The sobs that caught her in throat made further words difficult to produce. The elf forced cough and glanced askew across the cabin.

“Ayla,” she whispered. “That’s all they ever called me.”

She knew she had put him in great peril and created an awful situation should there be a search closing in on her. Unwilling to press her luck any further, she mumbled another pathetic apology and suggested he leave her behind.

“I will vacate the ship permanently. You owe me nothing and I ask for nothing more. I can absolve you of future risk and you may pretend this conversation never occurred. I will forge a new path onward on my own.”

Fully intending to collect her belongings and take to the hills, Ayla wrapped her scarf about her head once more. For the sake of the other passengers and crew she had met thus far, she donned the accustomed ear-concealment method. She stood at his direction with her shamed emotion still bringing her shoulders into a slump. 

[i]“Show me your skills as a healer.
Believed a healer on board. 
I can no longer assume this.” [/i]

His valid distrust and probable disgust redoubled on her cracking spirit and as he made for the door, she reached out desperately for his sleeve.

“Please,” she cried. “I was truthful in all other respects.” Holding the hem of his cuff in a tiny fist, she pressed her other palm to the door to prevent it opening. “I will show you.” Ayla gave the captain a baleful look, pausing long enough for him to shut her down if he so desired.
Fearfully she removed her hand from his person and repeated the display she had given to the quartermaster some days ago. Her palms met before her heart, and she breathed a slow sigh over her fingers. The unmistakable aroma of petrichor filled the cabin, followed closely by a gust of pine and sage. A burst of cedar encircled the two, then the sweet scent of juniper berries christened the mixture.

With delicate precision, she unfurled her hands before him, raising them from her sternum to level with his face, as if she were to cup his cheeks in her palms. Holding them thus, she allowed for him to feel the coolness that emanated from her skin like a fresh menthol balm. The calming chill heralded a relaxing warmth the carried the sensation of waking from a deeply restful sleep.

Had she placed her hands to his skin, the effect would multiply threefold, though she was not brave enough to cross such a line now; grabbing his sleeve had been more than she felt proper. She held her proffered palms, gazing slightly skyward as if in prayer to the sun beyond the cabin roof. A stray tear slid unfettered down her cheek. Then her lashes fluttered shut to prevent further downpour.

“I do not need the herbs to heal,” she breathed out in her statuesque position. “Though they do increase my abilities and can be utilized in other preventative ways.”