It does not end

Red. All he could see was red. And in the crimson mist, shadows moving. Many went for him. He would stab them, clobber them, bar their own attempts at doing the same to him and when they entwined with him, trying to pin him down, he would simply overpower them and brake them. He burned on the inside, both with zeal and exhaustion. He had long lost awareness of the existence of time – his world and time were the red fog in his mind, the flame of his soul and the shadows around him. Some were friends. People he could feel close to himself, each with a name and a history of fighting by his side, saving him, taking blows for him, mourning the loss of friends and celebrating victory along with him. But now they were just featureless shadows, only different from the others for not trying to harm him.



Finally he felt what he was looking for. The presence of the other. The one for which all these souls were snuffed. Roaring he charged to where his senses were pulling him, not even seeing his mark. Shadows around him fell, both to his own spear and to something else. He also felt it lick him, but he went on, until the beast that guarded the other and its master were lying on the ground, their lifeblood pooling at his feet.



A few hours later, in the light of the afternoon sun and the funeral pyres, a frantic call arose over the battlefield. Reavers!



He got up to his feet and called around him:

'Prepare for a stand, defenders of the Saint! Today, we meet Her in Her dream, but Her realm is to live for our sacrifice!'



Not the first, nor the last to end this way.