“Meanwhile, Beowulf gave zero shits. He dressed himself in glittering gear, his mail-shirt finely forged, links locked and loaded. He’d meet this murdering mother under mere, and amend her existence. Even if she tried to smother him, his bone-cage would stay intact. No weakness here. His helmet, bright against the bleak backdrop, would save his skull from the watery substrate, from the black mud 1450 and curious currents—hammered gold for a glamour-god, made by one long gone, jewels and boar-shaped ornaments imbued by the smith with power to keep other men from dying. No battle-teeth could test it, no sword slice that shine. Gold is good.”
―
Maria Dahvana Headley,
Beowulf: A New Translation
