Of Geats and Britons: The Light of Kings

When Beowulf of the Geats had arrived in Camelot to pay tribute to the king, he'd discovered that Arthur was absent, hunting the beast terrorizing the land and had been gone for seven days. Guinevere’s eyes were scarred red with anxious tears and sleepless nights, stirring the sorrow in Beowulf’s heart. He was reminded of the crimson anguish of his sister when he’d brought her only son’s body after Grendel had torn him apart. Wiglaf had been the bravest man he’d ever met, even while he was bleeding in the prince’s arms.

The hulking Geatish prince had found Arthur three days later. He was laying in the midst of his Knights of the Round Table and was the only man with his limbs and head attached. He felt Arthur’s pulse thrumming in his neck before the king's sky blue eyes fell open, darting all around before holding on the warrior’s gaze. Arthur growled and before he could sit up, Beowulf’s hand sprawled over the width of his chest and pinned him to the floor.

“Be calm, O King, and tell me,” Beowulf said, his voice like low distant thunder. “Tell me what has befallen you.”

The king winced as he sank back into the earth

“A devil,” Arthur said, his eyes brimming with rage. “He struck us from the shadows.” His lip curled up beneath his thick silver mustache and a sorrowful gleam rose up in his eye. “My knights?”

Beowulf surveyed the cadavers painting the floor around him. Nothing left but crushed armor, hollowed rib cages, splintered shields, shattered swords, and tattered organs. “You are all that remains.”

The king took a long breath before swallowing a quiet sob.

“Rise me to my feet, man. I must stop it,” Arthur said, wincing as he grabbed his side, fingers slipping into the crimson cavern beneath the plate.

“Your wounds cripple you, O King.”

“Aye, retrieve for me my scabbard,” Arthur said, his face still flushed. “That monster knocked it free.”

Beowulf stood till he shadowed Arthur from the setting sun and began scanning the bloodied floor around him. 

“I was told your scabbard had been stolen and its power with it.”

“For a youth, you are abundant in knowledge and strength, as your stature would suggest. What is your name?”

The giant's muscles flexed, veins swelling to the size of ropes as he reached down to a scabbard and brought it to his eyes. Black as pitch. He tossed it away. “I am Beowulf, son of Ecgetheow, King of the wind loving Geats.”

“I am Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, and King of the Britons.” He sighed before turning to look upon a hollowed corpse lying beside him, its chestplate bearing the mark of a shield striped red and white. “And last Knight of the Round Table.” He turned back to the giant, who was hunkered down. “Your name is one I know. Your exploits have rattled the walls of many home and tavern hall.”

Beowulf stood, brown scabbard looking like a mere twig in his closed fist as he laid it upon Arthur’s dented chest plate. The king held it to himself as a child would a doll, leaned back, closed his eyes, and let out a deep breath. The giant stared at the deep gash in the king's side as it began to throb, before the folds of skin on either side of the gory cavern were sewn together with an invisible thread. 

“I’d heard the scabbard healed in an instant and protected its holder from wounds.”

Arthur shrugged as he stood up, his knees popping beneath the plate armor clutching them. “Indeed,” He said, forlorn. “But that was many moons before Morgan sent it into the lake. Since its retrieval it does little to protect me…” he took one last look at his knights. “Or those in my company.”

“Then perhaps you’d better seek refuge in Camelot, O King,” Beowulf said before giving a salute and turning away, the strides of his thick legs heavy and long.

“What is it you seek, Prince Beowulf?” Arthur asked, sliding Excalibur from the ground and limping on his crooked leg as the scabbard cracked it back into place.

“I seek to finish what I started in the palace of Wrothgar. You should return to your queen. She has lost many nights of sleep worrying for your return.”

Arthur gave one final stretch of his leg before tailing Beowulf, the young giant’s blonde braid dangling down his hulking back. “Surely you don’t intend to hunt such a monster by yourself, young man.”

“Indeed I do.”

“Without a sword?”

Beowulf stopped, his stony gray eyes meeting Arthur’s gaze as the king’s neck popped by the healing power of his scabbard. “The sword is a useless thing against Grendel. He is enchanted. No blade can pierce his skin.”

“Excalibur has enchantments of his own.”

Beowulf’s narrow eyes brimmed with doubt. “And just as its scabbard, so too has its power decayed. Had it burned as bright as it once did, perhaps you would have slain Grendel.”

“Listen, young man,” Arthur said, the dark grooves on his forehead furrowing with his brow. “I’ve heard of your strength and you are well aware of mine. This Grendel is unlike anything you’ve faced. We are better off working together.”

From the collar of his brown shirt, Beowulf gestured to the necklace dangling from his trunk neck. Hanging from it like steel icicles were many teeth of the beast he hunted and hated with a passion hotter than perdition. “I shall vanquish Grendel myself.” He marched back into the forest, the woods growing darker as the sun became a sliver over the horizon.

“Really?” Arthur asked, wrinkled gray eyebrows raised. “Because you’re marching in the wrong direction if you wish to do so.”

Beowulf turned, following the direction of Arthur’s pointed blade, gleaming tip going towards the setting sun. “My friend, the late Palamedes, was a great hunter of beasts. He’d taught me his ways. This monster has chosen my woods to hide his horrid face within, so I shall find it. You may follow, if you wish.”

Arthur, as tall and upright as the mightiest of warrior kings, marched towards the western horizon as the sun vanished and the trees fell into shadow. After igniting a torch, Beowulf sneered and marched after him, following the sound of his clanking armor over the hill. Upon catching him, Arthur prodded the man with questions. No answer regarding his family, nor how Grendel had managed to flee to Britannia, nor if he’d had arrived with a company before hunting alone. The questions made him think of the anguish in his sister’s face as he laid Wiglaf’s open body at her feet. He’d made sure to place his intestines back inside his gut before doing so.

“Must you ask so many questions, O King?” Beowulf said, sneering as heat rose to his cheeks.

“I like to get to know the men in my company, Prince,” Arthur answered, kneeling down and inspecting a snapped log by his feet.

“I do not.”

They walked in silence for an hour or so, not hearing much until the king asked a question.

“Who did he take from you? This son of Cain?”

Beowulf turned, glaring into the eyes of the old king, who did not cower away as others might have. “I seek Grendel because my heart despises all children of Satan and the evils of this world. Now leave me be, old man. Though we hunt the same beast along the same path, we are not the same. Project not your failures upon me.” He pointed a finger at the dim Excalibur.

Arthur narrowed his eyes as the giant marched into the forest, following after a moment's hesitation. “The light of kings,” he said, holding Excalibur’s clean blade before his eyes. “Many moons have I watched it dim. I believed that if I said the right things, forgave my friend and wife for their adulterous affair, forgave myself for striking down my own son and all the mistakes made to cause his conception, then perhaps it would return. I thought if I’d reunited my Knights of the Round Table and we hunted down your Grendel, glory would be restored to my kingdom and the light would return. But dim Excalibur remains. I see the struggle of your light too, young man.”

Beowulf, his eyes burning like the torch in his hand, spun to face Arthur. “My light does dwindle as yours does, old man.”

“Perhaps, but mine does not burn so bright that it harms my allies, instead of my enemies. Your wrath is misguided and blind, son of Ecgetheow. You’ve been at war so long that you cannot distinguish friend from foe.”

Beowulf’s knuckles cracked as the empty fist clenched. “You’ve no room to lecture me. Have you become your own enemy to such a degree that Excalibur has blinded you as well? At least I remember why I wage war with evil, where you seemed to have forgotten. You speak of restoring your honor and trying to return things to the way they were, but never had I heard you say why a hero fights, O King.

“It is not for the honor and glory of yourself or that of your kingdom. Breca’s obsession with glory is what felled him. And my obsession…” He trailed off as he saw his nephew’s young face, pale with death. “My obsession with it is what robbed me of that which I loved as a little brother. It is for him that I fight.”

The two men of legend held the other’s gaze.

“Indeed, you speak true.” Arthur nodded and smiled, an expression that made him seem as young as the giant he faced. He held out his hand. “You see what a man can learn among allies that he cannot learn alone? Shall we hunt together, Beowulf of the Wind Loving Geats?”

The giant eyed the hand of the king, his gauntlet giving off the dull reflection of his torch. He sighed before clasping around the hand of Arthur and shaking it, the rage in Beowulf’s face fading as the dismay faded from Arthur’s.

“Foolish fools,” a cold voice slithered from the darkness, pulling the warriors apart as their eyes bounced onto every tree and shadowy mirk.

“It appears that we are not alone, young prince,” Arthur said as the two joined backs, circling around.

“Good. I grow impatient waiting for battle.” 

“Waiting, watching, watching, waiting,” the voice repeated, twisting with every word. “Watched the ways of man have I, for many nights and days. Learned the ways have I, both foolish and wise. No shake of hands will deliver you from your heavy heart, old king. Nor will it deliver you from your rage, O stony prince. Grendel knows. Shake mean nothing. Man no develop, man no change, man always the same. Same wicked man.”

“Enough of your taunts, beast,” Beowulf bellowed, the thunder echoing across the pitch dark forest. “Face me so that I may shatter your body as I shattered your teeth.”

“Shattering tooth, shattering teeth, Grendel care not. Only care about meat. The taste of the weak ones bring joy. Grendel likes the weak and the brave. Combined are the most delicious. I can still taste little Wiglaf on my tongue.”

Beowulf burned with fury and released a wrathful cry from his chest before charging forward, torch in hand. 

“Beowulf, no!” Arthur called after him.

There was a loud snap before the Geat was jerked up from the earth by his leg, a thick heavy cord wrapping around to his knee, torch slipping from his hand and igniting the dry twigs and leaves on the floor. Beowulf cursed as he dangled upside down, swinging back and forth like a reed in the wind. 

“Are you well, Prince?” Arthur called, running to him.

Beowulf grunted as he reached his powerful arms up and clasped the rope, trying to tear it in half. “Cursed thing!” he bellowed. “It will not break.”

“Hold still,” Arthur said, taking aim with Excalibur. “I will try.” He swung his magnificent blade with all his might and was dismayed as it bounced away as if it had struck a stone wall. “What manner of sorcery is this?”

“The best kind,” the slithering voice said as the two men caught sight of the thin towering penumbra approaching them at the border of light and shadow. Its features came into view, contorted, foul, and indescribable. It walked on two long pale gray legs like a man, the knuckles of his slender arms dragging over the earth as the fire between them spread. Its sunken eyes gleamed like hateful black marbles from its thick sloped skull, from which protruded a single horn like that of a full grown bull. It was like a decrepit starving old man, its gut sunken in and heaving beneath the wide racks of its ribcage. It grinned with long needle teeth, glittering with the crimson of its enemies. It stretched out its long curved claws towards them.

“Mother always gives Grendel the best kind,” Grendel continued before licking his thin lips with his long black tongue. “Sorry, weakling king, but I tire of weak meat. I wish to taste the strong now.”

Before Arthur or Beowulf could react, Grendel shot forward and slammed his claws through the king’s plate and mail until they erupted from his back, long and bloody. He groaned as the monster lifted him up and slung him through the air. “No!” Beowulf cried as Arthur slammed into a strong oak, his back snapping before falling onto his face.

The Geat cried out and reached for his foe before the rope around his leg grew and slithered up his body, coiling around until his powerful arms were locked to his side. He growled as he shifted against his binds, cursing Grendel and swearing to any god he could name that he would rend the beast in two. 

“Struggle not, stone prince,” Grendel whispered, dragging its long moist tongue over Beowulf’s face as the rope rose up the prince's neck and knotted itself in his mouth, gagging him. “Mother made rope strong like Grendel. Now,” he said, yanking the necklace bearing his teeth from Beowulf’s neck. “I avenge what you’ve stolen.”

Grendel struck Beowulf in the chest, tearing open his shirt but only making a light scratch across the chest. “Your skin is like scratching stone. No matter.” It swiped both claws, one after another, again and again, ripping the Geat’s clothes to tatters. “Like even hardest stone, if Grendel scratch enough times…” It swiped across Beowulf’s stomach and smiled with glee as the wound bled. “Stone break.”

Grendel brought its hand back, aiming for the open wound before something struck him in the back and knocked him off balance. The Geat looked and saw Arthur, his sword burning pure white as the sun as it pressed into Grendel’s back and sprouted from his gut, spilling black blood from the wound. The monster screamed and fell to its face before Arthur returned to Beowulf, the beam on his aged face making him young again. 

“Behold, the light of kings has returned,” he said, before going to swing his sword. Beowulf growled against his gag, his eyes widened as he shook his head and spouted gibberish protests. “Worry not, Excalibur never misses."

With two swift slices, Beowulf’s binds were rent and fell from his body as he turned in the air, slammed down on his feet, and spit out the wad of rope. The two shared a look and a nod before Grendel rose up, the black pit in his stomach sealing up and vanishing.

“He heals as you do, O King,” Beowulf noted. 

“Aye, our enchantments war with one another. I with the blade that can sever anything and he with the skin that cannot be severed. He will heal after every strike.”

“Then give me a wound for which my hands may do the rest,” Beowulf said, his hands becoming webbed with veins as he flexed them. 

“I will, young man. Be ready.”

They both hunkered down, Arthur raising his sword and Beowulf his hands as Grendel released an agonizing scream and charged forward. The beast swiped through the air as the two warriors ducked. Excalibur’s strike was true and as it tore through Grendel’s stomach and spilled his gray intestines. Like lightning, Beowulf’s hands pushed through moist innards and gripped the monster’s spine as one would a poleaxe. Grendel’s eyes grew wide with fear as he met that of Beowulf, son of Ecgetheow.

“For Wiglaf,” he said, twisting until the spine snapping in two and Grendel fell back limp and trembling. 

The two looked down at the beast as it gave its final cry. “No fair. Bones no heal…” Arthur jammed Excalibur into its heart, before its eyes grew wide and its head fell back just as it breathed its last.

“You should return to Camelot with the head, O King,” Beowulf said. “With it, you shall return their faith in you.”

“It was your kill, son of Ecgetheow.”

He shook his head. “Your people need to see their king restored. As for me, I will return to the Danes with Grendel’s arm.”

Arthur nodded before holding out his arm again. Beowulf gave a small grin before they both gripped one another’s forearm. “Perhaps we shall meet again,” the king said.

“It is good to vanquish evil with allies,” Beowulf answered.

“And what of friends?”

He nodded. “Aye, as long as I live, the Geats shall be Camelot’s friend and their ruler shall be mine.”

“Likewise. May it be well with you, Beowulf of the Geats.”

“May it be well with you, Arthur of the Britons.”