Spotted Eagle Mountain die unmöglichkeit

a fire-torn forest.
annaliese had not come back.
mahler did not know if the flametalon still lived, or if he had survived the fever that for two weeks had gripped him fiercely. he came to along the lower ridge of a nearby peak, tongue dry with thirst; in his sleep he had wandered away, and now trembled and sweated beneath the raining sleet. the beckoning of tree-branches lay just before him, but mahler was rooted, rootless, marigold's face spinning through his mind, and pelt clinging loosely to his massive, too-thinned frame.
would diaspora prevail?
before his staring eyes a vale of golden sunlight and verdant forest; mahler saw it, inhaled the fragrance of the pine. birdsong, twittering, drawing him. "oh, da ist die musik!" he mumbled sharply beneath his breath. children, laughing; his mind spun visions from nothing and led the ailing gargoyle along a narrow precipice beneath which jagged stones yawned to spear his breath.
papa! astarte cried
"ich komme, entlein." his vivid daughter, laughing as she had once upon a memory, and mahler lifted a forepaw into open air.