Thirty years ago, I was diagnosedwith testicular cancer, and four days later – Memorial Day – I was on theoperating table. I was thirty-one years old, married to my first wife for sevenyears, and our first daughter was only four months old. I was terrified, ofcourse, but primarily because I didn’t want to leave my daughter without her father,and I didn’t want to miss getting to see her grow up.

There were a few minor snags – at first the surgeon couldn’t findone of my kidneys on my CT scan images (which is how I learned I have a pelvickidney on the left side), and the spinal block I’d gotten along with otheranesthesia somehow made it so if I tried to sit up, I felt instantly dizzy andneeded to vomit. I spent six hours lying prone in the recovery ward with a verypatient nurse who sat with me the entire time, until a doctor walked by, sawme, frowned, walked over to my bed, skimmed my chart, then asked the nurse, “What’swrong with him?” She explained, and he told her to give me a drug whose name Idon’t remember. “He’s young, he’s strong, he can take it,” the doctor said.Then he turned to me, said, “We’ll get you out of here,” then walked off. Inever learned his name, and I didn’t know what they were going to put into me,but I didn’t care, so long as I got home. Whatever that medicine was, it worked– until I was within three steps of my couch. Luckily, I managed to lie downbefore I threw up everywhere. When I was discharged, I was told this weirdeffect would wear off by morning, and it did. Otherwise, the surgery was asuccess. And as a bonus, I felt absolutely no pain even though I had a finger-lengthincision on my abdomen the entire time I was healing.

I had to have follow-up CT scans for five years, but in general,testicular cancer has a high survival rate, and I was fine. I’d been writingand publishing short stories for several years, and when I got the opportunityto write a story for Marty Greenberg’s anthology Elf Magic, I decided I’duse my experience with cancer as part of the tale. The result was “The LastWarrior.” Elf Magic came out in 1997. My oldest daughter was two at thetime, and I loved every second I got to spend with her, even the hard timeswhen she was sick, or wouldn’t sleep through the night (I was always the onewho got up with her), and when I had to change a particularly messy diaper. AndI was privileged to experience it all over again when my second daughter wasborn in 2000.

“The Last Warrior” has never been republished, and I decided tocelebrate the thirtieth anniversary of my surgery by sharing the story with allof you. The sections that take place in our world are all drawn from my reallife. As for the other sections, who knows? Maybe I lived them, too, somewhereand somewhen.

If you want to learn more about the signs and treatment oftesticular cancer, you can go here: https://tinyurl.com/4aunh8p7

THE LAST WARRIOR

TIM WAGGONER

Originally published in Elf Magic,DAW Books, 1997

"Rise,Alfarnin!"

Thevoice—a woman's, he thought, an old woman's—seemed to come from a greatdistance. Alfarnin tried to open his eyes, but he was tired, so very tired...

"Thereis no time for this, elf! Get up! Skuld commands you!"

Hefelt a pair of age-weakened hands tugging on his arm. He tried to pull away androll over so that he might shrug off the old woman and give himself upcompletely to the darkness she was so determined to drag him away from. But hefound himself able to turn only partway. Something was blocking him.

Heopened a weary eye and found himself staring into the horrid, twisted face of atroll. With a cry, he sat up, right hand instinctively groping for a weapon.

"Don'tbother, elf," said the old woman disdainfully. "It's dead.Everything's dead here. Save you, that is."

Alfarninsaw she spoke the truth. The troll's eyes were wide and staring, its hairychest a ragged ruin. He lifted his gaze from the fell beast to see he sat inthe middle of an endless expanse of corpses, all clad in battle gear. A vastarray of weapons protruded from the bodies—spears, pikes, swords, axes—andblood covered the twisted, still forms like a crimson blanket.

Helooked down at his own simple tunic. Once it had been the plain gray of anelven farmer; now it was a stiff, dark red edging toward brown. He touched hislong silver hair and found it clumped and matted with dried blood. He ran ahand across his chest and stomach, searching for wounds, but those hediscovered were, for the most part, minor, though they hurt like blazes.

"Yourweapon, warrior." The old woman sneered this last word.

Alfarninturned to look at the woman for the first time. She wore a black robe, hooddrawn forth to cover her head, completely obscuring her features. If it hadn'tbeen for her quavering, cracking voice—and for her wrinkled, age-spotted clawwhich held forth his hand scythe—he couldn't have guessed at her age.

Hetook his scythe, noting that the dulled blade was caked with flakingred-brown. "I was working in my fields when I heard Heimdall'shorn," he explained. "I had little time to prepare beforethe battle was joined." The final battle: Ragnarok.

Hecould remember little after Heimdall's signal had echoed throughout theuniverse, summoning all creation to the last great war. To Alfarnin, it hadbeen a blur of images—flashing blades, thundering war horses, razor-sharpclaws—and a cacophony of sound—the battle cries of the gods, the answeringbellow of giants, steel clanging against steel. And above all, the screams ofthe dying. So many screams.

Butit was over now. The warriors, both those who fought for Light and those forDark, were still, their voices silenced forever. And somehow, miraculously,impossibly, Alfarnin, a simple tender of crops, was the lone survivor.

Andthen he remembered what the old woman had named herself. "Skuld, yousaid. You are one of the Norns, the three Fates."

"Iam. She whose province is the future."

Alfarninlooked out across the endless open graveyard that surrounded them. There wereno buzzing flies, no feasting gore crows. The air was motionless, flat anddead.

Hespoke in a weary, hollow voice. "After this day, I would think thereis no future."

Skuldchuckled dryly. "That, my dear elf, is entirely up to you."

GeraldWinnick, all of twenty-four years old, stood at the altar sweating and waitingfor the Wedding March to begin. His rented tux was too loose around the waistand too tight around the throat. He was having trouble breathing, and whatlittle air he did get in lay hot and heavy in his lungs.

Hisgroomsmen stood beside him, three of his best friends from high school, but theway he felt, he might as well have been alone. They weren't the ones gettingmarried today, they weren't the ones gambling their entire future on the nexthalf an hour or so.

Itwasn't that he didn't love Laura—he did—but the idea of being married to her,being her Husband with a capital H, freaked him out more than a little.Intellectually, he knew it was just a ceremony, a few words and an exchange ofrings, a confirmation of a love that already existed, no big deal.

Butemotionally, it felt as if something new was about to happen, something almostmagical. His whole world—and Laura's, too, of course—was about to changeforever.

Thepriest smiled at Gerald kindly, then gave a nod for the organist to startplaying. As soon as the familiar strains of the Wedding March began (thoughGerald had never heard them outside of a movie or TV show before), Lauraappeared in the rear of the church, holding on to her father's arm. They stoodthere a moment, then began slowly walking forward arm in arm. Laura wasbeaming, and her father looked as if this were the proudest, and perhaps in away saddest, day of his life.

Geraldstarted trembling. He loved Laura, but she was a bit self-centered, tended tothink of herself before anyone else, and while she expected him to share everylittle feeling he had, she was reticent about sharing hers. And a dozen otherthings, minor complaints, really, mostly tiny quirks and eccentricities whicheveryone had, Lord knows he had his share, but when you took his weirdness andhers and put them together...

Lauraand her father reached the foot of the altar. Her father kissed her on thecheek, then she kissed him. Then they turned to face the priest.

"Whogives this woman away?" the priest asked in a voice which filled thechurch. It seemed to Gerald as if God himself were talking.

"Hermother and I," Laura's father answered clearly. Then he gave Laura alast kiss and sat in a pew next to her mother while Laura mounted the steps tostand next to Gerald. Her maid of honor stepped down to arrange her train, thentook her place once more.

Thepriest began talking but Gerald wasn't listening. He looked at Laura and shesmiled at him, a smile full of love and hope, with not a hint of nervousness.Gerald felt her love for him, and while it didn't wash away his doubtscompletely, it went a long way toward blunting them.

Heknew then that he had been waiting for something, for some sort of cosmicguarantee that he was doing the right thing. But it was a guarantee that wasn'tforthcoming. He knew now that there were no sure things in life, and that a bigpart of love, real love, was faith. The question was, did he have that kind offaith in Laura? In himself? In them?

Whenthe time came, Gerald said "I do," and, even if his voicequavered a bit, he was sure he meant it.

"Wakeup, elf!"

Alfarninopened his eyes and rubbed the sleep out of them. The sky above was the samedull gray it had been when he'd lain down. Skuld had said there was no timeanymore, so there would be no sunrise, no sunset, just endless gray.

Alfarninrose to his feet. Skuld stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, and while theelf still couldn't see into the shadowed depths of her hood, he had theimpression she was looking at him disapprovingly.

"Youcertainly sleep a good deal," the Norn grumbled.

Alfarninbrushed dirt from his tunic. He had had to move several bodies in order toclear a space to sleep. There was no way he could move a giant, even thoughsome of them were hardly larger than man-sized. Nor could he move one of theAesir, not just because he was loathe to dishonor one of the gods even indeath, but because despite their normal size, they tended to be made of sternerstuff than men and were far heavier than they looked. The dwarves, while lessdense structurally, were still heavy enough, and, being a light elf, Alfarnincouldn't bring himself to touch one of the hated dark elves. So in the end, hehad moved some of his own lithesome people and prayed for forgiveness to thespirit of Frey, who among other things was—or rather, had been—god of elves.

"Itraveled quite a distance yesterday." Alfarnin realized such conceptsas yesterday and tomorrow had no meaning any longer, but he knew no other wayto express himself. "I was weary."

Skuldsnorted. "An illusion, nothing more. Your body felt tired because itexpected to. But without Time, you cannot tire." She gestured towardthe endless expanse of bodies that surrounded them. "Have you notnoticed that the corpses do not rot? That rigor has not claimed them? They areas fresh as the moment life fled them. No time is passing here, elf, becauseTime itself has died."

"IfTime has died, then why do I seem to experience it? Why must I still walk onestep after the other? Why do I still sleep and dream?"

"Itold you, it's an illusion!" Skuld said impatiently. "Youonly think—" She broke off. "Did you say you dreamed?"

Alfarninnodded and told the Norn of his strange dream, of being a young human on theday of joining to his mate.

Skuldsaid nothing at first. Finally, she made a dismissive gesture. "Weexist in an in-between state here, between Life and Death, Existence andNothingness. Odd experiences are to be expected in such a place."

Alfarninshrugged. He was no mage or philosopher, just a simple farmer. Such weightymatters were beyond him. Still, it had been an interesting dream. Alfarninhimself had never been fortunate enough to be allowed to take a wife; the elflord who ruled the lands he farmed had never seen fit to grant his permission.

Alfarninput the dream out of his mind. He had work to do. "Are you going toaccompany me this day, Skuld? Or are you going to remain behind as you didyesterday?"

"Ihave no need to walk with you, elf. When you reach your destination, I shall bethere."

"Verywell." He started walking, picking his way carefully around thebodies of the fallen warriors, stepping over them and, when he had no choice,on them. He walked in no particular direction, for according to Skuld, hedidn't have to bother with that. He simply needed to concentrate on his goaland continue forward.

Itdidn't seem so simple to him. As Skuld had explained to him"yesterday," he was to find the body of Allfather Odin, and tear theheart from His chest. And then the elf was to bear the heart to Yggdrasill anduse it to renew creation itself.

Alfarnin,as did all who lived, knew the prophecy of Ragnarok and what was to occurafterward. The gods and their allies would perish while bravely standingagainst the forces of Darkness. For a time, the world would be as ashes, coldand barren, but then a spark of life would return and creation would beginagain, new and vital.

Butthe tales had never said exactly how the world would be restored. But Skuld hadknown. Being the Future, how could she not?

Heremembered how she had explained it to him.

"Thinkof Existence as a wheel, elf," she had said not long after his firstawakening. "A wheel which is constantly in motion, turning slowlyfrom today to tomorrow, one day following the next in stately progression untilthe end is reached and the wheel grinds to a halt. But the Wheel is circular;it has no true beginning and end. All it needs to resume its turning is a push.A push which you shall give, elf."

"Me?" hehad said, incredulous. "Such a task is for a god, or a great hero!I'm not even a proper warrior!"

"True," Skuldhad agreed, a little too quickly for Alfarnin. "But you are all thatremains. I would do it myself if I could, but I cannot. The Future can makeitself known, but it cannot create itself."

Alfarninhadn't been sure he understood the difference, but Skuld said that was the bestexplanation she could give, and he had no choice but to accept it.

"Whatwill the new world be like?" he asked.

"Muchthe same as the old. The wheel has turned many, many times before this. Therehave been other Ragnaroks; this was merely the latest."

"HaveI always been the only one to survive?" Alfarnin asked.

Skuldlaughed. "Don't flatter yourself, elf! The cycle of Existence has itsvariations. There is always at least one survivor of the final battle,sometimes more, and I always guide them so that they might restart the wheel onits endless journey. This is the first time you have survived the battle. Lasttime it was Loki." She shook her head. "Getting him tostart the wheel again took quite some doing."

Alfarninhadn't particularly wanted this duty, what Skuld called "a greathonor." After the horrors he had witnessed—and committed—during Ragnarok,he would have rather lain down and surrender to the ultimate darkness, so hemight forget.

Butif he truly was the only one left, he had no choice, did he? Besides, Skuld hadassured him that when the wheel began its new cycle, he would eventually bereborn, quite likely in a higher station because of his actions.

"Whoknows?" she had said, "you might even end up a lessergod."

Sonow here Alfarnin was, traipsing through the grisly aftermath of the finalbattle, searching for the corpse of the Allfather, without any more guidanceother than Skuld's assurances that as long as he continued on, the elf wouldeventually stumble across—

Hestopped. There, in the sky. Was that... Yes, it was. Off in the distance,circling in the air, was a large black raven. It seemed Skuld had been right;he had found what he was looking for.

Alfarninhurried forward.

Gerald,all of thirty now, stood next to his wife, arm around her shoulders, and triedto radiate calm and strength, despite the fact he was scared to death.

Laurawore a blue housecoat and ugly green slippers, the latter provided by thehospital. Her hair was limp and mussed, her face pale, eyes red from crying.Gerald felt like crying himself, but he wouldn't allow it, not in front ofLaura. She needed him to be strong.

Makethat they needed him to be strong. Gerald turned away fromLaura and looked through the window at the tiny being who, along with his wife,he’d made. Nurses bustled around the small (so small) infant, a girl, whodidn't have a name yet because she'd come so early. Eight weeks, to be precise.

Thenurses checked various tubes and monitors while Gerald's tiny daughter laymotionless within the sterile warmth of her incubator. It was a poor substitutefor a mother's womb, but it would have to do.

Theirbaby looked so frail, so weak, so tired, as if it exhausted her just to breatheand pump blood through her not-quite-finished body. She needed a name, they hadto think of a name. But right now, Gerald couldn't do anything except hope toGod the tiny thing lived a few more hours.

Tearsbegan to flow down well-traveled paths on Laura's cheeks. Gerald tore his gazefrom his struggling daughter. "It'll be okay, honey," hesaid. He forced a smile. "She's a fighter, just like her mom." Hedidn't quite manage to sound as confident as he'd have liked, but Laura smiledat him gratefully and wrapped her arms around his waist. And they stood likethat, together, and watched, waited, and prayed.

Alfarninstopped, disoriented and dizzy. He stood before the shaggy, blood-matted corpseof a great wolf, many times larger than any ordinary lupine. This was Fenrir,child of Loki, and, according to the prophecy of Ragnarok, the slayer of Odin.And above, circling slowly, was the midnight-black raven.

Alfarnindidn't recall anything from the moment he had first spotted the raven in thesky, didn't remember crossing the intervening distance. No, that wasn't quitetrue. He had had another of those strange dreams. Only this hadn't been adream, had it, for he had been awake. A vision of some kind, then. But a visionof what, exactly, Alfarnin wasn't certain.

"Somethingwrong, elf?"

Skuldstood beside him, as she had promised. Alfarnin started to tell the Norn of hisvision, but then decided against it. It hardly seemed important, not comparedto the task which lay before him. He shook his head and examined the body ofthe huge beast that had been the great wolf Fenrir.

Fromthe tales Alfarnin had heard all his long life, he had expected Fenrir to bequite a terror, but despite the wolf's gigantic size, it made no moreimpression on him than the thousands of other corpses he had seen in thetimeless interval since first awakening. Perhaps the horrors he had witnessedduring Ragnarok and after had numbed him. Or perhaps even the dire wolf Fenrirdidn't seem so fearsome when compared to the sick, helpless terror of a parentdesperately praying for the survival of his ailing child.

"Elf?" theNorn prompted, a measure of concern in her voice.

Alfarninshook his head once more and did his best to cast the vision from his mind. Hewas an elf, not a man of Midgard, and work lay before him.

Fenrir'sjaws had been torn apart by Odin's son Vidar, taking vengeance for his father'sdeath. Or so it must have been if the tales held true.

"Itstrikes me as odd, Skuld."

"Whatdoes, elf?"

"ThatOdin and the other Aesir, knowing how Ragnarok was to turn out, did nothing totry to change it."

Skuld'stone was that of an impatient parent lecturing a slow-witted child. "Itwas predestined; there was nothing they could do but play out their assignedroles. The Wheel turns, and both gods and mortals follow, whether they like itor not."

"Theyhardly seem like gods, then, do they?" the elf mused. "Morelike dancers stepping out their well-rehearsed movements to someone else'stune."

"Suchis the way of existence," Skuld said.

Alfarninsaid nothing. Instead, he pointed his hand scythe at a black form which laypartially buried beneath one of Fenrir's huge front paws. "Anotherraven." He knelt down and prodded it with the blade of his scythe,but it didn't respond. "Dead."

"Huginn," Skuldsaid. "The raven of Thought. When Odin perished so did it likewise,for the Allfather was done with thinking."

Alfarningestured to the other raven still circling above. "And thatone?"

"Muninn,the raven of Memory. Odin may be gone, but as long as we are here to rememberHim, Muninn lives on."

Alfarninnodded, though the Norn's explanation made little sense to him. "Whatdo I do now?"

"Itold you—you need to retrieve the Allfather's heart." She pointed tothe belly of the great wolf, and Alfarnin remembered: Fenrir was supposed todevour Odin.

Heglanced at his scythe's dulled blade. It would hardly do the job. He began tosearch the fallen warriors, looking for a dagger—a very sharp dagger.

Hourslater—or at least what seemed like hours later—Alfarnin stepped back from thewolf's open gut and dragged a gore-smeared forearm across his sweaty brow. Hisgray farmer's tunic was soaked with blood, which refused to dry: anotherfeature of the timelessness of this place, according to Skuld. Alfarnin wishedhe had possessed the foresight to remove his clothing before beginning hisgrisly work.

"Youare close, elf," Skuld said. "I can feel it!"

Alfarnintook a deep breath, ignored the pain from his unhealing wounds, and steppedback into the beast's carcass. After a bit, he reached what he thought was thecreature's stomach, and with a final downward swipe of the elf's borroweddagger, the leathery organ parted. A flood of foul-smelling liquid gushedforth, splashing onto Alfarnin. His gorge rose instantly, and he turned away,fully expecting to empty the contents of his own stomach, but though he retchedviolently, nothing came up. He didn't have to ask Skuld; this was no doubt yetanother result of the strange nature of this place.

Whenthe urge to vomit subsided, Alfarnin turned back to the cavity he had createdin Fenrir and there, mangled and curled into a ball, reposed the body of Odin,Allfather, Lord of the Aesir and all creation.

Alfarninhad never seen Odin before, though he had heard many, many tales of the godover the centuries. And truth to tell, he was rather disappointed. He hadexpected to find an imposing, kingly being. But instead, Odin was a tall, leanold man with a long scraggly gray beard and a black leather patch over one eye,or rather, where an eye had once been. His golden battle armor seemed too largefor the scrawny body, as if its owner were a beggar who had suddenly beenpressed into service instead of being the all-powerful god of gods.

Itwas difficult for Alfarnin to understand why such a mighty being, forewarned ofsuch an ignominious end, would not choose to take steps to avoid it. Unless, asSkuld had said, He had had no choice. Well, Odin had played out His part; so,too, would Alfarnin.

"Forgiveme, Allfather," he whispered, then raised his dagger and returned tohis work. A bit later, he held in his hand a blood-smeared orb of polishedsilver. The Heart of Odin.

Skuldclapped her withered hands in glee. "One more journey, elf, and youare through. You must take the heart to the base of Yggdrasill. As before, keepyour destination strongly in your mind as you walk, and you shall eventuallyreach the World Tree. I shall await you there."

Andthen she was gone.

Alfarninwiped the heart off on the cloak of one of the low-ranking Aesir lying not farfrom Fenrir, tucked his dagger in his belt, and then, even though he really didnot need it any longer, he picked up his scythe. He had started his journey asa farmer, and it seemed only right that he finish it as such.

Hebegan to walk, but stopped when he heard a soft thump behind him. He turned tosee Odin's second raven, Muninn, lying dead on the ground. Now that theAllfather had surrendered His heart, what need was there to remember Himanymore? Alfarnin looked across the field of corpses. What need to remember anyof this?

Reekingof blood and gastric juices, he resumed his journey.

Geraldwas thirty-nine, too young to have to worry about words like tumor and chemotherapy.But his cancer hadn't bothered to ask for his I.D. before inviting itself intohis body and settling in. Now, after three surgeries (one major, two minor) hesat in a waiting room of the outpatient care wing of Holland Memorial Hospital,wracked with nausea from his latest chemo treatment, trying to choke down ahorrid concoction of powdered lemon drink mix and contrast dye that would makehis innards more photogenic for the CT scan.

Hisoncologist said his chances for a cure were good; not great, but good. SoGerald endured the surgeries, the CT scans, the blood tests, the x-rays, thechemo, and worst of all, the soul-gnawing fear that in the end, none of itwould be enough. Because he desperately wanted to live.

Notso much for himself. Given the choice, he wanted to squeeze as many years outof his life as he possibly could, but he'd lived to thirty-nine, and overall,he was satisfied with the time he'd had. And while he wanted to live for Laura,he knew he didn't need to. Their marriage hadn't exactly been storybookperfect, but it had, on balance, been a good one. But Laura was still young, atleast relatively so, and she was a strong woman. If she had to, she'd get bywithout him, maybe even find someone and remarry. Knowing this comforted him.

No,he wanted to live primarily for Caitlin. She'd be ten next month, and eventhough she was getting to be quite a big girl, he couldn't bear the thought ofleaving his daughter without a daddy.

Andso he sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, his gut churning angrily,and concentrated on holding the contrast down.

Whenthis latest vision released Alfarnin, he found himself standing at the base ofwhat appeared to be a craggy gray mountain. He looked up to see, beyond theclouds, a vast canopy of green covering the sky. No, which was thesky. He had reached Yggdrasill, and as with Fenrir, he had no memory oftraveling here. Perhaps Skuld had been right and there really was no Time inthis place.

"Ofcourse I was right."

TheNorn stood before him, features still hidden within her hood. Her feet touchedthe edge of one of the World Tree's three gigantic roots.

"Iremember the tales," Alfarnin said. "This is the rootbeneath which the Well of Fate rests."

Skuldnodded. "And where the gods themselves came to hold council each day.As guardian of the Well, I often listened in as they talked." Shechuckled. "Or more often, argued."

Alfarninfrowned. "What of your sisters, Urd and Verdandi? Past andPresent?"

"Weare One." Skuld opened her robe to reveal not the body of a wrinkledold crone as her voice promised, but rather an empty black space in the middleof which hung the motionless shape of an ancient, crude spinning wheel. At thecenter of the wheel was a circular depression, just the right size, Alfarninthought, for the heart of Odin.

"Past,present, future..." Skuld snorted. "Merely names. They areone and the same. See the Wheel. Does it have a beginning or end? No, it is acircle, unbroken. We are One, and that one is the Wheel."

"Itisn't moving."

"TheWheel has completed its cycle. It's up to the last survivor of Ragnarok—toyou—to give it a push and start it turning again."

Alfarnindidn't have to ask what was expected of him. All he had to do to renew creationwas to place the holy heart in the center of the Wheel, and all would beginagain. It was his duty, to his gods, to his fallen elven brothers and sisters,to all who had fought and died in service to the Light. But he hesitated.

"Thevisions I experienced, Norn—what did they signify?"

"Theyare nothing, elf," Skuld snapped. "Now fulfill your purposethis cycle and give me the heart!"

"Whyhere? Why did you not ask for the heart when I first removed it fromOdin?"

"Becauseonly here, at the base of Yggdrasill, am I truly one with the Wheel. But forgetall that; the time for explanations is past. Give me the heart!"

"Whydon't you take it from me?"

"Itold you, the future cannot make itself! You must make it, here and now!"

"Tellme about the visions, Norn." Alfarnin smiled. "After all,if there is no Time any longer, then we have no need to hurry, do we?"

Skuldwas silent for a while before finally sighing. "Very well. I told youthat there is always at least one survivor of Ragnarok, and that it is thissurvivor's task to renew creation. During the journey to salvage Odin's heartand bring it to the World Tree, the survivor has three visions of what his lifein the next cycle will be like, so that he understands why he must restart theWheel and what his reward will be."

"Myvisions were of mortal life as a man of Midgard," Alfarninsaid. "But a Midgard unlike any I have ever heard tell of."

"Beingthe Future, I am quite aware of the visions you experienced." Shepaused. "However, I fear that I cannot explain them."

"Perhapsthe next cycle will be different from the last," Alfarnin suggested.

"Impossible.The Wheel is the Wheel. There may be minute variations in its turning, but thepath remains ever the same. It begins with creation, then comes the rise andflourishing of the gods, and then Ragnarok, turning after turning, cycle aftercycle, without end."

Alfarninthought for a moment. "What if I do not give you the heart? What ofthe Wheel then?"

"Youhave no choice; you must give me the heart. It is the role appointed you bydestiny."

"Ithink you are lying, Norn. You told me before that once the Wheel stopped, Timeceased to be. Before Ragnarok, I was just another of Fate's puppets. But Ithink many things have ceased to be now, Fate among them. For the first momentin my existence, I am truly free to choose."

Skuldsaid nothing.

"Irepeat my question," Alfarnin said. "What happens to theWheel if I do not give you the heart?"

"Withoutthe heart—which is the heart of Creation itself—the Wheel cannot continue toexist. It shall cease to be, as will Existence itself."

"Allexistence?" Alfarnin challenged. "Or just this one?"

Skulddidn't respond.

"YourWheel is a prison, Skuld. Perhaps it's time for creation to be free." Alfarninheld the heart of Odin in his left hand and raised his scythe above it with hisright.

"Hold,elf! You don't know what you're saying! Without the Wheel to give shape andform to existence, all will be Chaos! Events will unfold randomly, and no oneshall ever know what might occur next, for anything might happen, anything atall!"

"Consideringthe senseless carnage of Ragnarok—of Ragnaroks untold—I think not knowing whattomorrow will bring might be better." Alfarnin raised the scythehigher.

"Thinkhard before you act, elf," Skuld warned. "This other,lesser Midgard you would create would be naught but a bastardized world whereuncertainty and ambiguity rule in place of the gods. There would be no fixedroles, no set future, no clear division between Good and Evil. In that world,you would be but a mortal man, weak, frail, doomed to fret over petty anxietiesand frustrations all of your short life. Here, in Asgard, you were—and could beagain—an elven warrior, fighting on the side of Light in the most gloriousbattle creation has ever known!"

"Glorious?" Alfarninthought of the slaughter he had witnessed, and its aftermath. "Meaninglessis more like it." He tightened his grip on the scythe. "Andthe man Gerald will be far more of a warrior in his quiet, unsure way than theelf Alfarnin ever was."

Hebrought the scythe down and plunged its blade into the silver heart of Odin.Skuld screamed, the Wheel cracked apart like thunder, and the world was nomore.

"We'reready for you now, Mr. Winnick," the CT technician, a heavy-setblonde woman, said gently.

Geraldnodded, set down his empty cup, and stood too quickly. His vision went gray andhe swayed dizzily. He thought for a moment he might fall, but then thetechnician came forward to take his elbow. His vision cleared, the dizzinesspassed, and he smiled gratefully at the woman, only a little embarrassed.

Withthe technician's help, Gerald made his way out of the waiting room and walkedslowly down the hall toward the CT room, one unsteady step after another.