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…
