Reply #2: Here's the first death scene to give you an idea of what I mean

[nuxvomica]

This is the end of a scene about the interrogation of a servant, Olmak, who accidentally harmed a child of the ruling class. I included enough text so that you can see how I made the transition to "deathbed vision".

Atavis pulled Donyon aside at this moment and whispered to him. “It is not just to call this man a sand-eater, brother,” said Atavis. “We are required by our office, and our faith, to abandon such name-calling.”
“Aye,” said Donyon, his rage cooled somewhat by the sanction. “That was an error I made. But I am so astounded at times by the conceit of these dusky, unfaithful people. I have been to the farm town and, you know, they treat us like miscreants there. They walk with the posture of a king among us and their children snicker and point to us when they are out of reach of the bludgeon. They are such cowardly fools.”
“Aye, brother,” replied Atavis. “It is hard work for us but we are above them and must always practice to be that way.”
The two turned to their prisoner again. “I find no truth in your story,” said Atavis officiously. “I suspect you had a foul motive for attacking the child. I am a faithful man,” he continued, leaning close to Olmak’s bruised face. “So I have no ken for the foul motives of the unfaithful. You will have to confess your reasons anon. All that is unknown is how much you will suffer before speaking the truth.”
“But I swear, sir,” pleaded Olmak. At that, Atavis walked around behind the brickwoven chair and adjusted a small iron rod that prodtruded from the back of it. The seat pulled tighter against Olmak’s thighs, the arm-rests prevented even the spreading of his fingers much less the movement of his hands from its otherwise slippery, well-glazed surface, and his back was held so fiercely that he felt his belly might be pulled completely inward. Pain again flared in his abdomen and as the all-binding tugged inexorably at his lungs, he became alarmed at the shortness of his breathing. He felt as though he were drowning but this alarm was trumped by a pain like a strong hand grasping his heart and clenching it unmercifully. Moments passed and the clenching did not relax and if it had been an actual hand, it surely would have been a hand of stone or iron.
Soon the cold, blue-lit chamber fell away and Olmak was sure he was in the desert again. The guards were gone and he was lying face down, feeling the warmth of the desert sun on his back, hurting from some trivial bruise. How good he felt, though. Something wet and warm was touching his hand. He turned to look and there was a small grey goat, a kid with no horns, staring at him with bright eyes. It had been licking his hand and now, with Olmak showing a sign of life, the creature made an exultant “Baaaah!”
“Ashpot,” he said without emotion, if only to convince himself that this long departed companion was real and this was not a dream. The goatling, he remembered, had grown old and had died many years earlier. “Baaaah!” it said to him again, as though to assure him that this moment was indeed real and all that he had thought he remembered was a fevered dream.
He turned his head to the other side and saw two small, dark feet in sandals. Looking up he saw a young girl, which reminded him of the issue at hand though his mind was wont to let that slip away. Compared to the Thujwani girl, she was darker skinned and wore a more brightly colored robe. She extended a slender hand to him and spoke.
“Cousin, you are crying,” she said. “There is no need for that. You are better than those boys. You are the son of a prince.”
She smiled at him and extended her hand.
“Little Bird?” he said, as she grasped his hand and helped him to his feet. And then this gentler grasp released, and the desert was gone, and all was darkness, and there was nothing.