Maywat's Blog

Panting and dragging himself as best he could, he made

his way toward the cold, dark lake; his sanctuary. Although

his return was not as he had expected, the hero had fought

to what would eventually lead to his death, his arm lost in battle.

The foul stench of victory could be smelt

on the evil knave’s side of the land, and he knew

that he was defeated. His reign had ended. Oh, track down

this murderer indeed! If indeed he was a murderer, then what

a rogue fiend was the man that hath removed his limb

and continued to pursue him. A downright damnable brute

and miscreant! Yet as the blood seeped from his wound,

and the copper scent filled the air, the fallen ace

could feel his decadence enfolding him.

Grendel came bursting through the doors of the underwater

battle-hall, clutching his armless shoulder. Screeching with pain,

he called for his mother. She came to him

and was immediately wrought with concern and hatred

for whatever had impaired her only son, her greatest treasure.

Grendel fell onto his mother, lassitude taking hold of him.

His mother pulled him to a corner and held him

across her lap, where he died.

“Who would have the gall to perform such an act as this?”

Grendel’s mother queried aloud.

“One whom they call Beowulf, I presume. Oh

by my life, I will avenge my son’s death!”

Filled with grief and a kind of vengeance which she had never known,

she set out to find the one called Beowulf.

Climbing from the lake, soaked with water

and aversion, the mother of Grendel made her way

to Herot, where Danes and Geats alike dared to drink to Beowulf’s victory

with light hearts and bright faces. Her hatred thickening,

Grendel’s mother wrenched open the doors of the mighty mead-hall.

Immediately, the light hearts and bright faces

became as heavy and dull as iron, the vibrant presence

of the monster stealing the atmosphere.

“Where is the evil man you hail Hero to my son’s Villain?” she demanded

of a noble-looking Dane to her left. “Where is the foul

creature responsible for my son’s death?” But the Dane could not speak,

for fear had overtaken his throat. Growling with impatience

at the man’s hesitance, Grendel’s mother quelled him with her hands,

snapping his spine into a myriad of pieces.

Screams and anguished cries of those present pierced

the hall. People ran hither and thither in an attempt to escape

the grasp of the distraught mother, afraid of her reaction to the trophy

that hung in plain view. The angry creature bared her teeth at the sight

of her son’s mangled limb hanging from the rafters. Torn

between anger and sorrow, she retrieved the arm and returned to her home

at the bottom of the dark lake.

And she waited, sure that her villain’s oversized ego

would bring him sinking toward her lair. Her expectations

did not fail her, and she spotted Beowulf swimming to

the muddy bottom. At once she attacked him, clawing

at his mail-covered chest. However, it would not give way.

Frustrated at the efficiency of the armor, she carried him away

from their rendezvous. The cursed murderer struggled to arm himself

but to no avail. He soon found himself in a battle-hall so brilliantly lit

that he was blinded for a moment. When he finally regained his sight,

he found his enemy and struck her with his sword.

His strength was apparent in his mighty swing, but no

man-wrought blade could pierce the skin of his great and powerful

foe. The she-wolf let her hatred fill her. It oozed and pulsated

around her so that Beowulf could taste it. She struck him,

tearing and scratching and biting at his armor, destroying his helmet

but nothing else. Her frustration peaking

at the worthiness of her opponent, she fumbled.

At once Beowulf threw Grendel’s mother

to the ground, dominating her. Having dismissed

his weapons as useless, he was using naught but

his body and his strength. The fierce mother returned

to clawing at him, and he stumbled. Truly, the one

whom those filth of men called the strongest

of soldiers could not be this weak? Gaining reassurance

from her prey’s loss of footing, she leaped on top of him,

drawing a blade and stabbing him with it. But his woven mail shirt

saved him once more, and again Beowulf was on his feet. Grendel’s mother

was getting tired of her enemy’s relentless survival,

and was caught off guard when he swung at her with a giant-hammered sword,

the best of all weapons, filled with giant magic. The blade met her neck.

She had failed her son, who laid dead a short ways away. She was unable

to kill Grendel’s murderer, and now she was to be executed

by the very same filth. She had never known dislike as much as then,

but her last thought was for her son. She prayed for his forgiveness

as her bones gave in under the pressure of the giant blade.