The morning has yet to break fully across the endless expanse of the ocean, still shrouded in that silvery haze between night's end and dawn's first timid touch. Shadows drape themselves in loose folds in the ship's timbers, clinging to corners and hollows, reluctant to be chased away by the coming light. Even the waves move with a drowsy gentleness, murmuring softly against the hull rather than roaring, as though the entire sea itself holds its breath before daylight's arrival.
With his heavy boots brushing softly against the deck, Jareth makes his rounds, heavy steps methodical and precise. With broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back, his piercing gaze passes slowly over each sailor still attending their duties. Torchlight flickers faintly, casting sharp silhouettes against the wood, outlining ropes and barrels in wavering half-shadows.
In these quiet hours, the men speak in hushed stones, mindful of their captain's preference for calm before the morning bell rings out its sharp call.
Near the ship's bow, two night-watch sailors stand rigid beneath his watchful eye. The first is Dralen, a lean, serious-faced Scarthborn with slate-grey skin, who straightens as his captain passes. Ever watchful, Dralen's piercing violet eyes linger briefly on Jareth's face, respectful but wary, knowing instinctively something weighs heavily on the captain's mind. Beside Dralen stands his counterpart: Hamish, a stout Halfling sailor with curls of brown tumbling across his forehead, an affable grin almost permanently etched upon his features.
Hamish greets Jareth with a half-mumbled, hearty, "Mornin' Cap'n," the cheerfulness fading slightly when he catches the grim, preoccupied look shadowing his captain's countenance.
Jareth gives only a faint nod, his voice a low rumble of acknowledgement. "Keep sharp until the bell, lads."
Hamish shifts his weight from one foot to another, eyes darting toward Dralen, then back to their captain. He opens his mouth to speak again, perhaps to make some jest to lighten the tension he senses in his usually stalwart leader, but Dralen discreetly elbows him, shaking his head ever-so-slightly in quiet warning.
The Halfling settles back, wisely holding his tongue.
Moving onward, Jareth's mind doesn't settle with the comfortable routine of checking crew or inspecting the rigging. Instead, thoughts circle restlessly within, unsettled as storm-winds trapped inside a sail. There's one word rattling persistently, loudly; Apologise. It tastes bitter and unfamiliar on his tongue, sits uncomfortably in the centre of his chest, heavier than any cargo he's ever carried.
He considers the possibilities as he walks, each step measured but distracted, each creak of the deck beneath him marking another failed attempt to form coherent words.
Perhaps, "My words were too rash; you didn't deserve them." No. Too stiff, too… formal.
Then maybe, "Listen, lass, I didn't mean what I said yesterday…"
Again, he discards the thought swiftly, biting back a frustrated sigh. Too soft, far too close to vulnerability, a chink in armour he's spent years building. There are expectations that come with being captain, with mainlining authority and strength. Apologies—especially sincere ones—feel dangerously close to admitting weakness. Yet, Jareth knows deep down this apology is owed, deserved even.
His stride slows as he pauses by the mainmast, looking upward toward where she often perches. Not there now, of course. The crow's nest sits empty, illuminated faintly by distant stars, with nothing but darkness within. Still, the memory of her face flashes across his mind, although he hadn't noticed it at first. Not until he overheard her quiet conversation with Borin that he realised just how blind he'd been. Now he can't shake the image: wide mauve eyes watching him from the shadows, the hurt plain beneath the confusion he had left her with.
His jaw tightens involuntarily. The truth stings sharper for knowing he'd been the fool, missing what was right in front of him.
Words twist and spiral again:
"About yesterday… about what you heard. I was careless; I didn't mean those things to be as harsh as they were."
But the words unravel even as he thinks them. What good does it do to offer excuses? An apology should mend something, heal wounds—not simply explain why he wielded the knife. Jareth isn't naïve enough to think she'll forget easily how sharp his words had been.
He rubs absently at his jaw, fingers catching briefly in the thick bristle of his red beard. Another flits across his mind, more elaborate yet strangely comforting: perhaps he could stage some small entertainment for the crew tonight, something lively enough to distract curious eyes, something loud enough to muffle their ears, and under the guise of diversion, find a quieter moment to seek her out and apologise. With fewer eyes watching, perhaps sincerity would come easier.
He almost smiles bitterly at the idea, shaking his head faintly. Clever solutions, quiet plans; such careful manoeuvring seems laughable when he thinks back to his childhood. Back home in Caerleon, in the sprawling halls and sunlit gardens of his youth, apologies were just as elusive, words sticking stubbornly even then. He remembers his mother, Thelren, shaking her head affectionately at his younger self, a gentle reprimand softened by fondness:
"Oh, Jareth, of all of my sons, you're the very worst at apologies. Even Lorent, stubborn as stone, could muster an honest 'sorry' faster than you."
He calls how his older brothers—Vaelon with his amiable smiles, Lorent stern yet fair, and Thalric, always striving to prove himself—had all somehow been able to bridge gaps with simple, heartfelt words. But not Jareth. Even then, apologies felt too raw, too exposed, too close to baring his own uncertainties.
Now, standing on a weathered deck rather than polished marble floors, feeling the salt-stiffened ropes beneath his palm rather than embroidered tapestries of home, that old reluctance returns sharper than ever. Pride and dignity battle relentlessly against the nagging feeling that Naomi deserves better than his usual brusque evasion.
He's lost in contemplation when footsteps approach from behind; quiet, hesitant, and uncertain whether to disturb him. He turns slowly, gaze piercing through the darkness, making out of approaching figure of Yoren, a lanky dragonborn crewman whose bronze scales catch faint starlight as he hesitates at a respectful distance.
"Beg pardon, Cap'n," Yoren rumbles in his deep, measured voice. His reptilian features unreadable, though respectful caution lurks clearly within his eyes. "Night's been quiet. Shall I ring the bell yet, or hold off for a while longer?"
Jareth lifts his chin slightly, considering the horizon, now faintly touched with grey-blue light. "Ring it, Yoren," he finally answers, voice steady and controlled, betraying none of the turmoil inside. "Wake the crew."
"Aye, Cap'n." The Dragonborn dips his head once more, turning swiftly toward the brass bell positioned at the aft deck.
Jareth watches silently as Yoren moves to complete his task, each movement graceful despite the crewman's considerable size. The ship's bell rings out moments later, sharp, and clear: an iron-edged call for duty, breaking the ship fully from the night's gentle grasp.
Soon enough, the morning bustle will reclaim the deck, scattering quiet shadows with sunlight and noise. His crew will flood the deck, Borin among them, likely noticing immediately his captain's mood is darker than usual, and knowing precisely why.
But for now, standing alone on this quiet threshold between night and day, Jareth remains caught in the tangled web of his own thoughts. A single word lingers stubbornly in his mind: Apologise.
With purposeful strides, Jareth leaves the quiet of the dawn behind, stepping from the cool of open air into the warmer confines below deck. Lanterns flicker along the narrow corridor, casting amber pools of light that illuminate worn timbers, thickly coiled ropes, and stacked barrels, all echoing the reassuring heartbeat of shipboard life.
From the galley, the sound of bustling activity reaches him clearly; the scrape of pans, the rhythmic chop of a blade, a low, humming voice rising and falling in steady melody. That would be Nerrick, the Lethari cook, no doubt already fluttering diligently among his pots and pans with the fervour of someone who knows no life outside the comfort of his kitchen.
The captain would take good coin on the back that the fellow sleeps curled atop sacks of flour, soothed by the warmth and the soft scent of spices.
He passes through the hall, his tall frame moving with his usual authority and unspoken command, each footfall carrying a simple message: he Is awake, and with him, all aboard shall be awake as well. As crewmen stumble past, Jareth sees many still battling against the heavy veil of sleep, rubbing eyes and mumbling curses as they prepare to take their shifts. In their drowsy faces he finds brief distraction from the ever-present, gnawing thoughts that have followed him above deck.
Near the aft steps, a pair of sailors brush past, deep in whispered debate; Jarlok, the sharp-eyed Varkuun helmsman, arguing quietly with Venser, an inquisitive Nerai whose sea-green skin gleams faintly even in the lantern-lit gloom. Jarlok is serious by nature, disciplined and reliable, never sparing time for idle chatter, while Venser's irrepressible curiosity often pulls him into spirited conversations even at this early hour. Their debate breaks off instantly as they glimpse Jareth's dark silhouette, falling respectfully silent beneath their captain's gaze. Both men nod briskly in greeting, their earlier disagreement shelved for another moment.
Further along, an enormous figure stands hunched beneath lower beams, shoulders nearly brushing the ceiling. It's Korrik; a Grendel whose towering stature, thick muscles, and granite-like skin would intimidate anyone who doesn't know him. Korrik grumbles fiercely under his breath, thick brows knitted in irritation as he knots rope with more force than necessary. From between tightly clenched teeth, Jareth hears fragments of complaints about Harvin, one of the Dwarves on the crew.
"Gods-damned lil runt, movin' crates again, I swear Tetar 'imself he's tryin' to get someone killed…"
Jareth makes a mental note to speak with both men later. Discord between crewmen be ignored, lest it fester into someone more troublesome.
He pauses briefly beside Kerrik, drawing the giant's attention with nothing more than his smaller looming presence. Kerrik straightens slowly, sheepishly meeting Jareth's intense stare. "Trouble, Korrik?" He asks with a deceptively calm and measured voice.
Korrik's eyes flicker downward, massive hands twisting the thick rope uneasily. "Nothin' ya need to worry about, Cap'n. Jus' that blasted Dwarf, Harvin… keep tellin' 'im crates don't jus' up an' move themselves, but does he listen?"
The Grendel trails off, realising he's speaking more freely than intended. Jareth's steely silence speaks volumes in return; the raised eyebrow is enough to quell Korrik's complaints momentarily. Korrik huffs out a begrudging, "I'll take to 'im proper, Cap'n," and returns to his knot, embarrassment staining his grey, craggy cheeks darker.
Satisfied enough for now, Jareth moves on without further reprimand. Nearer the galley door, two more crewmen appear, fumbling their way forward. The first is Kaspar, a wiry Velkori sailor whose feline features are softened by a perpetual half-smile. At his side is the perpetually dour-faced Drokhmir called Murdoc, whose low grumble of morning complaint forms a stark contrast to Kaspar's easy-going chatter.
Kaspar's voice, lilting and full of humour, reaches Jareth clearly. "Come on, friend Murdoc, surely waking early grants us first claim upon breakfast! There's a Brightside to all things."
Murdoc scowls fiercely, rubbing at his bleary eyes. "Bright side? What good is breakfast when every blasted bone aches from yesterday's watch? Don't know what's worse, this cursed ship creakin' or yer infernal cheeriness."
Kaspar's whiskers twitch in amusement, his tone carrying soothing patience that has clearly been honed through many similar exchanges. "Ah, Murdoc, the day you've got no complaints will be the day fish fly and birds swim. But come on now; look lively! The captain is here."
Murdoc straightens hastily as they notice Jareth's approach, his scowl smoothing into a respectful nod. Kaspar bows his head, feline eyes twinkling. "Morning, Captain. Up before the sun again, eh?"
Jareth offers the faintest grunt of acknowledgment as he walks past. They know better than to expect a lengthier greeting.
Finally reaching the galley door, Jareth pushes it open to the welcoming glow within. The comforting aroma of fresh bread, spiced meats, and hot brewed tea envelope him immediately, mingled with the unmistakable scent of sweetened porridge; the stable Nerrick always prepares for the morning watch. The Lethari cook stands by the oven, his four translucent wings fluttering lightly, their edges brushed with flour. With delicate antennae twitching thoughtfully, Nerrick carefully places trays of bread onto the cooling rack, humming softly as he does so.
Borin sits on a bench along the far wall of the galley, his hulking shape softened by the wavering golden light of dawn and the sweet aroma of honey bread cooling nearby. He watches the captain's approach with a wry glint in his dark eyes, a small smile tucked beneath his white beard, as though he's been waiting since the last bell for this very moment. The Bramling's knotted finger taps idly against the scarred tabletop, a silent summons. Beside the tap, a mug of tea steams in the filtered sunlight—set out in anticipation, as always.
"Took ye long enough, laddie," Borin rumbles, his voice pitched low as to not catch the cook's attention. The Bramling's gaze sharpens beneath his bushy brows as he drums a thick finger on the table's edge, all casual gruffness disgusting the glint of amusement in his eyes. "Thought perhaps ye'd finally let that mountain o' pride bury ye in that big bed o' yers."
The only answer at first is the captain's flat, unreadable stare. Jareth moves with slow deliberation, lowering himself across the bench and drawing the hot mug closer, its warmth seeping into hands still stiff from the chill outside. If he feels seen, he gives no sign, save for the narrowing of his eyes as he mutters, "Crew's moving slow this morning. Suppose even the Rose needs a lazy day now and again."
Borin snorts into his, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. "Aye, the crew's sluggish—just like their captain, maybe. For a man claimin' he ain't bothered, ye look like ye've through a ghost and hurricane both."
Jareth bristles, shooting a sharp glare at the Bramling; a glare that would scatter most men, but Borin merely grins into his own cup, entirely unbothered. Silence settles between them, thick and familiar, but today it'd edged with something sharper.
Borin doesn't bother letting him stew. "Don't bother pretendin', boy." He says, lowering his voice even more. "Ye might fool the rest of this lot, but not me. Ye've been restless since last night, and it ain't the ship keepin' ye awake."
A flicker of irritation shadows Jareth's face, pride stiffening his jaw. "You imagine things, old man. I only—" He cuts himself off, the lie thin even to his own ears. Borin's knowing look in answer enough.
"Spare me the bluster, lad," Borin says quietly, the edge of kindness in his voice cutting through any hope of posturing. "It's strange how the man who says, 'She's sulkin' somewhere, which is probably safer for us all' is the same man I heard followin' me to the lasses' door after supper." The accusation hangs in the air, not sharp but not gentle, either. "Yer pride took a bruisin' from the books, ye managed ta upset the lass proper… yet ye still found yer feet fast enough when I carried down supper ta her. For all yer grumblin', ye couldn't help but follow, could ye?"
Jareth's fingers tense on the mug, but he refuses to meet Borin's gaze. "I was just… checkin' on the crew."
Borin laughs, the sound low and gravelly, not mocking but far from fooled. "Aye, that's a fine story for anyone who doesn't know ye. But I do, lad. Yer not a small one; yer boots hit the floor like thunder. Anyone in earshot near ye were there, pacin' just outside her door. I heard ye linger. Heard ye walk off, too, heavy as a Dwarven anvil, once ye had yer fill o' listenin'.
Defensiveness prickles in Jareth's posture. "Thought you might need backup, that's all. Not every night one of my crew goes and hides away."
Borin fixes him with a level stare, the sort that has steadied many a panicked sailor in a squall. "Lad, don't insult us both like that." Ye stood outside that door, not sayin' a word, but ye were listenin'—just like she was listenin' ta you and me, not hours before. Don't pretend ye didn't care ta know what she felt after yer words. And don't think for a second I missed ye slippin' off inta the dark when ye thought I'd caught ye. Yer the captain of this ship, Jareth, but yer no ghost. Not with feet like yers."
Something weary flickers across Jareth's features; a rare openness that flashes and is gone in a breath. He looks away, jaw working hard as he tries to marshal his dignity, but the edge has been blunted. "Didn't mean for her to hear us," he mutters, voice hoarse, almost apologetic. "Didn't mean for any of it to go so far."
Borin's tone softens, the sternness fading into something almost paternal. "It always goes too far when ye let pride do yer speakin'." He glances down, then back, locking eyes with Jareth. "An apology isn't weakness, ye stubborn fool. Ye only offer it when it matters. When Someone's worth mendin' fences for. She is, lad. Ye know it, or ye wouldn't have been standin' there, heart in yer throat, afraid to walk in or walk away."
For a moment, only the muted clatter of pots and the soft hum of Nerrick's morning song fill the room. Jareth sits rigid, wrestling with his own pride, the cup trapped between hands that have known sword hilts and the agony of loss but never the simple humility of honest regret.
Borin lets the silence hang, then finishes his tea with a final, decisive swallow. "Ye can stand on ceremony all day, but she'll still be hurt if ye leave things as they are. Find the words, Jareth. Ye don't have to sound clever. Just be true. The fae are many things, but they know when a heart's lyin'."
The captain lets out a begrudging sigh, tension draining from his shoulders if only for a heartbeat. The promise lingers unspoken, but it's there, heavy as an anchor: He will find the words. Even if they taste bitter on a tongue more used to orders and thunder than gentle amends.
A quiet shift in the morning accompanies Naomi's entrance, the pale light glancing off the rim of the plate she carries from last night. Each step is careful; she moves with the silent confidence of someone who's learned the rhythms of a place, but yet found comfort in its heart. As she crosses the galley's counter, her gaze flickers briefly to Nerrick, who chirps a greeting in his native Lethari tongue, the worlds fluttering as softly as his midnight wings.
With a shy smile, Naomi nods her reply. Her expression fades as her eyes meet Jareth's across the low table. For the first time since she's come aboard, there's no warmth in her morning greeting to him—just a polite, neutral acknowledgment that feels colder than the sea wind. This change, small as it is, lands heavier than any shouted words.
"Good morning, Borin. Captain." She says softly, the last word clipped just enough to remind him of his station, and the space she has set between them.
A blink of surprise crosses Jareth's features. The absence of her morning smile unsettles him more than he's willing to admit, casting a chill into the familiar routine. He opens his mouth, ready with some gruff remark, or perhaps, a rare effort at softness, but Borin intercepts with him a subtle wink. The Bramling slides off the bench, patting Nerrick on the arm as he passes.
"Try not ta burn anythin' this time, moth," Borin teases. His words are soft, harmless banter; familiar as the sunrise. With a nod to Naomi and a last, meaningful look at Jareth, he disappears into the corridor, leaving an awkward quiet in his wake.
Naomi moves to the counter, pouring herself a cup of tea. Steam curls upward, the scent of wildflower and honey drifting between them. She returns to the table, folding her legs beneath her, and places the plate neatly at her side. With hands that tremble only slightly, she arranges her tea and then looks up, meeting his eyes without flinching.
Her voice is gentle, the tone even, yet there's a subtle steel in it; a reminder she is not so easily shaken, not even by a captain's temper. "How's your stomach feeling?" She asks, her head tilting as she toys absently with the loose end of her left front braid. "I know it's been a few days, but it isn't often someone with a stab wound just… walks around pretending nothing happened." A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips, not unkind, but tinged with irony.
He stiffens, the memory of the wound—a clean but accidental puncture from a borrowed sword—still fresh enough to bring a fleeting ache. He barely notices the pain anymore; the ache of regret over yesterday's words stings more sharply. He shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders, his eyes steady on her.
"I heal quicker than most," Jareth answers, the words rough around the edges, carrying more pride than comfort. "Been through worse. Blade barely scratched the muscle." He attempts a half-hearted shrug, feigning indifference, back it lacks conviction. His hands find the mug once more, and he turns it slowly, searching for anything in the swirl of steam that might offer him courage.
Naomi doesn't respond right away. She sips her tea, her fingers still working at her braid. There's a patient expectancy in her posture; she knows, and he knows she knows, that something ought to be said. Yet she waits, refusing to ask for what he struggles to give.
A faint breeze pushes down from the porthole, tugging at the strands of hair that frame her face. She glances up at him, her expression carefully composed. "You should be more careful," she murmurs without her usual softness. "Some wounds don't heal right if you ignore them."
He hears the unspoken message beneath her words. Jareth's jaw works as if he might say something, the apology hovering just behind his teeth. Yet pride, that old, stubborn, and familiar friend, holds him silent.
Across the table, Naomi's gaze doesn't waver. She's not angry, at least not openly. But there is distance now, a boundary drawn by disappointment and dignity. She won't ask for the apology he owes her, nor will she make it easy for him to pretend all is well.
The clatter of breakfast in the galley's background fades, leaving only the soft tick of cooling mugs and the pulse of two hearts in uneasy accord. He sees her hand still, the play of her braid forgotten. For a heartbeat, it seems the whole ship waits, suspended in this delicate quiet, while two strangers search for the words that might make things right.
Neither moves. Not yet.
A storm churns behind Jareth's stern eyes as he watches the tea swirl in his cup, the liquid dark and unsettled, mirroring the thoughts that tangle and surge inside his head. Every word he rehearses dies on his tongue. He knows better than to offer an apology that rings hollow, not after the way she looked at him with such guarded distance. There's no shortcut, no bluffing his way through this. If he fumbles the words, she will know; and worse, she won't forgive him for it.
His fingers move restlessly through his beard, tugging at a knot near his chin, the thick, untrimmed strands catching the first hints of sunlight as it slips through the porthole. He focus on the texture, the familiar motion grounding him as he considers what apology might be enough.
Half of him wants to blurt it out; Sorry I spoke harshly. Sorry I called you trouble. Sorry I made you feel like a stranger. But that would be too simple, too hollow. Naomi's sharper than she lets on, quick to sense when words are only meant to fill a silence, not to bridge a real divide.
No, it has to be something real. He owes her that, at least.
He draws a deep breath. Just as the first words form, the door swings open with a gentle creak. In bounds, Kaspar, the Velkori; slender and agile, fur sleek as river pebbles, green eyes glinting with mischief and intent. With the feline's ears twitching, his tail flickering behind him in a lazy arch as he surveys the galley, his gaze quickly landing on Naomi.
"Miss Naomi, I need a quick hand below," Kaspar announces, his voice a pleasant purr, laced with that casual confidence unique to his kind. "It's the storage, again. Something's gone and rearranged itself. Thought you might have the touch for it."
The change in Naomi is immediate, as if someone has thrown open a shutter to let in the light. Her smile returns, brightening the room as she stands and smooths tunic, teacup abandoned but still steaming. Jareth watches the transformation with a pang—envy, perhaps, or just regret of how easily she seems to slip away from his orbit, drawn to warmth where she finds it.
Kaspar bows his head in thanks as she approaches. "Couldn't find my tail last time you helped, so I figured you might be lucky twice." His whiskers twitch, teasing but never unkind.
She laughs softly, her voice gentle as always. "Let's hope I can find the tight shelf before you lose your head this time," she replies, the lightness in her tone revealing how much easier she finds herself in the company of those who ask rather than command.
As Naomi gathers herself, her gaze flicks over her shoulder, seeking him one last time. He holds her eyes, and for a moment, everything he meant to say crowds at the edge of his tongue. But Kaspar is already beckoning her through the door, and she slips away with the faintest nod.
"See you around, Captain."
He lets out a grunt, the sound halfway between dismissal and resignation. One rough hand waves her off, the other still tangled in his beard. Eyes fixed on the battered grain of the table, he listens as her footsteps retreat, Kaspar's softer footfalls after her. The lightness in her steps cut deeper than any blade, and he hates it.
Of course she'll see him around. They're trapped together on this floating world of salt and wood. There's no escaping one another here.
Somewhere on this ship, Naomi is already laughing with Kaspar, her burdens eased by the simplicity of small tasks and kinder words. That's what he wants for her. That's what he can't quite give. It's a strange and bitter thing, this helplessness. He's led men into storms, stared down foes twice his size, and yet, faced with making amends to one small Faerie, he feels utterly adrift.
His mind turns over every memory of her since she came aboard, the quiet courage in her stubbornness, the gentle curiosity in her questions, the quiet hope she brings to every shadowed corner. He thinks of her wings, folded tight but trembling when she's nervous, and of the rare moments when she lets them open wide, just for a breath of the morning sun.
No, he can't afford to fail at this. The next chance he has, he promises himself, he won't let the words falter. He won't let his pride turn him into stone. She matters. And there are only so many mornings a captain can squander before the tides turn and leave him alone at the helm, with nothing but silence for company.
Let it be today, he thinks, as the ship stirs to life above and below. Let it be today.
A low grumble rumbles from Jareth's chest as he pushes himself away from the galley table, the apology he's failed to deliver sitting heavy in his thoughts. His coat swirls about him as he rises, a comforting weight across his broad shoulders.
Above deck, the first rays of sunlight pierce the horizon, painting the sea with strokes of gold and crimson. The morning air chills his skin, washing away lingering doubts. Each footfall echoes on the polished wood beneath his boots as he strides with purpose toward the helm, his mind shifting swiftly to the day's responsibilities.
A ship can't wait for a captain's heart to settle its troubled waters; the world moves onward, regardless.
At the helm stands Vak, the Noctari helmsman. His large ears swivel gently, ever attentive. His eyes, bright orbs that gleam with an otherworldly intensity, never waver from the distant sea he watches. Approaching quietly, Jareth inclines his head in silent greeting. Vak returns the gesture, a swift tilt of his chin, never losing focus. The captain's eyes drop briefly to the brass spyglass held loosely in his taloned grip.
A question forms, unspoken but clearly heard.
Vak's mouth quirks upward, a thoughtful hum slipping from between sharp teeth. "It's probably nothing worth losing sleep over," he says, his voice low and smooth, the barest hint of amusement slipping through. "Still figured you'd rather know than not. There's a ship skirting our waters. Looks to be the Black Wolf."
The revelation sharpens Jareth's focus instantly. Every muscle in his frame tightens. Greybeard. The name sends a ripple of cautious respect—and unease—through any seasoned sailor. The man and his ship have been carving a reputation across Titania's western seas, a reputation built on ruthless cunning and lethal efficiency.
Taking the spyglass from Vak, Jareth squints toward the distant speck that dances upon the horizon line. A small frustration rises within him. Despite his sharp senses in battle and storms, his eyesight remains a stubborn exception: a gift from his dwarven heritage, better suited for close, detailed tasks than spotting threats from afar.
With effort, Jareth brings the distant vessel into focus through the spyglass. His jaw tightens. There it is; a sleek predator of the seas, slicing effortlessly through the waves. The Black Wolf moves with smooth confidence, its hull crafted from wood dark as midnight, gleaming as though polished with ink. Iron brands reinforce the sides, catching and reflecting the dawn light in fleeting glimmers, a design built for swift and devastating ramming.
Jareth's eye is drawn involuntarily to the ship's figurehead; a feral wolf snarling eternally forward. Its teeth gleam stark white against the dark hull, frozen forever in a silent, hungry growl. The creature's wild, aggressive stance proclaims its intentions as surely as any flag ever could.
"Aye," Jareth murmurs, voice deep and gravelly as his thoughts churn with cautious calculation. "The Black Wolf it is. Greybeard knows better than to stray too close. Still, he's a stubborn bastard. Best we monitor him."
Vak chuckles softly, amusement weaving gently through his composed demeanour. "Of course, Captain. I'll watch his movements closely," The Noctari assures him. "If he tries to sneak closer, he'll find we have sharper eyes than most."
"Make certain he doesn't surprise us, Vak." Jareth hands back the spyglass with a grunt. "Greybeard is crafty. Craftier still if he thinks he sees a weakness aboard."
The Noctari nods once, gaze steady and serious. Vak's careful eyes return immediately to the horizon, posture straightening slightly as he resumes his watch. His hands adjust their grip on the wheel, claws tapping lightly against the polished in silent contemplation.
Satisfied for the moment, Jareth steps back slightly. Yet a heaviness remains in his chest. Greybeard is an unwelcome distraction, another complication he doesn't need; not with Naomi still weighing on his thoughts.
On a quieter morning, perhaps he might've considered trying to stage some sort of playful distraction: a play, a song, something to occupy the crew while he spoke to her alone. Yet with Greybeard now drifting near their horizon, it seems impossible. Caution demands his attention.
He rubs a hand roughly over his face, the coarse strands of his beard catching briefly between his fingers. The salt-laden breeze brushes against his skin, the faint sting a welcome wake-up call. Problems rarely come one at a time, especially at sea. They arrive in packs, snarling and snapping at a captain's heels, leaving no time for sentiment.
Jareth turns, letting out a breath as he glances at Vak once more. "Sound the bell if Greybeard moves closer. No hesitation, understood?"
The helmsman nods once, quiet assurance in his eyes. "Understood, Captain. You'll know immediately."
He strides away, steps measured and firm on the deck planks beneath his feet. As captain, his presence alone sends ripples through the crew, bringing reassurance or unease. Now, as sailors busy themselves, his demeanour is steady; firm, controlled, every inch the captain. Greybeard is a threat best observed and dealt with swiftly, but not a cause for panic.
Yet, as he moves toward the rail to gaze once more at the distant shape, his thoughts betray him, drifting inevitably back to Naomi. How strange, he thinks bitterly, to command two hundred men with absolute ease yet falter in the face of a single gentle-hearted Faerie.
This day brings no promise of simplicity, no straightforward path through the maze he's made of his own words. Apologies, foes on the horizon, complicated feelings swirling like restless currents—it's enough to leave any man weary.
He steadies himself with a deep breath, salt and spray filling his lungs. Sea captains don't falter beneath weighty thoughts and strained hearts. They weather the storm, facing challenges as they come. He squares his shoulders, hardening his resolve, and sets side the uncertainty that gnaws within.
Today he'll remain alert, watchful, and focused. Greybeard may be a cunning rival, but Jareth is no easy prey. And Naomi… well, her apology will have to wait longer, though the thought of it gnaws at him more deeply than he cares to admit.
Hours slip by without incident, but the heavy anticipation remains within Jareth, every one of his nerves on edge. He stands firm near the rail, powerful arms crossed over his chest. Tension winds through him, coiling tight between his shoulders like rigging caught in storm-winds. It isn't until Vak approaches, his swift, graceful gait unmistakably quiet, that relief finally comes.
Vak inclines his head respectively as he gestures toward the horizon. "The Black Wolf has turned its tail, Captain," he reports smoothly. "Looks like Greybeard decided today wasn't worth it after all."
Despite Vak's reassurance, relief feels fleeting. The threat's departure leaves Jareth's muscles restless, adrenaline still pumping in his veins, leaving him wound tight and eager for something—anything—to occupy him. With a brisk nod to Vak, he pushes away from the railing, heavy boots resonating across the deck. Maybe movement will ease the tension and chase away the shadows of unfinished apologies and unreadable Faeries.
Walking the ship does little to settle his mind. The gentle rock of the Sunlit Rose beneath him provides scant comfort against the turmoil within his thoughts. Every step reminds him of the unspoken words weighing upon him; words that feel more elusive than ever, now tangled with the distraction Greybeard left in his wake. He passes the crew hard at work, eyes focused and determined. Today, even their rhythmic movements and steady conversations do little to anchor him.
Lost deeply within restless musing, Jareth's stride falters when a shadow falls unexpectedly across his path. Startled from his thoughts, he raises his gaze to find Nerrick standing awkwardly in front of him, blinking nervously against the bright daylight.
Nerrick rarely ventures above deck; the Lethari cook's territory lies firmly within the steamy, spice-scented haven of his galley. The mothfolk looks out of place in the sunlit world of creaking timbers and salty breeze, blinking furiously as if the mere sight of open sky is an offence to his pale, sensitive eyes. His fuzzy antennae twitch uneasily, wings of muted bronze tucked firmly behind him as he holds something gingerly in his furred hands.
Jareth's gaze drifts down to the bowl resting there—a bowl of stew, untouched and cold. Recognition twinges sharply; Borin had carried that very dish down to Naomi last night. His brow furrows, attention snapping back to Nerrick with quiet, wary curiosity.
"Ya know, Cap'n," Nerrick starts awkwardly, his voice thick and richly accented with the rough edges of bustling city streets and no-nonsense cooks who've seen too many demanding customers. "Now, I ain't sayin' nothin' against the lil' Faerie, alright? But this here—" he gestures emphatically to the bowl— "this is some primo strew. Youse all know I don't mess around when it comes to cookin'. So when a bowl comes back without so much as bein' touched… well, ya know, it's makin' me question my whole existence ova here."
The cook shifts from foot to foot, clearly trying to suppress the injured pride threading through his gruff demeanour. He waves his hand expressively. "Now I get it. She's got that faerie appetite goin' on, all delicate-like and whatnot, but this stuff here? That ain't somethin' ya just walk away from." He shrugs dramatically, antennae drooping as he sighs heavily, voice dropping to a lower grumble. "Maybe… ya know, maybe it's a good idea you talk ta the gal. Could be somethin' goin' on with her that ain't just about not likin' the stew, if ya catch my drift."
Listening to Nerrick's grumbling rant, Jareth's brow creases thoughtfully. The Lethari's words, beneath the layers of wounded pride and kitchen bravado, hold undeniable truth. Naomi's always eaten quietly, unobtrusively—but she had eaten. For her not to eat a meal is unusual enough to merit notice. A pang of something; guilt, concern, and confusion twists deeply inside of him.
"Right," Jareth mutters, reaching out to grip the cook's shoulder firmly. "I'll see to it, Nerrick. Ain't a slight against your cooking, I'm certain of that."
Nerrick perks up at the reassurance, antennae straightening with visible relief. "That's what I thought," he declares loudly, wings giving an indignant flutter. "Cause you know me, cap. My cookin'—it's a freakin' art form! Virros Ral-Khavyr, Thessa Lyne of Veylar, me—same tier." He gestures grandly, pride returning as he straightens.
Jareth pauses, fixing him with a searching look. "She send it back last night? Or was it just sittin' there all this time?"
The cook shakes his fuzzy head, indignation returning as he waves his hand. "Nah, Cap. She didn't send nothin' back last night. I didn't even notice it was gone till this mornin'. Was down in the galley doin' my rounds, right? Countin' bowls, like always, and I see one's missin'. Then it hits me! Borin took a bowl down for the fae, remember? I head down to her room, and sure enough, there it is. Sittin' there, stone cold, like it's waiting for the world to end."
He clicks his tongue, wings rustling. "Didn't touch a bite, best I can tell. So, y'know, I figured I should let ya know. Ain't about the stew. Just…" He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Don't enjoy seein' good food wasted, is all. Especially mine."
"Anyway," Nerrick starts again, "last time I saw 'er, the fae gal was down in the second galley, havin' herself a lil' feast of strawberries. Them berries," he adds indignantly, "like they're a suitable substitute for quality cookin'. Pff. Faeries."
He nods curtly, hiding a faint smirk beneath the thick cover of his beard. "I'll speak with her. Appreciate the heads up."
Turning away from Nerrick, he steps briskly off toward the lower decks, his heavy boots echoing along stairways and dimly lit corridors. The faint aroma of salted timber and aged spices fills his nostrils, the scent of home and hardship intertwined. He wonders, as he moves, why exactly his heart beats faster, why his gut twists tighter as he imagines speaking to Naomi now.
The second galley stands quieter and dimmer than the bustling main one. This smaller space often provides a haven for quieter moments away from the noisy camaraderie of the larger room. As he approaches the door, his pace slows. Pausing on the threshold, he watches silently, feeling suddenly hesitant. Naomi sits alone at the worn table, a gentle beam of sunlight drifting through the porthole to illuminate the dark, woven strands of her braids.
She's bent slightly over a small bowl piled with strawberries, fingers delicately picking through them as he eats with a quiet, thoughtful rhythm. Her eyes seem distant, staring at the wooden grain of the table, as if her thoughts drift somewhere far beyond this ship and this moment. She looks… soft, vulnerable, more alone than he's ever seen her.
In this moment, he recognises the truth he's long denied; he needs to speak with her not only because of the stew left untouched, or prideful cooks, but because the hurt he saw yesterday lingers clearly still.
Drawing a deep breath, steadying breath, he steels himself. Pride, caution, and the sea itself may try to bind him, but for this moment, he takes a determined step forward; the boy within him knows he owes this small Faerie something more honest than silence.
Jareth's hand rises instinctively to stroke the coarse strands of his beard, eyes narrowing slightly as he clears his throat quietly.
"A word, lass," he begins gruffly, watching as she stiffens slightly, surprise briefly flickering in those mauve eyes as she looks up. He softens his tone, his voice deep and quiet as the sunlit galley falls into thoughtful silence around them. "If you've the time, that is."
He sees her hesitation, the wary uncertainty in her eyes as he gently sets down the fruit she had raised toward her lips. With slow grace, she gestures quietly to the seat across from her, inviting him to join.
Taking a deep breath, Jareth settles into the chair opposite Naomi, his shoulders stiffening slightly beneath the weight of unspoken words. His gaze fixes carefully on her face, tracing the delicate line of his jaw, the soft flush tinting her cheeks. Even now, with her eyes cast downward, focusing intently on the bowl of strawberries, something about her makes him feel as uncertain as a greenhorn caught in a tempest.
"Lass," he begins softly, voice rumbling low as he clears his throat roughly. "I've… got some things that need sayin', aye. But first.. first I reckon I should ask if everything is alright with you." His fingers drum a hesitant rhythm against the worn wooden table, a restless beat betraying his unease. "Nerrick, see—he mentioned you didn't eat last night's stew, and I thought maybe—"
His words end abruptly. Before the thought fully leaves his mouth, Naomi jerks forward with a sudden, panicked energy. Her slender fingers snatch a strawberry from its bowl, and without a breath of warning, she leans across the narrow space between them and shoves the ripe fruit directly into his mouth.
The action catches him utterly unprepared.
For an eternal, startled heartbeat, Jareth freezes. His eyes widen, ocean blue depths filled with confusion as the bright, sweet burst of juice coats his tongue. Heat surges instantly upward, painting his cheeks a vibrant crimson beneath his beard. His pulse quickens, hammering loudly enough in his ears to rival a gale-force storm.
Naomi's expression mirrors his shock, eyes widening with a sudden realisation of what she's done. Her hand jerks back as if burnt, fingers curling nervously into her palm. A flush of embarrassed pink blooms vividly across her face, her mouth opening and closing without a sound. She hadn't expected to react so impulsively, driven purely by instinctual panic at his question.
In truth, Naomi hadn't anticipated anyone noticing she'd skipped her meal, least of all Jareth. She certainly hadn't counted on him confronting her about it, direct and unyielding as he was. She's assumed her quiet act would go unnoticed amid the bustle of the crew's daily routines. After all, it always did—her small, silent decisions to forego her own comfort, waiting patiently until everyone else was fed.
Yet Jareth had noticed, and that simple fact unsettles her deeply. Naomi can't help but wonder how much more he sees, how closely he observes. Her heart pounds anxiously at the thought, the weight of hidden burdens stirring within her. The fae have a quiet word for this sort of behaviour, the silent sacrifice they all learn from tales whispered softly among kin. Thilenra's Burden; an old story of the quiet Faerie child who always waited for her siblings to eat first, bearing their hunger and hurt with gentle dignity. It's an inheritance carried in heart-memory rather than blood, a legacy she's known intimately since childhood.
Still, Jareth can't possibly understand what it truly means. To him, it's merely puzzling, a curiosity he must question. But to her, it's a deeply woven piece of who she is: something ingrained and difficult to speak aloud.
Naomi takes a shuddering breath, seeking words to fill the silence now stretching taut between them. He forces her voice steady, gentle and careful as she speaks, each syllable trembling slightly with embarrassment.
"I… I haven't seen you eat much fruit recently," she murmurs softly, dropping her gaze to the table as though the grainy wood might offer some guidance. Her voice barely rises above a whisper, but her tone remains earnest, shyly sincere. "You, uhm… you need your Citrace. It's… it's very important for your health, you know?"
The words sound foolish to her ears, fragile excuses strung hastily together in the aftermath of her impulsive gesture. Yet beneath them lies genuine care, an instinctual kindness she can't suppress. Citrace, a nutrient the fae value in their diets, often comes from fresh fruits and berries. Naomi desperately clings to that small, simple truth, hoping it'll ease the awkwardness hovering thickly in the air.
For his part, Jareth struggles mightily. Fingers slowly reach upward, brushing hesitantly against his lips as he swallows the last traces of the strawberry's sweetness. The heat across his face deepens impossibly further, embarrassment mingling with confusion and something altogether more complicated. He has faced storms, enemy ships, betrayal—yet never in his life has he felt so undone, so completely unanchored as he does in this moment.
This quiet, gentle Faerie has managed to entirely disarm him with nothing more than a strawberry.
Clearing his throat, he attempts to regain some semblance of composure, though his voice remains thick with uncertainty as he finally responds. "Aye, lass," he mutters awkwardly, scratching roughly at his red beard. "I'll, ah—I'll keep that in mind. The Citrace. Important, aye?"
Naomi nods quickly, relief flickering in her eyes. She smiles shyly, cautiously hopeful that her explanation, though feeble, had been accepted. For a heartbeat, silence returns, though this time it feels more thoughtful, less stifling than before.
Yet even as the tension eases slightly, Jareth's mind remains stubbornly locked on his original purpose for seeking her out. The apology he owes her still lingers unsaid, trapped uncomfortably behind his pride and uncertainty. He swallows roughly, shoulders straightening as he draws another steadying breath, prepared once more to tackle the words he's wrestled with all day.
"Lass, about what I said—"
Before the words can fully form, the galley's door swings open abruptly. Bram, the Gnome with copper skin and a shock of white hair, perks anxiously into the room. His sharp amber eyes widen with relief upon seeing Naomi. He steps inside, hurried, and breathless, urgency clear upon his youthful face.
"Naomi! There y'are," Bram blurts, hardly sparing a glance toward his captain. "Sorry ta interrupt, Cap'n, but we're needin' her down at the medical wing. Small accident; nothin' serious." He adds hastily, noting Jareth's instant frown of concern, "just needin' her gentle hand, yknow?"
Jareth lets out a frustrated exhale, words crumbling like sand through his fingertips. This is the second time today circumstance snatches the apology from his lips, leaving him grappling once more with unresolved guilt and stinging embarrassment.
Naomi rises swiftly, brushing off invisible dust from her pants. She hesitates briefly, looking at Jareth with a careful tilt of her head, mauve eyes shadowed with quiet regret. "I'd best see to them," she murmurs softly, stepping past Bram toward the door.
At the threshold, she turns, a soft, understanding smile briefly gracing her lips. "See you around, Captain," she whispers gently, gaze meeting his for a heartbeat before slipping away. Her footsteps fade into the corridor, Bram's hurried chatter following close behind.
Left alone once again, Jareth sits motionless, the bowl of strawberries now his sole companion in the quiet galley. His fingers drum against the table, frustration simmering beneath his skin. Twice now, fate has conspired against his apology. Twice now, he's watched Naomi slip quietly from his grasp.
He sighs, resigned but strangely reassured. Today, perhaps, the universe tests his patience and humility. Tomorrow, he promises himself silently, he will speak clearly; no interruptions, no hesitation. Tomorrow, he will find the right words.
For now, in the gentle sway of the Sunlit Rose, with the taste of sweet berries lingering like a promise, Jareth quietly gathers his resolve. His journey toward apology may be longer than expected, but this is merely another wave to weather, another storm to conquer. He's patient. He's stubborn. And this Faerie, who feeds him strawberries without warning, has already burrowed far deeper into his thoughts than he ever intended to allow.