Lion Head Mesa God knows I could make amends.

She had seen them from the darkness of the forest, thinking it a dream.
There had been many of them — smelling of the familiar dust and sunlight, of dried herbs, of the sweet ichor of wine, all things that strengthened her heartsickness. Bodies moved fleetingly to the lakeside, and she followed them at her own pace; agonizingly slow, for she had little energy left.
Skin and bones.
The forest became highland, then highland became scrubgrass, dunes, stones.
She could stare at the monolith that was the palace of Akashingo, her features glazed. The sun on her back.
She thought she followed Khaba, or the whirlwind of bodies that swept the sand in a gale; but no, Nazli chased that heartsick feeling until she stared emptily at her once-home, and felt herself fade.
Her tiny body — made so much smaller with starvation — hit the dirt, and a puff of dust was all that signaled her landing. Nothing stirred among the grasses on the hill except the subtle rise and fall of her delayed breathing.
Not until a hungry bird began to circle overhead.