When we see who wins, we’ll know who’s got God’s favor. 440 If it’s Grendel—I’ll be a mere chapter in his gory story. He’ll feast on Geats, ripping my men limb from limb, and I won’t be there to protect them. I’ll be dead, too, cheekbones chewed and face forgotten, my body dragged to his lair, where he’ll fare alone on my severed head, make a banquet of my flesh, he and I, alone again, naturally. Don’t cry for this broken boy, don’t lay out what’s left of me.
