by Gwynn Jones
Lurking in those shadows, she drank in the scene and quickly gathered all the information she required. Of course Hrothgar could never have defeated Grendel on his own. No, word of his sorry plight had spread, and a hero had come to prove his own glory by cleansing Heorot of its monstrous plague. She glared down at the man who had done it. They called him Beowulf. Some nobleman's son from across the sea, with some old family debt to repay, a favor for a favor, for good old Hrothgar. She gritted her teeth again to hear them singing one another's praises. Apparently, news of Hrothgar's ruthless bride-sacrificing stratagem had not spread so widely. He had revised his tale to leave that part out. And here he had another queen already by his side, another Wealhtheow, for just in case.
But Sigrun could see that Hrothgar had been affected by Grendel's attacks. He had changed since the time when Sigrun had gone by that name. He was feebler, weaker. He had a tendency to whine. His wife, on the other hand, had apparently recognized her opportunity and was asserting herself, even politicking on behalf of her young stepsons, whose favor she would surely want to secure. And yet Sigrun noticed this Wealhtheow's eyes on Hrothgar's nephew as well, the son of the brother Hrothgar deposed long ago in order to seize the crown for himself. Clever thing! It did not take long for Sigrun to realize that Heorot was doomed to fall. The web of political complications and animosities was too tight; Hrothgar's monument to his own success would not outlive him, and he might even live, too enfeebled to keep his enemies at bay, to see it fall. She couldn't suppress a grin. But Grendel still required his vengeance. She was not done here yet.
She spotted Unferth, her former jailer and lover, sitting in his usual spot at Hrothgar's feet. Unferth also looked the worse for wear. His face was lined and gray, his eyes dull. He was staring sullenly at Beowulf. She turned her attention to the hero.
Beowulf. The bee-wolf, the bear. And he was built like a bear, a huge man with a shaggy head of hair. He stood a good head taller than anyone else in the room. Grendel still would have dwarfed him, but one look at his thick, rippling arms told her that this man-beyond-mere-men, this bear-man, had the strength to do what he had done. Grendel was used to attacking and destroying, used to weapons bouncing off of him. If this man had grabbed him by the arm and held on, braced himself against something, Grendel might well have panicked. She sighed. Grendel had probably contributed to his own demise, tearing off his arm as he tried to pull away from the grip of his foe. Poor dear beast.
Very well. She would not kill this hero, Beowulf. Hrothgar was still the one to blame. Hrothgar would pay. Not with his life, but with something he held dear. But what? She pondered the possibilities as the celebrations wound down. Beowulf retired to one of the outbuildings. Hrothgar left the hall, accompanied by a favored retainer, Aeschere. Unferth escorted Wealhtheow from the hall. Curious, she slipped down from her hiding place and followed them.
This Wealhtheow was not housed in the same small turf mound that had been Sigrun's home. This one had a finer building for herself. Sigrun slipped into the vestibule and crouched at the door to the inner chamber, setting her eye to a good-sized chink in the wood. Sure enough, for all that he had professed his love for her, for all that he had declared that Sigrun was special, different, a woman whom he would never forget, Unferth had not ceased in his role as lover to the queen. This did not bother her. She had never truly trusted him, and therefore she had never loved him. She had always known that he was the enemy and that accepting his advances would bring her nothing but a distraction from her inescapable end. She had known not to seek hope from him, and when Unferth had failed to save her from her fate, all of her assumptions had been confirmed. But she watched now with a small measure of morbid fascination as Unferth and the new queen — small, compact, vigorous and apparently voracious — disrobed and set to business.
She jumped into his arms and then pushed him down onto the bed, covering his chest with kisses on her way down his belly and to his pelvis. His penis was not yet erect, but Wealhtheow pounced on it, popping the whole thing into her mouth and eliciting a small gasp from her lover. She worked at it, sucking and pulling, mouthing and teasing it until it grew stiff. He groaned softly as she dragged her tongue up the shaft, circling the head before pulling the whole thing into her mouth again. She caressed his balls with one hand, sometimes leaving off from her cock-sucking to take them into her mouth, as well. He grew ever harder from her attentions. His breathing became heavy, and he reached down to plunge his fingers into her hair. She swatted his hand away. Pulling away again from his now-rigid rod, she stuck two fingers into her mouth, wetting them with saliva. Returning her mouth to his cock, lifting and squeezing his sac with the one hand, she buried the other, with glistening fingers, underneath him. Judging by the movements of her hand and the gasp that escaped Unferth's lips, Sigrun guessed that the naughty queen was probing his ass. She had to admire the woman's coordination, finger-fucking, ball-fondling, and looking for all the world like she meant to swallow his entire cock whole while he twitched and thrusted beneath her.
His back arched, and his groans were increasing in pitch. It looked like he was about to come, when Wealhtheow suddenly disengaged completely. He grunted as she yanked her hand free and dropped his prick from her mouth. Her lips were red and sloppy with saliva. She wiped them with the back of her hand, wiped her fingers on the bed-furs, and giggled. He began to sit up, began to say something, but she pushed him back down. She climbed onto him, straddling him, grabbing his cock and shoving it inside her. He grabbed her hips and began thrusting, but she reached for his nipples and gave them a nasty twist. He yelped.
"Don't you dare come yet," she scolded. She slapped his cheek and then bent to give it a kiss. Then she rode him so hard, so furiously, a lather of sweat coated her back. He looked like he might be in pain, whether from holding off his own orgasm or from being ridden so roughly, Sigrun couldn't tell. Wealhtheow came several times, it seemed. Her moans raised in pitch and became gasps and cries. Finally, spent, she collapsed onto his chest. After a few silent moments, she giggled again.
"Okay, warrior, it's your turn. Fuck me more. Do as I bid."
He pushed her off of him. He was flushed, his cock still hard, glistening from her juices and throbbing with the need for release. She rolled onto the furs, smirking. He flipped her over and pulled her up onto her knees. Without a word, he sank his prick into her gaping snatch. Grasping her hips, he pounded her, hard. She let out rhythmic grunts and squeals as he fucked her as relentlessly as she had just fucked him. Sigrun's stomach turned a bit at the joylessness of this encounter. Wealhtheow was in the throes of orgasm when Unferth pulled out of her pussy and plunged his slippery rod into her ass. She shrieked, but she also pressed herself back against him, shuddering and moaning. He fucked her ass the same as he had fucked her pussy, hard and relentless, and she seemed to like it that way. They were both drenched with sweat. When he reached his climax, he pulled out, flipped her back over and came all over her stomach and chest. He collapsed beside her, his chest heaving, his face set in a grimace. Sigrun shook her head and slipped away from this lovers' nest.
She made her way to Hrothgar's chambers, pondering whether she should simply kill the old king. But then he would not live to see his kingdom crumble, and that seemed like the preferable fate for the vile tyrant. When she peeked into his room -- maybe she could maim him a bit -- she found that he was not alone. Aeschere, naked, was climbing out of the bed, bending to give the king a kiss and running his hand gently through Hrothgar's silver hair. Well, this explained the king's lack of interest in his wives, and Unferth's role as the lover. Once he had ensured his line with a safe number of heirs, he had probably dispensed with marital duties altogether. He murmured something to Aeschere, took his hand and pressed it to his lips. Aeschere. She had had little to do with him when she was the queen, but he had never treated her with better than disdain. Yes. No reason to show mercy for Aeschere. She had her plan.
She slipped out of the king's quarters
. She had a few minutes before Aeschere would be finished dressing. She ran to the mead hall and with a running jump launched herself onto the roof of the vestibule. Hanging from the eaves, she reached down and pulled Grendel's arm off of the wall. They would not keep this trophy. Keeping her eyes on Hrothgar's outbuilding and having secured the arm on her back, she climbed up onto the main roof and let out a bloodcurdling, bone-rattling shriek. She ran the length of the rooftop, tearing off its golden shingles as she went. She heard the cries of alarm, the warriors rousing themselves in terror and confusion. She had let out some of her braids, and with her silver hair streaming, her horned helmet, her blackened face and flashing eyes, and Grendel's claws at her shoulder, she was sure to look a fright. Unferth stumbled out, half-dressed. He froze at the sight of her.
Aeschere stepped out into the yard, his sword drawn. This was what she was waiting for. Dagger in hand, she leaped off the roof. Landing neatly a few feet from Aeschere, she dropped, rolled, and came up slashing, cutting his sword hand off at the wrist. She plunged her dagger up and under his ribs and into his heart and caught him as he fell. Slinging the body over her shoulder, she ran, vaulting over the battlements and disappearing into the woods. Most of the warriors, including their mighty visiting hero, barely had time to register her presence before she was gone. She did not need to kill them all. This one was enough.
Sigrun made sure to leave plenty of pieces of Aeschere's corpse along the way, closely following Grendel's trail of blood back to the lake, so that there would be no doubt of the connection. She tore off his head and left it on the cliff top, dumping the remainder of the body to feed the fishes below. Hrothgar's warriors would follow the trail and find the head. Would any of them realize that Grendel's lair was below the surface? Would any be brave enough to dare the waters, to attempt an attack? Perhaps that Beowulf. Anyone brave enough to wrestle a monster like Grendel was probably brave enough to try just about anything. She would wait and watch.
Some time after dawn, she heard the sound of men and horses at the cliff top. She heard their noises of sorrow and consternation, heard them making their way to the path that led down the rock face to the lake. She slipped into the water and swam back to her lair. It would be best to watch from below if she did not want to be seen. She returned Grendel's poor lost arm to his body. What should she do with him? But now was not yet the time. She had to wait, to see this through. She stepped back into the water and swam out to the mouth of the cave.
She peered upwards through the depths and toward the surface so far away. Her dragons tumbled around her, but she put up a hand when they tried to pull her into their knot, and they kept their distance. Something caught their attention up above, and they shot away towards it. She strained to see — was that a figure? A man, swimming downwards? It was. A large man. It was Beowulf, of course. Who else would it be? He was swimming powerfully, but the weight of his sword and chain mail was also pulling him down swiftly. Any normal man would have feared drowning, plunging into a deep lake fully dressed and armed, but this one seemed to be using it to his advantage.
The sea dragons converged on him, curious, playful, and perhaps a bit menacing. They swirled and snapped. He punched one in the nose and slashed at another with his sword. They twined themselves around his arms and legs. Sigrun felt a strange frisson of pleasure at the sight of the hero bound by her dragons. But it might be best for her to interfere. She swam out to meet the roiling mass. She seized the warrior by his belt, shooed away the beasts, and pulled him toward the cave. Surely he was almost out of air. She glanced at his face to see if he was still conscious, and his eyes were open and alert. She pushed him through the opening, and they both swam up to the surface of the pool.
He took a few deep breaths and then dragged himself up the steps. She hopped out after him. Dripping wet, breathing heavily, he began to hoist up his sword for an attack, but Sigrun punched him in the face, sending him staggering back a step. The brief loss of balance gave her all the opportunity she needed to kick his sword from his hand and knock him to the floor. She jumped on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his hands with hers. He was a very strong man — she could feel it as he struggled to free his arms from her grasp — but she had grown strong, too.
Yet he was a very good fighter, far more experienced than she. He planted his feet and bucked her off of him, freeing a hand and sending her to the floor. He regained his blade and swung it in a deadly, hacking arc at her neck. And it bounced off her dragon skin collar as though it were a wooden toy. She rolled away, leaped to her feet, and swept up her own sword.
"I think mine will work better against you than yours against me," she smiled, lunging forward and slashing at his chest. He jumped back, but she still opened up several links of chain-mail across his breast. "But I have no quarrel with you, Beowulf. You killed my dear Grendel, but I blame Hrothgar — and Grendel himself — for that. We do not need to fight."
Beowulf, frowning at the hole in his mail, kept his sword at the ready. "You asked for this fight, I'm afraid, when you killed Aeschere. And I promised Hrothgar that I would avenge that loss."
"Hrothgar does not deserve your service."
"He is a great and noble king."
"He is a terrible king! A terrible, selfish, foolish king!"
Beowulf took advantage of this moment when Sigrun's anger flared. Well aware of the uselessness of his sword, he threw it at her head. She ducked, but it caught one of the horns on her helmet, knocking it back, and he barreled into her, knocking her down and trying to wrest her sword from her grasp. Her helmet came off in the tussle, and Beowulf paused for a tiny moment at the sight of her streaming hair and her unobscured face. It was the slightest of pauses, but it was enough. She grabbed her helmet by the offended horn and smashed it against the side of his head. He fell back, dazed, and she straddled him, planting her knees on his thighs this time, again. She brought her sword up against his throat. Panting, she felt a grin spreading across her face. She also felt a distinct tingle in her loins. What a fight! She liked this hero. What a shame to have to kill him.
Her sword bit into the mail at his neck. Any moves, and he risked cutting his throat. He was panting too, staring up into her eyes. A wry smile flickered across his face.
"What a beautiful, deadly creature you are! Now do you mean to kill me?"
"I told you that it wasn't my preference, but you seem to have forced me to it."
"Perhaps we could renegotiate?"
His gray eyes glittered — with humor, or with something else? And then, in a move that risked all, an insane, death-defying gambit, he suddenly snaked his hands up beneath the blade and with a burst of strength pushed up against the flat of it, bucking Sigrun off him again and thrusting the sword away. This time it clattered from her grasp. They rolled over and over each other, both scrambling for the weapon. They came to rest, Beowulf atop Sigrun, both with their arms outstretched for the sword, which lay mere inches from their hands. They froze, their faces inches apart.
Her chest heaving against his, her pulse racing — from exertion or excitement? — she felt herself suddenly locked in the gaze of this powerful man. His eyes were bright, sharp, and, she realized with an odd shock, particularly given the circumstances, they were kind. Staring into Beowulf's eyes, Sigrun forgot about the sword. She reached up, pushed back his hood of mail, and plunged her fingers into his thick, dark hair, pulling his face to hers in a long, deep kiss.
With Unferth, Sigrun had always accepted his attentions, allowed him to do his best and offered little in return. She had never dominated him, ridden him like the feisty new Wealhtheow who had asserted her rightful rule as his queen. Nor had she ever labored to give him pleasure. With Grendel, too, she had given herself up to him. And her body had responded in powerful ways. With Grendel, she had felt her own power building and coursing through her body, exploding from her in orgasmic release, but as much as she recognized that power, she never felt that it was entirely hers to control. When sh
e had taken up the giant-blade to defend herself, she had begun to feel control. Raiding Heorot to avenge Grendel had given her a strange sense of exhilaration. Now, kissing Beowulf, she felt a surge of excitement. She did this. She chose this. She wanted this.
They sat up, still kissing. She ran her fingers over his chain mail, feeling for openings and tugging at the fastenings of his arm guards. He stood up, pulling her to her feet, and stepped back. He shed his arm guards and pulled off the coat of mail. She unfastened the buckles of her breastplate and let it fall to the floor. Piece by piece, they both removed their various cuffs and straps. She peeled off her tunic, boots, and leggings, leaving only the thin fabric of her undergarments clinging to her curves. He smiled and pulled off his shirt, revealing a chiseled, hairy chest. She smiled back.
He pulled her into his arms, and she began kissing him again, kissing his face and neck, kissing his broad chest. She ran her hands down his sides to his waist and began unfastening his pants. Her fingers found their way inside to release his swollen prick. She felt a gush of her own juices as she took his big, beautiful cock in her hand. It was very big, the unnaturally large member of an unnaturally large and strong man. She wondered how many girls Beowulf had frightened out of his bed at the sight of this thing. It must have been many, because he pulled back slightly, began to offer apologies in anticipation of her shock. She stopped him, chuckling, pressing a finger to his lips.
"It is absolutely perfect."
She dropped to her knees and began to kiss the head. It was so big, she wasn't sure she would be able to fit it into her mouth, but she thought she could try. She ran her tongue around the crown, caressing the length of the shaft with her fingers and drawing a groan from Beowulf. She flicked her tongue against the underside of the tip, circled the head again, gradually making it slippery and wet before opening her mouth as wide as it could go and pulling the whole thing in.
