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A sigh was all that the captain could think of letting past his lips when wiping a droplet of ink from his shoulder. The splatter's original point of impact was but a few inches from where his face had appeared in the doorway moments prior, though the rage behind the precise throw wasn't targeted at him.
"Fiotriel."
The cabin was a mess. It's like a keg of gaatlok went off, in the shape of one shaking, red-haired, and red-faced elf standing in the middle of the room surrounded by scattered paper and candles and a poor, abused rocking chair. The elf whipped around to face away from the man she'd just thrown an ink bottle at, and shaking hands went to lift the rocking chair back on its rockers. "What do you want."
Another sigh left Gilmore's lips. "We've talked about managing it, haven't we, chaton?"
Fiotriel, still holding on to the rocking chair, deflated a little, huffs and puffs turning into a shaky breath. “Yes, we have. I’m sorry.” She didn’t mean it yet.
With a shake of his head, Gilmore walked further in and went to gather the letters and saltwater-stained papers from the floorboards, straightened the blanket lying on the rocking chair, cracked his back, and sat down. “What do we do first?”
Recognize the emotion.
“...... I’m mad.” The elf crossed her arms and stared at her toes, still refusing to look at her captain. Gilmore swiped some dust off of her shirt’s hems and went to take her hands in his.
“Good. What made you mad?”
Find the origin.
Finally looking up, Fiotriel pulled a face, ears drooping. “Nothing. Do you have to hold my hands? I hit something and they hurt now.” With another sigh, Gilmore reached for some snow from the windowsill of a large stained glass window. Despite Fiotriel’s hiss of discomfort from the cold, he pressed some to her knuckles to calm the forming bruises. “Dear child, we need to pad your fists.”
“No we don’t.” She always was difficult just for the sake of it, but that’s just how 18-year-olds from rough places form a protective shell, Gilmore guessed. His guess as to what caused today’s outburst wasn’t very far from that same topic either.
“Chaton. You’re hurting, I know that.”
“Well you’d be too if you threw a punch at that STUPIDLY punchable lion’s head-” “That is a metal carving, my dear.”
“Who has a lion’s head made of METAL?? It’s your fault, really, for having dangerous decor in a place like-” Fiotriel’s voice was rapidly rising, along with the wrinkles her nose always formed when she started one of her rampages. Alarm bells were blaring, this was the captain’s sign to be very careful.
“You are hurting and I want to help you feel better. Breathe, child. You may punch things later.”
Breathe.
Fiotriel took a deep breath in, and let it out. Another. Third. “..... I’m sorry.” Her whole body relaxed and she turned to stare at her toes again.
Gilmore raised an arm to touch her shoulder, gentle as ever. “It is alright. Do you want to calm down here? ‘tis a very cozy chair.”
After a moment of contemplation, the elf came and curled up in the chair, draping herself over the armrests and Gilmore’s legs like a cat. The warm embrace, the rocking of the chair, the steady heartbeat under her ear, the whistling of the wind in sails and ropes all worked together to slowly calm her boiling blood. Some quiet minutes later, Gilmore very carefully opened his mouth again while absentmindedly combing a hand through his beard. “Dear child, you must know you worry me.”
“I’m sorry.” A small, quiet voice answered from somewhere between his coat’s folds.
It was the same tone of voice that had asked, pleaded him for a place to sleep and a job to do some years ago, the same kind that somehow felt like it was desperately running away.
“I know you are, my dear. I know. You’re upset. And for a reason, I believe.”
Have a little cry about it.
Now having calmed down enough for rage to shift into a blend of tiredness and frustration, Fiotriel let herself sniffle just a little bit. “It’s so stupid. I’m not going home! I will not!”
Gilmore’s eyes wandered to the letters piled on the table, pondering what their content is. “Is that what this is about, chaton? Would you like to tell me?”
Talk it out.
Fiotriel wiped her eyes, nose scrunching up again. “Not really, but you’ll hound me forever if I don’t.” Another sniffle. “I don’t know how but that wolf of a woman found me and wants me to come home. 'Oh dear daughter, how will the clan do without you', it's all bullshit. It’s bullshit, I’m not going back to that place! I’m not going back, I’m not-”
Clearly seeing her get awfully close to tears or a burst of anger again, Gilmore reached to flip the letters around and out of view.
“It’s okay, child, they’re just letters. Come here.”
Eagerly going in for another tight hug, the elf in his lap curled up tighter. “I’m not going back to that clan.”
“I know, dear.” Gilmore’s heart ached. Whatever she’d gotten away from was clearly trying to reach its claws to drag her back, with those letters as its lure. “I do not know what it exactly is that so drove you away and to me, but you’re with me now. And I don’t let my own sink, alright? You’re home here.”
That was clearly the magic word to get the elf to relax, as Gilmore felt her melt and turn softer than she’d probably ever been near him. “Thank you.” That same quiet voice said again. “I… Won’t reply to that letter. I won’t go. Maybe… maybe one day, but not today.” She wiped her eyes, brushed her hair back, and sneezed. “And it’s a long way to Antiva from here.”
Gilmore chuckled and handed her his napkin. “À tes souhaits, chaton. One step at a time.” Watching her blow her nose, the usual fatherly spark made itself known somewhere behind his ribcage again. “When you’re ready to tell me, or perhaps show me where my little girl came from and what she’s dealing with, I’ll turn this ship around without a second thought and stay with you until you confront whatever it is that calls you back. That alright with you?”
“That alright with me.” Fiotriel sniffles and finally smiles again.
“Good. Now give me your hands. More snow, or your knuckles are purple forever.”