Hrothgar's words echoed in my head like sharpened knives, and continued to haunt me days later. I couldn't think properly. I couldn't sleep; every time I closed my eyes my mind drifted into the realm of nightmares.

Last night I'd hardly slept at all, too terrified by the nightmare that had woken me up.

In the dream, Ingrid stood on a bridge over a ravine and waved for me to join her. I ran towards her, the bridge shaking under my weight. My arms reached to embrace her, and she smiled.

Instead, at the last second, I shoved her over the edge and into the darkness below. I glanced at my hands to find that they'd grown larger and my skin had turned rough and gray. I realized with horror that I had turned into a troll before the rickety bridge gave out from under me, and I fell into the depths. I woke up gasping, my stomach clenched in fear and my forehead broken into a sweat.

The most infuriating part of it all was that I couldn't even escape my thoughts through training, as I usually did. Not until my leg was healed enough anyway, and that wouldn't be for a few days yet.

"Almost done," Helga said, as she applied fresh wrappings to my wound. I saw the stern young girl daily to check on my injury, and make sure I was healing right.

We never exchanged many words, and she always had a fresh scowl for me, yet all the same I found I enjoyed Helga's company. She was certainly the most honest person I'd yet to meet at Heorot, never mind the fact that she was the only one willing to approach me.

I hissed as she wrapped the cloth a little too tight. "Careful," I snapped. She didn't acknowledge my comment, but began to loosen the wrappings slightly.

"I would have thought someone with troll blood would have a higher tolerance for pain," She said. It was the first time she had attempted to initiate a conversation with me. I arched a brow.

"I may be hard to cut, but I bleed like anyone else," I muttered in reply. I hesitated to ask her more. I wanted as much information as I could get about the trolls, but most of the Danes wouldn't even look at me, much less answer questions. Even if she only glared, I had to at least ask Helga what she knew.

"Have you heard anything of the troll's leader- Grendel?" I asked. The name tasted strange in my mouth, like a curse or an accusation.

Helga glanced up to me briefly before focusing back on her work.

"No," She answered shortly. I thought that would be all I'd get from her, but after a moment she continued. "No one knows much," She said. "I don't think he's ever come himself on an attack- he just sends out the others." She shrugged. "He must be smart, though, to bring all the trolls together. That's never happened before."

Grendel. I tossed the name around in my head, fear mingling with the inevitable curiosity. It had never occurred to me before that there could be other half-trolls like me, but now that I knew, the idea consumed me.

Did he look like me? Had he ever lived amongst humans as I did? Which of his parents was a troll? Despite all of the evil he'd done here, I'd die just for the chance to ask him all of my questions.

One particular thought burrowed deep in my mind, pestering me to no end. Here, amongst the humans, I was treated like a freak, an abomination- did the trolls really not care if one of their own was half human? I tried to picture it, but just couldn't.

"There," Helga said, tying a tight knot to make sure the wrappings didn't come undone. "Should last you at least til tomorrow."

"Thank you," I told her. She gave a terse nod in response, and with that I made my way out of the infirmary.

It was late in the evening, as my growling stomach so keenly reminded me, and I headed towards the Great Hall for dinner. Using my crutch, I wobbled precariously down the halls, cursing my leg all the way there.

I wasn't of much use to anyone in my current state. I was a quick healer, but it would be a good week before my leg was completely healed. It was frustrating, but necessary. I needed to be in peak condition before facing against another troll.

The thought made me feel depressed. That was two fights now that I had lost, and lost badly. The first against the troll, and the second against Siegfried.

I hadn't done much damage other than knocking him unconscious, or so I'd heard. He'd been knocked out cold for only a day before waking up fully recovered. Meanwhile, here I was, stuck with a bum leg for a good two weeks. I avoided him at all costs, and so far I'd succeeded in evading any awkward meetings. The shame and humiliation of the holmgang still weighed on me, and I refused to acknowledge it.

I entered the Great Hall. My men sat at a table nearby, already attacking their meal with gusto, and I went to join them.

I was met with a chorus of greetings and encouragements as I sat down and waved to a serving girl to bring me food.

"How's the leg, Captain?" Erik asked once I was settled. He was concerned but also disappointed, I suspected; with my leg injured, I wouldn't be able to train him in swordplay any time soon.

"Well enough," I replied with a frustrated sigh. "Perhaps a week more and I'll be back on my feet." A stout woman carefully placed a plate of mutton and cup of ale in front of me, and I dove into it like a starving man, letting the men talk amongst themselves.

It seemed that they'd been spending their time with the Danish warriors the past few days, and had learned a bit more of Heorot's situation. Dag's wrinkles deepened with worry at talk of the attack, while men like Olaf lit up with eager grins.

I smirked quietly into my cup; I doubted that Dag would ever fully comprehend the pure glee a Norseman felt at the prospect of battle. However, I feared that his caution was correct- my men, unlike Hrothgar's- had yet to fight the trolls.

"Wait til I get my hands on one of them," Olaf boasted loudly, puffing up his large chest. "I'll take my axe and then I'll-" He cut himself off, his eyes landing on something across the hall. "Hey, look who it is," He said, lowering his voice and nudging Dag with his shoulder.

I turned around in my seat and then immediately turned back before someone else caught me looking. Siegfried had walked into the hall and taken a seat a few tables away. I grit my teeth as the other men chuckled to themselves and began to gossip like old maids.

"I heard he's from Skerith," Olaf said conspiratorially to the others. "It's no wonder he never speaks- the winter up there must have frozen his tongue off!"

That got a laugh out of them, but I wasn't interested in hearing about his history.

"Is he a sorcerer?" I asked, leaning forward. "That must have been some sort of magic he used in the duel, I swear!" I took a deep swig from my mug. "He's the one who should have been disqualified."

"I don't know, Captain," Dag said, scratching his head. "I haven't heard a word about it, but I figure you must be right. Ain't nothing else that it could have been."

"No way," Olaf burst in, shaking his head vehemently. "Doesn't strike you as the sorcerer type, does he? He must be part elf. Elves are fantastic healers."

Dag smacked the back of his head. "That's nixies, you idiot."

A raucous argument ensued about the proper identification of elves, and which creatures were the most magical. So much for learning how on earth Siegfried had healed himself in the holmgang.

"I know what it is," Erik piped up from the end of the table. All heads instantly swiveled towards him.

"And how do you know such a thing?" Dag pressed him, clearly doubtful.

Erik shrugged. "I asked."

Olaf nearly spit out his mead. "You asked? Asked whom?"

"Siegfried."

Now he had everyone's attention, mine included. He puffed up his chest slightly, growing confident with all of the sudden attention.

"And he told you? Just like that?"

"That's right," Erik replied nonchalantly. "He's really not as intimidating as you lot seem to think. In fact, he-"

"Who cares about all that?" Olaf interrupted impatiently. "What sort of magic was it? He's part elf, isn't he?"

"No," Erik said, a smug look on his face. He proceeded to take a long drink of mead, keeping the men in suspense. He could feel smug on his own time, but I needed answers. I banged a fist on the table, causing several men to jump and Erik to choke on his drink.

"Enough fooling around," I admonished him. "Tell us what it is."

After he stopped coughing, he pouted in my direction but did as I asked.

"He killed a dragon," Erik said, sounding somewhat disappointed that I'd stolen his moment.

A few of the men laughed, some looked skeptical, and still others looked astonished. The common belief in Geatland was that the last of the dragons had been killed or driven out a hundred years ago. By my own great grandfather, in fact. Ulrich the Tall had been a particularly paranoid ruler, and his campaign had practically hunted the dragons to extinction.

But if it was true that Siegfried was from Skerith... Well, if there really were any dragons left, it would make sense for them to be in the most remote place in the kingdoms.

"Even if that were true," I said. "How does that have anything to do with that magic he used during the holmgang?"

Erik's brows rose incredulously, and many of the others gave me similar looks.

"Really, Captain?" He asked. "How much have you heard about dragons?"

My cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Admittedly, not much. The few lessons I'd managed to sit through as a child had been geography or history or Norse- respected, scholarly subjects. Father would have been outraged if his daughters had been taught the sort of peasant superstitions that he so disdained.

What little I did know of such things was from the stories of bards that had travelled through Geatland, but Volsung had also never had much tolerance for bards who sang of such fanciful tales. He'd always favored the ones who'd sung the praise of Geatland and its history.

Sensing my embarrassment, Dag quickly went into the answer.

"Dragon's blood is a powerful thing, Captain," He explained, the others nodding along. "Drink but one drop, and you'll become invincible."

I glanced back to where Siegfried was sitting across the hall, having dinner amongst the other Danes. Invincible. Exactly how I'd always felt until that troll had shattered my arrogance.

"Are you saying he can't be killed?" I asked.

"Invincible, not immortal," Dag said between swigs of ale. He took a long gulp and put down his mug, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Something can kill him, I'm sure. Though the legends don't say nothing about that."

What indeed? I wondered, recalling how I'd stabbed him right in the gut without inflicting any damage. If a man couldn't be killed by sword or spear, then he might as well be immortal.

Siegfried suddenly turned and caught me looking. I quickly turned my head away, gritting my teeth.

Invincible, huh? I took a long drink from my mug and slammed it back on the table.

No one was invincible.