She bows, of course. Bows as deep as she dares, as deep as she can while still being polite. Bows to the precise degree that shows she is thankful for his mercy, and as far away as she can from anything that might come away as mocking.

She takes the ball, because she has to. It's the prize, the reason for the fight.
Of course she's magnanimous to the audience. You've been wonderful, Tunguska. Thank you for coming out. Be safe in your journeys, and wish me luck in mine, this one's for you, and so on.

But it's rote, she reflects later. Mechanical, leaning on skills and patterns learned elsewhere to keep her going. A fallback loop playing while her mind is otherwise occupied. 

Haggard. That's the word that came to mind. Tormented, maybe. Hades had been torn in two in this, knowing the reasons and knowing even more the price. 

And she can't help but feel the same way, even now. Even here, watching Cerberus gambol and chase and wrestle with herself amidst the glowing pillars, she feels as if she must be the worst person in the galaxy.

Now and then, a flash of blue is visible among the mess of steel chassis. Now and then, it's brought in to her for an extra-long throw, the whole pack baying after it as if the noise and the chase is the only thing that exists.

She had to do it. She had to, even if it hurts him. He knew it too, at the end. 

But every time, when the ball comes back for a throw, she offers it up to him, first. 

Taking a dog from someone--even for very good reasons--is one thing. But forbidding them to play--to get as much joy as they can in the short time life--is too far.