Porphyria hadn’t brought flowers – she didn’t bother with flowers on any other occasion, so there was no sense in making an exception for the dead. But she had been tracing the mourning ring on her finger, with Ophelia’s dark hair bound around the dark stone, and, stooping, she dug a small handful of cool soil from the grave (it was grassy by now, but she had gotten underneath it) to absently feel beneath her fingernails, whilst they were here. Ophelia would have had no patience for dirty fingernails, Phyri expected, but that made her feel closer to her all the same.
“What do you think she would have preferred?” Porphyria asked thoughtfully. Something singular, she imagined. Not like this. (And Porphyria, for some odd reason, had always imagined Ophelia would live to be a widow first, rather than leave her spouse and son behind. Ophelia would have suited widowhood perfectly.) One question gave rise to another, more musing but still quite serious. “How would you like yours to happen?”
“What do you think she would have preferred?” Porphyria asked thoughtfully. Something singular, she imagined. Not like this. (And Porphyria, for some odd reason, had always imagined Ophelia would live to be a widow first, rather than leave her spouse and son behind. Ophelia would have suited widowhood perfectly.) One question gave rise to another, more musing but still quite serious. “How would you like yours to happen?”
a sublime set by Lady! <3