Gods' Deaths Saga

You approach the circle, broad with purpose, rehearsed in form, confident and bold. A tale coiled within your limbs, ready to unfurl, and your namesake's pelt runs down your spine. This saga is young, but it is yours, Wolfe's, the only tale your mother taught you. Hrothgar, your uncle proud, calls Hackett forward to become foul Grendel.

A perfect, pathetic choice.

His spindle-limbs pretend to kill better men, warriors who will hopefully return the favour when he comes of age. Your creaking knuckle-skin betrays you. Your eagerness to play.

After his impotent flailing, Hackett leaves the circle. The cheers for him must be false. The shoulder pats console the boy's frailty. You know in your heart that the girls' beaming faces are masks. Your uncle quietens the crowd by begging Beowulf to save his tribe. Wolfe hears his words before they're spoken, the lyrical beats are your heart's pulse.

You march in from Geats or Gaul, or somewhere else to the south, singing the older songs, beating your legs, and letting your sword's face kiss your broad einherjar chest. Mighty Wolfe's howl commands Hackett to return. He hesitates. A fucking coward unworthy of the clan’s gaze. Bone-white face-skin quivering. Your lupine footfalls crash against the stage-dirt, and he creeps towards you. Wolfe kicks our firepit's kindling with a mighty hoof. Smoke and embers and ashy-wights swoop all the way around you. Everything is commanded by Beowulf, even the elements, and you are Beowulf.

Grendel falters at the challenge, tears already brewing in his defeated eyes. He lets out a roar that should be fierce, but whines like the wind.

He staggers, but you have the people of Heorot to save, so Wolfe strikes true. You're not allowed steel, so sharp wood strikes against Hackett's pallid jaw. You pine for steel. Need it. Smoke picks up around you. Light flickers behind and the fire pit smoulders to the right. Grendel's hands cover his face. He should be striking you back, foul Grendel fought like a storm, but today he is cowed and incapable. Wolfe is at war. The crowd gasps and climbs to their feet. Hackett turns to flee, but you kick at his knee, sending him crashing out of the tale. Crackling rings around you, Hrothgar's mead-hall is burning in your mind. The spectators gasp.

With opened eyes, you see Grendel in the arms of three beautiful maidens. Why do they not come to you, Wolfe? Are you the hero of this saga, the saviour of Heorot? Instead, they mew over Hackett and try to carry him away. But he is weak. He lies on the floor counting each blood drop you gave him. Grendel always falls while Beowulf claims every honour and glory, that is how it should be.

No one is cradling you, with your wooden sword held high and a laugh in your stomach. A knotted, always-collapsing stomach. Wolf-sweat streams down your face from the strain, or the growing heat behind you. The crowd cheers for you, or calls to you, shouts at you, runs from you. But they don't hold you. They are away from the circle, watching their mead-hall burn. Bales of hay coated in the embers that you kicked behind you flame around its walls. Fathers call you weak and pitiful while they fetch pails of water. No one is cradling the Wolfe. Your broad shoulders fall like the burning beams. The birch smoke makes the lone Wolfe's eyes water, or perhaps, the battle sweat is stinging your eyes; maybe the joy of victory overcomes the Wolfe...

So, tell me, what is wrong with you boy?