The young man collapsed once more into the mud, among the bodies of the fallen and slain. The battle had ended what felt like a lifetime ago; he had no clue who had won. Having been wounded by his enemy, he sought out aid, struggling to remain awake due to the blood loss. He had yet to run into anyone left alive, had they left him behind, had they lost altogether? As he struggled once more to his feet, a sound caught his ear; it was the low moan of the dying. The echos of loss and defeat. The dirge of pipes.

Quickly the young man looked out across the fields, trying to find the other lone soul on this plane of the dead. The haunting melody floating in the air as he once more found his feet. Out across the fields was a parade of warriors, led by a single dwarf. Hope bloomed in the young man's chest, stumbling over bodies and slipping on rivers of blood as he made his way to the men.

"OVER HERE! HELP!" The man yelled to the group of people, hoping to draw their attention. They flew no colors and held no banners, he could not tell what army they were, but still, he held out hope to live. He found himself drawn to the dwarvish bard, the haunting melody of his bagpipes carrying across the fields. As he drew closer, the young man drew to a stop, something was wrong.

The parade of warriors not only flew no colors, but they also had no colors, drained of it. Every man was colored grey, from their skin and hair to the armor and weapons they carried. Even worse, some of the warriors looked far too damaged to be walking like this. They had slits in their armor, and missing limbs, all of them hurt in some way or another. He saw many of his brothers in arms walking along, dead in the eye, not even acknowledging him.

His breath stuck in his throat, his heart beating in his ears as he saw, and he knew what it was. It was the final march of the soldiers; the deads parade into the afterlife. He turned to run only to see the dwarvish bard with his bagpipes resting under his arms. He was a strong stout man dressed in tattered and broken armor. His hair and skin covered in black smudges. When had he gotten there, was he here to take the young man with them? Was this finally it? He started to weep as the thought of his finality washed over him.

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"Young soldier," The bard's soft voice washed over him, pulling him back from his anguish, calming his soul. "Do not weep, for it is not your time. Your soul is not mine to take; I only march the dead. I cannot aid you, but you will be able to seek help among the living in that direction." The dwarves' hand motioned across the field. "Now hurry, your time is short." With that, the dwarven bard turned back to his march, one more playing his haunting melody as the warriors marched on silently.

The young man turned to run in fear, tripping, and slipping among the bodies as he followed the direction the reaper of souls had pointed him. He ran as the sun fell from the sky, he ran in the darkness, he ran deep into the night. Even as he left the fields of death behind him, he ran. As the night grew old, he saw lights on the horizon, and he ran. His breath was ragged, his body drained of all life, yet he ran.

Soon the young man stumbled upon a small town, unable to call for help anymore. He made his way to the door of the first house; his body was starting to give up at the finish line. As his vision goes dark, he collapses against the door, the world drawing away as he finally slips into unconsciousness.

The young man woke up on a soft bed, his eyes opening to see an unfamiliar face sitting beside his bed. It was a young woman, sleeping in a chair. She was a plain girl, but in his eyes, she was the most beautiful thing to see. As he reached out for her and croaked softly, she jolted awake, stumbling on her chair as she tried to stand. "Oh, you are awake! Let me go get the healer!" She scurried from the room.

---

It had been many years since that battlefield, the young man had married the young woman, and together they grew old. They had started a farm, had a family, and now their children had children. They were old and as they sat in the grass holding hands, watching the sun set once more over their fields of wheat, the now old man once again heard the haunting melody of a bagpipe, this time it didn't fill the man with dread.