Like any good knight, Sir Derek was content to die a glorious death in battle. The battefield behind him was snow stained crimson, the same hue as the ruby that dripped from his sword. He raised a gloved hand to find that same crimson coating his fingers, it poured from his navel and pooled at his feet.

Sir Derek leaned on his sword as he gazed upon the battlefield, one last look before he turned to face the setting sun that washed the valley in gold. His next step faltered and he fell to his knees. Good, he thought, I have served my purpose and now I can rest.

He lay in the snow and savored its softness as he watched the sun slip behind the distant mountains. Snow began to fall around him, and he let himself fade into the silence of the forest. Sir Derek was at peace. Happy, even.

Was at peace until frantic footsteps crunched towards him in the snow. A voice cried out, but he was too tired to make out the words. A figure knelt before him, their face twisted with panic as they worked to stop the flow of ruby.

“No,” he groaned, “Leave me. I am fine.”

To his dismay, the figure did not leave.