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There was never an end.
The world was too bright when her eyes fluttered open. One would say the first instinct is to figure out where you are or to wait until gaining full consciousness. But there's this odd thing about the human body when having lost any kind of consciousness.
The first thing isn't to recognise any injuries they may have sustained prior, to not yet feel a rush of pain or sickness crushing them down but to move: to sit up, get back onto their feet even if it knocked them back down.
She was drenched in sea water, yet her lungs were clear even if her first instinct was to roll over and cough but nothing came.
Instead of a sore throat from suffocating on salt waters it had felt sore from the drought it had experienced. Her lips scabbed from the sun and lack of hydration. Long forgotten about the pain that had once surged through her face just before her fall, just before their hands parted.
Emiliya's hands cut on the rough stone, feet unsteady beneath the force of her weight trying to figure out gravity's means. But she was weakened, hungry and dehydrated, most of all sore.
Her body met the stone at once, pain surging through her face upon the collusion with the sturdy ground.
A piercing cry had fallen from her lips, tears spilling from the corner of her eyes. Her reaction wasn't to reach up to her face. Instead of reaching for what hurt most, she dug her fingers into the fabric of her trousers in hopes to create a counter reaction to her pain as her other held onto the rock as if it were a life line.
In a way she was grateful she couldn't see what wounds the cliff had given her that night, and though there no longer had been any blood to be washed off by the seas, the wounds had still pounded with its freshness.
