Lion Head Mesa queen of the morning

the day was long, just as it was short.

treva was peppered with colors of autumn and winter. soft crushing of red flowers dazzled fresh clean fur, the palest mink along her shoulders.

but so much had happened before then! she had been tended to in the wellspring. cleansed twice over. on the second time, she had cried. not sadness. not worry. not stress. it was from the overabundance in her heart that day.

love was not a word that frequently crossed her lips. it still did not cross her lips here.

but she loved akashingo, she loved her children.

all things given to her by none other than the pharaoh. the pharaoh who was undeniably being tended to elsewhere at the same time. the thought moved her time and time again, until she was prompted to calm herself. that tears would do no good on such a grand day!

she laughed, she agreed.

she was brought at once to her place. the last time it would be her place. the things stated above were given to her. the flower petals of fresh smells, the mink.

she swore she could hear his voice somewhere, filtered through halls and carried on the soft whispers of others. it stirred something in her heart and stomach. she would not cry again. she was the image of thoughtful strength. a hunter's streamline build, cloaked in all the colors of a festive thing.

feral goddess.

the very image of it now as she was ushered to move along. the time had come!

she moved with a hunter's gait, light steps and thoughtful movements. as if the Gods and Goddesses themselves, worshiped in akashingo, gave her their own grace today. it was with their strength alone that she did not falter before all the eyes.

but the most important eyes of all —

there was something to him now that she could not place. but still she could not falter, she would be before him with eyes only for him. enchanted wholly and utterly. she took her place like she had done more and more recently. words could not cross her lips.

she was enchanted, washed in the light of divinity and Ra.