's the first blessing." She points to the runic script curling around the edge. "Utar, God of Magic, grants it the power to steady wild sorcery. If she's touched by magic gone awry. It'll ground her… keep her tethered to herself." Her fingers trace the pale stone at its heart. "Ala, the Moon Mother, gave her light here. She watches over all lost things; keeps travellers safe in the dark. That's the last blessing. The wearer will always find her way around, even when the world turns strange around them."

Her voice is slow and measured, each detail delivered with a weight that is almost ritual. "It won't make her invisible, and it won't cure a broken heart, but it'll turn aside the worst of the sea's anger. With this, the world might forgive a Faerie for crossing so much water."

The explanation settles in the small space, filling the shop with the hum of old faith and new bargains. Jareth listens, the lines around his eyes deepening as the story unfolds. "How much for it?" The question is blunt, but there's no edge to it.

The merchant answers without hesitation. "Eighty in gold, Captain. No less. You pay for the gods' favour, not just silver and stones."

There's no argument, no push for a lower price. Jareth counts the coins—broad and battered, the marks of half a dozen kingdoms stamped on their faces. Each one clints sharp against the wood as he lines them up in a careful row, neither hurried nor reluctant.

Her smile, quick and sly, flickers as she gathers the coins. "She must mean a great deal to you, to pay so much for a charm." A question lingers at the edge of her words, but she leaves it unspoken.

He brushes off the implication, voice low and almost impatient. "She's crew now. Crew gets looked after. It's nothing more than that, but that's none of your business. Thank you for the charm."

A knowing look glimmers in her eyes, but she simply nods, slipping the pendant into a small pouch of blue velvet. "You take care, Captain. The world isn't always kind to the Faerie luck."

Without another word, Jareth tucks the pouch inside his coat, its weight a cold comfort against his chest. He tips his head in thanks and steps back out into the sunlight, the city's noise closing over him once more. The press of people, the scent of salt and market spices, all swirl as he makes his way back to the docks, each stride purposeful.

As the ship comes into view, sunlight flashing on her weathered hull, he squares his shoulders, ready to face the questions that wait aboard. The weight of the charm and the memories of warnings trail him down the gangplank, marking every step with the stubborn certainty of a man who intends to keep his promises.

Some hours drift by before the ship settles into an evening lull. Down in the quieter reaches near the stern, where the noise of boots on deck fades into a distant, familiar pulse. Jareth walks the narrow passage with careful steps, arms full of neatly bundled parcels. In one hand, he balances a stock of folded shirts, skirts, and tunics, each one chosen with a level of deliberation that would make Borin laugh. The other holds the dress, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a bit of cord, and tucked securely inside his coat pocket. The small pouch with the moon pedant rests against his chest.

The air cools as he moves deeper into the ship, lanterns burning in little glass nooks to keep away the dim. Every door he passes is marked with its own bit of life: a smudge of grease where the cook leans, a coil of rope, a dent in the wood. Naomi's door stands out now. The old boards are painted from the inside, and he can just make out a blush of green beneath the frame—a streak of life in a world that rarely allows for softness.

Knuckles rap gently on the door, the weight of packages shifting. Inside, a small, muffled, "Come in," floats through, her voice hesitant, a note of surprise tucked behind it.

He enters and stops just inside, struck by the transformation. The room has changed; every surface, every empty corner has taken on Naomi's shape. Books are stacked along the chest at the end of the bed, some open to pressed flowers, others closed and waiting for idle hands. Ferns and trailing vines curl around the porthole, catching what little sunlight dares to reach this far below. A thick, patterned rug softens the floor, and the desk sits beside the bunk, crowned by the new mirror and scattered with little trinkets: shells, a bit of coloured glass, a half-finished braid of wildflowers.

Blankets spill from the bed, new and folded with care, colours and patterns layered over the old sailor's grey. Pillows line the wall, each one different, all inviting. The door, painted on her side, is a riot of green; vines, leaves, and a single red blossom near the bottom. Somehow, the cabin feels larger, brighter. It hums with quiet contentment, and for the first time, he thinks the air down here smells less like damp timber and more like home.

A flicker of movement draws his gaze. Naomi sits at the desk, hunched over the mirror, a brush in hand. For once, her hair is loose—long, black waves spilling over her shoulders, the usual braids absent, making her look younger, softer. She is wrapped in a fresh tunic and a light skirt that sits just above her ankles. Something about it feels right, as if the clothes were always meant for her. When she looks up and catches him staring, her smile is shy but unguarded. One hand rises, absently tucking a strand behind her ear.

"What's the matter?" Her question is gentle, spoken around with a nervous laugh. "Did I… did I do something wrong?"

Jareth clears his throat, fighting a warmth that creeps up his neck. He sets the bundles on the bed and sits down on a spare stool near the desk, boots scraping against the edge of the rug. "No, nothing's wrong. Just… thought I'd bring you a few things." He nudges the packages her way, keeping his tone steady, not quite meeting her eyes.

A curious light sparks in Naomi's eyes as she sorts through the clothes, fingertips lingering over each new fabric. She pauses at the brown paper package, glancing up for permission before carefully unwrapping it. The dress spills out, a gentle cream shade painted with red blossoms and leafy vines, the fabric soft and full of motion. Her mouth forms a silent O of wonder. Before she can ask, he shifts, pulling the little blue pouch from his coat and setting it beside her.

"This one—" his voice catches, a little rougher than he'd like, "—is from the market. It's for you. Should keep you safe, or that's what the woman claimed."

Wide-eyed, she lifts the pendant, moonlight pale and set in silver, the runes gleaming faintly in the lamplight. She turns it in her hands, eyes tracking every etched mark. "Did you… did you have to sit through a talk about the gods for this?" Her voice is tentative, half teasing. "I've heard you call them godlings when you think no one is listening."

A deep, embarrassed flush climbs up his ears. Jareth looks away, brow furrowed, hands restless on his knees. "She said it's got blessings from three of them. Welios, Utar, Ala—some bit about calm waters, steady magic, and finding your way in the dark. I didn't ask for the whole story, but she seemed to think it was worth the price."

He waits, watching as Naomi clasps the chain around her neck. "Turn around, let me help," he mutters, half an order, half a request. When she obeys, turning in her seat, he gathers the pendant's chain in his hands. The metal is cool against his skin, almost humming with a faint energy, and for a moment, as he fastens it at the nape, his fingers brush the fine, downy hairs at her collar. The contact is light, accidental, but it lingers, sparking something in his chest he does not recognise.

Once the clasp is secure, Naomi's fingers lift the pendant, studying it. A slow, genuine smile breaks over her face, brighter than any he's seen yet. She stands then, skirts whispering, and crosses the small room before he can move. Arms wrap around his shoulders, gentle but sure. She hugs him, pressing her cheek to his shirt. The action is simple, uncalculated, but it leaves him stunned.

He sits frozen, hands half raised, not sure where to rest them. Words desert him entirely. Naomi draws back, eyes shining. "Thank you," she whispers, voice thick. "For everything. I—no one's ever… I can't remember the last time someone gave me something just because they wanted to."

Struggling to muster his usual sternness, Jareth clears his throat. He makes a clumsy effort to regain the captain's mantle, gesturing to the dress still folded on the bed. "Just don't wear it on deck all the time. Wouldn't want it getting ruined by salt and tar. Meant for when you want to feel at home, not when you're fighting sails."

She laughs, the sound quiet and sweet, brushing a hand over her skirt. The light in the room seems to glow a little warmer. Silence settles, not awkward but full, as if the ship itself is holding its breath.

He rises, one hand on the back of the stool, eyes darting anywhere but her face. Never has gratitude made him feel so out of sorts. The sight of Naomi standing in her small, bright room, hair loose, necklace glinting in the lantern light, catches him off guard in a way no blade or brawl ever could.

It's only when he turns to leave that the strangeness of it all hits him full force. Why, of all the dangers he's faced at sea, should it be this—this small, grateful gesture—that leaves him feeling so uncertain? The question gnaws at him as he closes the door behind, boots echoing down the passage, heart pounding with an ache he cannot name.

A note from sacreddgrove

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