"Oh--make." For a long moment, Laertes just sits there, practicing the sign, first with and then without the L.

It's overwhelming to him, that the first thing people think about when they think of him is no longer the sword. It's no longer his gentlemanly graces, his polite manners. The first things that Magnus thinks of are the things he shapes with care and straining hope, like the boat or the tarte tatin.

Magnus threw off the sign of the crown and embraced the sunlight, and it shines in him. He is more than his father's summer; he is a light all his own, and he illuminates everyone he touches so that they might better see themselves.

"Yes," says Laertes quietly. "Yes, that is a fine name."