EimyRid Collection

Eimyrja watches with slight fascination as her childhood friend and Niflese prince spar in the training grounds. She really isn't supposed to be there in the castle, but Hríd had given her special permission since she was good friends with his knight in service and someone he believes he can trust. Though he supposes he also enjoys her company.

Deep blue eyes remain focused on the royal prince, attentive towards details: the sharp look in his eyes, the determination set in his jaw, the firm grip on his weapon, the beads of sweat framing his face.

Eimyrja's friend calls for his defeat despite having the weapon advantage, and he slumps down onto the ground. He remains there for a moment before standing back up on his feet and groaning about how he just remembered there's an errand he needs to do. Hríd and Eimyrja are left alone, and the prince approaches her, picking up a small towel along the way to wipe at his sweat.

"You look bored," Hríd notes with an apologetic tone. It was not his intention to exclude her from their activities.

The woman straightens up in her seat. "I'm not," she answers. "I was merely deep in thought."

"About?"

"What it would feel like to hold a sword," Eimyrja responds. "Since I can't do much with this body of mine, I was curious since it looks like swordfighting takes a lot of strength."

Hríd hums lowly like he's thinking. "It's more than just strength, but would you like to try?"

"May I...?"

"Certainly." The prince nods, offering his hand out for her to help her up. He holds out his sword for her to take, her delicate fingers brushing against his as she takes hold of the hilt.

"Oh!" Eimyrja exclaims as she nearly drops the weapon but ends up catching it with both hands. "It's... heavy."

Hríd moves to stand behind her, his larger frame lightly pressing against her back as he places his hands over hers and helps support the weight. "...How does it feel?"

The noblewoman frowns. "Like it doesn't suit me."

"Perhaps not," the prince hums in agreement, taking the weapon back from her hands. She may have a fiery personality, but he doesn't think she would go well with a weapon in hand. There are some people whose hands were merely not meant to destroy and take, but rather to create and give.

"It's a bit frustrating, in truth," Eimyrja confesses as her eyes become downcast. "Not being able to fight."

"What reason would you have to fight?"

Eimyrja looks at Hríd straight in the eyes, and something stirs within his chest at the intensity of her gaze. "To protect those dear to me."