Every mile they travel is more familiar than the last, and all the while Lothíriel follows closely at her father's hip, revelling in the routine turned unusual. hough she is only three, the roan girl is almost as tall as the Reaper, all long dark legs and wide eyes, lanky and awkward despite small promises of eventual grace. At some point, the trees become sparse and the points of mountains rise in the distance like jagged teeth. With an incredulous gaze, the pale-maned maiden traces the peaks, the crevasses and the white-capped summits, a small smile gathering at the corners of her lips; she is finally home. Home is where the stars glitter over alpine lakes and little white flowers grow in lush meadows, where cleft feet roam over white stone, and lips belonging to horned faces pick at dense mountain grass—home is where her father sits on a throne made of cold, cold stone, presiding over the last true herd of the virtuous, the horned; those who would carry on the proud legacy of their cunning forefathers. 

Split hooves clatter on ice and rock, and her father, who had long slipped into a comfortable, contemplative silence (she had also fallen to the whims of her various musings), slows his pace and turns his face to regard her. Welcome home, he says, gesturing grandly to their beautiful home—a place that, until very recently, had only presided in her dreams and longings. Sentinels stand above them, watchful as always, although instead of being austere and somber, they seem almost glad today, honoring the arrival of their long-lost princess. A smile unfurls slowly on charcoal lips; at first tentative, but soon growing wide and broad. It softens Lothíriel's vivid eyes as they trace the various curves and edges of home, staring greedily at the inviting emerald valley spread below the pair like bird's wings, the tip of each feather a solemn peak. She imagines the adventures of her childhood, all the laughter and childish whims which had once played in her youthful heart. Although she is no longer a child, the flower maiden longs to tear through the meadow once more, the cold mountain air playing in her pale hair.

Deimos turns to his daughter once more, and she studies the sapphire blue of his irises, marvelling at the intensity of their color. I missed you, he says, and the roan girl's smile melts into something gentler, something sweeter. Black ears face backwards and she pushes her nose towards him, yearning to touch the soft velvet of his muzzle with her own, to feel his whiskers tickling the sensitive skin of her face. "I missed you too, Papa," Lothíriel tells him softly, pulling her face back from his own and gazing at him with precious earnesty. Thoughtfulness turns to mirth in the Reaper's eyes, and he bestows the flower queen with a youthful grin, a gesture she cherishes from so many seasons past. When he winks, she laughs—a happy sound spun from grinning lips. For a heartbeat, she stands beside him, relishing the radiance of her father's levity. But it passes, so she tips her face skywards and utters a strange sort of whistle, one which could not be easily replicated by unpracticed lips. 

A red-eyed raven with feathers the color of ash dives from the sky, croaking a greeting to his bonded and her sire before landing on the gentle sweep of her back. He plucks various flowers from Lothíriel's mane, and with nimble feet, fashions a sort of crown from them. Hibiscus, frangipani, azalea and dahlias are all skillfully woven together to form a chain of vivid pinks, purples, reds and whites—all colors fit for a king. Then, the queen of flowers draws it carefully from Thingol's grasp, mindful of crushing the fragile blooms. With one fluid motion, she sweeps the crown over the Lord's ears, just above the black spire of his horn. She steps back to admire the work of raven and girl, and bestows him with a grand smile, a promise of majesty and grandeur. "Every great king deserves a true crown," the maiden says proudly—the flowers sparkle beneath the mountain sun like crown-jewels.