To not help with the beheading is to make her drive a knife through her own flesh without another soul to help carry that weight. So he offers to man the controls. The sound is remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He will remember that.

To not help with the paperwork is to demand she perfectly execute the bureaucratic maneuver that will decide her fate while her own blood dries on her sleeves. So he offers his eyes to her cause. The forms are exacting, yet fewer than he would have expected. This is what it takes to end a life. He will remember that.

She did not ask for his help. She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and willing to do whatever it takes to live. No part of this would have been too much for her, or else she would have asked. But Dolce has seen far too many people suffering, people whose names and voices he knew, and he could not even offer his presence. Just sympathies, thrown from a distance. If there’s opportunity and means to lend to a hand, he will take that opportunity, as those do not happen as often as you might think or like.

To not say goodbye is unthinkable. 

“Take care.” He offers his hand, without hesitation, hiding the exhaustion creeping through him “I will make offerings for a safe flight.”

Her smile as she clasps his hand is answer enough. She knows what she will wake to. She knows not if she would rather be the severed head. She is grateful, perhaps, that she has no choice in the matter. 

Does she know the choice he will face, when her coffin drifts into the distance? He hopes she does. It would feel like a trick, otherwise. As it stands, he sends an Assassin back from whence she came, to her unfinished business and a target who ought not to die like this. He cannot sit back and pretend that what happens to the Royal Architect is none of-

Grief seizes a thought, and flings it to the fore.

“...the name on your bones is the Royal Architect, yes?” He pauses, still holding her hand. “That was the name on all of the forms we signed. There was never an actual name. Just a title. So, is that what’s written on your bones as well?”

Something in his voice gives her pause. She closes her eyes, concentrates, and nods. “I have never seen the full nature of my curse. But as far as I can tell, yes, that is the name.”

Of course. Of course it was. “I though it was strange that Artemis would permit a contract with no name. But a title is good enough here. There is no one else who can do the Royal Architect’s job. He is the only one that title can apply to, because he is irreplaceable. The contract will never target anyone else, so it’s as good as a name, and much easier to come by, I imagine.”

“Indeed. Much, much easier. But why should it matter what name I bear?”

“Please, correct me if I am wrong…” It was an idea so foolish, it had no business being said. But was it really the most foolish thing he’d done all day? “But if the Royal Architect were to abdicate his position and leave the Skies entirely by the time you wake, would that not nullify the contract?”

The only sound in the hangar was the faint crackling of crystal energy. Not even breath stirred the air. “You realize,” she says, gently. “That such a thing would be tantamount to the fall of the Skies themselves? That such a contingency was not accounted for, because it would mean far grander disasters were at hand?” She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and desperate, desperate to live.

Does she see the thin thread of hope he clings to?

“Yes. Yes, I don’t know exactly how it would happen. But,” he lays his other hand gently over hers, and squeezes lightly. “I would really rather no one else get killed.”