Barrow Fields shine a light into the wreckage

the cherub faded and mahler dismissed the apparition as having sprung from the haze quickly entrapping his limbs — thus smote down, the musiker died to himself into a slowly spinning orbit of white flame. 
it was not until the scent of wolf came to mahler, a gentle voice in his ear, that the man dragged himself from slumber with a bleary blink at the seraphim who had come to visit once more. tongue stuck against his jaws, like some poor beached whale, mahler trembled with the the fire's breath, managing only one shaking nod against the snow.