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and swam back to her lair. It would be best to watch from below if she did not want to be seen. She returned Grendel's poor lost arm to his body. What should she do with him? But now was not yet the time. She had to wait, to see this through. She stepped back into the water and swam out to the mouth of the cave.
                  She peered upwards through the depths and toward the surface so far away. Her dragons tumbled around her, but she put up a hand when they tried to pull her into their knot, and they kept their distance. Something caught their attention up above, and they shot away towards it. She strained to se e — was that a figure? A man, swimming downwards? It was. A large man. It was Beowulf, of course. Who else would it be? He was swimming powerfully, but the weight of his sword and chain mail was also pulling him down swiftly. Any normal man would have feared drowning, plunging into a deep lake fully dressed and armed, but this one seemed to be using it to his advantage.
                  The sea dragons converged on him, curious, playful, and perhaps a bit menacing. They swirled and snapped. He punched one in the nose and slashed at another with his sword. They twined themselves around his arms and legs. Sigrun felt a strange frisson of pleasure at the sight of the hero bound by her dragons. But it might be best for her to interfere. She swam out to meet the roiling mass. She seized the warrior by his belt, shooed away the beasts, and pulled him toward the cave. Surely he was almost out of air. She glanced at his face to see if he was still conscious, and his eyes were open and alert. She pushed him through the opening, and they both swam up to the surface of the pool.
                  He took a few deep breaths and then dragged himself up the steps. She hopped out after him. Dripping wet, breathing heavily, he began to hoist up his sword for an attack, but Sigrun punched him in the face, sending him staggering back a step. The brief loss of balance gave her all the opportunity she needed to kick his sword from his hand and knock him to the floor. She jumped on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his hands with hers. He was a very strong man — she could feel it as he struggled to free his arms from her grasp — but she had grown strong, too.
                  Yet he was a very good fighter, far more experienced than she. He planted his feet and bucked her off of him, freeing a hand and sending her to the floor. He regained his blade and swung it in a deadly, hacking arc at her neck. And it bounced off her dragon skin collar as though it were a wooden toy. She rolled away, leaped to her feet, and swept up her own sword.
                  "I think mine will work better against you than yours against me," she smiled, lunging forward and slashing at his chest. He jumped back, but she still opened up several links of chain-mail across his breast. "But I have no quarrel with you, Beowulf. You killed my dear Grendel, but I blame Hrothgar — and Grendel himself — for that. We do not need to fight."
                  Beowulf, frowning at the hole in his mail, kept his sword at the ready. "You asked for this fight, I'm afraid, when you killed Aeschere. And I promised Hrothgar that I would avenge that loss."
                  "Hrothgar does not deserve your service."
                  "He is a great and noble king."
                  "He is a terrible king! A terrible, selfish, foolish king!"
                  Beowulf took advantage of this moment when Sigrun's anger flared. Well aware of the uselessness of his sword, he threw it at her head. She ducked, but it caught one of the horns on her helmet, knocking it back, and he barreled into her, knocking her down and trying to wrest her sword from her grasp. Her helmet came off in the tussle, and Beowulf paused for a tiny moment at the sight of her streaming