Dawn Treader Valley Να πνίξεις όλα όσα οι άλλοι λεν μες τη σιωπή

He listened.
There was little more to do than that; and possibly little more thatnshe could have wanted from him. The warm breeze tousles the dust-laden fur of his chest.
He didn't know Myros. Not much, not beyond what his father had wanted him to see. He saw the councilmen, his councilmen; Thyestes with his strong jaw and gaze of iron. He saw the clean halls and not the littered alleyways. The oil-light of meeting grounds, the tight grins exchanged.
He didn't know the Myros that she had. But even still, he understood.
You miss your home, his voice has fallen to a gruff whisper. Her eyes travel to their paws, black against blond, and for a fleeting moment his do the same. it's okay to grieve, you know. You don't have to hold up that wall. Not always. Not with everyone.
And nor did he.
You are more than Myros. You can be. Because you are not Myros. You are Andromache.