she is lying.
lying on the ground, to be exact, her scalp pressed against the frigid marble, veined like young skin, and so cold it could be ice. her hair swirls around her, pink filigree about her shoulders, rich as the dawn clouds and almost as soft. her fingers are sprawled, and all she can feel is a quiet, wintry sort of bliss.
the oculus above is blinding. great eye, they call it, the hole at the top of the dome, through which the birds fly free. she smiles to herself as if listening to a secret no one understands. the pantheon sky is fierce as fire tonight.