Emhyr had never considered himself the sentimental sort, nor did he imagine himself prone to bouts of nostalgia. Yet there were times, late at night when he was tucked into the safety of the shadowed forest, when he let his mind wander. With some small measure of fondness he would reflect upon those he'd once called friends, or ponder on the warm memories he held of a time when his family was whole and happy. There was one figure in particular that often held his thoughts in a constant loop, the memory of warm skin against his and pale eyes peering into his own on repeat in his mind's eye. Eythora would never leave him - it was impossible to forget such a woman, especially when she had so kindly left a reminder of their time together on his shore all those months ago.

In all honesty, Emhyr had thought he might never see her again. Yet here she is, her slender form illuminated by the pale wash of moonlight, her steps sure and steady as she treks down his shore. He has come across her on his nightly patrol, and he blinks against the howling wind as if trying to discern whether she is an illusion. Yet she continues towards him, and Emhyr feels a spark of something eager inside his chest. The snow gives way against his hasty steps as he meets her head-on, his gaze slightly wide with disbelief as he takes in the sight of her. Quickly he schools his expression into something mimicking aloofness, though the rapid twitch of his tail belies his cool mask.

Silence passes between them until at last he murmurs, in a surprisingly even tone, "You're here," his words dissipating into mist between them. Emhyr's skin twitches, lips pressing together as he reins in the rapidly growing desire to step forward and touch her. They shared naught but a night of passion, two ships passing in the night, yet he finds himself wanting to treat her like a familiar lover rather than the temporary fling she had been. He wants to reach out boldly and brush a kiss to her cheek, to press himself to her and renew the faded memory of what she felt like sidled against his side. Yet he restrains himself, with some difficulty, instead shifting his weight in an uncharacteristic show of anxiety and uncertainty as he queries, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"