Post by Hinrik on Nov 10, 2020 20:25:21 GMT -5
Beowulf stood with his men in the dark outside the hall standing watch. One hand on his axe, the other on his chin. He wondered where his boy was. He wondered if he was safe. He was worried. Hinrik wasn’t irresponsible, but he’d been gone in the middle of the battle so suddenly. Beowulf’s heart clenched painfully. He had almost lost his daughter and now that she was on the mend his son was missing.
There was a rustle and voices could be heard in the hall. Beowulf turned as the door behind him was opened. “Your son,” the man at the door huffed out. He was backlit, so Beowulf couldn’t see the expression on his face,but he pointed towards the front of the hall. And there, silhouetted by the fire behind him, in his rightful place of honor, was Hinrik.
Beowulf moved wordlessly towards him, his steps strong and sure and hurried. He stepped around men who were dead asleep and others who were waking. He moved aside the men gathering around. They were asking questions, they had concerns, but Beowulf pushed past them all, moving them aside one by one until he was at Hinrik’s side.
He knelt beside his boy, looking him over for injuries. And then Beowulf was struck by Hinrik’s eyes. The confusion, the pain and anguish. There was anguish there too. “What?” Hinrik asked.
Beowulf blinked at the sudden intrusion of English in this world. It was a shock to the system when he had spent months entrenched in his first language. But Beowulf looked at his son who was looking at him for guidance. For a brief moment he was reminded of the little boy that Hinrik used to be. He was reminded of the little boy that used to hold onto his leg begging for protection when Bryn was chasing him.
Carefully Beowulf gripped Hinrik’s shoulder. “”Norse, son,” he said gently. And then Hinrik seemed to melt, collapsing in on himself in a way that Beowulf hadn’t seen since he was a little boy. Tears fell from his boy’s eyes and Beowulf gently gathered Hinrik close. Beowulf didn’t like to see his son so distraught. He leaned close, holding Hinrik as close as he had when he’d been a boy. “Papa’s here.”
There was a rustle and voices could be heard in the hall. Beowulf turned as the door behind him was opened. “Your son,” the man at the door huffed out. He was backlit, so Beowulf couldn’t see the expression on his face,but he pointed towards the front of the hall. And there, silhouetted by the fire behind him, in his rightful place of honor, was Hinrik.
Beowulf moved wordlessly towards him, his steps strong and sure and hurried. He stepped around men who were dead asleep and others who were waking. He moved aside the men gathering around. They were asking questions, they had concerns, but Beowulf pushed past them all, moving them aside one by one until he was at Hinrik’s side.
He knelt beside his boy, looking him over for injuries. And then Beowulf was struck by Hinrik’s eyes. The confusion, the pain and anguish. There was anguish there too. “What?” Hinrik asked.
Beowulf blinked at the sudden intrusion of English in this world. It was a shock to the system when he had spent months entrenched in his first language. But Beowulf looked at his son who was looking at him for guidance. For a brief moment he was reminded of the little boy that Hinrik used to be. He was reminded of the little boy that used to hold onto his leg begging for protection when Bryn was chasing him.
Carefully Beowulf gripped Hinrik’s shoulder. “”Norse, son,” he said gently. And then Hinrik seemed to melt, collapsing in on himself in a way that Beowulf hadn’t seen since he was a little boy. Tears fell from his boy’s eyes and Beowulf gently gathered Hinrik close. Beowulf didn’t like to see his son so distraught. He leaned close, holding Hinrik as close as he had when he’d been a boy. “Papa’s here.”
