[ God. Whatever she's got that passes for a heart is breaking in her chest. She can feel it, something tight and splintery and awful, and breathing around it is a slow and laborious process. She breathes in sighs. Careful, sad sighs.

It was my choice ... to go away now.

What does she say to that?

Did she ... ever want to go? She knew she had to. But ... did she want to, really?

Contemplating that question is like standing on the very end of a dark chasm of which she cannot see the bottom, and she wants nothing more than to pull back from the edge. But with Davesprite holding onto her, breathing his fear into her hair, she can't. She can't do anything but stare into that terrible abyss. ]

... I don't want you to go either, [ is what she finally says, tiny and plaintive. It probably isn't helpful. ]

Dave... when I went away, I ... I made that choice. I knew what I was doing... and what would happen to me. How do you know for sure that ... you're not different? That ... you won't have a choice in it after all? Maybe ... I just don't want to give up hope. Not yet.

[ And then she simply gathers him into her arms. She twists her body, reaching across so she can pull him close to her properly and hold him there, right there, where they are both warm and alive and real. ]