The old priest looks at me through the fog. I know he is not real. He died so long ago in a country that no longer exists. Chances are I will be joining him soon. The idea of me dying here is quite surreal. This forsaken island filled with rocks, ice, and tall people with unpronounceable names do not really strike me as that kind of place. But apparently even the best can be wrong from time to time. The faces of the people I have killed should be hunting me, but all I can think of is that old priest. And how much I hate Iceland.