Picturesque as Sobek Croix is, a cemetery is still - even in the cool light of early morning - a cemetery, imposing and quiet and a little depressing. It's why she likes to visit in the mornings, early enough that she can see the sun still rising while she's there; it feels a little less oppressive.
Sometimes, sitting by Boromir's grave, she wonders if she has one, somewhere. Did they bury her, after she died? Did they burn her body, let her ashes scatter? She could ask Sonja- she never does, though, just wonders, now and then. Curls her fingernails against her palms and wonders what that means, really; this is her body, but it can't be the one she left behind, can it? And then if it isn't, is she herself? Or an echo - a copy. A copy of a copy of a mistake.
She wonders what Isobel thought, looking into her own face mirrored younger on Ilde.
Sometimes she just wonders what other people are thinking, when they're there. Catching sight of Rodolphus as she steps out of the gate, she wonders what happened to his family, and what he would think if he were--
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Sometimes, sitting by Boromir's grave, she wonders if she has one, somewhere. Did they bury her, after she died? Did they burn her body, let her ashes scatter? She could ask Sonja- she never does, though, just wonders, now and then. Curls her fingernails against her palms and wonders what that means, really; this is her body, but it can't be the one she left behind, can it? And then if it isn't, is she herself? Or an echo - a copy. A copy of a copy of a mistake.
She wonders what Isobel thought, looking into her own face mirrored younger on Ilde.
Sometimes she just wonders what other people are thinking, when they're there. Catching sight of Rodolphus as she steps out of the gate, she wonders what happened to his family, and what he would think if he were--
Hang on. Wait.
“Rodolphus Lestrange?”