You don’t have to tell him twice. But he appreciates it, all the same.

“Everyone! Follow me!” His voice is whisper-quiet. His voice reaches every ear it’s meant for. With a child clinging to his back, Dolce leads them from the corpse.

Yes, everyone has a job to do. And he won’t ever regret the regret of there only being one Dolce. Ask him not to wish he could draw his sword with a knight, and you ask him to erase the whole of their friendship. It’s both or nothing. But tell him twice, before he thinks. There are words enough to forget himself, clever and poisonous words, and it’s best to stay far from them.

“I am sad.” She can hear it, can’t she? The divine wrath haunting their steps? Here’s something a little softer to listen to. “I’m sad, because she was sad. She gave us fresh crops year after year. She grew flowers, trees, birds, beasts, all sorts of beautiful things. She had a husband. She wanted a family and a home.” There’s more that could be said. Much more. But she’s not the one to be saying it to. “I’m glad she can’t hurt you anymore. I’m sad she died for that to happen.”

“Now, I am also hungry. We didn’t eat before coming here, and I’m afraid it’ll be well past dinnertime before we’re out. I’ll have to cook everyone something nice when this is all over.” That goes for you too, XVI. You’re everyone now, if you like. Though he hasn’t given much thought of what you are if you’re not, but he has it on good authority there [i]will[/i] be a place for you outside these walls. A place that somebody made with you in mind, though they’d never met you, and may never meet you. He trusts they did a good job of it, and if they didn’t, there’ll be somebody on hand to make it better. Maybe even - no, but that’s for later.

They are in a burning palace, and he has to get them out.