A Knife Couched in Courtesy

His eyes go over the letter for a fourth time. Each word a dagger thrust rammed home hard. Without trying James can hear the derision in their voice. His breath comes hard, anger in every one. In his heart, a frightful storm brews, lightning and thunder, slashing rain begging, pleading to be released.
 
"You could just have said thank you. But no, I'm not good enough for that. You could have accepted the gift without word word, and that would have been fine. I was willing to let your first letter be a misunderstanding, that your paying for a gift wasn't an insult. Merely you doing what you thought was appropriate." The words come out of clinched teeth. "But then you send me this!" He slams his fist into the parchment on the table, a resounding boom washing through the room. His whole body trembles, tears form and fall. Rarely in his life has he ever been insulted in such a way, words cutting straight to the bone. Twice. He held out his hand for friendship, and it wasn't refused, it was cut off, with most of the arm above it as well.
 
"Were you anyone else, I could respond properly and well to this. But you're a thrice damned noble who cares not about your lessers beyond their immediate use. Because, of course, why would some peasant sailor ever deign to even try to be your friend. Clearly I'm just playing at it and don't know your high and mighty ways. I'm just some pathetic lesser creature wanting recognition from our great patrons above who allow us to live another day. And we should be grateful for it! FOR THESE FUCKING SCRAPS!" He grips the table, knuckles white, but stops himself from throwing it across the room. He sits there, body locked ridged, jaw clinched and tears of rage sliding down his face. Close, so very close the storm came to braking upon him, turning it's power against him without another outlet.
 
For minutes he sits there, his breathing slowing, heart calming, and the storm abating till it's just distant rumbling, ready to be called upon, but no longer straining against it's bonds. His body relaxes, releasing his grip on the table, and he reads the letter once again. "Very well Larux Dyrr. I'll respond to your valet. And I will do so as if they are you. I don't truly know why you felt the need to insult me so deeply. Maybe it's because you want me to prove myself a danger so I leave Mirabella alone. Maybe it's just because of your noble upbringing and you've never learned to look at us as people. None of that actually matters, you've made your thoughts clear. I will not give in to this provocation. Not publicly, not anywhere where it could be seen as me being unstable, unsuitable, lesser. I will respond as I should, as a gentleman would. And not in the way people of your station would like, not with a call for blood, because that would only prove you right, and I'll be Damned to the depths before I give you that satisfaction. I will respond as I should."
 
James get's up, leaving both letters on his table. He packs a small bag, dresses for the weather, and heads out. An hour later, the gunshot sound of shattering wood can be heard in the scrap yard of the Church of Lucetius. A crude holder, constructed to contain broken boards so someone may practice their control, and strength on them. Several boards are set up, side by side, and with a bare few strikes, each one shatters. James stands in the cold, dressed only in his shorts, sweat pouring off his body, knuckles going bloody, as he gives release to the storm within. A poor substitute, but one that the storm accepts. He keeps setting up boards and breaking them, for time uncounted, until his muscles finally give out, all their energy gone.
 
"Thank you Storm Father for giving me this, this place, this time, so that I don't do something incredibly stupid. I pray you gift me with perfect words to give back to Larux Dyrr. The words they deserve to hear, and that they'll understand. I am ever your son, may your fortunate winds always find me."