Dolce can only hear her die. He bought every step he could afford, and many he could not. Wool smolders where it passed too close to the flames. Everything from the waist down burns, aches, and throbs in turn. He’s not built for sprinting. He is quick, he is precise, but kitchens aren’t taken at a run. The corners, the debris, the child on his back, they all cost him, and every time he paid for it. Just to reach the noise of slaughter a half step faster. But he does not even see her die. Ten steps further, and Redana’s scream cuts him clean in two. Out fall the thoughts. Out fall the plans. Out fall the hopes, the cautions, the daydreams, the quiet nest he’d painstakingly built around a wish, now unraveling. In its place, a cold, dreadful certainty steals over him: Nothing will happen as he thought it might. He has traveled the length of two worlds, and arrived at the end too late. He slows. He stops. There is an alcove outside the throne room. Hard. Cold, still. Devoid of cushion and ornament. Devoid of comfort. Devoid of anything that might burn. It will do. Dolce slips XVI off his back and leans her against the wall. She does not resist; Redana’s scream still tears through her senses. She cannot question why Mister Sheep draws away from her. “Stay here. It’s about to get very loud.” It’s quiet. There is only one body still moving. There are only two voices still speaking. He has to go now. A few steps more. There’s only a few steps more. He reaches into the lost, homemade bag slung across his chest. There is a sword in his hand. [hr] [i]“Get away from them.”[/i] A third voice hisses. Hardly much louder than Redana’s last whispers. Dolce stands in the throne room of Empress Nero. Around him, the dead and dying and broken. He knows most of their names. Before him, a monster, after a journey of monsters. He knows his name. “I said.” There is a small, plain sword. He must hold it with both hands. “Get away from them.” Aphrodite turns. Bulk and blood and hate rumbles, interrupted in his moment of victory. His moment. His! As…as some fucking sheep comes out of nowhere - ! [i]“Don’t look at me like that.”[/i] Dolce stands alone in the throne room of Empress Nero. Around him, the detritus of madness and murder. He knows how to make himself invisible. Before him, a god, and the orders of a god. He knows how to work within orders. The swordpoint wavers. His voice cracks. He’s not built for volume. “Get. Away. From them.” If Aphrodite had truly wanted him to suffer, and suffer as much as possible, he could have used Redana. He could have used Bella’s corpse. Dolce couldn’t have done a thing to stop him. But Aphrodite’s patience had run out long ago, and this is one more indignity he will not bear. “I said,” he roars. [i]“Don’t look at me like that!”[/i] In the seat of Humanity’s power, in the throne room of the Empress, Authority crashes down on Dolce. It demands he speak. Speak. Speak! And if you cannot speak, beg! And if you cannot beg, kneel! Why have you come here? Why have you spoken out? How could you possibly know anything of gods and power, Dolce of Beri!? Know your place! Wait your turn to die! His legs will splinter. His hands will break on the hilt. His heart will burst. But before that. Or maybe after that. It doesn’t matter. It won’t matter. Aphrodite won’t get away with it. Bella’s sacrifice won’t be for nothing. Dolce. Stands. The monster fills his vision. Already on him. Terrible hand raised to strike. He leaps back; it won’t be enough. He raises his sword to parry. In both hands, it is balanced. Claws tear across his body, and bury themselves in the floor to the wrist. No more than a pace in front of him. Short. The blow falls short. Aphrodite stares in confusion. Opens his mouth. [i]-jingle-[/i] And coughs blood. XVI holds the ruin of Aphrodite’s heart in her hand. She nods, satisfied. [i]”quiet.”[/i] She lets it fall, and slumps down for a nap. Aphrodite crashes after them, suddenly without blood nor divinity to sustain him. But he is tenacity incarnate. Hate will sustain him when all else fails. Snarling, steaming, his body burns. Limbs twitch. The floor groans. His eyes lock onto the impudent, little- “How dare you. How dare you. HowrkKK!!” There is a sword through his head. There is a sheep on his skull. “You’ve. Said. Enough.” The beast screams; a gutteral, ugly, unintelligible sound. He is bleeding. He is dying. He will speak. He will speak! “No more curses.” Dolce clings to the blade. Beneath him, Aphrodite pitches and heaves. He ducks, and the god’s free hand misses him by inches. “No more blood.” A shadow blots out the flames. Dolce grabs the sword at his belt, still clinging to Persephone’s blade, and swings wildly. A fragment of claw skips across the palace floor. “No! More! Ruin!” The craving of the entire universe, the maker of all, he who contains infinities, cannot dislodge a single sheep. A sword that cannot cut him drives back his hand, and he cannot reach him. Hooves that cannot break him stomp his head down, and his mouth shut, and he cannot speak a word. So he burns it all. All he has left, let it burn! Let him try a little harder. That will be enough. He’ll kill him. He’ll curse him. He’ll tear him apart, in front of Zeus’ precious little daughter, and drag his shade to where none may ever find him. That is what it will cost! Do you hear him?! It will cost the universe one, last scar. And in time it will fester, and in time it will grow, and…and…… And Aphrodite lays still at last. “No. More. Calling yourself. Love.” Dolce holds himself up by Persephone’s sword. Panting. Shaking. Standing. “You. Will never. Pervert it. Again.” No god speaks for Aphrodite. No champion rides to his aid, guided by foxgirls. That privilege is reserved for another, one far better than him. All that is left for him is one last prayer, as befits his station: [i]“Good riddance.”[/i] So ends Desire. So triumphs Love. So Dolce of Beri got his wish.