They spin out together like a spider's drifting thread, through distant spaces so alien and terrifying that groping blindly through lightless lifeless nothingness for the souls of the dead seems downright cozy in retrospect. The crown sometimes forges ahead with strength and purpose, and other times flails in total confusion through a place so warped that even its alien and terrifying senses have nothing familiar to grasp. Everything in its capacious pockets burns away, every coin, every bone, every last fragment of every blade of grass, all consumed to fuel their headlong flight.

It might perhaps have been safe to stop there, but the crown understands the depth of its bearer's terrified urgency. There must be no remaining possibility that the Chained One could find them. There must be no remaining possibility that they could have gone just a little farther, could have obscured their trail just a little better. So it pushes and keeps pushing, until they're both exhausted, until it feels like exhaustion is all they've ever known. It steers them into a howling emptiness that claws relentlessly at their conjoined souls, and presses blindly onward in the shelter of the Lamb's fiercely stubborn will to live, rekindled at last by the slim hope that there might be a life out there worth living.

By the time they land once more in a physical realm, with dirt below and sky above, neither of them has the faintest idea how long they might have been traveling for. All they know is that they can go no farther.

It's not a dramatic arrival; you could be forgiven for missing it entirely, if you didn't happen to be looking. One moment there's nothing in particular happening on this unassuming patch of dirt, and then a wavering black rift opens just wide enough for just long enough that a small fluffy body can slip sideways into reality.

She makes some sort of hoarse quiet sound with her voice, and tries to sit up, and can't remember how. Her crown darts anxiously from her head to her hands and back, flowing through the air like a weightless splash of ink, as she slowly refamiliarizes herself with the business of living. Right, those are her lungs, already breathing on their own, good job lungs, and these many miscellaneous aches all add up to the shape of the four limbs and a head that she distantly remembers having, and which bit is the eyes again? Right, those. She opens them.