Poseidon offered to help, but Triton, slightly frazzled, said he had it all under control, and Poseidon wasn't one to interfere in his son's business. Between working on his house - a project that had stagnated for a long time but was gaining life and momentum again - he contributed what he could to the exhibition. He stole Triteia away for an afternoon at the beach, took his camera along, and he must have taken at least two hundred photos of his granddaughter in her simple dress smiling, laughing, angry, intense, elegant, graceful, enthusiastic, alive.
It was difficult to choose just one, but he limited himself to two photographs. One black and white, white dress trailing in the wind, hand in her hair, the most beautiful smile on her face. The other in oversaturated colours, painting her face and skin shades of red, violet, orange and yellow, the sky a dozen shades of blue and purple.
He didn't spend a lot of time being in a suit - royalty or not, the fanfare was overrated - but after having his attire fussed over for what felt like three hours, he wasn't about to tear it all off and show up in anything less than well-presented. Except for the bandage on his hand - accidents with staple guns happened all the time though in his line of work...
He found himself drawn to a work of stone. Not supposed to touch, he knew, but when he did, that age-old familiarity washed over him.