Work Text:
She did not make it in person. She couldn't make it in person. She merely watched from the beautifully carved alcove above. Her shifting frost merely clouded the area around her coffin, glazing the edges with crisp crinkling noises, fractals of snowflakes unfurling. It was her benevolence that had saved the poor wench from a worse fate. The cold settled around her coffin, a last hug - last acknowledgement to a fine harbinger.
And what an honourable woman she had been. Faithful and devoted. Perhaps their mutual respect was built upon the fact that they had both suffered the loss of their loved ones, and no longer had any love left to give. Perhaps that was just her, the Tsaritsa mused, looking down upon the scene imperiously, as a young child, guided by the Knave, hobbled over to place a little stuffed rabbit against the grave. Signora had still craved the affection of others. The Fair Lady often came to the house to gift things to the little ones if they admitted the fact that "Aunt Signora is the best" and instead of channeling the affection of the Hearth's children, she had (unintentionally) taught the children how to lie. Her throat closed up. It wasn't out of superiority that she did not attend. She didn't feel like she could. How hard it would be to stand abreast the Harbingers, looking at the meaningless box that supposedly held one of the women she held dearest. No one else showed the slightest grief, merely objective impassivity. What a joke funerals were.
Do not forget us,
dear Rosalyne, and keep us
in your blazing heart.
Your name, once little
rose, a Witch who had burnt in
embers of your rage.
Shall stay in our souls,
and in new life we rejoice,
dearest Fair Lady.