The totality of nature waits on a tiny, filthy lump of wool. To spare, or to devour.

“I have. Been given a lot.” More than he asked for. Or what he asked for was more than he ever realized. Years, he’s spent, thinking of what he’s been given. “It’s been hard to say if I deserved any of it. Just.” A wet, sickly cough wracks his frame. Her face blurs. “Just a chef, after all.”

She did not ask him to leave quickly; yet another mercy. He needs both his arms to raise himself upright. A moment, please, for the world to settle down. “Now, though,” he rasps, in-between gasps of air. “I think, it was a little unfair, yes? To everybody. Myself. And to you.” Could he have really hidden his heart so thoroughly, that you did not actually know him? Did you grant your gifts with anything less than his life in your hands? “Suppose it was never really a matter of deserving, after all. I have this. I am this. It’s a matter, then, of what I do with it.”

At last, he moves. Clutching scraps of shattered armor for leverage, he half-turns, half-rolls, and the Lady of Spring is before him. The face of his wife stares back at him, reflected in the blades of her hedge trimmers. His own face, too, growing clearer with each moment he stalls. This, then, is to stand before a goddess. Before the turning of seasons. The end that is beginning that never shall end. Life-giver. Tyrant. Bully.

Dolce looks up. And past her.

“I am told, we have already defied expectations.” His hand rises, shaking, clenched. Not a fist. A presentation. Of a band of gold, where the blood of two runs as one. Shining, amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke. “[i]Aphrodite.[/i] Love took us this far. Do you permit a universe where it will take us no farther?”