She was sure the world had ended and was understandably surprised, and really rather amazed, when she woke up.
She was alive. Somehow.
She wasn't sure what had happened, she couldn't think straight enough to work it out, couldn't think around the bone-deep ache and sharp pain, against the groaning and crackling she could hear, something almost roaring angrily, full of hate and spite. She couldn't remember, it was all just a haze of heat and pain and screaming—thought she was willing to admit that might have been her. Every time she tried, she was thrown off by the echoes of the… the…
Whatever it was that had her lying here clinging to a spinning world, fearful she'd fall off, it was a sickening swaying motion and she felt in the pit of her stomach, the pressure of it in the back of her head as it went round, pausing at the height of a swing just to send her reeling back the other way as gravity seemed to change on her.
She hadn't even opened her eyes yet, she realised, she'd had then held shut tightly.
Fearfully.
That was daft, she wasn't a fearful woman, but something deep down said no. She should be fearful. She should be afraid because next time she might succeed.
Who? Who would succeed in what?
She didn't know, the little voice provided no answers. It had gone stubbornly silent.
It was hard to think when you're cold and so tired.
Oh so tired.
A nap wouldn't hurt.
She smiled, pressed herself against the warmth beside her, and gave into the tiny bubble of safety it gave her.