Jade Fern Grove mea maxima culpa

he said her name and then, finally, her mind caught up. of all the names in her head his was the one she'd promised not to look for. cruel irony was it that in her time here she'd found none of them, and now here he stood. the grief dropped away and left a kind of stillness, and she wondered, briefly what would have happened if both of them had never come here. would they be whole, happy? or would she, in the bright-burning fire of her youth, still find some way to destroy what she held dear? she knew then, with certainty, that it didn't matter, in the same way none of her dreams of different paths, different futures, different pasts, mattered. she was not pride nor feriocity nor grief nor pain; she was the culmination of all her decisions and actions; victories and mistakes. 

and she, too, wasn't ready for this, but nothing was ever about being ready, was it? 

"I know what you did." she breathed. he knows all the wrong she's done; she knows too and does not want it to remain unsaid. she remembers the dull blow of Sunny's words, the questions that followed. the words are not accusing, not hard. "you once said we could forgive each others sins." she's muddled the originaly words, she thinks. it is not complete forgivness but nor is it judgement, for she can't do either of those things until she knows. 

she wants to tell him all her grief, wants him to know that time has not healed but nor has it taken away her love for him. she does neither, for she knows she must ask - "I will go now, if you want me to."