She awoke with a start, desperately digging her palms into her eyes to clear away the nightmares that lingered in her waking mind.
Be brave, and be quiet…when I tell you, run for the city…do not cry, do not stop…
What is it, little one? Where did you come from? Where is your mother?
She is not safe here…it knows her scent, it will hunt her down…take her to Meduseld…Hear ye people, I do take the child Wealtheow as my ward, to be my daughter and a member of my family so long as my house shall last…
A sharp reproachful bark tore the images from her mind, and she looked up to see Beow sitting by her pallet like one of the watch-wolves of myth, his slanted golden eyes regarding her with piercing concern. She wrapped her little arms about his neck, sobbing into his thick fur. He remained still and strong until her tears subsided.
"It's me, isn't it?" she whispered. "I'm why the Grendel came…I'm why he comes to the mead-hall…"
Beow listened intently. She clung tighter. "Who am I, Beow? I can't be one of the Scyldings, I'm not even sure of my name--"
All of a sudden, Beow's ears cocked toward the sleeping-room door. Seizing Wealtheow's collar in his teeth, he sprang up and pulled her behind the statue of the King of old. Théoden's left hand was on his sword, his right arm thrust forward in protective warning. The footsteps in the hall were audible now, heavy and wet, as if Leviathan himself had climbed to Edoras. The air was heavy with the odours of blood and yellowstone, filth and ash…
Boom.
The sleepers on their pallets stirred slightly, but none awoke.
Boom.
Deep cracks rent the ornate door-carvings asunder like lightning-bolts. The walls shuddered.
Boom.
With the roar of a thousand splinters bursting, the door shattered, and the shadow-beast entered, swiftly and silently as a cloud over the moon.