The white world spun and vanished, and for a moment he thought he was inside a weirwood tree, looking through carved red eyes as a dying man trembled weakly on the ground and a madwoman danced a blind bloody dance beneath the moon, shedding red tears and tearing her clothes. Then both vanished, and he found himself rising, dissolving, his soul carried on a cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow and a squirrel and an oak tree. A horned owl flew silently through the trees pursuing a wild hare, and Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep beneath the frozen earth, blind earthworms burrowed in the darkness, and he was the worms too. Ecstatically he thought: I am the forest and all that is in it. A hundred ravens circled and cawed as they sensed his passing, and a great, annoying elk bellowed, disturbing the two children clinging to its back, and a sleeping direwolf raised its head to howl at the empty air. And before the next beat of the hearts of all those creatures, he continued his search for his heart, for the one-eyed, cunning, lurking one, for his pack, and told himself that his wolves would accept him. And that was the last thing that crossed his mind as a human.