Bright. The only word one could describe the sun's rays this day. Glorious and bright the sunshine which beats down unto the battlefield. Rays of golden light contrast dark crimson.
Countless corpses spread out before me, staining these green fields with their Iron and white and red.
 A haggard breaths leave my lungs, crying out for air.
Ten thousand. Ten thousand dead before me, killed by my very hands. Entire regiments and squadrons reduced to mince meat, all by my mindless rage. A great killing field, brought upon by a single, terrible man. Would this be what CĂș Chulainn believed at the end of his rage?
What would it matter. He held a love for the fight, the frenzy, while I hold nothing but disdain for myself and this 'craft'.
A leg buckles, and then the other, and now I'm greeting the ground. Any and all vestiges of strength had long left me. Taste of dirt and Iron greet my tongue, a taste I am all too familiar with.
Barely lifting my head, I see a sunset with such glory that all pain leaves me for a moment. A smile breaks my lips as eyes close, and all goes dark.
Maybe, just maybe, this life was truly worth living.