The Song of the Danes

{Another story written in English class. My friend (Ghostee) and I paired up on this one again. This is how we think Beowulf should have gone...}

An exaltation of song flooded the sodden cavern. To the Danes, it was a melody that one might abide in with comfort. Yet to the mangled beast, its hymn was of pandemonium. A song of celebration, of triumph, of God. A white fire coursed through his veins, sending a tidal wave of vexation to his tainted soul.

The grotto shuddered, as the slumbering form released a heavy breath. His movements were like claps of silent thunder, and his frustration allowed for the growth of new strength. However when he tried to move, an exponential malignance of pain shot through his side. And as the beast gazed down at the broken cartilage, it was like only seeing the ghost of where his arm might be. The ruptured flesh and all of its glorified blood. “Beowulf, it is thanks to you that we are saved. Thanks to you, we no longer fear what lingers in the dark. We no longer cower to the sound of his name.” Hrothgar spoke this, truth ringing from his tired voice.

And there sat Beowulf, basking in his greatness as he drank from the bubbling chalice. A child’s grin playing along his dry lips, the wine died them violet. Yellow teeth, stained from the celebration. A hearty belly, filled to the brim with warmth. A lullaby to unburden their sins. A lullaby to make them forget their troubles. “Tonight, my men will sleep with little worry. So rest in another room with your own men, Beowulf. Sleep.”

As Hrothgar said this, the dark, lumbering figure slowly made his steps to Herot. The soullessness in his eyes now awakened, and the steady anger that synced with his heart. Just ahead, amid the heavy fog and the graceful mist, one could see the elderly stones and smell the toxication of the moat. A rumble sounded from his throat, a sort of foreplay before the fun truly began.

The gate to the great hall stood barred, impassable. Held fast to the threshold, no normal man could rupture the aged oak. Glowing eyes watched as lights extinguished, people laying in their beds, put to rest. With nimble feet, the creature stormed the access, and it broke away from the posts that once held it in place. The men sleeping upon the ground- too far into slumber to notice the crashing of the door- felt nothing but a breeze as It passed by them. They heard nothing but the sounds of their friends’ snores penetrating the fog of sleep. They knew nothing of what evil crept through the hall.

Those eyes, filled with poisonous intent, searched for one man. The one who stole something of his that now hung over the vast chair of the king. Now a trophy to those who plagued his grounds. Red flowed through his bright orbs, the one he wanted could not be found. Lips pulled away from teeth. A snarl tore its way from his throat. A man next to him, startled awake, his hand tensing around the shaft of the spear next to him. A lunge took the creature hurdling towards the man. His fangs buried in the man’s throat, powerful jowls crunching down bone. A shake of the head sent the man’s esophagus tearing from his anatomy, across the stone floor. Blood dripped from canines into the growing puddle on the floor. The sound alerted the others, sending them from their peaceful dreams. Crimson prints overlaid the grey masonry as the creature slaughtered the others.

Screams echoed through the structure, a gurgle cutting them off. Soon, the hall was bathed a bright red. It covered the space like the first snow of the season. Hrothgar, dawned in gleaming armor after awakening from the first scream, left his chambers in search of Beowulf. A worm of fear weaved its way into his gut, his eyes darting after every shadow that crossed his path. Had the beast that once persecuted his followers not died? Was it possible that he survived? It must not be him.

            Beowulf erupted from the corridors at Hrothgar’s noble call. Slamming the door aside- and Hrothgar along with it. “Have no fear thy Danes and thy Geats! I shall slay the beast once more!” Sadly, there were no Danes and no Geats to answer to. Only the silent mead hall and the metallic scent of blood. Scattered about the grey tiles, were broken bodies and crumpled bits of plasma. And Grendel who suckled the drink delicately.

            The clash of teeth and steel filled the hall. Great rumbles from the throat, battle cries of fearlessness. The scream of Beowulf’s blade ruptured against the walls, and a sudden gasp was as ghostly as Grendel’s misplaced arm. Just as suddenly as it had begun, it has ended. The scent of a hero’s blood was strong and new. And the beast grinned as he felt his fangs collide with the bone in the neck. His tongue leaked out from between the gaps in his teeth, and he licked away the blood gently. “End…” He whispered. And a sudden glimpse of fear appeared in the hero’s grey eyes. The once-was.

            There was another screech, but this time it was too sudden. This time it was too pale and cold, too sickly and deathly. The scream of his sinewy flesh being ripped in half. The explosion of his bones being broken, like thunder. The light disappeared from his bloodless eyes, and then it was done. He would be nothing more than a memory that no one would remember. A legend that compared to little more than the dust at the edges of a clock. A world without a protector, a world without light. And the last of that light would disappear from Beowulf’s eyes; it’s reflection like a jester against Grendel’s own. His deep rumble filled the castle of Herot. And the demons and all that was evil erupted from the deepest abyss of the universe. The rays of death singing a new song, a song of celebration, a song of triumph, a song of hell.