Lyra smiles to hear her father say he loves her brother. It's far cry from how things started, but that's okay, because it's never too late to do things right as far as she's concerned. And it's right for family to love each other.
She accepts the shell, running her fingers over it with a smile. "I'll dream of it. Thank you, Daddy."
A blurry vision of Pyrrhus from a distance settles next to the underwater garden bed. He starts humming softly as he ties shells together, and the sound is warm and melodious, like how Lyra remembers his voice when she was hiding under the windowsill. In Pyrrhus' own dream, each version of himself was painted broadly with his own harsh self-image, the pathetic curves of Pyrrhus and the razor edges of Neoptolemus and the cold hard lines of the king. In Lyra's, he's just a man, one with a warm aura idealized by a little girl who'd very much like a big brother to look up to.
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She accepts the shell, running her fingers over it with a smile. "I'll dream of it. Thank you, Daddy."
A blurry vision of Pyrrhus from a distance settles next to the underwater garden bed. He starts humming softly as he ties shells together, and the sound is warm and melodious, like how Lyra remembers his voice when she was hiding under the windowsill. In Pyrrhus' own dream, each version of himself was painted broadly with his own harsh self-image, the pathetic curves of Pyrrhus and the razor edges of Neoptolemus and the cold hard lines of the king. In Lyra's, he's just a man, one with a warm aura idealized by a little girl who'd very much like a big brother to look up to.