The night sky was one large bruise - a port-wine black littered with stars and unblemished by clouds.
'It would be very easy to get too comfortable here,' Historia thought.
She had stretched her mind, her eyes, expanded beyond the Underworld, and stood beneath the boundless. But she could never forget what it had felt like to once be trapped.
Skye lays sleeping beside her, his breath even and untroubled, his long hair brushing against her shoulder, looking very comfortable.
He loved her. Had said as much.
Yet the word had always been a loaded phrase in her mouth, carrying with it more baggage than good intention. Love was a weapon - a trap. She had been trapped before.
She thought of her biological mother – her dear ol' wretched mother.
'Obsequious woman.'
