His eyes are closed.
He's not moving.
Not responding.
Not doing anything except bleeding.
"Gunnar." His name tears out of me, raw and desperate. "Gunnar!"
He doesn't respond.
Doesn't even twitch.
I try to follow, but hands hold me back.
"Give them room, Ingrid." Geirolf's voice in my ear, calm but firm. "Let them work."
"I need to?—"
"You need to let them save him. You'll just be in the way right now."
He's right.
I know he's right.
But every cell in my body is screaming to go to Gunnar.
To touch him.
To make sure he's still alive.
They carry him through the medical room door.
Vail's there immediately, her hands already moving over her son's body, assessing the damage in a way that makes my heart ache.
How is she doing this?
How is she touching her own child's blood-soaked body and not falling apart?
"Knife wound to the left side," Hakon reports, his voice strained. "We stabilized it the best we could. Wrapped it tight. But there's been a lot of blood loss. Too much."
"Get him on the table." Vail's voice is steady. Almost too steady. "Aesir, I need saline and pressure bandages. Now."
"On it."
I push through the doorway, ignoring the hands that try to stop me.
I have to be there.
Have to see him.
Have to know he's still alive.
The medical room is small—barely more than a large closet with a steel table in the center and cabinets lining the walls.
Fluorescent lights overhead, harsh and unforgiving.
The smell of antiseptic and copper.
