She moves like a spectre. A wraith. A winteress. Black robes and a dress's hem trailing through blanketed snow, moistening the fabrics. Treading footprints with her heeled boots, creating a familiar crunch. The shroud of her hood barely protects the raven hair that spills out from underneath. Like herself, it had grown so much.
A hauntingly beautiful sight.
Once rouge lips are now pale to correspond with the dead season of a bleak winter. Flaking and cracking slightly. Replenished at intervals with her tongue. Drying skin across her cheeks, the odd freckle here or there retains homely memories of her childhood.
Her hands are bound in leather gloves, clutching several twigs of lavender. A signature scent for a swiftly becoming signature woman.
She's still manoeuvring through the orchard, amongst dead, naked trees that are twisted into demonic shapes. Everywhere is quiet, like death itself. A distant crow announces his arrival, to which the woman darts a glance towards it. Instead of shooing it away with a thrust of her hand, she nods to it - as though greeting an old friend.
At the end of the orchard grows a white rose bush. Yet, upon closer inspection, it is entirely mangled. Save for one final rose in the centre. It had survived the harshest climates of the winter and for the first time, it causes the woman to smile.
"As long as this rose grows. So do you, my dear. In my heart, you do." She mutters, delicately touching her covered fingers to the rose's precious petals before shredding the lavender of it's buds and scattering them along the root of the bush. Marking it with her scent and ultimately her protection.
As long as this bush grew, the memory of her unborn child would live on. Not forgotten, neither-
"Replaced. You shall not be replaced by this next one." One hand lowers to her abdomen, hidden under layers of fur and fabric.
"Never replaced, my darling."
