Authors: Arwen Grim
“But Milord-” Wealhtheow began but fell silent when her husband’s soft voice interrupted her.
“’Twas I, Beowulf,” Horthgar muttered. “
I
released the killing beast. For I was a fool and you are right to want to murder me in retribution.”
“Yo-you?” Beowulf sputtered, “
You
… you know not what monster you have released! You cannot
imagine
-”
“I can and I have,” Hrothgar cut in firmly, “Kill me if you must, Beowulf, but what I did… I did for my people… we did not know of your history with Grendel and ‘twas not until I made the deal with the hag that I learned of the truth.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t know of our history?” Wiglaf asked suspiciously, “Beowulf’s ancestor long since consorted with your great grandfather to keep him tied in within those woods!”
“And yet, my great grandfather did not see fit to share the secret of Grendel with any living being,” Hrothgar muttered with a sigh. “He died, simply warning us that there was now a swamp hag we must avoid… for centuries, people believed that she was the only creature within the woods and tales of her beauty and magic spread – she could give anyone anything, people said, for a price.”
“And what did
you
wish for, Milord?” Beowulf asked sharply. “What did you want so much that you paid such a horrid price?!”
“I have no heirs, Beowulf,” Hrothgar murmured. “And ‘tis on for lack of trying… I have bedded scores of women, tried everything I could but… these loins are barren. And I-”
Wealhtheow made a comforting noise and gently placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder.
“He wanted his name to live on, Milord,” she said softly, “That his people may be prosperous and comfortable even after he was gone. He sought out the hag, asked her to keep him eternally alive in the bards’ songs…”
“She tol-told me… she told me to release her son,” Hrothgar’s voice was heavy, “Had I known the truth of what I was doing then, I would have refused instantly. ‘Twas only after Grendel was out that the hag told me, laughing, that I had released the killing beast, the monster who would decimate my people. I would live on in the bards’ songs, but as the
murderer
who brought destruction to them, not the king who would have protected them.”
“Please, Milord Beowulf,” Wealhtheow pleaded, “Please, will you not aid us? Our people suffer… scores have already been killed and we have little to do in the way of keeping ourselves safe. Please…”
Beowulf opened his mouth to answer when a silky, dirty voice interrupted.
“Perhaps his Lordship doesn’t have in him the same strength as his ancestor,” Unferth walked out of the shadows and Wiglaf swore quietly.
“What did you say?” Beowulf growled angrily. “Say it again, I dare you.”
“Do you not have the strength, young Lord?” he sneered, “To take on a monster such as Grendel and fight him even as your great grandfather did? Or are you but a coward, ready to hide behind your mother’s skirt-?”
He was cut off when Beowulf threw him to the wall, lifting him up by the chokehold and holding him tight.
“I am no coward,” he snarled and Unferth coughed, tears filling his eyes as he struggled to breathe.
“Beowulf, stop!” Hrothgar cried, “Please, let him go. I apologize on his behalf. But please, let him go.”
“
Please
, Milord,” Wealhtheow added her own soft plea and with a grunt, Beowulf threw the minister down, spitting on the ground next to him.
“I am no coward,” he said stiffly, “But you, sir, most certainly are.”
Without another word, he turned to the king and queen who were still watching him warily.
“I shall help you,” he announced, “Because that is what a warrior does. Arrange for a celebration within the mead hall.”
“A celebration, Milord?” Wealhtheow was confused. Beowulf offered her a predatory grin and nodded.
“Indeed,” he said, “Grendel is attracted to revelry and noise. We must set a trap for him.”
“And how will you kill him?”
Beowulf didn’t answer, but Wiglaf already knew the truth.
Grendel
couldn’t
be killed – not by sword nor by dagger.
That didn’t mean that Beowulf wouldn’t try.
Beowulf insisted that the only men that remain in the tattered remains of the mead hall be his own. They were loud enough to keep the celebration going, he claimed – all the other men and women were to remain inside their homes, locked and safe. The king and queen also were not to venture out; Unferth had sulkily accepted the edict, even going so far as to offer Beowulf his ancestral sword, claiming that it would protect him and keep him safe. Seeing it for what it was – a peace offering – Beowulf had accepted it and now, he and his men lay inside Heorot, waiting for Grendel to show up.
They were singing at the top of their voices, the fireworks that Hrothgar’s men arranged for being lit up and blown up constantly. All the instruments from the celebration were being played and the men yelling loudly and grunting as they sought all forms of pleasure – mead flowed like water and a number of them were gorging themselves on the delicious bread the Danes had to offer. The Geats were enjoying themselves indeed and it word Wiglaf – how much of the revelery was going to keep them alive?
An hour into the celebration and the proverbial knock on the door came.
BANG.
Grendel banged against the door – hard. The wood shook under his onslaught, the edges splintering and the men froze, turning to Beowulf, who nodded at them tightly.
BANG.
“To arms, men!” he cried and they roared back, getting into position, the goblets toppling out of their hands and onto the floor.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The door shattered, giving way to the power of the monstrous beast and for the first time in his life, Beowulf beheld the sight of the killing beast his ancestor had faced. He was truly a terrifying sight, everything the stories had described him to be – tattered skin, broken and mangled flesh, sunken eyeballs in dirty sockets and long, terrifying fingernails that were dripping with blood.
Behind him, he could hear one of his men groan at the sight, fear clogging their throats. But they were soldiers and warriors and they proved their mettle as his men, charging forward without hesitation. Grendel howled to the moon, racing at them with all the pent up rage he had to offer.
The monster met his soldiers in the middle of the mead hall – he swept his gnarly arm over the ground, throwing a number of them off balance and sent them crashing into the floor. Hondshew’s head struck the wall behind him and even from a distance, Beowulf could see the red wetness pool beneath his bald face. But the man didn’t give up; he lifted himself off the ground and staggering though he was, he let out another battle cry and joined the fray a second time, swinging his sword into Grendel’s leg.
Three of the soldiers launched a untied frontal attack against the monster; Olaf went straight for his throat while his friends tried to bring Grendel down by hitting his knees. The killing beast growled loudly and picked up one of the men hacking away at his foot – picked him up and threw him at two more ready to charge him from the front. The man went flying into his companions and all three men fell to the floor in a dirty heal of broken limbs. Wiglaf watched as a spear went straight through one of them, the blood spurting out like a fountain, spraying the others and covering them in warm, wet red.
Grendel grinned happily and yanked another soldier off the ground – the man was struggling, the spear stuck to his shoulder making it hard from him to fight off the monster. He screamed loudly as Grendel bit into his leg, gnawing off the foot and Beowulf let out a raw-throated yell, finally joining the fray. Wiglaf was right behind him, brandishing his sword over his head, both of them ready to do battle against this ancient foe of their home.
No mortal sword or dagger can kill him…
If neither sword nor dagger nor spear could kill Grendel, then Beowulf would tear him apart with his own
bare
hands.
“Fall back, men!” he yelled loudly, kicking down a bucket of the mead and grabbing a torch from the wall. The combination of hay and the mead would make the place flammable, Wiglaf realized a moment before Beowulf did what he was expecting – he pressed the glowing torch down to the ground, which lit up in a straight line to the killing beast, separating the men from it, offering them cover.
Of course, flames weren’t exactly the best cover possible, but it was better than nothing. Wiglaf’s eyes widened when Beowulf dropped his sword after and then jumped over the flames to fight Grendel with his bare hands.
“Cover me!” he yelled, moving not towards the monster but towards the walls instead. The men stared, confused, but Wiglaf leapt to action instantly – he jumped over the flames himself and brought his sword down on Grendel’s foot, trying to distract him as he watched Beowulf climb across the skyrig with all the grace of a monkey.
The men then understood what they had to – they joined Wiglaf with cries of their own and launched a combined attack against Grendel that had the monster trying to kick them all off of him at once. Olaf threw his spear into the monster’s eye even as Hondshew stabbed his sword between the monster’s legs repeatedly.
Grendel growled, throwing them off of him – Gods, a splitting ache broke through Wiglaf’s back as he smashed against the wall, head lolling to one side. He struggled to get up, but it turned out, he didn’t need to.
Beowulf jumped on to the monster from the top, landing square on its back. Grendel howled, trying to claw at his own skin, attempting to throw off the king of Gotland, but Beowulf hung on tight, yanking at the beast’s head again and again. Grendel growled menacingly and twirled on his foot again and again, trying to make Beowulf dizzy – it seemed to be working, Wiglaf noted, as his Lordship’s grip on the monster loosened and he began to slide off his back.
“NO!”
he roared and yanked himself back up, punching Grendel repeatedly at the top of his head. Slimy, oozing liquid spurted out of the side of his temple and Wiglaf was horrified to realize that it must be the creature’s brain – the red wetness of its blood still coated Wiglaf’s own blade.
Grendel howled in pain, grabbing the random tables and chairs and goblets lying around the mead hall and threw them at his own head, trying to get Beowulf off of him. Seeing that he had no choice, the king leapt off his back, throwing himself to the rigs on top of the mead hall a second time, using the ropes holding the curtains back to swing to the side and then land right back on top of the growling Grendel. He wrapped the rope around the creature’s side, even as the monster shrieked in agony and moved about like a startled bull, trying to throw him off.
“
Now
, men!” Beowulf screamed and the men roared back, launching an attack of spears and swords – they threw their weapons at Grendel, who, caught as he was in the rope, could do little more than duck down, taking Beowulf with him. The distraction was enough for the warrior to completely wrap the rope around the creature’s arms and he jumped off its back, holding to one end of the rope tightly and running back to where the men were waiting.
The fire was beginning to blaze now, trapping them all inside the mead hall. From the outside, Wiglaf could hear the cries of the Danes, calling for the Geats to be safe and praying for them to return home. Ignoring them all, Wiglaf grabbed the end of the rope that Beowulf offered him and ran to the opposite side.
They now were in a literal tug of war with the monster, Beowulf on one side, Grendel on the other, both of them pulling and pulling.
“To arms, men!” Wiglaf cried and instantly, the seven men accompanying them took their positions on either side, splitting to join them.
Grendel howled to the moon in agony as they pulled on his limb, tearing it apart from side to side.
“
Mo-mo-motha-mot
-” his voice was strangely humanoid and Wiglaf’s spine chilled as he realized –
the monster was calling for its mother.
His terrified eyes met Beowulf’s across the monster’s body and in his Lord’s face, Wiglaf saw that Beowulf too, had figured it out.
Fortunately, it seemed like the rest of the men were as yet clueless. Wiglaf offered Beowulf a nod – it was time to end this, before things turned even nastier than they already were.
With another raw throated yell, Beowulf yanked on the rope hard and Wiglaf let go, motioning for his men to do the same. Beowulf and the men on his side ducked – Grendel’s big body, propelled by the momentum, flew over their heads, smashing against the still open door, falling to the other side. As it sailed past him, Beowulf grabbed the end of the rope and then yanked back – Grendel was once again pulled in the opposite direction, his arm sliding against the door clean enough even as Beowulf slammed it shut.
The creature’s arm slid down, cleanly cut off, blood dripping from the side. Beowulf threw the door open – Grendel lay there, groaning and bleeding.
“Beowulf!” Wiglaf yelled and threw him his sword – the warrior caught it without fanfare and jumped forward to kill the monster –
- only to have Grendel howl and throw him off, surging to his enormous feet and running off into the woods.
“I’m going after him, protect the people!” Beowulf called to Wiglaf. Before his second in command could reply, the king of Gotland took off after the beast, chasing it into the woods.
He followed it all the way into the swamp – for a creature as massive as he was, the killer beast could run. Blood dripped along his path, creating a clear trail and Beowulf stopped worrying about losing him in the dark; he’d be able to track him if he had to.
But the entire chase was for naught – when finally the warrior came to the middle of the swamp, Grendel lay there, unconscious and broken, his mangled form sinking into the dirty mud. Beowulf hesitated, wondering what he should do.
Should he chase after the monster, so clearly beaten down and broken, and possibly dead as he sunk into the swamp? Or should he return, not quite victorious but nonetheless undefeated? ‘Twas possible that Grendel could survive the grievous wound Beowulf had dealt him today and if he did, he would return, ready to hurt more innocent people.
No,
he decided,
even if Grendel escaped the wounds, he cannot escape the swamp.