Dolce scooted respectfully to the edge of the bed. Facing Hera, even sitting apart from her, he felt the gentlest sunbeams brush his face with warmth. A memory of pleasant, homey spices he could not hope to identify filled the air. He did not touch her - it would be rude to approach first - but her presence still seemed to wrap him up in a soothing hug. Be at ease, little one. Lay the troubles of your heart bare. What danger would dare intrude here?

Yet, when he spoke, it was to his hands, lying open in his lap. To speak of such heavy shame, he could not lift his eyes any higher.

“All you say is true, but...I’m just a chef who learned a little swordplay. I’m not strong like Alexa.” The only callus he had was from the flat of the knife. The only scars, from peelers and mistakes. “I’m not clever like the Princess.” His palms were spotless, without a hint of grease or smoke. “I can’t command like my wife.” He bit at his lip with concentration, but still his hands trembled. “There’s so few of us, you see, and the journey is so long. Eventually, a time will come when it will all depend on me. When we face disaster, and I’ll be the only one who can try to stop it, and, and...” Please, wise Hera. Kind Hera. Do not make him say it aloud. Not tonight. Not here. Let this wish be enough.

“How can I carry their darkness when I can’t even carry them?”