He couldn't see through the mist. It surrounded him like a shroud, and in a sense it would be. It would be his shroud, his grave, and his final resting place. Would be. He was going to die, but he wasn't dead yet.

The man closed his eyes, shutting out the blood red which he couldn't escape from. His skin was on fire, or felt like it. A slow fire, that burned with intense heat, while the blood in his veins felt like ice. Dragons of ice, tearing their way through his body. He didn't cry out, or even moan. He didn't have the energy to.

It had been a long life. Far longer than most, more fulfilling than most. He had loved and been loved, he had learnt and taught, and life had been kinder to him than it had been harsh. As he lay dying, he didn't know whether he was sad or content.