Chapter Text
Cold.
It’s cold.
Not the good, relaxing cold that some yearn for in the winter—it’s freezing. It’s dark, it’s definitely cold, and there’s nothing that he can possibly hear at the moment—okay, maybe he can hear the wind, but that’s it.
Surprisingly enough, the ground was comfortable—had he been sleeping on the ground the entire time? He’s covered in snow; it was useful enough to shake it off.
A minute passes, and he feels something heavy on his back. The weight of his body shifts, and he falls into the snow again.
“Perfect,” he mumbles, lifting himself off the ground yet again, trying to take off whatever pulled him down in the first place—it feels. . .
Fluffy.
A small grab became a pluck that slightly hurt him, and all he finds are feathers in his hand.
With a loud yelp (or scream, depending on who you ask), Jesper throws the white feathers onto the floor, looking at how they were also stained with a pinkish hue to them, as well. He examines one of the wings, then the other—then back to the other again.
“What is going on. . .?”
Now that he has a better look at things, the postman scans the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary—only the moonlight was there, and nothing else. No one was there; just him and his satchel of letters were the only victims in the night.
“I really hope no one stuck these on me for a prank—some people have quite the nerve to do such a thing. . .”
To add weird to injury, it felt as if the wind scooped him up in its arms. Jesper screeched this time, noting that it wasn’t the wind that lifted him off the ground: it was the wings.
He was flying.
”Okay—this is such a prank—whoever did this, can you let me down, please?!”
No response.
”Please?”
Nothing.
“. . .I’m serious, come on!”
Still nothing.
“Just let me down!”
That dropped him—he could’ve sworn that he saw fire when he did fall, as well.
Whispers only sufficed to him after his miserable fall.
Voices? Check. Wings? Check. Failing to understand why this was happening to him for some reason? Check.
“. . .This isn’t a prank, is it?,” he asks the person that’s whispering to him in this moment. But still, no one was there, and he had no idea who spoke to him.
But there was the moonlight. Maybe the moon was talking to him. . .? No, that’s not something he believes, no—how can a moon talk?!
However, he does look up at it, and the whispering becomes more apparent, growing louder and louder until it says something that makes the postman stare in surprise.
“I’m what now?”
“Sir, you’re dead.”
Fainting into the snow Jesper does right about—now.