Dolce’s had a desk brought out. From a different room, he’s brought a comfortable chair to sit in while he works. The heights don’t quite match up, but then again, his height didn’t match up to aesthetic perfection either. He whispers a prayer of thanks that the birds were unable to fix that too. He only pauses his pen when she’s finished speaking.

“Hrm.” 

The wind plays at his curls, without disturbing a single sheet of paper.

“It’s good advice. Perhaps we ought to post signs, reminding our crew to try writing out a wish to Hades before attempting the next coup. If anyone steps forward without proof of documentation, then we can declare their plot null and void. Quite the timesaver.” Is he filling out his next form? Sketching out a poster design? Formulating a wish himself? These are all questions. “It is all good advice. Have something valuable to aim at. Too valuable to risk for another good. Even if…”

He falls silent. Still. The papers offer no help, though he stares long at them. Gently, carefully, he returns his pen to its holder. The documents are already straight; he tidies them up anyway, and sets a weight on each stack for good measure. He has to stand on his chair, on tiptoe, reaching past the top of his desk to [i]-snap! snap![/i] some decorative latches. The whole top of the desk lifts up, separating cleanly into a workstation perfect for a lap. Dolce trundles over with his precious cargo, sets it and himself down beside Bella’s sofa, and rests his back against it as he gets back to work.

“To answer your question: Yes.” He says, wearily. “It hurts rather badly. It was a lot easier dealing with wrongs at a distance, and in hindsight. Now? I [i]can[/i] do something. I’m sure I have to do something. But I’ll only get one shot. No second chances, no wasting it. So until the time comes, I have to sit with a world gone wrong and just bear it. For as long as it takes. Even if,” and his stomach turns, and his shoulders hunch with shame. “Even if it hurts, and I don’t. Know the heads of the Skies well enough to…hesitate. Enough.”

As if he has the right to even think such a thing. As if Dolce of Beri is the one to decide who lives and who dies. As if those reprimands made the thought any less tempting.

“I’m glad you have Gaia to aim at.” He moves on. Quickly. “It’s, well, it’s a little more complicated for me. When I saw you’d remembered some of the voyage, I wanted to talk to you about it, but then Summerkind, wolves, assassins; I never got the chance until now.” He plays with his pen. Something to keep his fingers busy. His mind’s too busy for important work. “I don’t know how it is for you. It sounds like you remember quite a bit more than me. When I think back, it’s like looking down at a planet through a cloudbank. I see some things clearly, I know some things happened, but the further I get away the foggier it gets. I know I was standing on this planet, and such-and-such was happening, but I couldn’t tell you how I got there, or where I went afterwards. Between two points, was that five minutes, or five months? Which order did they come in, really? How can I know whether or not I’ve got it all back?” A question he’s not keen on exploring too deeply. There may not be a bottom to that well. “I can’t be sure any wish I think of now is the same wish that’s carried me thus far. All I can do is trust that, if the wish was important enough, I’d find my way back to it again.”

And there’s Zeus right over there. And there’s Aphrodite’s breath, still tinging the air with longing. And here’s a sheep, watching them both. Observing. Thinking. 

Waiting.

“...could I ask you for a story? From before we reached the Skies.” He’s settling down with his work. Reclining against the soft furniture. “Maybe that will knock something loose. It’d be worth a try, at least.” His head rests so, so close to her hand. It will not take much effort to reach over. To let her fingers sink deep, deep into those soft, luxuriant curls. They grow so thick, so strong, that no claw could hope to accidentally nick his skin. If one’s senses were keen enough, how many hours could be whiled away, exploring all the ways his wool is lovely to the touch?

He won’t mind. He’s not going anywhere. Except to give the slightest sway, to give the slightest jingle, to invite her attention.