Lion Head Mesa divide

words were not needed, not for this moment. how often had Toula gone to the pyramid of her father, or of Makono when she longed for them most? the number was countless, for even when the missing them was not to the point of some poignant sort of pain, she visited them often. 
whether it unraveled the one before her, or pulled her tighter together made no difference to the Goddess—she would stand with her, a steady presence and an anchor between worlds. Toula had come undone before the entirety of the kingdom when her father had passed, and then it had been her sister she had looked to, and the then Hem.
now? now she was Pharaoh and voice of the Gods. not so fierce as the ones that had come before, no—not that any eye could see. even if already she had gone to war, to save the children of the Lake knowing it could be a bloody and awful thing. 
it could not be helped—she led with her heart, and it was a thing that roared. her softness was her strength—it made her stand taller, prepared to carry the heavy weight of grief. for she was a God, too, and she could transform it to something lighter. 
in a comfortable silence did Toula take her to the place that had been made, tended to. stones that had been stacked were made solid by what had once been wetsand, dried and dried and dried again beneath the hot sun. now desert flowers bloomed all around, many red in memory and tribute of the first flower ever left here. and vines from elsewhere intricately and expertly placed framed the scene of grief. low, drooping fronds offered a place of privacy within a stone hollow. 
the black feather of a raven, or perhaps a crow, spiraled down from overhead as one flew Westward.