Lion Head Mesa Times being what they are

Flashes of reality: layers over her twisting body. Violet eyes. The warmth of the goddess as her head is cradled and a prayer is sung, the holiest invocation.

This is what the toil was for. Her weary body spells out grace, staring up into that profound golden face.

Her throat is taut, her eyes draw to close. If this death, then it is a peaceful one.