Ah. So it’s not just his nightmare after all. 

“...and look at you now.” An amalgam of metal and matter, a testament to his vision. “I don’t think a sheep like me is suited for metal, but you, you wear it well. You always have.”

No. That’s not right. At once, his own voice rings wrong, and so it must to the craftsman too. Some tragedies are so vast, it takes a lifetime to journey to the bright side of them. What good does it do to pretend otherwise? To pretend neither of them see what’s happened here?

“...you don’t even recall what you asked of her, do you?” He smiles, pained. “Even at your most inspired, I just can’t picture you doing something so thoughtless as to make an offering without a wish on your tongue.”

An offering of the heart laid before a goddess he revered, and not even his request remains. The heroes of myth and history did not suffer as they did so that they could feign ignorance now.

Perhaps if one of those heroes were here, they’d have words of wisdom for times like this. Or they’d slay the foul monster blocking their way, something so terrible that neither of them can even see its true form. But no, it’s just the two of them. Craftsman and Chef. What can he do? Well, not much. Only a little thing. A small thing. Horribly unsuitable as any kind of solution or answer. 

He holds onto the craftsman’s bandaged hand with his own. At the first sign of discomfort, he will withdraw without a fuss. Until that time, he will stand by his side, and he will ask him, “What was your vision, the one of metal and matter? Do you remember?” And he’ll listen to every word, even as he takes the first step forward. If this be a cautionary tale, then the craftsman will not have to walk it alone. He can offer this little comfort to one laid terribly low.

If the Lady of Summer finds offense in this, then. Well. Then he’ll find a suitable offering to stay her wrath.