You weren't supposed to die.
I know, I know. Everyone dies, all right? I know that. I've seen enough battles to know that death comes to everyone. But not you, Christopher. You were supposed to go forty years from now, drunk as a lord, in bed with a girl or two or three. Not now. Not like this. Not before me.
The Vikings insisted on giving you a funeral. Taking care of your body, getting the pyre ready. They want me to set it on fire. A great honor, apparently. They think I deserve it. Do I? Would you want me to do it? April? Jalil? I'm sorry Etain's not here; at least then I'd know who better than me.
Did you know Achilles lit Patroclus' pyre? Athena told me that. She was part of the whole mess, after all. Maybe she was trying to make me feel better, I don't know. She's supposed to be the goddess of wisdom, but all she really knows now is war. It's all any of us know. Not forever though. With any luck, not for much longer at all. Ka Anor is dead, but I'm not done fighting quite yet. I've got a battle or two left in me.
Oh, don't worry. I won't be Achilles for you. I'm not going to fight a war a war for you, spend years in a senseless rage. I don't plan on being so tragic a hero as that. And we both know I'm not so great a soldier as that. No, I won't be Achilles. But I might be Orpheus.
It won't be easy, I know. It never is. And there are a lot of heavens around here, Chris, a lot of hells and underworlds and dark, damp places the dead go. I'll have to look around, see who's guarding you. See who's keeping you from me.
But first, I've got to light the pyre.