DISCLAIMER :: This fanfiction is based on Superman from DC Comics. All rights reserved. Art by CWBlaine on Deviant Art.
Author's note: Perhaps it is the start of a new collaborative universe or a standalone project for myself. I don't know, yet.

(( Chapter Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aJxrX42WcjQ ))

As my father laid in a hospital bed hooked up to all the machines, my mother dutifully tended to him as much as she could. After telling my mother I had my phone on me, I began to aimlessly walk the block – which consisted of County Road TT, South Taylor Drive, and the combination loop of University/Campus Drive. The scenery was the hospital, the Performing Arts Center for Lutheran High School, and the University of Wisconsin - Green Bay Extension, as well as the woods separating all of them in tandem with Bookworm Gardens. It was a long walk. Perfect for someone that needed to process something big.

In one night, my entire family dynamic was changing. Looking at my diminutive left hand, I glanced at the comparatively gigantic wedding band I stubbornly still wore; albeit on my thumb because it wouldn't fit any other finger. I was going to lose my wife. Inside, I was still the man two years older than 'that Danvers girl' I'd fallen for in college. The man that stood with sweating palms in an uncomfortable tuxedo waiting to see her in her white gown. The man that was so proud to meet his first child, as well as every child after, and simultaneously believed that was the moment my wife was the most beautiful. The man that was so proud to buy a first house with her. The man that felt like an utter failure when the Tribune laid him off. The man who loved his children with every piece of his soul.

The man that may be about to lose his father. My parents had always been a solid bedrock in my life. I was their miracle child. The only one to be born. Mom and Dad had difficulty conceiving children and Mom had a lot of miscarriages. I'm the one that made it. Ironically, I was also Mom's first pregnancy. My parents had raised me with all the love in the world. Dad taught me how to be a man and provide for the family. He taught me to farm, but I always wanted to be a writer. Mom taught me how to be caring and nurturing. Both would always say that the best man was a well-rounded one. They did their best to mold me into that ideal. I'd like to think it worked.

My parents were the first ones I called when I met Laura Danvers, my future wife. They were the ones I confided in as to whether and when I should propose. They were the first to know about the birth of each of our children. Dad was the one that told me being a father would have many triumphs and failures, but was ultimately the greatest experience of his life. Mom was the one that told me my wife would generally figure out most things, but would need support through it all. They were the first to know about every failure, too. They consoled me when I lost my job at the Tribune and gave me the strength to keep going in spite of it. They urged me to keep going, for my sake as well as my family's. In the last few years, I retreated from them as much as I had Laura and the girls.

As I walked, tears ran down my cheeks. I'd never shed so many tears in a single night. What else can one do when their whole world falls apart?

As I approached Bookworm Gardens, Týr landed gently beside me. He said nothing for a few minutes. As I sniffled from the crying, he gently tapped my shoulder. I don't truly know why someone that was still quite a stranger to me was so comforting in that moment. For a few minutes, we walked in silence while the crickets sang their chorus in the distant foliage. My footfalls were quiet while his were lumbering. We must have been quite the sight: a 5'10" crying teenage girl with a hulking 6'7" giant of a ginger man.

"Your family coming." He informed me softly. "They are worried... for you and father."

"Thanks, Tyr." I struggled to say.

"I tell you many times, name is said like 'toor', not 'tier'."

"Force of habit, I guess. Sorry."

"Much like you cling to Kristófer though you are not." He took a breath to let his words sink in. "When the cosmos blessed me, I was not ready to release my name. I was mother. I was leader. My children and the people thought other things. They give me new name. In time, I forget what is to be mother, but never what is leader. New people gave me new name. I keep Týr. Maybe the people give you new name in time. Things change."

"I still can't see you as a woman. You've said it, but I can't picture it."

"Is many winters ago. Is lost to the memory of people. Is not lost to me. Like you, things change fast and kvennváðir, as you say 'dress', no longer fit. I had to become new thing. It take time for thinking to change, but must be done." He sighed. "I, too, lose father young. I lose him when still in swaddling clothes, not yet bleeding. He was good man, but young man. I lose husband with baby still on breast during war."

"Death is part of life," He continued. "Is like wheel. Snows leave, plants grow, harvest come, plants die, snow returns. Is cycle. People who name me 'Týr' believe in life after this. They say there place called 'Fólkvangr'. It is place of sheep people, weavers, tailors, farmers, and other things. It not place of glory and feasting, not Valhöll. It place of Freyja. Maybe, if death happen, your father go there?"

Tears kept streaming down my cheeks. "Is it a pretty place? A happy place?"

He shrugged. "At times. Is most beautiful of places to people who live in place of mountains, snow, and cold."

"Good point."

"What I say is: you're man here like I am woman here," He gestured to the center of his chest. "But you not man to people. I am not woman to people. Not for many winters. You woman to people." He scoffed. "More like girl, but point same." He shook his head. "You need to find heart of girl and accept like I find heart of man and accept. I must afklæða, remove, my kvennváðir, clothing of woman. You must klæða, put on, kvennváðir. Understand?"

"I have no idea what language you're speaking, but you're at least kind of making sense."

"Your people call it 'Old Norse'. I call it tongue of my mother."

"I thought you sounded vaguely Scandinavian, but I wasn't completely sure."

"It is tongue that birth other tongues." He shook his head. "We are not holding oar."

"If that means the conversation has drifted off course, then you may be right." I sniffled, then inhaled deeply. "I'm losing everything I hold dear: my marriage, my daughters, maybe even my father. I stopped being a journalist years ago. All of this is destroying my sense of self. I don't know who I am anymore."

He nodded. "I know this. When I changed, world became lonely place. No children. No people. I must wear the cloth of man. I must live life of man. I not know how to do this. No teacher. My boat had no oars. Many winters have passed but I remember." He turned to looking at me with a look of warmth. "I will be your oar. Your teacher."

"It's been five thousand years since you were female. How would you even know?"

"Winters pass, but does the seed not linger?"

"That makes far more sense than I anticipated. Times change, but the essentials remain?" He nodded to me. "I guess I can understand that."

"Now is not time for these things. We must return to your father. You must be with him if light fades. Is the way of things."

The walk back to the hospital wasn't very long. Our conversation had nearly lasted the full distance around the block. Back in the waiting room, I found my mother sitting alone with the worry of many on her face. I sat next to her and took her hand. She was only in the waiting room because they had taken my father to surgery. It would be hours before we heard anything. Cardiovascular surgery is a complicated process. Týr stayed at a distance, but close enough to be a reminder of his presence. It was obvious that it had been many years since he had been comfortable around many people.

After a while, Laura and the girls appeared in the doorway before joining my mother and I in the waiting room seats. Everyone exchanged pleasantries and condolences. There was a lot of awkward silence among us until the surgeon called my mother to speak with her. The tension was thick while they had their conversation. My mother returned with new tears in her eyes.

"What did the doctor say, Marian?" Laura asked, breaking the silence.

My mother struggled to speak. "That he... he made it through the surgery, but... there was a lot of damage. He... he might only have a day or two." She sobbed. "He's... sleeping now."

For all of us that understood, tears began flowing. Olivia hadn't been fully briefed on what was happening.

"What's the matter?" She asked.

Temporarily releasing my mother's hand while Laura took the other one, I knelt down to our daughter and struggled to speak the words I needed to. "Sweetheart, Grandpa... is very sick. That's why I left the house so quickly. His... his heart is not doing well." As my words sank in, she started crying. "We... we're gonna lose Grandpa, honey." My tears came heavier. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

To my surprise, she reached out and pulled me into a hug before crying on my shoulder. "I don't want Grampa to go to heaven."

"Neither do I, baby." I squeaked out and cried harder along with her. "Neither do I."

It was a bittersweet moment. My youngest was actually coming to me for comfort and I was going to lose my father. In the next second, Hannah and Madison joined our embrace with sobs of their own. I did my best to embrace all my girls and try to offer comfort, but we were all hurting just as much. After a few moments, Laura and my mother joined our embrace and cried as well. For a while, we were a ball of hugs and sobs. None of us were coming out of this unscathed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hours later, Laura had taken the girls to the Super 8 just north off Taylor Drive. She knew if anything happened, nobody could get there quicker than I. She and the girls were exhausted, physically from the drive and emotionally from the news. My mother had since drifted off in the hospital recliner holding my father's hand. Týr remained vigilant on the periphery but tried to not get in anyone's way. Meanwhile, I remained at my father's side opposite my mother. To my surprise, I wasn't the least bit tired. I was perfectly content to watch over my dad through the night.

Memories flowed through my mind, one after another. The time he came into the house covered in grease from working on the tractor and scooped me up while I was watching Sesame Street. He held me over his head like I was flying. The smile on his face when interacting with his young son was palpable. The time he actually wore a suit as we attended his mother's funeral. It's the first time I saw him actually cry. The time I had peeked through the crack in the door and saw him comfort Mom after her final miscarriage. He held her head against his chest and let her cry as long as she needed to. They never tried for children again. The time he was in the stands when I landed my first successful hit in baseball. He had a team cap on and spilled the popcorn by cheering exuberantly. The time he gave me "the talk" right before my first date which consisted of simply telling me to be respectful and not doing anything stupid. The time I turned back to him after getting my high school diploma to see the proud smile on his face. The time he helped me move into the dorms at Northwestern. The time he first met Laura. The time we first brought each of the girls to see their grandparents after only being born days before.

There were so many more, both good and bad. He always told me the bad days just allowed the good ones to feel that much better. At the time he said those words, I couldn't fathom what he meant. I was beginning to understand. My tears had been flowing freely all night.

"Ope. Look who it is... not-Hannah," A weak voice broke the silence. "Word is that you saved me."

I straightened up and gave a meek smile. "Hey, Pop. How you feeling?"

"I'm feelin' kinda crummy. Why are you callin' me 'Pop'? I'm not sure who you are." My father's eyebrows furrowed at me.

Feeling like crying again, I reached out and wrapped a hand around his arm. "I'm your son. I'm Christopher."

He actually chuckled. "Sure thing, bud."

"Remember that thing that happened about three weeks ago? The one that tripped your pacemaker?"

"No, yeah. That was no picnic. Scared my wife somethin' fierce. How'd you know about that?"

"And you remember hearing that it changed some people? Gave them powers?"

He raised an eyebrow at me. "Where you tryin' to go with this?"

"Do you remember how you got here to the hospital?"

He almost answered, but stopped himself. After a moment, he sighed into his words. "Well, I'll be... You flew me here. You're really fast."

"I can do other things, but they weren't needed. I just wanted to help."

He looked up at the ceiling. "It was like an angel."

"Not quite like that, Pop." I shook my head. "Remember when I was a kid and you'd hold me up so I could feel like I was flying?" The tears and sniffles came back. "I can do it for real, now."

His eyes returned to mine. "What's my middle name?"

The question caught me off-guard, but I shrugged at him. "Clark. Why?"

"How old am I?" He kept his focused stare.

"You're sixty-nine."

"Yeah, no. How old am I?"

My mind searched for his meaning. He meant something other than his chronological age. He'd joke about it sometimes. Still crying, I actually laughed. "You're seventeen, Pop." Having been born on Leap Day, there had been seventeen since the year he was born. It was one of his favorite jokes.

He smiled at me. "Yeah, you're my kid. How old are you, now?" My guess is that my answers to his questions convinced him of my identity.

"I'm forty-five, Pop." He glared at me again. I rolled my eyes. "Fine. The doctors say I'm seventeen, too."

"Seventeen, huh? Ain't that somethin'? Me and my kid the same age?" He chuckled. After a moment, he motioned toward my body. "So, this all happen with that... thing?"

I nodded. "Yea."

"So, what all can you do?"

"Basically everything Superman can."

"And you're a Kent. A real one. How 'bout that?" He looked up at the ceiling again. "I wanted to name you 'Clark' but your mom thought I was bein' stupid." We shared a chuckle before he continued. "Y'know, Chris, I never told your mom this: I always wondered what kinda dad I'd be to a daughter. I always wanted one. Broke your mom's and my heart when we couldn't have any more babies." He returned his gaze to me. "Don't get me wrong, son: raisin' you was the best job I ever had. You're special to your mom and me." He let out a whimsical sigh. "I guess the stars was playin' darts, again. Hit a bullseye right on you."

Sniffling and tears flowing, I chuckled. "Yea, they did."

His voice turned somber. "What's the prognosis?"

More tears flowed. "It's not good, Pop. You're dying."

"Been dyin' since the day I was born, kid." He shook his head. "It's my heart, ain't it?" Tearfully, I nodded in response. "Your gran-dad always said my heart was too big for this world. I'd like to think he kinda had a point. I've always tried to live up to that, y'know. This world's too mean to not be. I've tried to teach you to be that way." He took as deep a breath as he could. "You're a good man, Chris. You took care of your mom and me. You took care of your wife and kids. You took a hit on the chin and kept going. I did the best I could think of for you and you turned out better than I ever dreamed. You've got words, kid. Always have. It's your actions, though, that show people who you are. That sayin', I'm proud I got to be your dad."

More tears than I've ever shed poured out of my eyes as I got up and hugged him.

He bent at the elbow and meekly tapped my shoulder while turning his head so our foreheads touched. "Whatever you're gonna be goin' forward – man, woman, boy, girl – you just show people the kind of person you are. Use what you've been given to leave this world better than you found it, like I tried to do every day."

Through sobs, talking was hard. "I'll make you proud, Pop."

"You already have, kid."