by Gwynn Jones
She was hot and wet. Unferth felt warm on top of her as he pulled himself up and pressed his shaft against her, probing her opening with its tip. And yet something else, cold, serpentine, seemed to be wrapping itself around her, around her wrists in the sand, around her legs, slithering and reaching. The waves became louder in her ears. Unferth pushed himself into her, taking her maidenhead, breaking through. Even though she was well primed, it hurt — it felt hot, searing, as he sank the full length of his long, hard cock into her virgin pussy. But the cold tendrils, the sea-tentacles, as she imagined them, cooled the pain as they wrapped around her limbs and penetrated her, too. The waves roared in her head. The sea-presence enveloped her, enfolded her and filled her. She felt Unferth's heat, his body against her and his shaft sliding in and out, thrusting deep and deeper, but she could not tell where she ended and the sea-tentacles began. She felt like she was losing consciousness, losing herself in the sound of the pounding surf and the all-encompassing sensation of the sea wrapping around her and twisting itself inside her. She felt herself panting, her body arching. And she thought she heard a voice, not Unferth's, not her own, whispering in her ear.
"The lost one, the lost one," it whispered, "You are the bride, you are the one..."
She could barely catch the words, could barely tell whether she was hearing them, because at that moment, like a huge wave breaking on the shore, her body exploded into orgasm. All her senses were swept into a single shattering release, a moment of blissful oblivion.
They returned to that cave many times in the months that followed, but it was never the same as the first time. The feel of the sand and the sound of the waves reminded her of the sea-presence that had taken her, but the presence itself never returned. Sometimes she felt a little like it was somewhere nearby though, somewhere at the edge of her awareness, waiting.
And so the summer had passed, and then the fall, and the weather grew cold, and the snow blew in, as the days grew ever darker. The walks on the beach ceased, and Sigrun found herself spending longer hours shut in her cell, counting the days until Grendel would come for her. Unferth's visits did not alleviate the agony of being confined. He gave her precious moments of distraction, but it was not enough. She ached for her freedom. She did not fear what was ahead, because she was too desperate to escape her present condition.
She stared into the fire and heard the words "the lost one, the lost one" repeating over and over in her head. Yes, she was lost. She would be dead soon. The monster Grendel would probably tear her to pieces. Would he eat her? Probably. She wondered whether it would be very painful, getting torn limb from limb. She wondered why she wasn't in fact out of her mind with terror over the prospect. Surely there were some who would choose even this buried-alive life, any life, over certain, terrible death. But apparently she was not one of them. Maybe if she'd really thought there was any hope for her, she'd have felt differently. She wasn't sure. At least she wasn't out of her mind with terror.
It was dark now and had been for a while. The sound of the door bolt sliding roused her from her reverie. It was Unferth, but he was not alone. Two other warriors stood behind him. She felt a flash of scorn. Did they think she would struggle? Try to run away? But many of the yearly Wealhtheows probably did, poor maidens desperately afraid of the horror that awaited them. Curse them all, every one of them who served Hrothgar and remained at Heorot, for subjecting those innocents to this. But she would not struggle, she would not run. She stood up and took Unferth's arm. She looked the men in the eyes, and they dropped their gaze, unable to meet hers.
"Right then, shall we go to the hall?"
The revelries at Heorot were already underway. Hrothgar sat in the high chair set on the dais at the head of the mead benches. He had probably been drinking since midday. He raised a mead horn to Sigrun as she entered the hall and proceeded to his side.
"Wealhtheow! My queen! We greet you. Join us in our feast."
"I thank you, but I have little appetite."
"Understandable, my dear." This he said in a lower voice, for her alone. His cold, shrewd eyes looked her up and down. "At least you're not weeping. Good girl. Brave." He drained his horn. "Unferth, fetch my queen a drink."
Unferth left and returned again shortly with a golden mead cup, which he handed to Sigrun with a slight bow. The liquid inside looked thick, almost syrupy, and smelled spicy-sweet. He bent towards her ear.
"Drink it. It will numb you, make you sleepy. When it comes, it will not be so bad — you will be calm — you won't feel —” he faltered.
“Really? Have you tested it yourself?” She knew he meant well, but she was immensely irritated by Unferth at the moment. “Besides, I'm already calm. I want nothing to numb me. I will keep my senses about me for whatever is to come.”
He nodded and set the drink aside. “As you wish.”
Sigrun looked around the hall. There were very few women. Those who were present looked stony-faced, frightened or indignant. Some stole quick, furtive glances in her direction. Their eyes showed sympathy and shame. Some of the men also looked ashamed, green in the face, unable to meet her gaze. Others leered. All of them drank heavily. The women gradually disappeared from the hall, some casting angry glares at the men as they slipped out. Most of the warriors seemed intent on drinking themselves out of their wits. She thought they ought just to have a sip of her drugged mead, if they wanted so badly to numb themselves to their hateful tradition.
It was growing late, and Hrothgar rose from his seat. He turned to Sigrun.
“It is time for me to retire, my dear. You must stay here.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Best of luck to you, my wife. Maybe this will be the year he doesn’t show.”
Hrothgar left the hall. Those men who had not already passed out bedded down along the walls, leaving an empty passage from the great doors down the length of the mead hall and to the dais where Sigrun still sat. Unferth and a few others remained awake, sitting off to either side of her. To make sure that she did not try to run, she guessed. She sighed. How long now until it came?
In spite of herself, she dozed off, she did not know for how long. She slipped into strange, confusing dreams. She wandered foreign landscapes and made her way through labyrinthine structures. She seemed to slide through the branches of an enormous tree that was everywhere and everything. She saw stars and ice and fire. She found herself at the edge of a milky pool. She stretched out her fingers to touch the surface, but something else reached out and pulled her in.
She felt herself caught in the coils of smooth, gliding, serpent-like beasts. They tickled and caressed her, and she thought of the sea presence with its cool, probing tendrils. But these creatures held her suspended, arms and legs outstretched, in what seemed like a sphere of pearly light. She heard voices but could not make out what they were saying. Someone approached her from behind, wrapping an arm around her waist, dropping a hand to touch her between her legs. She felt a snap of electricity, a charge running through her at the touch. She felt like her body was enveloped in a humming, vibrating field of energy that made her hair stand on end and her nipples stand erect.
Her arousal grew intense, so intense that it was like she was throwing off crackling charges of energy, herself. She felt herself expanding beyond the boundaries of her body. The serpents were surging, spinning, pulling her so that she arched into a deep back bend. Her head was inverted, her vision obscured by her swirling hair. With her arms and legs still spread wide, she felt as though her entire expanding being was centered on her tingling, humming sex. She felt a burning need to be filled. It was like a hunger, like her sex was a mouth that needed to be fed.
She felt hands on her hips. Something pressed against her, teased apart her lips. Yes, she wanted to cry out, Yes! Fill me! She strained to take it inside her, quivering, frustrated by the coils that held her fast. Her juices were gushing. Her mysterious lover continued to tease her, dipping just inside, rubbing the tip of his shaft against her, never quite pulling away, but re
fusing to plunge in completely. She groaned in a strange combination of agony and ecstasy. She felt sparks coming off of her body. She thought she might just explode in anticipation. Just when she was quite sure that she would, he finally penetrated her. She thought that she might scream from the pleasure of the release as waves of orgasm rocked through her and pulsed out from her. All of her senses were filled with the orgasm, and then it seemed like everything was consumed in a blaze of bright white light.
When she woke, the fire had died to a soft glow, and the hall had grown cold. Everyone was asleep, her guards included. How easy, she thought ruefully, it would have been for Unferth to have spirited her away from here during this quiet time before the monster came. But he too was asleep, never having intended to attempt any such escape. What had awakened her? It was a sound that had done it. Not the sound of the doors crashing in, but a sound from somewhere outside. Movements. Something moving along the side of the hall, something scraping along the outer wall, drawing slowly closer to the front. The hairs on her neck prickled. This was it. What would she do? Should she try to fight it? She had heard that the warriors of Heorot had quickly learned, when Grendel first began his attacks, that no weapons had any effect on the monster; his skin was impervious to every blade, spear, or club that they tried against him. The sound was getting closer to the door.
No one had bothered to throw the massive bolt; Grendel had burst through too many times for anyone to think that there was any way to keep him out. So now, instead of a great crash, she heard the low creak of the door slowly swinging open. Sigrun tensed in her seat. She caught her breath at the sight of a huge, clawed hand wrapped around the edge of the doorframe. The seconds seemed to stretch for an eternity as she waited for the creature to step into the hall. When the massive thing finally emerged from the shadows, she gasped. It was easily eight feet tall, with huge shoulders, thick, muscled arms, and legs like tree trunks. The light was too dim to see its features clearly, but its eyes glowed green, flashing around the hall. It moved forward down the center, glaring at the sleeping warriors to either side. She was struck, strangely, by how gracefully the monster moved, swiftly and silently. It must have been dragging its claws along the exterior walls, intentionally creating that noise that had woken her before.
Halfway down the length of the room, Grendel’s eyes finally landed on Sigrun. The monster paused, as though appraising her. Their eyes locked. Her breath was coming quickly, but she refused to be afraid, refused to seem afraid. Grendel snorted lightly. Then he looked around the room and let out a massive roar. It was a bloodcurdling sound, and the warriors awoke in confusion. Sigrun, remarkably, found herself laughing. The monster wanted to make sure he had an audience, wanted to make sure the warriors did not sleep through his theft of their queen. It was a short laugh, though.
Once he had gotten everyone’s attention, Grendel bounded to the dais and swept Sigrun from her seat. His claws dug into her arms as he lifted her up and swung her over his shoulder, but they did not break flesh. From the corner of her vision, she saw Unferth charging toward Grendel, swinging his sword. He hacked at the monster’s side, but the sword bounced off without leaving a mark. Grendel knocked Unferth away. Sigrun lifted herself up, bracing herself against Grendel’s back — his one arm was wrapped firmly around her legs, holding her close against him — so that she could see. While Grendel carried her back through the hall and towards the doors, Unferth crouched by the dais, watching, not moving again.
Free of the hall, past the other buildings and away into the woods, Grendel swung Sigrun off his shoulder and carried her cradled in his arms. He moved quickly and agilely through the forest, out across an open space of moors and over a treacherous, craggy region where winding trails twisted down steep rock faces to a dark, evil-looking lake. She knew that the night’s darkness did not help the prospect, but she doubted that it looked any less forbidding in the daylight. They reached the shore of the lake, a narrow stretch of rocky shelf where cliff and water met. Grendel set her down. Dark water lapped at their feet. Now what? He wrapped one great arm around her, holding her tightly to his side, lifting her up onto her toes.
She looked up at his face. She could see it more clearly now in the moonlight. It was almost human, but not quite. The mouth was a little too broad, the nose too flat, almost muzzle-like, but also not quite. The skin seemed leathery, the hair — fur or hair? too hard to tell — covered more of his cheeks than any man’s beard would. The ears were pointed. When he opened his mouth slightly, she saw that the teeth were sharp. He was looking at the water. He looked down at her, then looked to the water again, and then took a breath. She realized with a slight shock that they were going to go into the lake.
She took a deep breath just as Grendel jumped in.
It was so dark, she nearly panicked. It was also very, very cold. She thought she might die, if not by drowning, then from the shock of the cold water, but she also found herself wanting very much to live. Grendel was swimming strongly and steadily toward something. She felt something brush past her in the water, and she held tighter, though Grendel’s grip on her was more than secure. She had closed her eyes, but as her lungs began to strain, she opened them again and saw, miraculously, a light glowing just ahead. The light also revealed the shapes of the sea creatures brushing past, great serpent-like things circling them. She saw two snapping viciously at each other, but none of them attacked Grendel. The light grew stronger just as Sigrun felt herself growing faint from lack of air. It seemed to be coming from an underwater cave in the side of the cliff. Grendel swam into the cave, through the opening and then upward. Sigrun thought her lungs were going to burst and was about to take in a long, deadly breath of water when they broke through the surface.
Grendel pulled her from the water and set her gently on the floor, but she spent several moments gasping and sputtering before she could gather herself enough to look around. When she did, she was surprised by what she saw.
It was a huge cave, beautifully vaulted. The walls glittered with gemstones. A fire blazed in a massive hearth on the far side, opposite the pool from which they had emerged. She wondered how the smoke vented out, but she also saw arched openings to other caves and passages; there must have been tunnels and chutes that led all the way to the surface. The floor was too smooth — polished-seeming — to be natural; the arches and walls, too, were so regular — this was no untouched, natural cave. This was a work of architecture. She realized that pillars that she’d thought to be stalactites at first glance were in fact columns and were intricately carved with flowers, vines, and dragons. A huge stone table, also elaborately carved, stood near the hearth and held glowing gold goblets, bowls, and platters, all sized to fit very large hands. A massive sword hung on the wall beside the fireplace. Some people had suggested that Grendel began his attacks on Heorot because he was jealous of Horthgar’s magnificent mead hall; those people were clearly wrong. Grendel’s subterranean lair put Hrothgar’s monument to shame.
Sigrun realized that she was shivering violently. The cold night air followed by the icy water had chilled her to the bone, and her heavy clothes were soaked through. Water dripped in rivulets from her hair and her dress and was pooling on the floor around her. Grendel was watching her closely. He picked her up again and carried her to the fire, setting her on her feet beside the warm hearth. With a clawed finger he pulled her shawl from her shoulders and then pulled off the brooches holding her dress. The sodden clothes slipped to the floor, leaving only a thin, lightweight shift. Sigrun bent to pull off her boots and stockings but planned to keep her underdress on. It too was soaked, cold and clinging to her skin. Even beside the blazing fire it would take a while to dry, and she continued to shake from the cold.
Grendel grunted impatiently.
Sigrun had been so distracted by the swim, the hall, her soaked and frozen condition, she suddenly realized that here she was, alone with the monster in its lair.
She looked at the creature in front of her. He
was huge, hulking — but he held himself upright. She had heard descriptions of a hunched, misshapen being. She could well imagine Grendel crouched and animal-like, moving swiftly in his attack, and she could imagine that his sheer size and the terror he provoked might impress witnesses with memories of him more ghastly and monstrous than was actually the case. Aside from his size, he seemed almost — but not quite — human. She could not decide whether it was light fur or thick hair that covered most of his body. He was barefoot, impervious, apparently, to the winter cold, but he wore a short skirt of skins around his waist. His torso — some had suggested he was covered with scales, and this was why no weapon could bite his flesh — was covered, she saw now, with a coat of finely wrought chain mail under a sheepskin vest.
And then there was that not-quite-human face, and the eyes looking down at her from it. Those eyes — green, almost catlike in the flickering glow of the fire — were not the eyes of a mindless beast. Sigrun saw intelligence in those eyes. And they were clearly scrutinizing her. Grendel was looking at her thoughtfully and deciding, it seemed, what to do.