The aurora-girl has stopped crying, something Lothíriel notes with grim satisfaction. Having been raised in a fairly sheltered manner, tears—and their dealings—have always been an unfamiliar territory for her, a source of discomfort, and she's grateful that they will no longer be her problem. A soft smile, half rehearsed and a little contrived, pulls on the corners of her lips like a peace offering as other maiden pauses before. Wide gilt eyes watch her for a little while, and then she starts quivering in a manner which recalls the first trembling steps of a newborn fawn. Vaguely, the roan mare wonders what happened to cause such obvious trauma and vulnerability in this dawn nymph. She speaks in a delicate way, like every word could be broken in an instant, smashed like brittle bones and glass—

—and then the eyes brim with tears again—

—and then she starts to cry again.

Never has the Reaper's daughter been at such a graceless loss of words, but today she is absolutely speechless. Please don't cry, Lothíriel wants to tell the girl, but the words fall uselessly flat on her tongue—a clumsy moment passes on lumbering legs before Lothíriel can compose herself. "Yes," she says instead, speaking quietly and quickly, "in fact, I can bring you to the ones who dwell in my home." Her violet gaze passes over the mare's marred skin and singed hairs, lingering on the ruined silk flowers tangled in the purple strands of her tail. She feels a sudden pang of pity for this girl, who is surely radiant beneath the wounds and burns; what a shame it would be if this beauty remained spoiled forever. Lothíriel sets her mind to provide this foreigner a home (after all, did she not mention being unfamiliar with this land?), and the discomfort changes to resolution. If Mother is not here to be proud of her altruism, then Father surely will be, a thought which brightens her mood considerably.

As if an afterthought, Lothíriel inclines her head to the sand, where flowers of varying colors and sizes lurk between her cloven hooves. She picks several: a red amaryllis, two pink azaleas, and a dark purple dahlia. Holding the stems between her teeth, the lady of blossoms offers them (a little sheepishly) to the other girl, hoping she can at least temporarily replace the spoiled ones in her tail.


still all the water in your wells won't make it grow