He can't help it. The tears that had gathered earlier, that he'd tried his best to force back, start to fall now, and he turns his face away, shaking slightly. But it's laughter, soft and heartfelt, even if there are tears in his eyes.

"My dearest, Alecto," he says, haltingly, turning to face him; Daphne hiccoughs at the movement and then opens her mouth to yell in protest and it takes a few moments to settle her down again after a spate of fitful wailing. Avery looks at her in amazed fascination, apparently horrified and enthralled at hearing such a loud noise from such a small person.

"Dearest," he tries again, staring at him intently. "If you had told me I'd never be able to see you again after tonight, I'd still count it worth the cost. It was never -" he stops, shakes his head, "I should have known better, what it means to keep you from the ocean, away from that part of you. I shouldn't have -" The guilt rises in him again, choking out the words.

"I love you, all of you," he whispers. "Every part of you, even the part that takes you far away from me, to the depths where I cannot follow." He looks at Daphne again, at Avery, who is counting her fingers out one by one with his own chubby hands wrapped around her wrists, marveling at the difference in size. "Just as I love our children - even the ones we don't have yet, and know that one day they'll also go away from me."

"I don't want to miss what we can have," he says, closing his eyes again, "because I'm so anxious about what I know we can't."