I'm back! Finally, I know. I got buried under homework, though. Which is actually the reason behind my latest offering of fic...about Beowulf, book not movie (which sucked). This is kind of my own personal canon for the queen. It was supposed to be for a class assignment but it spun way out of control and morphed into fic. Which is actually kind of sad, come to think of it, because I didn't even like the poem. I guess I missed ficcing that much. -grin-
Disclaimer: Not mine. No one knows whose it is, but definitely not mine.
ix. everything always leads back to it
This is how the story ends.
There is a cry of joy, people crying welcome to the Geats returned to them. A feast, dancing, overflowing cups of mead and her husband's face wreathed in smiles. The shadow over Herot has been lifted, and all the Danes celebrate the victory.
Wealhtheow is not of the Danes, Queen though she may be, and so she watches and waits, keeps a smile fixed on her face and thinks of another parting much like this.
ii. every story needs a hero
Edgetho comes in a boat, surrounded by harried men, rowing quickly. He is coarse blond hair turned lank and greasy from weeks without washing, gleaming links of mail that glow like miniature halos where the firelight strikes them, and a grin that speaks vaguely of trouble. He holds himself like he knows he is someone; there is an air of frankness about him, a surety that will not be shaken. He is the hero; some things will always be unquestioned.
Wealhtheow tries not to show how pleased she is when Hrothgar announces that the Prince of the Geats will be their guest. And when Edgetho’s grin flashes in her direction, the Queen of the Danes is careful and only smiles.
iii. subplots are to story what arteries are to body
Edgetho is something new, something forbidden. He is the rush of blood to her face and the disapproving frown on her maid's face as she steals out to the mead hall every night.
"This will not last," she tells Gudrun, pulling on an undertunic to keep the chill away.
But every story must have a hero, and she has waited years for hers to arrive.
Later, she hurries away from the mead hall, cursing the dew on the ground and the grass on her skirt and the very gods themselves for placing her in this position, for truly, who would resist a hero, even one fallen from grace?
"This cannot last," she whispers to herself, and knows it to be true.
iv. this, too, will pass
At age eighteen, Wealhtheow decides she does not like being right.
When she is, nothing good ever comes of it, only pain and misery and perhaps this is why the women must stay home to mind the hall while the men win the glory. Certainly, she has never heard the Tale of Sigmund, the Hero Who Was Right and Spent Every Day after Wishing He Was Not.
There are too many complications, she thinks, in caring about anything enough to wonder about its future.
This is when the gracious smiles come forth, and the heroine turns to ice.
v. we always want what we can’t have
Twenty years and thirty men pass before the hero comes again.
Once more there is shimmering mail that clinks lightly as it moves, blond hair that shows all the hardships of travel; his hands stay calmly by his sides, none of his father’s boisterous, frenetic energy evident in his movements. Beowulf, son of Edgetho, has inherited all his father’s strengths and none of his weakness; he will be the hero without the telling flaw. The boisterous noise of his warriors fills the hall and oh what people the Geats must be, to produce such princes as these.
Yet this hero is not hers to claim and his gaze passes through her as if through a ghost.
vi. discretion is the better part of valor
Grendel’s arm drips blood onto the rushes, staining the bright gold a murky red-brown color like rotting fruit. Its stench fills the hall, rancid and somehow wrong. The very inhumanity of it frightens her, makes her pull her arms around herself and forget to act the queen. Wealhtheow, Queen of the Danes, would hold her head high and trumpet the victory for all her people to see and take heart from. Wealhtheow, daughter of the Wulfings, is afraid, though, and is too busy wondering what other terrors the night will bring.
Beowulf, it seems, fears nothing. He struts up and down the hall with enough vivacity to put even the most exuberant of the Danes to shame, and his men go with him, proudly crying him up as the noblest of princes. Thor himself could not have done better, they say, and in the joy of the moment this blasphemy is overlooked. Secretly, Wealhtheow wonders whether they might be right, her eyes fixed on their shining prince and a yearning within her that she cannot quite name.
vii. every hero needs an enemy
It is only later, when all is silent and a shadow – the true shadow, the kind that can only come with death – has come over Herot, that she remembers the gods do not look kindly on those who do not respect them. Beowulf is gone, chasing after the demon’s mother in the pursuit of glory and honor and all those princely virtues that have no meaning outside of epic tales and childhood fancies.
(Beware, young Prince. There are things that strong arms and glittering armor will not protect you from.)
viii. happy endings rarely live up to their names
Against all odds, Beowulf is alive.
Wealhtheow begins to doubt that anything can defeat him. He is more alive than ever; his presence fills the mead hall like something tangible. Glory is in the air tonight, she can feel it, they all do. Fame and honor and valor are something more than just ideals – they are real, things to be molded and handed to them by the golden prince, shining despite his bloodstained mail and sodden hair.
All at once, the air is alive with shouts, with laughter. Someone strikes up a song, the others picking up the tune and adding a verse, all in honor of Beowulf. Hrothgar jumps down from his carved throne, dignity momentarily forgotten in his joy.
Wealhtheow does not. She is queen of the Danes, and at last she understand what that means.
She has no claim on this hero, she reminds herself and almost believes it.
i. in my end is my beginning
Many years ago, Wealhtheow of the Wulfings was sent to the Danes to marry one of their princes. It mattered little which one; her tribe was a peaceful one and they needed some way to guarantee peace.
It was expected that she would choose the oldest son. He was the heir, the king-to-be. The others had poor prospects compared to his. It came as some surprise, then, when she announced her choice.
Her brother, chaperone and appointed guardian for the wedding, did not question her.
And across the mead hall, Wealhtheow met Hrothgar’s eyes and smiled.
This is how the story begins.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
