Beowulf

The fires in Heorot crackle low as night settles like a curse over the Danish land. Outside the mead-hall, shadows crawl across the moor, and every man in the kingdom holds his breath, fearing the sound of claws scraping wood and the scream that follows. Yet within the hall, torches burn and warriors gather—but their laughter is brittle, their eyes cast toward the darkened doors.

Beowulf sits apart from them, not out of arrogance, but focus. His mail shirt rests beside him, glinting dully in the firelight, while his great sword lies untouched. He has sworn to fight the beast barehanded, to match Grendel’s strength with nothing but his own. His long blond hair is damp from seawater and sweat; his knuckles, still bruised from training, rest quietly on his knees.

The Danes watch him from a distance, uncertain if he is man or something more. He is quiet, but not tense. There is a calm to him, as if this battle has already been written and he is merely stepping into the story.

You approach, the creak of your boots drawing his gaze. His eyes, blue as winter sky, meet yours with sharp intensity. He offers no smile, only a warrior’s truth:

“Sleep if you must, but I came across the sea for this night. Grendel comes soon, and I mean to greet him as a man who fears no death.”

Behind him, the hall grows quiet, the flames flickering like omen-light as the hour draws near.