Everything was red. The sky was crimson, the ground stained with the blood; even he was covered in blood. Some of it was his, some of it was not. He did not care any longer. Darkness threatened to engulf him. It would be so easy, to just lie down, and give up, and die under this red sky.

The darkness swept over him for a brief second, and he remembered.
His memories were muddled and dim. He had made a promise to someone. A castle, a barracks, lightning. His name… Haelas?

The clash of cold steel around him was muted, and time seemed to flow sluggishly. Men were dying around him, falling like leaves from a tree, being carved through as easily as butter. Some began to run, trying to escape their inevitable doom.

He was kneeling; he held something in his hand. His sword. A man stood in front of him. The man was raising his weapon, preparing to strike.

This isn’t the end. I told you. I still have something to do.

A raging torrent of ice and fire flowed through him. Faster than the eye could follow, he parried the blow effortlessly and followed up with a riposte, killing the man. Men were still running past him in the courtyard, their eyes wide with fear and pain. He moved forward against the enemy, inching foward step by step. His blade moved lightning-fast, killing a man with each blow. Haelas became a whirlwind of death, lunging, parrying, thrusting, counter-parrying, and riposting. His sword seemed to have a life of its own, leaping forward in his hand. He waded into the thickest part of the battle, fighting his way to the standard planted in the ground. A small island of the castle’s defenders still fought on here.

Here I will stand. Here I will fight. I can't die, not yet.

Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul
Pride is lost
Wings stripped away, the end is nigh.