Wealhtheow looked over the scattered cups, the sleeping men with a cold airy eye. Sun’s time was fading from the world of Heorot and darkness fell outside the gift-hall like a pall. This was seemingly the only place she knew now, but it was not the only one she’d known. Her husband was kind; her husband was handsome. Yet she’d been taken, taken into bondage, taken from the Britannian isles to the north and southwards to the land of the Danes.
He’d bought her. Like you would buy a toy, a wood-horse.
She gathered the cups into her arms. Careful not to wake the sleeping warriors, the men of might, Wealhtheow crept and washed off the stink of mead. Then, she sidled up the dressed stone steps leading to twin wooden thrones. The queen of mighty Hrothgar sat and waited.
One by one, the lights went out. A wicked and wild wind blew through the rafters. It howled despair, howled death, howled doom to all. Grendel would come soon enough; she called him to Heorot. She willed him here. The sea-brute would glut himself on the blood of men, but not touch the one in the throne. That was beyond him.
A creak of the oaken doors filled the hall of rings. Those well-crafted doors that the Danes had placed such hope in failed them. For they had been unbarred in the night, unbarred by soft and uncalloused hands. Pagan gods, wooden idols without life or soul, watched dumbly and silently as the treachery was made clear for only one to truly see. The man-eater walked the aisles of Heorot, entered into their sanctum.
“Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh.” She whispered tautly, eyes falling upon Grendel. Her child was speechless. “Child of my body.” The swamp was his cradle, the cold fens and forests of gray Denmark his play-pen. So much had been taken from him as a boy, wolf’s head that he was, such that he could not speak, such that he seemed barely human. “Soul of my soul.”
Grendel howled, madly, wordlessly. Hrothgar had robbed him of everything, so he would rob Hrothgar in turn. Of the lives of his most beloved retainers, of his vaunted peace, of his sanity. Hand that were claws tore into the flesh and mail of the Danes. Teeth tore out their throats. In their hall, they died in the dozens. But he would not - could not - harm the ring-giver himself, nor Wealhtheow. For in that animal rage, something of the man he was remained.
Something aroused mercy in Grendel still. And for a few short seconds, in the twilight, he was cradled as if a babe by soft hands, uncalloused hands. Hands covered in the blood of the Danes. Babbling and mad attempts at language was met with shushing. This would not last forever, but in that moment, there was peace in Heorot.
