Emberwood [m] I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses

He meant to hurt her with it — but it was nothing she didn't already know, nothing she hadn't already said to herself. Moss had deserved more; Lestan had deserved more; all of Swiftcurrent Creek had, but Reverie had never made that promise. She'd been honest all along, she felt.
It wasn't her fault that none of them had believed her until it was too late.
Her tears continued to fall silently, but Reverie only nodded. Thank you, She said softly, and turned to leave. There was nothing more to say. Akavir would not want her apologies, and she found that she no longer wanted to give them, if only because she knew that he would not find them genuine. What was the point, then? The best thing she could do was leave, and if she ever saw him again, she would turn and walk in the opposite direction. That much, he'd made clear.
For now, she would find Moss. She would hunt through the mud and flies until her gilded coat was soaked and stained dark. And when she found her, she would apologize; tuck herself against the rotting remnants of what had once been love; weep openly; tell her that she loved her, words she'd never said while Moss had been alive to hear them. She would stay there for a time.
Then she would gather up what bones she could salvage from the muck, and find a place to lay them to rest. Somewhere beautiful. She knew that Moss had loved beautiful things, though she'd never admitted it aloud. And she deserved that much, at least: to rest somewhere beautiful for eternity.