. . .
Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you.
. . .
Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his saints.
Psalms 116: 3-4; 7; 15
[The LP screen settled at an angle on its side from an insect's perspective, positioned diagonally to the side to take in the contour of the Archbishop's shoulder and the profile of his face. The screen blinked repeatedly before coming into focus, stopping dead on the Catholic's visage from his position on the leaf-covered ground. His hair was mussed to the point where it was almost ready to slip from its binding, several twigs sticking out at odd angles. The Bishop's vestments were in a similar state of disarray, body spread over the earth as though he'd just collapsed, his eyes turned skyward.]
“Is this . . . ? Am I . . .?”
[ A hand drew level to shield oceanic hues from the glare of the hot sun, golden rays tingling pleasantly against his cold skin. The pale wraith of a man spread skeletal fingers across the span of a cheekbone and up along the bridge of his nose, vision fading in and out as the excess stimuli assaulted his fragile psyche. He did his best to take in the sounds and the sights of his foreign surroundings, trembling violently when he attempted to raise his upper torso. Weak. Weak as a newborn. ]
Am I dead?"
[His voice—already stretched thin—echoed across the empty woodland, spanning up and up through the trees until quieting into an insignificant whisper. He craned his head towards the sounds of the wildlife before an uncertain smile spread shakily over his lips, a thought striking him rather abruptly.]
“ . . . Is this Eden?"
[ A shuddering breath later a bloodstained glove reached towards the LP device unwittingly and hitting it askew, the frequency suddenly blanking out.]