Week 12 Story: The Wanderer's Song

You may have heard the tales of Cinderella, of Snow White, and of Beauty and the Beast.  This tale of romance takes inspiration from these but do not expect the dainty princess and charming prince.  This is a clashing of man and beast – lovers who are hearty and monstrous, trained in warfare and battle, to fight without grief or remorse.  This is the tale of Beowulf and to the beast, which he gave his heart: the monster called Grendel…

The first time Beowulf heard of the mysterious creature haunting the hall of Hrothgar, he sat in mountainous Geatsland only two seats down from King Hygelac.  Queen Hygd, the Wise and Fair, took her place beside his favored nephew.  Tales of the North were rare and he looked forward to the bard’s sweet-voice and song.  With only a nod from the greying king silence swept across the merry feast.  Even the children hushed, staring with awe-struck eyes at the figure standing at the King’s side.

After being badgered by eligible women – and men eager to marry their daughters off to such a heroic prince – all evening throughout the festivities of his latest conquest, Beowulf was glad to finally be left alone.  It was tiresome, occasionally, to be such an admired hero.  He wished to see the spotlight shine on another and rest his aching smile.  He understood his responsibilities, although he enjoyed his solitary as well.  So Beowulf settled into his seat, unprepared for the light this song would spark his life.

The Wanderer began with a song detailing the lives of the North, soft sounds of towering mountains and caressing winds.  Then the note of his words changed, drifting into the tales of darkness and horror plaguing the realm of the Danes.  Beowulf perked in his seat as the musician whispered the name which terrorized the bravest of Hrothgar's warriors.

"Grendel." Beowulf whispered, repeating the name under his breath, just to feel the taste of it in his own mouth.  The Wanderer described him as half-man, half-beast and Beowulf's heart raced to imagine so worthy an opponent.  All other men failed to defeat the prince, failed to offer any sort of challenge - but this wondrous creature matched Beowulf in his bloodlust and desire to drive horror into hearts of men.

It was without thought that Beowulf plunged to his feet and declared that he, Prince of the Geats, would defeat this beast.  But, yet, as the crowds cheered around him Beowulf knew that his proclamation was not entirely true.  Even as he slid on his helmet, fingers brushing the black wings of the raven decorating the helm, he knew that his heart was not aching for a great battle.  Fitted only in his very best attire, Beowulf found himself polishing the crest of his namesake furiously as if he needed to catch the eyes of this monster.

When Beowulf arrives, Hrothgar greeted him warmly for even the king of the Danes knew of the hero's strength.  Stories of the prince had spread far and wide, Hrothgar assured him when he saw the surprise on Beowulf's face.  The young man wondered, helplessly, if Grendel himself knew of the deeds carried by Beowulf's name.  He was restless through the feast, through the dances and celebration at the coming of such a great hero.

In the midst of all the drunks and overly-comfortable women, Beowulf thought to himself: What I would give to be free to rampage such as he, Grendel, the nightmare of kings.

And indeed, that night, Beowulf found that freedom in a tainted grin, in the flash of jagged teeth, in empty eyes that understood.  Thunder had been pouring outside since early in the evening, but as the skies began to stop crying, a thick and heavy fog rolled in.  The entire world, it seemed to him, was covered in mist.  It sent a shiver through Beowulf's throat to think of wandering in that silver gauze and never returning, unable to even find his way back.  He was beginning to think that he wouldn't want to when Hrothgar announced an end to the night's festivities.  Beowulf lay in bed for hours, shifting and staring at the locked doors.  They had been shuttered shut, covered in planks and nailed closed.  Hrothgar explained it only ever gave them more time, for Grendel's strength always rivaled even their most clever locksmiths.

The doors creaked momentarily and Beowulf went still.  His blood was a roaring rush in his ears as he waited, unmoving.  Then, wood splintered so silently all he could do was stare at the mist storming in.  He had heard siren songs, before, but none had ever sounded so pretty as the one spilling forth now.  It calmed men deeper into sleep, lulled them into safety as a hand snuck into the great hall and snatched a young boy from his bed.  Beowulf remained like a stone even as the sickening crunch of bones ground together as the child was swallowed.

Slicked with the rain, the figure was turned dark as the shadows.  Only bits - a flash of gnarly claws, a highlighted horn gleaming red, the whites of a strained eye - could be seen in the absence of light, but it was enough to steal the breath from Beowulf's lungs.  He had heard of moments where a man felt the heavy hand of love but never did the warrior think he would feel such an intense rage in his chest.

Grendel was magnificent and Beowulf was in love.

Author's Note: This story is inspired by The Wanderer's Song from The Story of Beowulf by Strafford Riggs with illustrations by Henry Pitz (1933).  I focused it, adding in more detail, specifically about Beowulf.  This story can be read as Beowulf meeting Grendel, whose monstrosity attracts the same beast that lives in Beowulf, and then a small tidbit of their life after escaping the expectations of mankind.

Image from Tumblr