The First Battle of Beowulf
Each great slayer of dark-spawn,
must have a start of sorts.
Even brave Beowulf was once but a babe.
When the Geat princeling was growing,
his jaw still smooth,
he ventured from his father's hall
to elevated ranges, the mountain spine,
which bordered nearby lands.
Much had been made of a threat hidden
within the stones and trees.
Men vanished and danger lurked
behind each boulder.
Beowulf went forth,
a fresh, plain bronze clenched in his palm.
He charged the house of clouds, heady
with the crunch of gravel beneath his feet.
High and wide searched the impetuous youth,
mutilating the monsters of his mind.
The sky's light moved its course
and the quest of the youth seemed in vain.
Not more than a red-coat vixen
did the young hero spy.
Where was his beast for the slay?
How was Beowulf to make his fame
when a fox was all his battle-ready soul
could find to fight?
The boy set down his sword
beaten and bothered by the lack.
His arms pillowed his youth-smooth cheek
and the failed slayer sank to sleep.
The morning rose over peaks of stone and snow
the Geatling roused, ready
for return to hearth and hall.
He made his walk downhill, slogging
through drifts and rise of frozen sky's tears.
All was still; all was calm, quite uneventful.
It was mid-way down the mountain
that Beowulf was when sounds
of crashing, crunching,
a thunderous cacophony,
rang through Beowulf's head.
He turned, alarm in his eyes
to find the trees falling, stones crumbling,
a path being sliced through the steep slope.
Beowulf grabbed for his steel, heels bracing
into the earth as the beast came upon him.
It was a massive monster,
scaled and slick with snowmelt.
Beheld the boy Beowulf a tail,
thick as the trunk of his father,
grasped in the maw of the beast.
The being shaped himself into a circle,
a hoop of sinew and flesh and scale.
Purple eyes of malice narrowed upon the hero-to-be.
Trembling with terror, Beowulf
drew forth his battle-stick,
directing the peak to the scaly swine.
The wyrm released its squared jaw
the tail unfurled and it stretched,
brandishing itself as all of one weapon.
It leaned its bearded and horned head
the maw opened with dripping strands of spittle
and it roared to shake the stones themselves.
The son of Ecgtheow, knees wobbling weak,
rushed the creature, bronze clutched in trembling fist.
The mountains clanged as metal struck scale
the hoop snake roared with fury.
The blade glanced the hard scales,
sparking as it spun from Beowulf's hands.
The boy ran for the lost weapon,
desperately dragging feet too clumsy.
The snake bit his tail and gave chase.
Landscape gave way as it rolled,
crushing a crevice in the cirque.
On the ground scrabbled Beowulf
hopeless for his hilt, hand
closing only onto air.
And onwards the snake oscillated,
ready with weight to smother
our hapless hero as he fell,
hitting hard the ground,
shoulder bruising, side screaming.
Crying out for the pain,
Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow,
looked up to see the villain closing in.
The gap between them shortened,
and the youth dove, coveting asylum.
But as he brought his hands to head for shield
the fingers brushed cold edge.
A desperate twist brought up the blade.
The evil rotator could not cease with haste
his underbelly pierced itself, impaled upon
a roll onto hardened edge.
The weight crushed the child,
who gasped for pain and victory.
Bare-handed the boy bore home his bounty.
A scale he saved for all time,
a safeguard to his heart
too strong for any sharp.
And so ends the first battle of the greatest of Geats:
Beowulf.