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Zephrah is different. And why wouldn't it be? Thirty years is such a long time.
Windmills dot the farms in the valleys between the windy mountains of the Summit Peaks in which Zephrah is cradled. And they are simply the most visible of the technological improvements brought about. Crisis Orbs to call out to the other Ashari tribes, to other allies. A few gas lamps at the pubs. More of the outside world come to roost with them.
Vilya hardly knows how to feel about the clear end to Zephrah's general isolation.
But more than the changes wrought in her home town, Vilya hurts for missing the changes time wrought on her little girl.
Truthfully, half the time when she thinks of Keyleth, it's the little girl Vilya left with her husband that comes to mind, and not the powerful young woman leading the Air Ashari she is now. If that's not proof of how much Vilya's missed, she doesn't know what is.
And there's her little girl, all grown up, sitting beneath one of the cliffside cherry trees, pink petals swirling around her in the endless winds.
Vilya quietly sits beside Keyleth, sharing the view of the mountains and Zephrah scrawled across them.
They trade shy glances, not quite catching the other looking. But there's signs. The uncertain tilt of a head. A nervous tucking of hair behind an ear. Fidgeting fingers.
And Vilya sees her daughter. Long limbs, a fine face with only the beginnings of the worry and laugh lines that will set in over the centuries as life brings her joy and pain and everything inbetween. A tension to her shoulders from the weight of responsibility and leadership that the title of Voice of the Tempest places upon her, so different from the carefree delight of a child not even through her first decade. And an antlered circlet that the wind tangles long, autumn bright hair around.
Thirty years is so long.
"Can I do something for you? As your mother. I know it's been so long, but…" Vilya breaks the silence, hands reaching, not confident in her welcome after so long an absence, even with that warm initial homecoming.
"I– yeah. Please," Keyleth quietly agrees, that same uncertainty reflected back.
Vilya moves to sit behind her daughter, coaxing the strong wood and vines of her prosthetic leg to produce a many-forked branch to act as a comb.
A small grin graces her lips as her fingers brush the replacement limb to pluck the new comb free. Keyleth had offered to regenerate a flesh and blood leg for her, her two mechanically inclined friends offered to build a new prosthetic, but Vilya had declined them all. Fifteen years with the plant growth replacement made it too much a part of her to discard it so easily. That didn't mean she didn't appreciate the offers and the care they showed, though.
And there is care, here and now, as Vilya gently tugs the rugged comb through Keyleth's hair. The kind of care that melts the mantle of the Voice of the Tempest, relaxing her into just Keyleth, Vilya's daughter. A laxing that only deepens with the removal of the antlered circlet so Vilya doesn't have to work around it.
It's an absent thought, one that almost stills Vilya's hands: how long has it been since someone else has brushed Keyleth's hair for her?
Vilya doesn't doubt that Korrin would do it for their little girl, if asked, if presented the opportunity. But has he been asked any time recently? Has he had the chance?
Or has the last time someone done something so sweet been ten years ago, by a man Vilya has never met but her daughter loves even beyond death? She hasn't heard about this Vax'ildan from Keyleth. Korrin told her of him, and she's heard bits and pieces of the adventures of Vox Machina. But stories can never capture the entirety of a person, and Vilya wishes she could have known him. To catch a glimpse of the joy Vax'ildan brought Keyleth, rather than the edges of the hole of grief he left behind.
So Vilya wonders, and her hands keep moving, offering this ancient comfort so often passed from mother to daughter.
Eventually the brushing turns to braiding. Nothing fancy beyond the flowers sprouting from Vilya's fingertips to weave into the braid. Forget-me-nots and daisies and baby's breath and marigolds and carnations. A riot of colors and shapes.
"There. Pretty as a spring meadow," Vilya announces as she places the antlered circlet back upon Keyleth's head, sitting back now that her work is done.
"...I forgot you used to say that," Keyleth marvels, examining the flowers in her new braid. A soft laugh. "How did I forget?" Tears touch her voice.
"I was gone far, far too long," Vilya mourns.
"But I'm here now, and I'm going to do everything I can for you. Like a mother should," she resolves. "Even if it's just braiding your hair." A playful tug on the braid's tip accentuates that offer.
"...I think I'd like that. I think I'd like that a lot."