Dying Words at Sunset

Sunset on the field, epilogue to the slaughter.
In just a few moments, the light would fade, and the night would cast its shadow on the bodies of thousands. Upon this plain, two armies had met head-on. Armored men had clashed under opposing banners, crossing swords and shields and shaped steel. Blades, spears and arrows had punched through armor and felled the soldiers inside with cold and merciless discrimination. Men on either side had fallen in droves. More men had come to replace them, and they too had fallen.
War had come to this lonesome plain, and on its heels, death had followed.
After the fury of that battle died down, the victors took up pursuit of their defeated enemy, leaving the bodies of their dead behind. Now all that was left was the fallen, corpses down to a man...except for one.
He had gone down late into the battle, but he had not died. Grievously wounded though he was, he was alive, pinned by the bodies of fellow soldiers who had been killed moments later. Their weight held him where he was, long after the battle had ended and the two sides had gone their way, and now he lay sick and dying from the infection that had seeped into his wound. Fever chills wracked his body, and a delirious fog swept his mind.
All he could think was that he didn't deserve to die like this.
He had served as a soldier of his kingdom for few years, but had done so out of righteous duty and unwavering conviction. To serve his king, to protect the people of his city, to punish any man, woman or opposing army who might threaten their peace and prosperity. His time in the army had been short, but his reasons for fighting had been just. He knew they had. In his heart of hearts, he knew...
So why had fate left him to a slow and suffering end? Why couldn't he have died quickly, like the rest of his fallen comrades?
"Questions aplenty. An answer may be mine to give..."
His eyes had fallen shut from fatigue some time ago, but he opened them at the sound of this newcomer's voice. A silhouette of a man stood over him, his features obscured by shadow. A long and tattered cloak hung from his body like a curtain, and long, white hair trailed past his shoulders in lengthy and messy strands. He had a staff in one hand, taller than he was, its oaken wood parted at the top in a painstakingly carved forking design.
"For you, the reaper stands idle." the man said, his voice drawn and harsh. "Your face says 'Not for long', and your soul says 'Sooner than later'...Yet he stands idle, nonetheless. Perhaps so you and I may meet each other."