Something stirs in the jagged shadows which lap at starlit patches like thirsty dogs, something like the soft padding of strange feet and unknown intentions. All the ligaments and sinew of her frame snap tense; she catches the cloying sweetness of blood and warmth on the gentle wind. Lothíriel thrusts her neck forwards, swan-like and menacing, firm lines drawn on its delicate skin, and her horn in brandished at the darkness, the dim celestial light causing its pearlescent surface to glow dimly. Thingol circles above, his shrill caws throwing the silent forest into cacophony. Her mind races frantically; she knows that many wicked things prosper in the shadow of night, villainous beasts that wouldn't hesitate to harm a lonely girl. Lothíriel expects something ugly to emerge from between the trees, something base and sinister, with teeth that glitter in the starlight and ferocious eyes as big as moons. But as she prepares herself to slice through damned flesh with her virginal horn, two silver eyes peep out from between trees, and a pale horn similar to her own, and a sturdy frame enshrined in a russet hide. She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders sagging from relief; the face is hauntingly familiar, one which resides vaguely in the backdrop of childhood memories. Her whiskers tremble as the anthousai offers him a tired smile. "It's been a long time." Too long since I've been home.

Someone else approaches the duo at a hurried pace. Lilac eyes drift towards the gloom, her stomach tightening into a knot; she knows who it is even before looking—the cadence of his hooves on the firm forest loam felt like the rhythm of her mother's heartbeat: unmistakable. A flood of memories traipse before her eyes: father and daughter traipsing together on a beach; moonlit adventures; endless stories; sincere guidance. Where her mother was a teacher and guide as vast and distracted as the ocean, he was her knight, her lord, her friend. Her nostrils widen to catch a smell so familiar she could cry: mountain air and ice, sweet grass and cold spring days.

Loth. 

Tears prick her eyes. She closes them tightly, hoping he won't see them.

They dribble down her cheek anyway.

Lothíriel stands stricken before her father, a matryr awaiting benediction. She can feel his warmth against her flesh, their necks entwined like ivy. "Father." It is a single word whispered into the dark strands of his mane; as delicate and exquisite as the blossoms entwined in her silver hair, a pleading, wistful word which tumbles into the warmth of his mane, like an afterthought. He is real, tangible, no longer a wish or a dream or a memory. "Father," she says again, though this time it is softer, a mere breath, filled with tenderness and the ghosts of all the things unsaid. When he draws back from the embrace, she dares peek at him from beneath white lashes, a thing like affection softening her wide glassy eyes. Usually perfectly poised and self-possessed (much like the Reaper himself), the queen of flowers stands before her father like a lamb, naïve and adoring. He seems a little more worn than she remembers (aren't we all, she thinks to herself), but he is very much the same: an ageless sentinel, tall and grim with sapphire eyes. 

Finally, the words struggle from her throat. "Take me home"; a plea.