Firefly Glen young [wp]

A few months! A bittersweet smile curved the isbjørn's mouth — for he might have said the same of his own children, had Pala not said it first. Now, however, he realized he ought to call them what they were: yearlings, all already out in the wider world.

"Yes," he replied, his heart aching. "Three daughters. They've dispersed, now, but they know where to find us. I hoped they might come to the wedding. It would do their mother good to see them again — and, well — I wish I could see 'em, too."

There was a rift, though. One he's created himself by being gone so long in the search for Nutuyikruk. He regretted it, despite knowing he would regret not searching for his niece if he'd stayed home.

He'd learned something, though. He'd learned that his place was here, with Vairë. Here, where his daughters could always find him.

"Lightfoot and Lilyflower and — and Yura," he said, remembering at the last moment to call Lariat by what he thought was her preferred name. He missed them all. He hoped they were happy.

"What are yours called?" he asked her. "Do they like the mountains?"