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doodleferp · 5 days ago

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an excerpt from “blood of grendel”

So instead of birthday art, I have some birthday fanfiction.

I’ve been working on a story about Grendel for…well, for quite a while now. And I’ve ended up making more progress on it any other fanfic I’ve written before. I think one of the big things that helped is that I've been trying to replicate the style of John Gardner's novel -- and as I mentioned in a previous post, writing in Grendel’s point of view is absurdly entertaining.

There’s quite a bit of blood and death in this story, so if you’re particularly squeamish I wouldn’t recommend it. This is the beginning of Chapter 3, where Grendel scopes out a village and spies on Dagmær.

Stars spattered through lifeless night. The tender grasses, innocently-yellow, peek up through the ground. I rose from the mere and slunk to the shadows of the cliffs.

It’s good at first to be out in night. Here I am naked to the cold mechanics of the stars, bare to the lifeblood of the Universe. Space hurls outward, mounting like an irreversible injustice, a final disease. The cold night air is reality at last. Indifferent to me as a stone face carved on a high cliff wall to show that the world is abandoned.

I slunk through a village, weaving between the huts, keeping an eye on the pens of sleeping animals. There wasn’t much to worry about from them, other than that they tended to throw fits when they saw me near. They’re correct to be afraid. Only a fool wouldn’t be. Fools were least often found in animals, and most often found in men. But that’s something only a fool wouldn't know.

I snuck up to the mead hall, a towering cave of wood that overlooked the rest of the hill, and peered inside the window. Every last speck of man in this village was packed into the hall, crammed into long wooden seats at long wooden tables. One man, a large bearded man as they often tended to be, sat at the very end of the hall with his own men and women. He stood tall and broad like the side of one of the huts, his clothes and beard a muddy brown to match.

I could go on and on about the things that separate me from men. The places we live, the ways we think, the difference in mass and muscles. It’s easier than thinking up a new backhanded compliment, like how their aggravating architecture is surprisingly sound. But like it or not, I can only avoid them for so long. Their chaotic congregations weaved their villages through the hills, mowing down everything in their paths to suit the desires of the whole. They pretend they’re different, that something about this village outshines the others. They’re blind to the fact that they are identical. They all live in crude wood huts and eat the same food and have the same children.

The leader-men are somehow the worst offenders. They’re no different from their peers, and yet they all act the same -- like they’re important, like their lives mean more than the others, like they’re somehow integral, irreplaceable cogs in the cosmic crusade that is the passage of time. Always delaying meals to make some sort of speech, always wanting the last word in an argument, always wanting the last pieces of pretty things the village finds and makes. They raise their cups and shout, praise the glory of the house, the village, the gods, the bounty, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters. (Stupid, all of it. The whole kit and caboodle.) And then the rest of them would lift their cups and shout “Hear, hear!” and the meal would begin.

Just like always, the wall-shaped leader rose his cup and shouted about the glory of the house and the village, the gods and the bounty, how they should all be thankful for their prosperity, ashes to ashes, slime to slime, amen. The rest of the hall lifted their cups and shouted “Hear, hear!” And the raucous started up again as the meal began.

And then she appeared.

Though it raised my brows to see her again, it wasn’t hard to pick the crazy woman out of the crowd. For all her features, she stood taller and broader than the rest of the women. Her hair is now wrapped behind her head to keep out the way of her chores. She runs around with other women, replenishing food and drink as it disappears into the mens’ gullets. Once they were done stuffing their faces, she was awarded a small moment of peace as the rest of the women ate their fills. Then it was back on her feet to bring them food and more mead for the men. Then food for the children and more mead for the men.

She went on like this the entire night. Out of all the debauchery I saw take place, none of it was directed at her. Except for one fleeting moment when a drunk couldn’t keep his balance and grabbed onto her to keep himself upright. She stabbed his foot with the heel of her boot. It made me snicker.

As the night went on the food and drink and songs were exhausted and the men began to pour out of the hall. I kept to the shadows as they filed out of the hall and back to their huts. She came out among the last few stragglers, keeping to a small group. I watched as she went down the hill and into a small hut with a few others.

I followed her, staying to the shadows of the shacks, and clambered onto the roof of the one she entered. I watched, waited with bated breath, as she readied the older woman for bed and then prepared herself for her own. This woman was an enigma. Entirely insane yet somehow cognizant of her actions. Surely she was going to do something else beyond stripping down and climbing into bed.

I sat on the roof and waited. And waited. And waited.

No. She was asleep. She had been for hours.

I looked up from the hole in the roof, stared out at the smattering of huts on the hill. And I finally had the sense to ask myself aloud, “What the hell am I doing here?”

The wind rattled the trees. The stars glittered. My mouth tightened.

I clambered down off the roof and stormed across the village, no longer caring enough to sneak. I made my way over to their pens and stepped over the crude wooden barrier. I snatched one of the cows, hugged it tight, and snapped its neck. I lifted it over my shoulders and lifted myself over the pen’s fence.

There, I thought. Now I haven’t come here for nothing.

When I returned to my cave I tossed the cows on the cave floor, stalking past my mother and back towards the fire. She looked across at me, but I paid her no notice.

Long after she had gone to sleep, I remained awake. I remained painfully hunched over, picking at an open sore, gnashing my teeth as I glared into the fire. Questions swirled in my brain, pounding and thumping at the inside of my skull. Why do I keep coming here? Why am I watching the mead hall, hoping to catch a glimpse at the creature that angers me? Why was I content to sit at a window all night in the mid-season weather, just to get a chance to look at her? If you asked me yourself, even I couldn’t have told you. It was making me stupid. I hated stupid. It’s worse than hunger, because at least hunger could be rectified by taking a bite out of something. Stupidity is much harder to fix. It requires much more work and can hardly ever be accomplished. But I wouldn’t have that. I wouldn’t let myself become stupid like them.

So I kept going back, night after night after night, hoping somehow that tonight would be the night I finally got my answer. I climbed the roof of the hut she lived in and watched. I spied on the nightly cacophony inside the mead hall. Nothing she did seemed out of place. Nothing she did was different. There was no more answer to be found in her than there was in me.

But I found answers to other things. The village she lives in is called Haig, after the man in charge of it. The strange woman wasn’t much for the company of men. Even when she was serving them, she keep to herself. Kept herself removed from them. Or perhaps they kept themselves removed from her. They would always busy themselves with the smaller women, the young things that didn’t look like they could lift a sword to save their lives. She got along well enough with the women, the older ones who’d already lived their lives and were ready to drop any moment now. (One night, one of them did. I felt like I cracked a rib from holding back my laughter.)

One night, as I made my way to the window for the umpteenth time, I felt a certain change in the air. As I peered through the window, I saw something different. There was another man at the head table. Smaller than the leader but bearded all the same. The leader-man stood and raised his cup. “To my son’s triumphant return!” he shouted. “May the song of Hrǿríkr be sung till the ragnarǫk!”

The house cheered. “Hear, hear!” And they downed their mugs and erupted in merriment. And off the women went, tending to the cups and plates of the hall. The gold-spun woman with limbs like tree trunks made her way from table to table, cup to cup. When she had finished, she went to the table of her fellow women and sat with them.

Anyway, the more that could keep me from looking at the “guest”, the better. The way he boasted of his feats of strength grated on my ears. They made him out like he was better, like he was different from the rest of them.

I snarled to myself. I’d wasted too much time here.

I stumbled across the village and made my way into the pigs’ pen. I crushed their throats and slung their corpses over my back, and turned to trudge off towards the forest.

There was a light.

The roar of a crowd grew louder.

I froze.

The light disappeared.

I relaxed.

I turned my head.

A lone man stumbled out into the darkness. He muttered to himself, unintelligible grumbles that even I couldn’t pick up. He blinked rapidly, trying to regain his vision. In the darkness, I alone see clear as day. It was the guest of honor, the prodigal hero who had sparked the celebration.

I could have just leave him alone. It would have been better if I did. I had enough food for the coming days. And killing him would do nothing. It was a waste of my time and energy. Not to mention I would have to stink like blood and mead.

That’s what I thought after he was dead.

I snatched him off the ground, closed my hand around his throat to cut off his screams. He kicked and wriggled in my grasp as I lifted him up. I held him tight against me, biting harder and harder until, with a muted crack and a wheezing burble, my teeth gnashed together through his flesh. I ripped my head back, tearing a chunk of clothes and flesh from his body. His blood spurted into the night, wetting my face and fur with yet another dull life that will no longer be observed.

I tossed his body onto the forest floor, mindlessly chewing on his flesh, sampling his taste. He tasted of smoke and burning sweat. His blood was just as warm as an infant’s. His bones clattered the same as an old, feeble wretch. Just as I thought -- this man was not important. He was no different than his peers.

I looked up at the hall again. The lanterns were still lit, the people were still inside, still blind to the world.

I spit the chunk of him on the ground next to his corpse.

I wasn’t hungry anyway.

taglist: @brightlycoloredteacups, @datenightfright, @dreamlikedesires, @missmermaidsoaps, @eldritch-spouse, @merumely, @randthings

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