Bramblepoint the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails

Her drugged slumber begins peacefully.  It's the most consecutive hours of rest she's had in months and for that her body is grateful.  She has not given herself enough time to heal from wounds both emotional and physical and lately it has been wearing on her harder than she would ever admit.

At first she is distantly aware of how cold the earth is beneath her flaming pelt, but it is the only thing that occupies her mind instead of mushrooms — apples — haunting yellow eyes.  Then, after some time, the higher processing stops.

When she opens her eyes again, the sun is a fat leaking yolk on the horizon.  The air is much warmer here, and humid, too.  Everything is doused in dripping golden rays.  When she turns to look at her side, it is @Tuathal she sees standing there.  She can feel herself smile, see her lower lids crinkle.  The wind tussles her fur and the leaves overhead whisper in a language she cannot comprehend.

He mouths something to her, but she can't hear what he has said.  She leans forward, ears cupping forward as a wrinkle worries between her brows and this time when he speaks, all he says is, I'm sorry.

Her eyes snap back to his — so beautiful, brilliant, the colour of the sun — and she can tell that he's been crying.  When she tries to focus on his body it looks like he's semi-transparent and fading.  Tadpole, NO!  It's not her voice, but the shriek of a disposed young girl.  Tuathal's body becomes golden before shattering, its pieces scattering in the wind like pollen.