He awoke in darkness. Neither candle nor sun lit his dwellings.
He awoke in silence. Neither a companion’s breathing nor an insect’s buzzing filled the air.
He awoke. Heoruwulf. The Danes’ greatest warrior.
Blinking the sleep out of his body, Heoruwulf stood. He stepped out of his quarters into the twilight, the sun just beginning to peek above the horizon.
As he walked, a looming shadow followed. Always a few steps behind. Always present. As a child, Heoruwulf had been confused, scared even. The faster, stronger, better he became, the more this shadow grew. It followed him, always. When he ate, slept, and trained, the darkness was ever-present.
But Heoruwulf grew, and grew used to its presence.
Today was not a day for fear. Today was an important day. Heoruwulf and his men had just returned from their latest mission and were to be celebrated with a grand feast in the mead hall. Although he was used to slaying demons and sailing the world to protect his people, Heoruwulf was less comfortable upon returning to his people, knowing what they would expect of him, what they would always expect of him. He was the Danes’ greatest warrior, the chosen one. He could not disappoint them. He could not fail them.
Heoruwulf heard the cheers long before entering the mead hall. The sounds of his men cheering and clapping, retelling the epic tale of how they had slain a great monster off the western coast, how Heoruwulf lifted his sword to deliver the final blow through the demon’s heathen heart. Heoruwulf entered and all eyes fell upon him, their hero. The Danes’ boisterous shouts rang out, praising their beloved warrior. Heoruwulf
He boasted with the rest. He sang and danced and drank and yelled. Yet, deep down, something clawed at him. The uneasy feeling that something horrible was yet to come.
The celebration carried on well through the night, the festivities showing no sign of slowing down as the hours passed. To hear a shout was not out of the ordinary. To hear the queen shout was a terrifying sound.
The mead hall silenced as the queen’s shrill voice rang out. Heoruwulf turned to her majesty, who stood still, her body shaking, the blood drained from her face. The look in her eyes turned Heoruwulf’s blood to ice. He slowly turned to see what the queen was staring at.
Standing at the door to the hall was a monster, claws forming at the ends of his hands, scales like thorns jutting out from his arms, and demonic horns rising feet above his head. He towered Heoruwulf as he drew his sword, his men following suit.
The battle began to rage, grunts of pain echoing through the near-empty hall, deserted by the rest of the Danes.
Heoruwulf swung his trusty weapon over and over and over, but was matched each time by the power of the monster. As he raised his sword in an attempt to plunge the giant through the heart, as he had done just weeks prior, he unknowingly left himself vulnerable. The monster took the opportunity to plunge his claw straight through Heoruwulf’s chest, piercing his heart.
Heoruwulf looked down as blood began to soak through the layers of linen he wore.
He had faltered. He had failed. Heoruwulf had failed the Danes.
A darkness fell over him, but what loomed was not the monster. The darkness stood, changing, growing, taking the demon’s shape. Then, the image shifted. The shadow took the shape of the Danes, one by one. Heoruwulf’s companions, his fellow warriors, his king, all silhouetted in the darkness that grew larger and larger with each passing moment.
Heoruwulf fell to his knees as the weight of the world, of his people, fell unto him.
He looked up and saw nothing. The shadow had enveloped him. It consumed him. He tried to reach out a hand, to move, to do anything, but failed. Heoruwulf succumbed, allowing the darkness to swallow him whole. He had nothing more to offer to his people. Heoruwulf had failed the Danes.