Dolce walks the valley of kings clinging tight to the hand of royalty. Vasilia, noble Vasilia, strides amongst the rubble, unbowed and undaunted. What strength yet untapped in her powerful frame, that she bears the sun without complaint, and he suffers in her shadow? Her thoughts tread paths well-run through crowns, and gods, and nations, and ruin. She walks between princely slaves, every step laced with dignity, every step a thankful prayer for safe passage through Aphrodite's lands. Everywhere he looks, he sees the black-stained hands of their faithful scout, and in shame he clings tighter to his escort. 

What is he to do? Aphrodite is watching. Acknowledge him, pay him the respect he is due from one who is so insignificant. Let not his gaze linger, on one who is worthy of special attention. Let not his gaze miss him, as one who is trying to hide. This sheep is not special, but no more not special than anyone here. Be small, be pleasant, be useless in the grand matters. The wish burning in his heart depends on it. These people depend on it, though they know it not. Everyone depends upon it, and that's more people than he'll ever know, and it's everyone he knows. 

If there is room still to wish for a journey home, Vasilia will be the one to wish it. He is but a humble chef, a lost sheep, and has his hands full with just the one.