Fine white sand crumbles beneath cleft hooves; a pale raven flies above in lazy circles, his twin mirrored on the water below. It's hot today, but a gentle breeze blows off the ocean like a benediction, tangling hair and easing spirits. Lothíriel hums as she walks, a lilting maritime hymn her mother taught her as a child; it recalls the splendor of an empire by the sea inhabited by children with proud horns on their brows, ruled by a blue-eyed king. Did they spend endless hours playing in the tides, letting the days pass like the salty west wind beneath seabirds' wings? Lothíriel does not know what her parents were like in their youth, but she imagines a young Deimos chasing gulls; a fledgling Huyana playing in the tides. She wonders if the Moonlit Tides of her parents' childhood resembles this small celestial heaven.

So enthralled in her own fanciful imaginings, Lothíriel almost fails to notice a dawn-kissed stranger wandering through the shallow water. The mare is made after her own image: delicately built, with topaz eyes and a flower crown. An uncertain frown pulls at the nymph's lips when she notices the angry blistered skin and singed hair marring an otherwise beautiful hide. Her own burn, only recently healed, aches in solidarity, an ugly reminder of a foreign god's wrath. The queen of flowers cannot let a sister in arms suffer like this—how unbecoming that would be!

"You need a healer," she says, slowly approaching the aurora-mare, the soft white sand clinging to her dark legs. Lilac eyes regard her softly, an (thoroughly uncharacteristic) expression of beatified concern playing on refined features. Lothíriel rarely plays the part of the Savior, but something about this exquisitely wounded girl calls to her, like a wilted flower in need of a little care; Huyana would be so proud of her altruistic daughter. Careful to give the girl space, the sterling mare pauses expectantly just short of the water's lip; she may be a saint today, but she certainly isn't stupid.


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

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