Spar (2)

The Prince held her wrist gently, as though it were made of glass, and he might shatter it with the slightest pressure.

It was strange. The entire experience of standing on a training field and speaking pleasantly of armory and training styles with a lifelong enemy was, in itself, very strange. That she had spent weeks as a captive in the home of that enemy, during which she had been fed and sheltered and clothed and otherwise left completely alone, was perhaps the oddest part of all.

At first, she had fully expected to be dragged from her bed in the dead of night and hauled off the Emperor's dungeons in secrecy while the slave girl took her place, making it look to all the world as if the Vezdan captive was alive and being treated well while she was actually being tortured or hacked apart to resolve the curse.

Yet she woke in her bed day after day after day to the same bleak view of the manor grounds, and the same trays of strange food arriving three times a day, and the same maids moving through the room, tidying, whispering, offering clothes and baths and baskets of painting supplies or embroidery threads.

As it became apparent that the Prince did not harbor the intent of doing her any physical harm, she had assumed that his plan had been to gain her trust, which he would then use to extract information-- perhaps question her on the secrets House Eosin had concerning ancient magic and curses. It was well-known to all that as the oldest royal line in the world, House Eosin were the only direct descendants of the ancient ones from over the seas. It was also said that the curse of Unaria's Emperor came from a former Queen of House Eosin in days of old-- though it had been so long that very few remembered why.

Princess Talia did. She'd been told the story of Queen Tasha since she was small, and she wondered what stories Prince Mikhail had grown up hearing. He would never tell her, of course. Just as he would never tell her why he had kept her alive, or what he intended to do with her.

Yet the way he held her wrist, the tender way he gazed down at it, as he gently brushed his thumb across the pale exposed skin-- she shivered at that touch. It was very cold without her cloak, but his hand was so warm.

He dropped her arm instantly, clenching his fist as though to rid himself of the feel of her skin.

"I... I don't think we have a size that will fit you," he muttered in his deep, gruff voice. "And if you use ill-fitting equipment, you may strain your wrist or injure yourself. I can have a piece made..."

"Yes, yes, certainly you can," she agreed quickly, "but I'd like to try that on for a moment, just to feel the weight of it."

She took a step closer and held out her arm to him again, and though she spoke the truth and did indeed desire to know how much strength it would require to wear and use such a piece, there was also some small part of her that wanted the touch of that gentle and warm hand on her arm again. She lowered her eyes, embarrassed that though small, that obscene and revolting desire might be revealed in them.

When he took her arm again, his movements were quick and impersonal, fitting the shield gauntlet to her arm and quickly wrapping and tightening the leather thongs that held it in place. When he let go, her shoulder sagged at the sudden weight on her arm.

She giggled nervously, hefting her arm up and moving it slowly in a sweeping motion.

"Heavier than I expected," she admitted.

She quickly stuffed down the disappointment she felt at his brief touch, angry at herself for that traitorous desire in the first place. Surely it was only that she had spent so long in isolation-- that even her maids shied away from putting their hands on her. Perhaps it was the cold. She was always cold now, even in her room, and he was so very warm. He had always been warm. Even as a child, when she'd brushed her finger across his bare shoulder, she'd been shocked at the heat that came from his skin.

She curled her arm, exposing the sharpened spikes of the plates and swung it quickly left and right.

"It is an impressive piece, surely," she admitted. "And I can see the utility of it, but I think Sir Aron, may have been correct in saying--"

"He was not correct," Prince Mikhail interrupted. "It will certainly effect your speed and agility at first, but once you build your strength, it will become second nature."

"Mmm," she hummed, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "Very well. I will do as you say. You may remove it for now."

"You should remove it," he countered. "You should get used to taking it on and off and learn to do it quickly."

Talia frowned, once again hiding her disappointment. The leather thongs were lashed quite tightly, and it took her more than a moment to loosen them and wriggle her arm free. She dropped the gauntlet to the ground and rubbed her wrist.

Prince Mikhail nodded and then gestured toward the racks.

"We do have daggers in the correct size for you. I'd like you to use those to show me your stance," he said.

"My stance?" she repeated.

"Yes, the stance you use when fighting with the hand scythes. I know very little about those weapons, but my guess is that they employ similar styles," he explained.

Talia nodded and selected the two smallest blades from the racks. The Unarian version of daggers were longer than she had expected. They were more comparable to the Vezdan short sword. She had some experience with the short sword, of course, but she doubted that it would be enough to impress a warrior like Prince Mikhail.

"Your stance..." he reminded her. "An attack stance first."

She spread her legs a little wider and dropped into a crouch, lowering her right shoulder as she took up the first position she'd learned. The Prince studied her with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, walking slowly around her as he observed her stance from every angle.

"Feet a little further apart," he growled, "and straighten your back."

She slid her right foot out and adjusted her pose.

"Now a defensive stance," he ordered.

She brought her arms up, crossing the blades over her as she crouched beneath them.

Prince Mikhail frowned.

"You will learn that there are many differences in your defense movements once you begin to train with the shield gauntlet. For now, we'll work on the differences in your thrusts and attack positions," he decided.

"These daggers are more like short swords, I would think the thrusts would be quite different than what I learned for the hand scythes," she mumbled.

"Yes," he agreed. "but your stance will be similar. With the scythes, I assume you sweep your arm this way, in a side stroke." He demonstrated the move clutching his hand as though he held an invisible scythe. "However, with the daggers--"

"Like this!" Talia lurched forward, thrusting the dagger in her right hand underneath the dagger in her left which struck a defensive position.

The Prince smiled but shook his head, and Talia tried to hide her surprise. Had she ever seen him smile before?

"No. You must remember that in an actual match, your opponent will likely not be armed with daggers, but with a proper sword. Your advantage is that a dagger is faster to draw than a traditional sword. You must use your speed in your first attack. When you thrust, you will not need to defend with your other hand. The movement should be more like..."

He tried to demonstrate, again by using invisible swords. Talia watched and then adjusted her stance. Mikhail frowned, shook his head and demonstrated again. Talia moved her shielding arm as he instructed, but his frown deepened.

"No, like this..." he growled.

The Prince stepped behind her, and slipped his hand beneath her arm, once again wrapping his fingers around her wrist to adjust her hold and position. She could feel the heat of his body against her back, and the touch of his fingers raised gooseflesh down her arms.

When he stepped back, the loss of his warmth made the air seem even colder.

"Better," he approved.

For the next hour, he taught her the positions of attack and defense, ordering her to switch between them over and over until her body found their bearings without needing correction. When he finally drew a sword from the rack, she was already weary.

"That's not the sword you usually carry," she remarked, eyeing the blade with apprehension.

"No," he agreed. "You could not defend against my usual blade at this point in your training, and it would be difficult not to injure you using it."

Talia swallowed nervously. Even this blade, which was smaller and lighter, looked far too large to be deflected by her light daggers.

"We will start with defense. The most common strike you'll have to defend is the one from above. Take your position," he instructed, twirling the blade in his hand as if testing the weight and agility of it-- or perhaps, he was showing off. Sir Aron did that sometimes, especially when Ora was on the field.

The Princess crouched and brought her arms up, readying herself for the blow.

"Too tense, stay loose," the Prince ordered.

Talia scoffed, but rolled her neck and dropped her shoulders. Prince Mikhail swung the blade down almost lazily, the clang of it hitting her daggers sent a jolt through her entire body, jarring her to the very bone.

"Looser," he frowned. "Absorb and then deflect."

He swung twice more, and though she struggled to block him, his movements seemed apathetic as though he were only play fighting with a child. Beads of sweat began to form on her forehead. How long would he keep this up? She had grown weak. She had never tired this quickly on the field before. Perhaps he was correct about diet. Food had not seemed appealing at all to her lately, and though she spent a great deal of time in bed, she rarely slept.

He swung again and Talia had to grit her teeth to keep in a small scream of frustration as she blocked. Her wrists hurt from the effort, and even her shoulders were beginning to ache. She wanted to tell him to stop and let her rest, but her pride would not allow it.

He swung again, and this time she did scream as the dagger in her right hand twisted painfully in her grip. She was forced to drop it and then fell to her knees gripping her injured hand.

The Prince tossed his sword to the side and fell to his knees immediately, snatching for her wrist and pressing it gently in his warm hand.

"Move it around," he instructed, his voice low and full of gravel.

She twisted her hand in his grip and winced slightly at the small shock of pain she felt.

"It hurts when I do," she complained.

"It isn't broke," he murmured, gently massaging the sore area with his thumb. The heat of his palm was as soothing as his touch. "A sprain, perhaps..."

He glanced down at her, meeting her eyes and his thumb paused, but he continued to stare at her. His eyes were dark and intense as always and the way he looked at her... Talia could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

He looked away, conscious perhaps of how awkward the silence had grown, and dropped her hand quickly, as he always did at such times. Without thinking, she reached out and snatched his hand and placed it on her injured wrist.

"You're warm," she explained quickly. "Your hand is so warm. I-it... it feels better when you..."

Struggling to find an excuse, she nervously glanced up at him again to see that his eyes had widened, and that his expression was one of shock. His fingers tightened around her wrist.