He’d been drifting for a long time, through cold and hot, colors and sounds, pain and numbness that swirled and spun around him, like fading light and flickering fire on the feathers of the Rain Dancer he’d seen once as a child. The dancer stomped close and twirled away, pipes, chimes, and drums following, as his moments of lucidity came and went. Melodic chanting trailed behind, weaving in and out of dreams, until he couldn’t tell what was real, and what wasn’t.
The dance lasted long, long into the night.
Eventually, slowly, he became aware of a soft warmth on his face, a gentle light upon his eyelids. There was movement beyond the darkness, and sound, the soft brush of fabric on fabric. Though quiet, it was somehow more real, solid, now, than the dancer had been. He turned his head toward the light, just slightly, and let his eyes crack open with a soft sigh.