Lion Head Mesa twelfth

and she was crying.

tears ran down a marbled face, wondering how it looked. if it looked as horrible as it felt in those moments. yet she stayed silent. muffled at most.

unwilling to make this moment last any longer or mess up the work the priest did.

she expected the cooling unguent any moment now — or rather she silently begged for it. a beat, two.

then a whimper of a sound.

please.