The sun is dying.

It lies sunken and dull at the horizon, in a pool of blood.  Charred clouds encircle its fallen form, weaving it a dark, spangled shroud.  I cry out, forcing myself to press forward into the fire, despite the throbbing pain in my left leg. Dear God, how it hurts. The air is hot and thick as mud. It burns bright in my lungs, though the night grows dimmer and dimmer with each passing moment. Star-stitched bandages appear in a desperate, last-ditch attempt at daylight—it is worthless. Darkness is encroaching, like a funeral march across the sky, and there is nothing any of us can do about it.

The sun gives one last, fickle flicker, like a weak wax candle, then finally melts beneath the stirring waves. I shudder, eyes stinging with hot tears.

This is my final glory.