Cressida has never been in want of a home. Has never wanted for more than the moon and the stars above her. The sweet call of night as it wraps around her and lulls her to sleep. To the kind of slumber where she walks alone in the darkness with only the moonlight as her companion.
That has been home enough for her.
But her father had found her brother and her and told them about Loess. Told them about how it had been the place where he had lived for so long—that is, until he found her mother. It was the place of his death and his rebirth. The place he had pledged his loyalty. And while he had strayed, had spent the years by her wild mother’s side, it was time for the family to go home. Home.
So she does.
She comes at night, as is only right, in the shape of her deer. She is not as young as she had been, but there is still youth in the way that she holds herself. Youth in the slender, coltish legs that carry her so delicately across the rock and bramble. She dips her silvery head toward the ground and sniffs lightly before she continues, letting the pace set itself leisurely. Quietly.
When she hears the sound of movement, she doesn’t startle. Instead she just lifts her head and looks out into the shadows, peering through the near fog and smiling.
It was family, she knows.
The heart always recognizes itself.
