Zeus. You bastard. You knew. You knew this would happen. You threw Hestia at her, and you knew this would happen. All roads led to cocoa. Moments of absolute stillness, when all their attentions were enraptured with the first shy wisps of steam emerging from the kettle. The intense battle between too-large fingers and a rascally little packet. A spoon riding the eternal circuit of a mug, scraping out a steady little tune as it went. This is how he learned to make it so well; learning at the feet of the master. The gift of a goddess lay before her. She took the mug in her hands. Felt the heat bloom against her skin. She didn’t want a drop of it. “I don’t know why I’m this way.” She continued. Quietly staring into her mug. “I don’t [i]want[/i] to be this way. Not a day goes by that I don’t ask myself why, and in all this time I haven’t found an answer.” The first sip filled her belly with a sweet, comforting warmth. Reminding her, keenly, of the warmth she so sorely missed. “And I hurt him. He put his precious, fragile little heart in my hands, and I shattered it. For no reason at all.” The mug froze, halfway to her lips, clouding her face with steam. “...no. I think there was a reason.” A terrible, awful, reason, but a reason all the same. “I was alone. Bella was in my way. And it was the easiest way I could think to get one over her. Of course, nobody forced me to, but once I had that...all I could see was forward.” Good, that the cocoa was hot enough to scald her tongue, if she wasn’t careful. Kept her from downing the whole thing in one go. Forced her to take it slowly. [i]Linger.[/i] “What happened after that...I don’t know. I don’t [i]know.[/i] Always, it’s forward, forward, and I don’t know [i]why.[/i] Why did [i]I[/i] have to be the one to beat her? Why couldn’t I love him enough to stop?” Her head fell, catching on the rim of her cup. “And why can’t I think of anything else I could’ve done?” “I hurt people, Hestia. [i]That’s[/i] what I’m best at. That’s all I’ve ever [i]really[/i] done. Oratory, the stage, the arena, this ship, what good is any of it? But put an opponent in front of me, and I will make them bleed. That, I can do.” No matter who else got hurt along the way. Herself - and him - included. “Leaving Lakkos...was just the first time I had to do it on purpose.” Was that it, then? Had she told enough stories for one day? Was she going to have to say her name? [s]please no[/s] Would this be the last she’d ever see of Hestia? The thought cut through the stone-heavy haze, and before she realized what she was doing she was asking, “Is all this why you’ve never visited me before?” She couldn’t stop herself. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want [i]cocoa.[/i] “Is this why you stay away from [i]him,[/i] whenever I’m near?” She stared the Lady Hestia dead in the eye, crumbling beneath the whole of her presence, and still she could not be silent. “Are we [i]that[/i] unsuited for each other?” ************************************************ Terrible. Horrible. As if there were words enough for such a tragedy. That someone so kind, so beautiful, so unbelievably deserving of so much should think herself not even worth loving. In spite of the unimaginable breach of propriety, were Zeus in the room at that moment, Dolce would have bent time and space to show her the full extent of the harm she’d caused. Had Hera not already recovered - and what a relief, she knew she was wrong! - he might’ve raced to the altars to get started on- Wait. She was wrong. About herself. If Hera (a goddess) could be wrong in this matter, and Dolce (a silly, lost chef) was no better than her, then. Then. Oh. Oh heavens. A door burst in his heart, before he could finish giving himself permission to open it. Questions upon questions, without form, before words, filled him up to bursting. Nowhere to go, but they had to go, but nowhere to go. No way out. Too many words. No words. He felt...he felt [i]something[/i], several somethings, all blended together into a horrible lump, deep in his chest, at once hardened into a thousand needle points and melting into white-hot slag, and, and, and, “I don’t feel well, Hera.” His legs were splayed out in front of him. He didn’t remember when he’d stopped kneeling. Or when he’d begun to sob. “It hurts. It hurts bad. You told me I could not carry the darkness alone, but. How can I ask someone else to shoulder something so awful? Something I can’t even manage myself?”