The Bracken Woods don't look at me

Everything dulled and softened around him, voices reaching his ears as muffled, incoherent strings of sound. He wanted to sleep. The movement and sound kept him floating at the surface, just barely conscious, but it felt as though any moment he might sink into the dark. It was getting more difficult to breathe, too— it felt as if the oxygen had been sucked from the air. And it was so cold; it was summer, why was it cold?
He didn't have the energy to shiver. Even the pain was beginning to slip away from him, but through the blur he made out the word dead and somehow realized it was about him— and the gravity of that word could hardly escape him now, when there was little else he could make sense of. He struggled to focus on what Zamael was saying next. Stay with us echoed slowly, distantly through the thickened air around him.
Alarian whined softly; I'm trying, he thought, but thinking was getting more difficult. Breathing was getting more difficult. His breath was coming fast and shallow, but no matter how much air he sucked in, he felt as if he was suffocating. He mumbled something incoherent and shifted slightly, agitation rising in his chest. He was too exhausted, too weak to do anything about it, but the panic was there and slowly growing.