Was this what Jesus felt? That night in the garden, kneeling in the dark, sweat and blood dripping down his face as he begged for the suffering to pass? That moment of knowing—truly knowing—that no matter how much he prayed, how much he wished for a different fate, there was no escaping what was to come.
Selene knew it now.
.
.
.
And just like Him, she would be whipped by regret, stripped bare by grief, crowned with thorns of her own making.
This is her cross to bear.
This is the price.
And God, it hurt.