[ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇs]
Yet another sleepless night saw the sun rise from beyond black mountains, bleeding vividly into cool indigo, red and fleshy as split grapefruit. And though it stung his swollen eyes terribly, Loki watched until crimson had turned orange and then finally gold, sitting hunched atop a boulder that was situated but a few feet from the sheltered hollow he'd found some days prior.
It would be time for him to move on again, soon... but in all honesty the wayward Trickster couldn't bring himself to just yet. As rewarding as his relatively new-found freedom often was, the life of a wanderer could be a struggle-- especially when said wanderer was an outlaw, an exile with countless enemies and nobody to turn to. They'd all been taken long ago... or pushed away.
Sometimes, Loki would have done anything for the comfort of familiar walls. A home that could truly be home, without him having to constantly move elsewhere...
... Perhaps this time, he could wait. Return to his shelter and wait until that obnoxious sun had slipped once more into darkness, that he wouldn't have to be troubled by its abrasive rays any longer than necessary.