I lay there, paralyzed to my corner of the battle-hall. I saw how

that evil Dane warrior clashed with my Great mother. The mindless

fool of a man thought a sword could slay the all-powerful lady.

His face when Hrunting did not pierce my mother's skin was that of a

man who saw his last hope falling away like the bones of a man-child.

To my pleasure he did not relinquish the desperate attempt

of killing my mother. I could not wait for her to slaughter this foolish

hero. They grappled hand-to-claw, Mother having torn and scraped into his

glorified helmet. What good was his wisp of metal now? It was as good

as the skin that covered his bones were when the keen claws of my mother

pulled the thin flesh away. The hero now thinks he can win with his brute

strength, my mother will snap his carcass in two.

He could not, but he did; this prince threw her onto the

floor like battle-worn cloth. But my mother will not surrender

to this petty man. She catapults him down to ground where she will send him to

his righteous lord.

She lowers herself onto his stomach and sits like the fierce warrior she is

to draw a blade. For it is correct for man to die by a blade. No! That cursed

metal vest stops the blade; nevertheless she will annihilate him yet. The hero is

back on his weak, wobbly feet and has that ancient blade in his hand. The

blade that could kill Mother, but he has to be too feeble to wield it. He lifts it

and instead of falling to the ground, it falls cleanly against my Great Lady mother's neck.

Her blood is spilled.

I will avenge her death. He saunters over and thinks me dead.

But I am not. And his existence will end today. Just a few steps closer

and I will tear his throat out.

Just one more step…