Author's Notes: A reprinting if you will of the first story I ever put on FFN, though not the first fanfic I ever wrote. I wrote it for a class in high school and put it up, where it has had slight success, but as it is Beowulf I was not expecting much to be honest. The end product is reward enough. Anyway, I need to take my name off of this site and everything, and this needed a proper introduction, so here it is I suppose.
Disclaimer: Unlike most things on this site, no disclaimer is needed for this story, as although I do not own Beowulf, neither does anyone else, as it was written in ancient English. (This means Old English, a language that looks nothing like our own English and in fact more like a cross of Celtic and German. Shakespeare wrote in New English, this is before that and before Middle English. In other words, whoever originally wrote the epic poem has been dead for a very long time. )
So anyway, that ends the history lesson, please enjoy…
Wiglaf
It was high summer in the land of the Geats
When word reached the great king
Of a horror in the north.
An army of winged women, possessed by birds,
Plagued the villages in nearby lands,
Moving southward, toward his home.
But the Great King Wiglaf, son of Torbin,
Mentee of Beowulf, was never afraid.
He had faced down dragons and trolls,
Chimeras and acromantulas,
Ligers and kelpies,
And come back with only scratches
For all the work of his enemies.
So it was with confidence that Wiglaf,
The most noble warrior,
Set out for the lands of the north
With only six of his men.
He wished he could fight alone,
But he was bound by tradition
And his own desire for proof of his greatness
To bring along some to aid him in his quest.
So the party set sail for the northern lands
Where was next expected the vicious creatures would attack.
And there he was truly greeted as a king.
He and his men were served the finest wine
And the best meat and bread the hosts could find.
They and their hosts drank and made merry.
And the next day they heard the flapping
Of thrice a hundred wings
Making their way towards the hall.
And Wiglaf, honored son of Torbin,
Told the warriors of the host land
To stay in the hall.
He was to fight alone if he had his way
But if he could not
As he was a mere mortal man
His men only would fight with him.
So he and his men departed the hall.
They strode nobly towards the sound
Of beating wings on beasts.
As they neared the farmland northeast of the hall
Other sounds became clear
Between the beating wings.
There were sounds of crunching bones, of dying stock,
Of claws and teeth shredding flesh.
And as they reached the top of the next hill,
They saw the harpies, half and one hundreds in number.
Creatures larger than they,
Women with fierce yellow eyes,
Sharpened teeth and talons,
And great gray wings.
Hair and feathers flew about them
As they devoured the stock of the farms
On the outskirts of the towns.
A few of the monsters raised their heads
Then more and more
Until all were looking about
Trying to find the source of the scene
Of fresh human blood.
Then the largest of them all arose from the flock.
She scanned the surrounding area
With those horrid yellow eyes
That would have frightened a lesser man
Than the brave King Wiglaf.
She searched the area
With those eyes and her beaklike nose
Until she found the scent
And narrowed her eyes on the great hero of the Geats.
Their eyes seemed to meet.
But it was only for mere seconds
Before she raised her arm
And pointed two clawed fingers
Towards the mentee of Beowulf.
Then she, the obvious leader of the flock,
Threw her head back and let out a piercing sound
Between a siren's call and a bird's screech.
The others lifted their heads,
Their mouths red from the blood of hogs and sheep,
And turned their heads in the direction of their leader's fingers.
They saw the heroes and all rose into the air.
The leader let out another screech
And as one, the lesser harpies speed through the air,
Towards the fresh blood.
Wiglaf drew his sword and gave a signal for his men
To draw weapons as well.
Though Wiglaf was a proud fighter,
He knew he could not stand to live
In a fight against so many.
As the first of the harpies drew near.
Mighty Wiglaf raised his sword
And slashed through the bodies of four harpies at once.
While his men fought valiantly
One on one with harpy after harpy,
Great Wiglaf seemed to be invincible.
He moved with the grace of a great cat,
Slaying his prey, the birds.
He ducked around their slashing claws
And avoided the sharp teeth.
The women scratched at his shield and his armor
But could not reach his flesh.
Wave after wave of them came at Wiglaf and his men,
And all were slain
Until there were but a few left alive.
It was then, that the harpy leader
Moved from her position behind the ranks,
Commanding them from afar.
Her rage was tangible
And the air was thick with hatred.
She shot forward, straight at Wiglaf.
The other harpies left the Geat's king,
Leaving him for their leader, they went for his men,
But were quickly slain.
Until there was only one.
Wiglaf motioned for his men to stay back.
This would be a one-on-one battle,
Harpy and man, queen and king.
She attacked, her hands flying, claws slashing at shield and air.
He raised his sword and swung it at the harpy
But she was as evasive as he.
They ducked each other's advances
Until at last, the claws, long and sharp,
Broke through the shield.
With nothing left between them,
She was more open to attacks
And he had less guard against hers.
Their battle became a dance,
As they circled each other
Their weapons clashing,
Hers natural, his external.
Until his sword finally met her body.
He slashed her across the stomach
And she fell from the air.
She lay motionless on the ground.
And breathed no more.