Grendel lay there, unconscious and broken, his mangled form sinking into the dirty mud. Beowulf hesitated, wondering what he should do.
Should he chase after the monster, so clearly beaten down and broken, and possibly dead as he sunk into the swamp? Or should he return, not quite victorious but nonetheless undefeated? ‘Twas possible that Grendel could survive the grievous wound Beowulf had dealt him today and if he did, he would return, ready to hurt more innocent people.
No, he decided, even if Grendel escaped the wounds, he cannot escape the swamp.
For the killing beast was fast sinking into the mud, low groans and moans escaping his gnarly lips.
“Mo-mo-mamot-” he was mumbling under his breath and a part of Beowulf – the humane part that loved children and pure women – ached to hear it. In the anguished sound, he could hear Kanin, the brother who had murdered his own because he was lost and terrified.
No, he would not further the beast’s agony. He was a warrior, but he was not cruel. Grendel would sink into the swamp and suffocate to death – what use would it be for him to jump in after and try to kill the beast, already so clearly destined for hell?
With a quiet sigh, he saluted Grendel and turned back in the direction from which he had come, running back to his people and the Danes. His task was accomplished – he had done as Hrothgar and Wealhtheow had asked, protected the Danes and kept Grendel at bay. There was nothing more for him to do here.
So he returned to Daner, victorious.
That very night, when the moon was at her highest and the darkness spread under the canopy of the trees, deep within the woods, something – a shadow, a silhouette, something more – moved, unseen, but waiting…
Always waiting.
Chapter 6 - Revelry
Daner welcomed him back with open arms. The people fawned over the great warrior that had defeated the terrifying monster that had been haunting their homes and Hrothgar bowed low in his gratitude.
“Thank you,” he murmured, voice shaking and tears in his eyes as he clasped Beowulf’s hands, “Thank you. You have done us a great service and we will never forget it.”
“Thank you, Milord,” Wealhtheow repeated her husband’s words and leaned in to place a soft kiss on Beowulf’s cheek.
“’Twas of no consequence,” the hero muttered, blushing and drew back quickly. Wiglaf watched in quiet amusement as Beowulf staggered over himself. For all that he was a strong and brave warrior, his Lord could really not handle much interaction with people; he could turn into a bashful boy at the drop of a hat and it never failed to amuse the younger man.
“Quiet you,” Beowulf snapped as Wiglaf chortled. Grumpily, he turned away, coming face to face with the arm of Grendel that hung high on a pike in the middle of the hall.
“Tonight,” Hrothgar announced, “Tonight, my lads and lasses, we shall celebrate the death of the monster that has haunted us for so long! Our gratitude, Milord Beowulf, for all that you have done for us – without your aid, we would have been decimated by that killing beast!”
He raised his goblet to the skies and pulled Beowulf forward, “To Beowulf!” he cried.
“To Beowulf,” the rest of the Danes answered, pitching their own goblets up in response and Beowulf bowed low to show his respect.
“Go on then, lad,” Hrothgar slapped him on the back, “Enjoy the revelry! Drink mead, bed a couple of whores, enjoy yourself!”
Wiglaf wriggled his eyebrows at Beowulf who chuckled and nodded.
“As you wish, Milord,” he said graciously. “But we must depart on the morrow… Gotland awaits our return with bated breath and I… well, I have a responsibility to my people.”
Hrothgar’s glee quickly became subdued at the reminder of Beowulf’s impending coronation.
“That’s right, lad,” he murmured, “You are to be the ruler. Accept my condolences on the loss of Headred. He was a good man and a good king.”
“You will be
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