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It was cold when the small avian woke up.
Why was it cold?
He should be back home.
The games are over.
He won.
As he stands, a hand to his head once his vision starts to spin, and looks around weakly. He feels the blood from where he landed on his head trickle down his hand and arm. Even that was cold.
Surrounded by nothing but a black abyss, he shivers. His wings wrap around his small body, trying to warm it. There was nothing, nothing but darkness for miles. He tries to call out to the darkness, to get an answer if anyone was there. His voice did not come. It sticks to the walls of his throat like flies. He tries to move, to see if there was an edge to the void. His legs did not budge. They stand, stiff as a board, and do nothing but hold up his body.
Fear seeps into the bird’s heart like the cold that seeps into his bones. He tries to rationalize, tries to tell himself he’s dreaming.
Beautiful purple lights start to dance in his vision and he blinks. They were as real as you and me. The bird tried again to walk towards it. This time his legs carry him where his brain willed them to go. He tugs on the sleeves of the perfectly-knit, red sweater. He wraps his wings tighter around him still. He takes a few more tentative steps towards the light, before another appears to his left.
Before the bird assumed that this was just the side effects of death. The crushing cold. The light at the end of the tunnel. The feeling of his lungs collapsing in on themselves. However, once the lights began to grow in numbers. Once the lights began to take the shape of openings. Once the lights spoke. The bird realized he was not alone.
He could feel eyes boring into his very soul. He could feel the voice as it spoke from within him. A voice that did not belong to himself.
“Xelqua.”