“Wake thee, Groa! | wake, mother good!
At the doors of the dead I call thee;
Thy son, bethink thee, | thou badst to seek
Thy help at the hill of death.”
Svipdagsmál
He walked up the dimly lit stairs with no fear, just the sense that he had to do his job and get out of there. There was no one to stop him, no one to stand between him and the door of the small room. In the darkness he could make out a lone silhouette, connected to numerous tubes and machines, their lights flickering mischievously. The hospital odour of disinfection and urine hung in the air. <span class="ellip">…</span> Read more