Funeral For Lestat--- Mourning

Allegria knelt on Lestat’s grave. In her hands, she clenched a rose. She was draped in the theatrically medieval mourning gown that Lestat would have liked. She had had little heart for these fripperies, but David had reminded her that there could be no better way of paying her respects to the deceased. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn a dress.
Allegria had reentered this world to reunite with the Vampire Lestat, whom she had once loved, but rejected because of his bloodthirsty nature. Their love had been a hopeless one as far as she was concerned, so she had done what she did best: make the ‘right’ decision, regardless of how painful it might be. So she had left him, refusing to follow the demands of her breaking heart, and certain that time would heal his fickle heart. Three years had passed for her, years filled with noble deeds and heroic quests on myriad worlds, yet the ache of his absence had never left her heart, and so she had finally given in and returned in search of Lestat.
She had managed to locate one of his UnDead loves, David Talbot, who, though he had never approved of her, had filled her in on what had transpired during her absence. He certainly now had cause to resent her even more for what she had caused to happen to Lestat. More than a dozen years had passed since she’d left him, and yet he had never recovered from her rejection. No one else had ever really been able to refuse him. He seemed to have lost the will to continue his existence, and David had been unable to shake him out of his depression. Nor had any of other Vampires been able to shake him out of it. Lestat had long ago exhausted the possibilities of suicide in melodramatic attempts, even before Allegria had appeared to try to Slay him. It was widely believed that it was impossible for him to die by any means. He had had but one option left, and that was to retreat underground and sleep in a near-dead state, oblivious to the world, through years and even centuries until something managed to shake him out his comatose state. Once before, he had done this, and had slept for 54 years, awakened in 1983 by the frenetic sound of rock music penetrating even to his apathetic ears. This had been enough to wake him once, but David said that he doubted that anything could reawaken Lestat this time. Technically, he was as dead as he could be.
David had brought Allegria to where Lestat’s grave was, to where David and Louis had placed a simple, rough-cut headstone to mark his resting place. He had then left her there by her request. She lit the white candles the others had left lined up in front of the stone. They cast an eerie light on the thick mist that crept unnaturally close to the ground. Through the haze of grief and self-recrimination in her mind, she wondered it hung so theatrically just to please Lestat’s memory. Tears flowed down her face again, dragging the thick mascara from her lashes. She shivered with the cold of the mountain air. Though she wept, she didn’t have the energy to sob. It was her fault that Lestat had embraced death. No one else could have caused it to happen. She had left him so callously, so sure of her own superior judgment. And wasn’t that how she had always been? That was one of the reasons she had bound herself to the solitary path of a Hero. Always right, always strong enough to carry it through. But here she knelt in the mud and moss of the forest floor, weeping over the grave of a monster who had taken her heart down with him.