She came in silently, her hooves (her gown trails behind her feet) gracing the floor. He heard no sound except the sole voice in his heart telling him she's here, she's here, she's here, don't leave.
"I would have wished," he said finally, "for you to remember me as a Hero and not this decrepit man withering in his bed."
"It would not have changed anything," she said quietly, "for you are still the Hero I remember."
He grasped comfort in her words (she spoke to him and her voice never leaves him) and his breathing slowed. He reached for his voice, dying with him, and said, "How did you know? Did Shmendrick call for you?"
She neighed (her chime-like laughter runs through him like yesterday) , "Shmendrick is a true magician, but even he cannot call a unicorn."
She fell silent, her form (she leans on the ledge, her form more rock than human, her eyes ever lost in the tide) still. Softly, she said, "There was a burning in me. I searched deeper and I saw you looking at me. I knew then that I must leave one last time."
He smiled and his hands (that grip the pen tightly, pouring what he had, what he knew onto the paper, her paper) tightened on the thin bed sheet.
"I must know," he rasped, "Are you happy? Are you content? I cannot go before you answer me."
She drew closer, her horn (that touched his lips in the darkness) brushed against his forehead. A warm light smothered his heart and he heard her say, "I am alive. My brethren are free. I am content."
"That pleases me," he drew in a shuddering breath, "Farewell, my lady Amalthea and know that you were most beloved in my heart."
"I do not doubt you, my Prince," she sighed over his face (warm ghosting breath of her kisses), "for you are still most beloved in mine."
With that, Prince Lir of Haggard passed away with naught but the kiss of the unicorn upon his brow.