When Will imagined death, he had always imagined his soul being claimed a middle-aged man who appeared to be a Ranger with a golden oakleaf inside of Halt's cabin.
Never had he imagined an angry Crowley to come collect his soul from the battlefield while shooting down an entire army with what seemed to be a never-ending supply of arrows.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Instead, he coughed blood, and he could hear shouting - Horace's shouting - but he couldn't discern the words.
"I'm sorry Will." Crowley said, sounding like he was right next to the fallen Ranger. "We couldn't delay it any longer. We need your help."
He heard something - his mind was too weak to discern what it was - and Horace landed beside him.
"I argued against it." Crowley said, firing off another arrow, causing whoever was fighting Horace to land alongside Will. "But you might be the only one who can face our enemy and come out on top."
Something grabbed his hand, someone shaking him. Shouting, but he was too far gone to understand anything but what Crowley was saying.
"You deserved better." His Commandant told him, and he felt something in his hand. "You'll need your weapons."
Were the Skandian myths about what happened if someone died without their weapon in their hands true? Will pondered for half a second.
"That might be where they come from." Crowley admitted. "But we don't know the truth behind their orgins, or how there are so many of them."
Will could no longer feel what had grabbed his hand, or the hand of whoever was shaking him. In a split second, he came to a decision.
"I-" He tried to say. "I'm sorry." His eyes flitted back to Crowley, who was right next to him.
"I'm sorry too." With that said, he stretched his hand out, reaching inside of Will and pulling his soul clean from his body.
And in that instant everything was clear again.
Horace was sobbing by his body. Halt seemed shocked that something had killed him, as did practically everyone else still alive.
"Tell me about this threat you need me to face." He said as he finally looked at his dead body. It was a confusing feeling. "Well?" He asked, noting that Crowley seemed reluctant to speak.
"They're called the Hell Squad." he said. "We think that they're, well, deceased, but we're not sure. Given the description that you and Halt gave me of the Kalkara all those years ago, I'd say they look something like that, with as few weaknesses, if any.
"Perfect killing machines. They target the Living from time to time, but we're always there. Honestly, have no other idea of how to describe them. Only the Deceased can hurt them, from what we've gathered, but we haven't figured out how to kill them yet."
The world around them blurred and transformed into what appeared to be some sort of palace where Will saw the man he had always thought would claim his soul. His name returned to Will's mind as if by sorcery.
"Pritchard." He said, as a way of greeting.
"I apologize for the means we had to go to in order to get you here." Pritchard said, "But the situtation is dire." As if on cue, the entire building shook. "Quickly, drink." He held out a flask of glowing water, and the Ranger hesisated before drinking it.
Almost instantly a wave of pain hit his body and he collasped as he felt himself get stronger than he had been in life. Much stronger. His arms grew even longer, and his hands glowed for a brief second before the pain left and he climbed back to his feel in astonishment.
"What was that?" He asked.
"Iniation ceromony." Pritchard said, tossing a bow and quiver at Will. "Put your arrows of choice in there, quick. We're under attack." He took off with the other Ranger in there as Crowley lingered.
"I meant what I said." Crowley said. "I wanted none of this for you." With that, he turned and left Will in front of all kinds of arrows.