There is strange, alluring weightlessness - both physical and mental, and it beckons to him the way sunlight beckons the new bud to bloom; it sings forth this coma to lift like a wall of cosy chorus around him. They speak nearby, wild, beautiful ambience - mere shadows in this parallel world of tranquility and soft, rosy light. Thick lashes part to view the beautiful queerness, quietude, the fantasy he has so willingly now succumb to and the warm arms of the wind embrace him wholly, coax him ever forward, whispering; he ascends like lazy smoke from the cooling ashes of life. He draws in the sweet flavour of the afterlife - wonderful, invigorating, intoxicating, and feels the tingling numbness in his soul.

‘The end…’ his subconscious coos aimlessly and the sound is dim, delicate, like it has travelled a vast distance to find his inner ear, thoughts, every inch of him that listens.

A shadow looms darker than the rest, levitates, like subtle , slow mist rolling between hills, it brings a sudden chill to the air. He grows uneasy in its presence, yet there seems no road past - neither beside, nor behind;  pure blackness travels in its wake, dreadful. The softness in the air has become brittle and the varied pitch of syllables, the swish of movement, strike neon through the sky, the earth (the hazy form each has taken); the wind is sucking, dragging at his billowy silhouette, drawing him in with ever growing urgency. ‘It is time,’ one thought reassures, but another cries out in fear, and a third watches with a growing sense of trepidation. It feels wrong. No endless green valley lures, no rainbow swings overhead - only the grim, lonely darkness creeps closer.

He starts back apprehensively, shies from the gaping mouth of nothingness, but its hungry jaws grow horribly wide so that he cannot step anywhere but upon it; the air seems to ignite with noise, whistling, so shrill that his mind screams out in agony and when he pauses to inhale, he finds no oxygen left to drink.  Panic engulfs him; he chokes, gags and with bulging eyes he teeters on the brink of that blackness - then he falls…

Turquoise eyes flash suddenly open, filled with desperation, fear - the late light! His jaws fall agape before delicious, invigorating oxygen funnels down into his lungs, engorging them; his heart, though thrashing, echoes with the full ferocity of life in his ears. One pale, muddy-white knee lifts, then the other, and he rolls from the carpet of fetid needles and onto his elbows, belly. Where is the pain? Velvet pink muzzle turns right to dab smooth scarring, the rough ridge of scabbing down each centre and hot breath caresses the still bloody-fur girt around. After a long moment of inspection, wavering ears guide forward his focus to the group standing by - stranger to behold than the warmth still threading, tingling through his shoulder.

“Who are you?” he questions weakly looking first to the winged mare (she stood just apart), then to  the mother and each male in turn. Their numbers were decorated by surprising animal-folk - two serpents were visible, one it seemed winged, and a canine of sorts… There was no trace of the animosity in him which had been, instead confusion clouded his weepy eyes. The fallen shape of the dove rests behind them, and he moves to rise; to return, but finds little strength in the muscles that bind him. With a heavy ‘humph’ he rocks, falls back, though pulls the lower sullied wing closer in to his side. There upon the other (still outstretched) appears something new - a winged creature far tinier than even his fairy, and it gestures forward with a gift of unknown plant matter. He hesitates momentarily, suspiciously - and gently tips the great arm beneath (so that the bat might slip without injury back to earth).

It never occurred to him that magic lingered through their midst.