Beowulf marched up to the dragon's lair with the confidence and regality of a lion on his home turf. Suddenly there was a loud, thundering cry, and booming wings sounded above. Then, the ground shuddered, and the crimson and amber scales of the dragon glowed brilliantly. Beowulf-the experienced warrior-kept his footing and ran at the fire-breathing lizard, his comrades cheered and howled encouragement.
The dragon lashed out at their aged leader with his tail, barbed tip catching his left arm, leaving a gouge in his bicep. Then the dragon inhaled deeply, and Beowulf lifted his shield against the flames, crimson and gold heat surrounding him. He was in an oven, and the ferocity of the dragon's fire prevented him from evading the next attack.
Crash! He was sent flying to the side, rolling several feet down the incline before he stopped himself. The fearsome beast had the high ground, but Beowulf was thankful for the brief reprieve.
He caught his breath quickly, and he charged with all the ferocity and strength of all his mighty opponent's ancestors and his own. He let out a roar that would put a tiger to shame and drove his blade into the beast's chest, but the attack was forced upward by the dragon's iron ribs, missing his heart by a hair width, leaving no room for lethality. The dragon reared back, pulling the sword out of the warrior's grip.
The demon's eyes laughed as its head lurched forward snapping Beowulf's injured arm in twain, swallowing the forearm. Then the fiery creature belched more flames. Since his shield was as useful as a piece of paper is against a bonfire, Beowulf discarded it. He dropped and nimbly rolled to the side. Now under the scaly furnace, he waited for the surging torch to end. Then, he leaped to his feet and tore the sword out of the monster's flesh, proceeding to plunge it in again, slashing the tissue of his heart this time. The creature's mouth flared briefly before his whole body collapsed.
Beowulf fell to his knees, his adrenaline finally fading, and his energy pool running low. There was blood all over him, concentrated on his side, and his arm still hadn't ceased its bleeding. His only remaining companion-Wiglaf-runs to help him, making a tourniquet to staunch the seeping of the crimson liquid.
When Beowulf awoke, Wiglaf was reprimanding a few of the deserters. He sat up and looked over. He was back in Herot's meadhall. Safe. Alive. He called his loyal companion, "Wiglaf, come."
Wiglaf scolded the others a moment longer before approaching his king, "My liege?"
Beowulf gives him an appreciative nod, "I thank you for staying, even when others would not."
Wiglaf bowed slightly, "It was my duty."
After a few weeks of recovery, Beowulf reigned for another 22 years-still undefeated-until his death, leaving his title to his son, Balthild, a prodigy in many fields-including swordsmanship-and a kind boy. Wiglaf, the boy's godfather looked after him for a time since he was only a mere 17 years of age at the time and helped to teach him to rule since he himself had become the captain commander of the guard. Balthild was looked up to for his skill and his bravery much like his father, and he was well loved, allowing him to have a long reign, wearing the crown long after his kind, loyal mentor passed.
Ietzik: I wrote this in class, and it still stands as one of my favorite short stories. :)