Unfortunate is the son who knows not his father, nor even his mother. My thoughts turn to my own Neoptolemus, whom I've not seen in these ten years while in Scyros he grows ever toward manhood, if indeed still he lives - yet he at least may hold dear some dim memory or another of me from his infancy, and must hear stories from his mother and grandfather.

[For a moment his voice dips into a current of wistfulness, and then it dissipates in a narrow pause.]

Still, you have found refuge in your gods, the Seraphim, and they seem to have chosen you to be not just their humble servant, as are all priests and priestesses who in the temples of the gods serve, but their son. Although you know naught of the lineage which precedes you, such favor speaks well for you in your father's place.