by zane
It all started, like things usually do, when I woke up; tangled in my bed sheets and in midair, falling out of my bed and onto the floor.
They were singing. Just like yesterday, the day before yesterday, last week – couldn't they just stop, once in a while? Personally, when I sing, I get tired of it and want to stop soon after I begin, but no, they wouldn't stop.
In a burst of compulsiveness, I decided to go over to Herot and give those- those loud-mouthed drunks a piece of my mind!
I pulled on some proper clothing and marched out of my cottage's door, and walked along the path into town.
No more than ten feet away from Herot I came upon two conclusions: the first was that, well, maybe telling those irritating nuisances to be quiet wasn't that great of an idea. The second was that, as I tripped over a branch lying on the ground and hit my head against Herot's door, I was definitely clumsy.
I picked myself up, dusted my nice clothing off, and opened the door. Immediately, noise burst out at me, and I almost flew backwards. "These walls really must have some sort of magical power, to keep most of the noise in," I murmured, looking with respect at the walls.
I then realized that I was in Herot, so I needed to do what I came for. "Hello?" I asked meekly. Nobody paid attention. "Hello?" I asked a little bit louder; still, nobody turned.
"HELLO!" I yelled, rapidly becoming annoyed. No audible response.
Furious, I walked to the nearest table, grabbed a glass of mead from a large, burly man, and threw it at the wall. At the sound of glass breaking, everyone turned towards me, curious.
I blushed; now that everyone's attention was on me, I was startled at my sudden streak of violence. I shook the embarrassment off and spoke up. "Er, hello. I live over in the forest, and I was wondering-"
A man on the other side of the room suddenly stood up, almost unable to stand. "He'sh a pagan!" he yelled, slamming his glass down. "Lemme at him-"
I shuddered; my mother once told me about people like him, with no respect for people whose beliefs are different from theirs. "Yes, I am. But that's beside the point. I was wondering, do you all think you could possibly please tone down the noise somewhat? Your singing and yelling have been interrupting my sleep, and I just wanted to-"
The drunk stumbled towards me, reaching to a sword attached to his belt. I stepped back, not wanting a confrontation. I then realized that that was why I came to Herot. "Please, sir, I don't mean any trouble-"
The violent drunk blearily looked at me, sword in hand. "You'sh better shtay away! Thish here ish Herot, and we don't take kindly to any Pagansh!"
I bit my lip. "Really, sir, I-"
He swung his sword at me. I gasped and jumped away, hitting a table. "I'm Lord Higlac, and I don't want any complaintsh about your fate!" At this, he hiccupped.
I stood straight, attempting to look at kingly as I could. "Now, really! I haven't done anything more than ask for a bit of compassion, and you try to kill me!" The men in the bar ignored me and began chattering loudly.
Higlac waved his sword in the air, coming towards me. "Come back here!" he yelled. I ducked under the table I was next to as he swung his sword down. The table above me was almost completely cracked in two.
At this, I got mad.
"You- you big bully!" I kicked at his legs.
He was pulling his sword out of the table, and fell forward, onto the blade.
At the squish of his skin being sliced, and the sudden stench of the intestines being opened, I knew that he had died.
Pale, I got up and ran towards the door, but someone – the very man whose glass I had earlier broken – stepped in front of me.
I looked up… and up… and up. He seemed to be seven feet tall, with an enormous beard and was as wide as a wall.
I gulped.
"You killed my lord," he said in a thundering voice. "Therefore, I shall kill you."
I quickly turned around and searched frantically for another exit. There was none.
He picked up the very sword that had killed Higlac and turned towards me, looking menacing with a scowl on his face. "I am Beowulf. I will destroy you, and your family."
Tears sprang to my eyes – my only family was my mother, and she was old and frail. "Please, don't! My mother- she-"
He smiled, wickedly. "Run. I like a good chase."
I ran. Unfortunately, however, he had hold of my arm.
He stretched it out, and held up the sword.
I closed my eyes, taking a gulp of air.
I could hear the swish of the sword in the air as it made its way towards- towards my arm. And it hit, with a sudden influx of incredible pain.
Gasping, I opened my eyes. Blood ran everywhere – down my arm, onto my cheeks, onto his clothing.
Him- Beowulf; the horrible, despicable excuse for a man… He who looked like a demon, like the devil, like Cain Himself.
He grabbed my other arm. I begged him, trying to reason, "Please, no, no!" but the enormous brute wouldn't listen.
There was a sound much like Higlac's skin opening. I blacked out.
I believe dying wasn't that painful. I mean, sure, it was inevitable; but it was nice, as well.
At least Herot briefly quieted down for a moment or two.
Author's Note:
I am REALLY proud of this story. It's Beowulf from Grendel's point of view (when he was alive, anyways), and was written for an English class. We had to write this, with six kennings (of which I have, somewhere in there) and how the story would be when not from the ever-so modest Beowulf's pov.
This story, altogether, took me about half an hour to write, maybe a bit more/less. If you've read Beowulf, you'll notice that it technically isn't a) in the same format and b) doesn't APPEAR to be about the same Grendel as in the story - but it is. I'd go into how my class analyzed Beowulf and talked about how Grendel was really a Pagan and not a monster, but I really don't want to. Email me if you want to chat about that.
So, uh. Review please?