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[Tay Thormear]

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Beowulf hurled the book across the room. Veins were partially sticking out of his forehead. His temper was itching, begging to be let free like a flurry.

“Why do you care?” the mere thought of the question angered him more than anything else.

“I don’t.” he told himself out loud. But didn’t he? Why was he so angry if he didn’t care?

He threw open the doors and stormed outside to his stable. His home in Dark Cove was the most peaceful place to be. It may not be the safest place to be, but he enjoyed the secluded area.

“I thought you were happy.” The comment rang in his head. Was he happy? Or just hoping he was happy?

* * *

He now stood where the largest collection of murders hung around, Yew, under the fellucia. Beowulf’s eyes peered between the houses. He spotted one, a warrior.

He attacked like a wave of thunder, his blade moving swiftly, and closer to the target with each swing. The more he fought, the angrier he got. He stabbed and cursed spells at the man. They both fell off their houses, thanks to by standards. The warrior charged in head first, Beowulf shoved him back with his shield. The warrior staggered backwards, before he could gain his footing a broadsword was lodged through his face. Beowulf came in closer, placing his palm against the warrior’s stomach. “Vas Flam” he yelled. Blowing a fireball directly into him.

With that finished, Beowulf turned around. A man sat on his mount confidently across the field. His hair glittered in the moonlight. Beowulf clenched his fist tightly.

“It’s not him, but he’ll do.” He thought to himself. He raced towards the man, swinging a bola and dismounting him. Beowulf charged towards him without breaking his pace. The new warrior scrambled to fit on his helmet and arm himself. He lunged at Beowulf, as he got closer, it was no use, Beowulf cut the warrior’s wrist with his knife, causing him to drop his weapon. Stabbing repeatedly he sent him into the ground, Beowulf sent the sword through him so hard it stuck it the ground. He tore the sword out with a growl.

He heard quickened footsteps behind him, a voice screaming. He spun on his heel and swung his sword around, cutting the head off a young boy. The boy didn’t look any older than 15, his lifeless eyes filled with hate and fear. Beowulf’s mind stopped abruptly, he began to shake. His sword dropping from his finger tips to the bloodstained ground.

“Just a boy…” he whispered. A tear created a glitter in his eye, before it dropped to the ground. He bent down and said a quiet prayer for the child.

“It was his father.” Called over a voice. Beowulf glanced over to look at a stranger in a hood.

“The man you just killed, that’s his son.” He pointed to the headless boy.

Beowulf ignored him. He turned around, picking up his broad sword he mounted. He could feel it, the urge for power. Did he strive so much to beat the one who bested him, that he would kill anyone to accomplish it? He shook his slightly.

“Not anymore…” he whispered.

The sun was beginning to rise; he clicked his heel on the horse and rode off into the morning sunrise.