Note to my subscribers: yes, I'm alive! Unfortunately, things like this are all that I have time for at the moment... schoolwork :( One of these days I'll get back to my unfinished Criminal Minds stories (and possibly venture back into writing for White Collar as well) but right now I lack the free time required for such activities. :(

Hello fanfictioners... I bet no one will read this fic, but I don't care. Just a school project I'm proud of so I thought I'd share. Cheers!

Beowulf Epilogue:

I stare down at my sword, stained with the sticky crimson blood of enemy Danes. I am powerless; I might as well just end it all now, one swing of this sword and everything is over.

I hear the battle cries, the cheers of victory outside the door. The triumphant army is marching closer to the mead hall. I cannot help but imagine the horror-stricken faces of the dead and dying. My people, the once mighty Geats, are all slain. I am sure of this, but I cannot help because I am powerless.

"What if Beowulf was here?" I ask myself over and over again. How would he react to seeing his warriors-turned-cowards defeated? What would he say? What would he do? How did it all go downhill so quickly? Our king has only been dead for three months! Not even a quarter of a year has passed and our allies have turned into our enemies. Warriors from Denmark invaded Geatland not days after the word had spread of our leader's death.

I look at my sword again, contemplating that option that seems so sweet. I cannot do it. I proved myself to my king and country in that tower. I am not a coward. I am powerless now, but I am not a coward.

I am a complete failure. My soldiers are all dead. Wait, where are the women and children? Are they still safe? Have the Danes found their hiding place?

"Fetch my helmet," I order to the page boy attending to me. The young lad, no more than seven years old, looks reluctant. "I'm going back out there." I've only just convinced myself, but I know it is the right thing to do. I cannot just lie here, dying of my battle wounds. This is my only option. I must fight for Geatland. Maybe I am not as powerless as I'd initially thought.

The lad places the helmet upon my head. My chainmail is useless now, ripped apart and coated in blood. I forgo the mail and direct the boy to strap on my breastplate. He skillfully and carefully avoids my damaged limb. It is impossible to carry a shield with a mangled arm, so I leave it on the floor.

My valiant horse was slaughtered beneath me. There are no other horses to ride, so I stride out to meet the Danes on my own two legs. I walk out of the mead hall, sword raised, without fear. I am just one man, powerless against an army, but I have to do this. I must carry on our legacy. I'll die of my wounds anyway, so why not die in battle? Why allow death to come slowly? Why would I take my own life selfishly? Maybe, just maybe, I'll take others down with me.

I am Wiglaf, last of the Geats, ready to meet death.

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