The last traces of Armin’s vision slowly fade to black around the edges. The wound in his stomach pulses, spewing out blood with each labored breath he takes. He stares up at the canopy of trees and watches, with one final breath, as the setting sun shimmers orange through the leaves.

Armin wakes. Not in heaven, nor hell, nor some spout of purgatory, but in a bed of moss nestled deep in a hollow tree trunk. He slowly sits up, body aching beneath the leafy wraps around his torso. The armor he had been wearing sits at the foot of the bed, leaving him only in his linens. The blood has been washed from the metal chest plate, and the hole where the arrow pierced has been mended. Confusion dances across his already hazy mind.

His answer comes when a fairy, with wings like stained glass windows, comes through the door, a bushel of herbs and flowers in their hands.