You find her as she once was.
There is no gaping hole in her chest. Her sleeveless black top, her ridiculously colorful skirt, her slender grey armsthey are all as pristine as ever, unmarred by her beautiful Tyrian purple blood.
She's facing the limitless blue expanse of the ocean, but you know she's waiting for you. You know how this memory goes; she's simply paying you a visit. She's simply sitting on the shore of your island, absentmindedly dipping her feet into the water.
In your memory, you sit down next to her, making sure to keep your precious cape out of the ocean's reach. She complains a little about G'lbgolyb, if it can even be called complaining when it's coming from her; she rests her head on your shoulder, and your collapsing and expanding bladder-based aquatic vascular system suddenly stops collapsing and expanding for just a moment. The two of you glub about G'lbgolyb and Seahorsedad, and by the time the conversation comes to an end, she is beaming, almost radiantly so, once more.
But this is not a memory, and you tell yourself this even as you try to take the exact same steps as you took that time. You are dead, and so is she; she is dead, and so are you. You are only drifting about the Furthest Ring in a dream bubble, and you have no idea how long you've already spent here, utterly alone.
There are no words to describe how glad you are that she's found you.
There are no words to describe how terrified you are as you sit down next to her.
You say her name tentatively. She tenses up at the sound; her right hand curls into a fist; she shakes. You don't know from what; you don't want to know. It already hurts enough that this is the effect you have on her now.
When she finally turns to face you, you seek out her eyes first. They are not hers, not as you remember. Hers were vibrant, sparkling with life; she suited her title as much as her title suited her. Now they look like yours: eerie and white and empty. They are the eyes of the dead.
You hate it.
She is not the Feferi you knew. She is not the Feferi you once were moirails with. She is simply dead, and you are the one who killed her.
She is staring at you now, no trace of a smile on her face, and you don't understand why she decided to seek you and your pathetic little bubble out. Is she sad? Resigned? Bent on revenge? You want to apologize, you think, but you have no idea how; how do you apologize to a long desired matesprit whom you ruthlessly slew out of furious recklessness? How do you apologize when even now, you can't say that you didn't mean to kill her?
In the end, you settle for a mumbled sorry and reach out to rest one hand on her shoulder. It is not enough. It will never be enough; it is only what six sweeps' of sea dweller pride will allow. She flinches, and you cannot pull your hand away fast enough.
You understand. She cannot forgive you, not yet. When she looks at you, she does not see her former moirail; she sees her murderer, the very troll that claimed to be flushed for her but killed her regardless. No, she cannot forgive you, because when you look at her, you do not see your former moirail; you see another one of your victims, the victim whose death runs you through with a trident of remorse.
You are not foolish enough to expect immediate forgiveness.
But you refuse to give up hope. The entirety of eternity stretches out before you like a second chance at life. Forgiveness, you are sure, will come.
You will make certain of it.