Narrative Essay On Beowulf
I live my days on a cold and gloomy swamp that lies on the edge of King Hrothgar’s kingdom. This is my home, the only place I feel safe. My father and I have been persecuted our entire lives by the people of the kingdom. They give us trouble because we are the descendents of Cain, the first human to commit murder, who killed his brother Abel. The citizens describe us as hideous, ruthless, clawed monsters. The king was disgusted with my father so much that he had him executed, twelve long years ago. Every night I come to King Hrothgar’s mead-hall and try to attack him and avenge my father’s death. Despite my best efforts, I’ve failed every time and my rancor only builds inside me. Last night’s attempt on Hrothgar’s life proved not to be entirely in vain. As I ran back to my swamp, through the kingdom, I heard a rumor that Hrothgar had hired a warrior, Beowulf, to kill me when I attack the mead hall the next night. This Beowulf bufoon will have traveled an expansive distance to get here, which means
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Now, not only did I hate the king for killing my father, I hated Beowulf for taking my limb. Now I knew I would never be able to defeat King Hrothgar after sustaining this injury.
Three nights passed while I laid in my large nest. I received a terminal infection in my shoulder from my injury. I knew exactly what was to happen to me next, but I felt something inside me that was different from resentment. I realized something. That brave warrior, Beowulf, was right. I should have stopped trying to kill the king long ago and moved on with life. I wasted 12 years of my life trying to avenge my father’s death, and I ultimately lost my own life in the process. As I layed in my comfortable, mossy nest, I looked up towards my den’s ceiling.
“I’m sorry father, for spending my last years this way. I apologize King Hrothgar, for causing your kingdom so much trouble,” I whispered as I closed my eyes, one last
Now, not only did I hate the king for killing my father, I hated Beowulf for taking my limb. Now I knew I would never be able to defeat King Hrothgar after sustaining this injury.
Three nights passed while I laid in my large nest. I received a terminal infection in my shoulder from my injury. I knew exactly what was to happen to me next, but I felt something inside me that was different from resentment. I realized something. That brave warrior, Beowulf, was right. I should have stopped trying to kill the king long ago and moved on with life. I wasted 12 years of my life trying to avenge my father’s death, and I ultimately lost my own life in the process. As I layed in my comfortable, mossy nest, I looked up towards my den’s ceiling.
“I’m sorry father, for spending my last years this way. I apologize King Hrothgar, for causing your kingdom so much trouble,” I whispered as I closed my eyes, one last