BH_Naft
Member!
Um, yeah. never posted anything in fan-fic before, but i had to write this anyway, and i had a neato time doing it, so i figured i would post it here for you all, even though im not really a fan of beowulf, so its not really fan-fiction. whatever.
For those of you who arent familiar with the story of beowulf, it is an ancient anglo-saxon epic involving a hero beowulf who, amid a multitude of other heroic duties, saves this town from the monster Grendel. google it if you like epic poems (cant say they are my fav).
without further ado:
"The End"
The troubadour pulled out his instrument and found the correct pitch, waiting for the dinner guests to quiet. As the local thane rose to quiet the crowd and announce the performance, a large dark figure stirred against the back wall, walking toward the exit. “My fellow thanes, freemen, and loyal subjects, I am pleased to present to you the story of Beowulf and Grendel.†There was a murmur amongst the crowd, but the thane continued on. “Some of you may have heard of this mighty tale, and I assure you its magnificence is unmatched and its importance is the highest, for it is considered to be Beowulf’s greatest feat!†The crowd showed its appreciation with a hearty applause, and the troubadour began to play.
From outside the great hall, the cloaked Beowulf shook his head in dismay. “Sadly,†he said quietly to himself, “Those days are long since over; I can no longer feel any need for my existence. The minstrels parade my accomplishments around with highest regards, but I have no more to offer.†Beowulf straightened himself as the troubadour raised his voice in a mighty strain:
". . . The monster’s hatred rose higher,
But his power had gone. He twisted in pain,
And the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder
Snapped, muscle and bone split
And broke. The battle was over, Beowulf
Had been granted new glory; Grendel escaped,
But wounded as he was could flee to his den,
His miserable hole at the bottom of the marsh,
Only to die, to wait for the end
Of all his days . . . .†(Beowulf)"
Beowulf shook his head again. He longed for one final struggle, for an opponent whose power and might matched his own. A foe whose determination was equal to his, who knew his every move. He wanted a real challenge. “I am a hero with no cause,†thought Beowulf. “The evil has been rooted from the land, but there is an imbalance, for I still remain. When I pass away the vacuum left by my absence will ultimately be filled by an equal evil.†As he turned and walked away, the crowd inside the great hall let out an uproarious cheer.
* * *
The sharp staccato sound of steel on steel pierced the dusk air. From the surrounding trees a horde of birds, already made uneasy by the encroaching night, rose into the air. From its solitary post high on the trunk of a great oak tree, the great owl saw two elongated shadows dancing across the meadow. The owl watched, half-interested, both knowing and wondering about the scene below. As the sun lowered another notch, the owl silently and gracefully lifted off from the tree, sharing in the emotions displayed on the ground, feeling the hunger, desiring the hunt. The owl did not glance down as it flew over the meadow.
Beowulf let out a piercing war-cry, thrusting himself backwards with both his arms, using the weapons held within his hands as shields, giving himself space from his adversary. His opponent lunged, the broadsword in his right hand aimed for Beowulf’s stomach, the double axe in his left sweeping upward in a deadly arc. In response, Beowulf hammered downward with his spiked club, reversing the direction of his opponent’s axe and throwing him off balance. The bastard sword in Beowulf’s left hand appeared out of nowhere, embedding itself within the opponent’s armor. Snarling, the opponent twisted away, pulling free of the sword. Blood dripped from his side. With terrific yells from both parties, the combat resumed.
Deep within the surrounding forests, silent death swooped from above. A frightened rodent heard the ferocious braking of wings and let out a sharp whining cry as two sets of talons grasped it from above, twisting and snapping. The owl landed in a nearby tree and bent its head down in anticipation. Two minutes later, as a different cry echoed in from the meadow, the owl shook once and took off silently again, leaving a small pellet in his wake. There was a soft crunch as the pellet split apart on contact with the forest floor, and as the last bit of sunlight shot over the horizon, a small bone consumed the last ounce of its existence by gleaming back before being swallowed up in the gloom.
With a roar the two mortal combatants crashed together again, glaring at each other as their weapons locked. “You are old and tired, Beowulf!†the opponent lashed out. “You will fall before me!†“Nonsense,†grunted Beowulf, showing no emotion. “Your youthful vigor is no match for my experience. Ultimately it is you, Ulfgar, who shall fall first.†They both pushed away, Beowulf abandoning his slashed club and grasping his sword with both hands, his opponent, Ulfgar, grinning in response and throwing down his sword for a better grip on his axe. The battle had indeed worn its course on Beowulf faster than on his younger opponent. Beowulf’s helmet had fallen, and the perspiration fell from his brows like dew from morning leaves. Ulfgar bore his injury with little disability, and his eyes lit up with anticipation of Beowulf’s tiredness. They bore in on one another once again, Beowulf absorbing blows from Ulfgar’s axe with his large sword, Ulfgar using the head of his axe to glance aside mighty slashes from Beowulf’s sword. Steel rang on steel again and again, the sound repeating like a bell marking time.
Unsatisfied, the owl resumed its hunt.
Both combatants paused, leaning upon their weapons. Beowulf’s tunic was soaked in blood, his armor hanging off it in tatters. He had taken several hits from Ulfgar’s axe. His breathing was slowed and laborious, but his determination unwavering. Ulfgar had a large gash from his face down his left arm, a chunk of flesh and bone had been taken off his left shoulder by a slash from Beowulf’s sword. Ulfgar glared at Beowulf, who calmly and steadily returned his gaze. Rising, Beowulf shed the remnants of his armor, and with a meaningful look at Ulfgar, sunk his sword into the ground. Ulfgar followed suit, the prospect of hand-to-hand combat exciting him. Beowulf looked up into the night sky, the full moon just rising above the treetops, and let out a deep breath, a breath of remembrance. His wounds were greater than he had thought, he knew then that his blood was low and his time was short. Ulfgar watched confidently.
Gliding through the night sky, the owl returned. Content, it settled itself on a tree overlooking the meadow . . . and watched.
At last the two figures, shadowed by the moonlight, closed in on each other. Their shadows locked, and all that could be heard in the meadow that night was the grunting of exertion and the soft hooting of an owl. For hours Beowulf and Ulfgar were locked in combat, neither gaining a significant advantage. The boxing match turned to a judo competition, which dissolved into a wrestling match. The fight was drawing to a close.
The moon began to fade as the first light of dawn peeked over the mountains and trees. The owl slept.
The combatants paused due to weariness, Beowulf holding Ulfgar in a grab. Ulfgar broke free from Beowulf, rising to his feet a yard away. Beowulf attempted to stand, but could not. The night’s exertions were greater than any man could handle, and while neither Ulfgar nor Beowulf was an ordinary man, neither was a god. Ulfgar, a wicked grin on his face, approached Beowulf, and picking up a discarded blade, he lunged onto Beowulf’s prostrate body, sinking the knife into Beowulf’s bloody, heaving chest. Before the knife broke skin, however, Beowulf summoned inner determination and, with strength he stole from the afterlife, grabbed Ulfgar’s head—hands, knife and all—to his chest, trapping it with his arms. In the same motion, Beowulf flipped Ulfgar over his head, using the momentum from Ulfgar’s lunge to snap his neck.
As Ulfgar lay spasming and Beowulf lay choking on his blood, the owl fell from the tree.
As Beowulf slipped into the delirium of death, his mind wandered. He thought of his adventures against evil, his escapades of the early days, and of the loneliness of his victory then. It is not so now, he thought. I created a final evil. I trained a perfect match. I gave birth to a being so powerful it could destroy every person on the earth. And I defeated it. My purpose is satisfied; my desires are fulfilled, and evil—and good—have been vanquished. The world is as it should be.
The sun rose on a field of dreams and nightmares. Amid scattered instruments of death and protection, there lay three bodies. A huge strong man, big as an ox and probably stronger, lay on his back, a knife in his lung and a smile of content on his face. A tall thin man, wiry and deft, lay opposing the big man, his head contorted at an impossible angle with a face of ultimate surprise and defeat. Beside them both lay a large grey owl.
meh.
For those of you who arent familiar with the story of beowulf, it is an ancient anglo-saxon epic involving a hero beowulf who, amid a multitude of other heroic duties, saves this town from the monster Grendel. google it if you like epic poems (cant say they are my fav).
without further ado:
"The End"
The troubadour pulled out his instrument and found the correct pitch, waiting for the dinner guests to quiet. As the local thane rose to quiet the crowd and announce the performance, a large dark figure stirred against the back wall, walking toward the exit. “My fellow thanes, freemen, and loyal subjects, I am pleased to present to you the story of Beowulf and Grendel.†There was a murmur amongst the crowd, but the thane continued on. “Some of you may have heard of this mighty tale, and I assure you its magnificence is unmatched and its importance is the highest, for it is considered to be Beowulf’s greatest feat!†The crowd showed its appreciation with a hearty applause, and the troubadour began to play.
From outside the great hall, the cloaked Beowulf shook his head in dismay. “Sadly,†he said quietly to himself, “Those days are long since over; I can no longer feel any need for my existence. The minstrels parade my accomplishments around with highest regards, but I have no more to offer.†Beowulf straightened himself as the troubadour raised his voice in a mighty strain:
". . . The monster’s hatred rose higher,
But his power had gone. He twisted in pain,
And the bleeding sinews deep in his shoulder
Snapped, muscle and bone split
And broke. The battle was over, Beowulf
Had been granted new glory; Grendel escaped,
But wounded as he was could flee to his den,
His miserable hole at the bottom of the marsh,
Only to die, to wait for the end
Of all his days . . . .†(Beowulf)"
Beowulf shook his head again. He longed for one final struggle, for an opponent whose power and might matched his own. A foe whose determination was equal to his, who knew his every move. He wanted a real challenge. “I am a hero with no cause,†thought Beowulf. “The evil has been rooted from the land, but there is an imbalance, for I still remain. When I pass away the vacuum left by my absence will ultimately be filled by an equal evil.†As he turned and walked away, the crowd inside the great hall let out an uproarious cheer.
* * *
The sharp staccato sound of steel on steel pierced the dusk air. From the surrounding trees a horde of birds, already made uneasy by the encroaching night, rose into the air. From its solitary post high on the trunk of a great oak tree, the great owl saw two elongated shadows dancing across the meadow. The owl watched, half-interested, both knowing and wondering about the scene below. As the sun lowered another notch, the owl silently and gracefully lifted off from the tree, sharing in the emotions displayed on the ground, feeling the hunger, desiring the hunt. The owl did not glance down as it flew over the meadow.
Beowulf let out a piercing war-cry, thrusting himself backwards with both his arms, using the weapons held within his hands as shields, giving himself space from his adversary. His opponent lunged, the broadsword in his right hand aimed for Beowulf’s stomach, the double axe in his left sweeping upward in a deadly arc. In response, Beowulf hammered downward with his spiked club, reversing the direction of his opponent’s axe and throwing him off balance. The bastard sword in Beowulf’s left hand appeared out of nowhere, embedding itself within the opponent’s armor. Snarling, the opponent twisted away, pulling free of the sword. Blood dripped from his side. With terrific yells from both parties, the combat resumed.
Deep within the surrounding forests, silent death swooped from above. A frightened rodent heard the ferocious braking of wings and let out a sharp whining cry as two sets of talons grasped it from above, twisting and snapping. The owl landed in a nearby tree and bent its head down in anticipation. Two minutes later, as a different cry echoed in from the meadow, the owl shook once and took off silently again, leaving a small pellet in his wake. There was a soft crunch as the pellet split apart on contact with the forest floor, and as the last bit of sunlight shot over the horizon, a small bone consumed the last ounce of its existence by gleaming back before being swallowed up in the gloom.
With a roar the two mortal combatants crashed together again, glaring at each other as their weapons locked. “You are old and tired, Beowulf!†the opponent lashed out. “You will fall before me!†“Nonsense,†grunted Beowulf, showing no emotion. “Your youthful vigor is no match for my experience. Ultimately it is you, Ulfgar, who shall fall first.†They both pushed away, Beowulf abandoning his slashed club and grasping his sword with both hands, his opponent, Ulfgar, grinning in response and throwing down his sword for a better grip on his axe. The battle had indeed worn its course on Beowulf faster than on his younger opponent. Beowulf’s helmet had fallen, and the perspiration fell from his brows like dew from morning leaves. Ulfgar bore his injury with little disability, and his eyes lit up with anticipation of Beowulf’s tiredness. They bore in on one another once again, Beowulf absorbing blows from Ulfgar’s axe with his large sword, Ulfgar using the head of his axe to glance aside mighty slashes from Beowulf’s sword. Steel rang on steel again and again, the sound repeating like a bell marking time.
Unsatisfied, the owl resumed its hunt.
Both combatants paused, leaning upon their weapons. Beowulf’s tunic was soaked in blood, his armor hanging off it in tatters. He had taken several hits from Ulfgar’s axe. His breathing was slowed and laborious, but his determination unwavering. Ulfgar had a large gash from his face down his left arm, a chunk of flesh and bone had been taken off his left shoulder by a slash from Beowulf’s sword. Ulfgar glared at Beowulf, who calmly and steadily returned his gaze. Rising, Beowulf shed the remnants of his armor, and with a meaningful look at Ulfgar, sunk his sword into the ground. Ulfgar followed suit, the prospect of hand-to-hand combat exciting him. Beowulf looked up into the night sky, the full moon just rising above the treetops, and let out a deep breath, a breath of remembrance. His wounds were greater than he had thought, he knew then that his blood was low and his time was short. Ulfgar watched confidently.
Gliding through the night sky, the owl returned. Content, it settled itself on a tree overlooking the meadow . . . and watched.
At last the two figures, shadowed by the moonlight, closed in on each other. Their shadows locked, and all that could be heard in the meadow that night was the grunting of exertion and the soft hooting of an owl. For hours Beowulf and Ulfgar were locked in combat, neither gaining a significant advantage. The boxing match turned to a judo competition, which dissolved into a wrestling match. The fight was drawing to a close.
The moon began to fade as the first light of dawn peeked over the mountains and trees. The owl slept.
The combatants paused due to weariness, Beowulf holding Ulfgar in a grab. Ulfgar broke free from Beowulf, rising to his feet a yard away. Beowulf attempted to stand, but could not. The night’s exertions were greater than any man could handle, and while neither Ulfgar nor Beowulf was an ordinary man, neither was a god. Ulfgar, a wicked grin on his face, approached Beowulf, and picking up a discarded blade, he lunged onto Beowulf’s prostrate body, sinking the knife into Beowulf’s bloody, heaving chest. Before the knife broke skin, however, Beowulf summoned inner determination and, with strength he stole from the afterlife, grabbed Ulfgar’s head—hands, knife and all—to his chest, trapping it with his arms. In the same motion, Beowulf flipped Ulfgar over his head, using the momentum from Ulfgar’s lunge to snap his neck.
As Ulfgar lay spasming and Beowulf lay choking on his blood, the owl fell from the tree.
As Beowulf slipped into the delirium of death, his mind wandered. He thought of his adventures against evil, his escapades of the early days, and of the loneliness of his victory then. It is not so now, he thought. I created a final evil. I trained a perfect match. I gave birth to a being so powerful it could destroy every person on the earth. And I defeated it. My purpose is satisfied; my desires are fulfilled, and evil—and good—have been vanquished. The world is as it should be.
The sun rose on a field of dreams and nightmares. Amid scattered instruments of death and protection, there lay three bodies. A huge strong man, big as an ox and probably stronger, lay on his back, a knife in his lung and a smile of content on his face. A tall thin man, wiry and deft, lay opposing the big man, his head contorted at an impossible angle with a face of ultimate surprise and defeat. Beside them both lay a large grey owl.
meh.
