Authors: Gwynn Jones
Rousing herself from her musings, she had only just stepped back into her dress when Grendel emerged from the pool. Water streamed off of him, some of it pinkish in hue, and she saw large bloodstains on his sheepskin vest. It had been a bad night for Heorot. He pulled off his vest and chain mail, shaking the water from his thick hair, and then caught sight of Sigrun by the fire. His eyes were glowing. He still had the bloodlust upon him, the thrill of the kill.
Her pulse quickened at the sight of him, his massive chest and rippling muscles. She couldn't help it. When Grendel had taken her, had awakened that something within her that made her what she was now, supernaturally strong and vital, he had tied her to him forever. She had been lost before Grendel. A foundling babe who had never known her origins, who had been shunned by her community her entire life, who had been chosen to die but had miraculously lived instead, she couldn't help but feel an affinity with the creature who had freed her from that existence. Grendel was her monstrous love.
He strode toward her, crossing the hall in a few paces and sweeping her into his arms. He picked her up, pressing her against the wall with one hand while he dropped his leather skirt with the other, revealing his gigantic, swollen cock. It was so hard, she could see it throbbing. She felt her juices gushing in response. He pushed up her dress, revealing her naked, mossy cleft, and pressed the head against her. It was as big as her fist, and he had to push hard, rubbing and spreading her lips, to get it in.
She cried out at the sweet pain of his massiveness gaining entry, as her sex opened to receive him. He usually primed her for this by plying her with his tongue first, fucking her front and back with its full, agile length, teasing her clit until she had already come several times and had reached a frenzied pitch, before he impaled her with this huge organ. But in his bloodlust, with fire in his veins and the haze of carnage still over him, he always went straight to it, unable to wait to sink his member deep into her hot, tight cunt. Though it ought to have split her in half, she always took him, as though her body expanded to accommodate his massiveness, every last inch.
She gripped his huge, muscled shoulders with her hands. She wrapped her legs around his waist while he pounded into her. He ran his tongue up her throat, but she barely noticed it; he was fucking her so hard, she was seeing stars. When he opened his mouth wide and took her neck between his jaws, this caught her attention. The sharp teeth pressed against her flesh, and she realized that a sudden move might tear her throat out. Her multiorgasmic waves of climax had been mounting, each orgasm growing stronger than the last, and she knew that she was close to peaking. The feel of Grendel's teeth against her sent an additional thrill through her, but what might happen if they both lost control?
She could tell that Grendel was close, too. His thrusts were coming faster and stronger, plunging as deep as he could go. She could barely focus her thoughts, but her instincts for self-preservation were telling her that if he snapped his mouth shut when he came, she was done for. She unwrapped her legs from his torso and planted her feet on his thighs, bracing her back against the wall. The shift in position tilted her pelvis slightly and deepened the penetration, tearing a gasp from her lips and launching her into the all-consuming orgasm. With her explosion of climactic energy, she pushed Grendel away just as he came, his teeth slightly grazing her neck as he clenched them shut before letting out a roar of release. She fell to the floor, drenched with the stream of cum that spurted from his unsheathed cock.
He crouched on the floor, panting. Sigrun touched her hand to her throat and came away with blood. It was not bad, just a trickle. But she wondered what might have happened if she hadn't had the strength to push him away. Grendel was looking at her now, looking at the blood on her fingers and her neck, and frowning. He snorted softly, a sound of sadness or distress, and pulled her toward him. He gently, tentatively licked the wound. The blood rage was gone from him now. He held her protectively in his arms, and she sank into him. She felt the warmth of his body and the softness of his fur. She felt her nerves tingling with the aftershocks of sex, and she felt tenderness for her beast. But she also felt worry. Grendel's bloodlust was out of control, and it was finding its way home.
Later, in a calmer moment, she tried to speak to him. They were lying together on a pile of plush furs in front of the fire. She rested her head on his stomach, running her fingers through the soft, thick hair that covered him and gently stroking his cock, still huge even when it wasn't erect.
"Grendel, my sweet... You know I have no love for Hrothgar or anyone else at Heorot. I do not mourn them, would not mourn them, no matter how many you killed. But I fear for you. I fear for us. I fear that this killing has gotten into your blood. I fear, if you continue at this pace, for what you may become."
She felt him shift slightly beneath her. She looked up into his face. His eyes looked troubled, but she could not tell whether he understood what she was saying.
"Do you understand me? Do you understand what I am asking? I want you to stop these attacks on Heorot. I fear that if you don't it will all end badly for everyone."
He sighed, seemed to shrug his huge shoulders. He ran a clawed finger through her hair. She wondered if she could take this as a sign of acquiescence.
"Mmm... Beautiful..." he murmured. Whether he understood or agreed or not, she could tell that he was changing the subject.
Grendel did not heed her request. He waited several days
—
long enough for her to feel some hope that he had listened, that he had decided to stop. She had fallen asleep in his arms, satisfied and spent from his attentions, her thighs quivering and her clit still trilling from the play of his tongue upon it.
He had covered every inch of her body with his touch, the gentle raking of his claws and rasp of his catlike tongue. He had worked interminably at her pussy and ass, probing and massaging, making her come again and again. When he had finally set to fucking her with his tremendous cock, she was like putty, like butter, melting around him. When he came, it was like they were one.
But when she awoke later, sometime in the middle of the night, he was gone. She felt a chill run down her spine. Something in her gut told her to be afraid.
She waited for him to return, her eyes never leaving the pool.
When, hours later, he burst through the water, her heart leaped into her throat.
His eyes were blazing. Red water dripped from him, clots of blood tangled in his fur. He bared his teeth, and his mouth was crimson. Sigrun felt a surge of nausea at the sight of hair and gobbets of flesh caught between his fangs. She got to her feet. He glared at her, and she could see no recognition, no intelligence at all, in his eyes
—
only frenzy. He roared, spitting carnage, and bounded toward her.
She threw up her arms, crossed in front of her, as he hit her, smashing her back against the wall. He would have pinned her, his arm across her throat, had she not gotten her arms up to block him. The blast of his breath, the metallic tang of blood and a sweet smell of rot, was sickening. She felt his massive erection pressing against her, but she wasn't sure whether he intended to fuck her or tear her to pieces. He reached down to lift up her skirt. He wanted sex. But she knew that she couldn't trust him in this state not to kill her in the process. And she would not let him have her like this.
"No, Grendel," she gasped, mustering all her strength, "No!" Somehow, with a burst of power, she pushed him away. He stumbled back several steps, surprised.
"Grendel! Stop this!" She hoped that he would come to his senses, but his angry roar told her otherwise. He paused for mere seconds, a few heartbeats, before he was back upon her. She felt, in the first beat, at the sight of his blind rage, paralyzed with fear. She was going to die. She couldn't think. But then, her heart pounding in her ears, it was like everything suddenly slowed down, the seconds stretching out to give her time to react.
She realized that her back was against the mighty sword that hung on the wall beside the fire. It was huge, surely it was too heavy for her even to lift, let alone pull it from its mount or wield it against a foe. But there was no time for these thoughts to even flicker through her head. She turned, she grasped the sword by the hilt, and she tore it from the wall. The blade flashed as she swung it out in front of her, holding it with both hands and pointing it directly at Grendel's chest as he lunged toward her. He stopped short, inches from impaling himself on the sword. She held it steady. He stepped back, his eyes focused and bright. Then he knelt down before her.
Whether he knelt for her or for the sword or for the fact that she was holding the sword, she couldn't tell. Her heart was still racing. She didn't care. All that mattered was that she had stopped him, that she wasn't dead. And the sword, she realized, felt surprisingly good in her hands.
"Go..." Her voice was hoarse, her breath ragged. "Go clean yourself, Grendel."
He snorted softly. Head hanging, he left the hall, disappearing into one of the passages that led to the hot springs. Her legs were shaking. She thought she might collapse. She leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Then she looked at the sword again. The blade gleamed. It was heavy, very heavy, and yet it felt natural in her grasp. She sliced it through the air in a wide, whistling arc. She switched from her two-handed grip to one, and it positively sang. "And to think," she marveled, "you've been waiting on the wall all this time. I think you've been waiting for me."
She still wasn't sure what to do. She still had a pit in her stomach over Grendel. This couldn't continue. But she suddenly felt a bit safer, whatever came next.
Sigrun knew that she had to leave.
It was a wrenching thought. She had grown strangely fond of her life amongst the monsters, and she had hoped to somehow unlock the secrets of the hall. She was still growing even in her understanding of herself. And yet she knew that she was running out of time. Grendel was set on a path to destruction, and one of them was sure to die as a result. She may have thought her death was a certainty when she first became Hrothgar's sacrificial queen, but now she had changed her mind. She preferred to live. Nor did she want to kill her dear Grendel. She wasn't even sure if she could. But with the giant blade in her hands, she felt increasingly that it was a strong possibility.
She had never practiced swordplay herself, but she had spent long hours while imprisoned at Heorot watching the warriors at practice. She had picked up a great deal of knowledge as a result, and now, with sword in hand, she found her body easily mimicking everything she had seen. She seemed to be a natural.
So, she would equip herself and run away. She would run far away and somehow find something to do. Maybe there were other sea dragons waiting in some other haunted mere, who would gladly take her in. She chuckled at that thought. She had no trust for mankind, but she was sure she could find some wild place where she could get by.
She began prowling the labyrinth of treasure chambers, searching for gear that would serve her. She felt a slight tremor of guilt at plundering the ancient hoard
—
was this thievery? And what of the sword? Was she wrong to make it hers? But, she reasoned to herself, consider this: Hrothgar had never given her a bridal gift. It was the price a husband was supposed to pay his wife to ensure her material security within her new home. Nor had Grendel, for that matter. A bride twice over, surely she was entitled to her security. So she would choose her gifts for herself.
Her dress, heavy and cumbersome, would not do. She needed to be agile. She searched through the rooms for better attire, but all the leather she found was stiff and cracked with age, the fabrics likewise fragile from the passage of countless years. She was ready to give up hope and resign herself to her heavy skirts for the time being when she came upon a carved bone chest hidden in the corner of one of the armories, amongst a disorganized heap of helmets. A gorgeous, twisted-metal, wickedly sharp horn had caught her eye, and she was pulling out the helmet to which it belonged when she discovered the chest beneath.
She caught her breath when she saw the contents, a full kit of gear
—
leggings, boots, tunic
—
fashioned from what looked for all the world like it must be dragon skin. It was a green so dark it was almost charcoal black, covered with tiny scales that faintly glistened. But would it, too, be ruined by age? She pulled out the light, hooded tunic and found it buttery-soft and supple. Depending on how the light hit it, the dark green became more charcoal, or silver, or even a sort of soft gray. This was otherworldly stuff, stuff that was meant to endure for eons. More miraculous still, the clothes and boots seemed to have been cut to fit a woman. She pulled them on, and it was like wearing a second skin. There were thicker, heavier cuffs for her arms and upper legs, a belt
—
with a dagger! A slim, light, wicked-looking dagger
—
and a sort of light breastplate, also of the same material, layered and fused, to buckle around her waist and chest.
"Mysteries upon mysteries," she murmured, delighted with her outfit, "have you been waiting for me, too? I think we're meant for one another."
Properly outfitted, with dagger, helm, and sword, she was nearly ready. She found a scabbard that would allow her to carry the great sword, too big to keep at her side, on her back. Her old cloak would suit her until she found something better. She constructed a small pack and some pouches to hang from her belt and filled them with gold coins and jewels. It was not so much to overburden her, and nothing, an unnoticeable theft, in comparison to the heaps of treasure from which it came, but even a single handful would have been enough to make her a wealthy woman. This would make her a very, very wealthy woman. Perhaps she would buy herself a ship and go a'viking...
Now to get away. Should she fear Grendel's interference? She wanted to slip away without his knowledge and hoped that he would not give chase when he realized she was gone. She suspected, hoped, that he was too attached to this place to leave it. She suspected as well that he was too far gone to even miss her very much. She had not seen him for days. She had briefly caught sight of him shortly after their terrible encounter. He had cleaned off the gore and was sitting, slumped, dejected-seeming, at the table in the great hall. She had felt pity for him, wanted to go to him and comfort him, forgive him his attack. But when he looked up and saw her, saw the sword still in her hand, he scowled. When she spoke his name he growled in response, baring his teeth. She had retreated to the maze of rooms and corridors after that.
She had not left the cave for days, either. It was hard to tell time underground, but she trusted that her internal sense of day and night had not gotten too skewed yet. Grendel went out prowling at night and generally returned early in the morning. She would be best off trying to leave shortly thereafter, while he was asleep, and when she had most of the day to cover ground quickly while there was light. She had gathered everything that the hall could offer that would be of use to her. As a child she had developed strong woodsman's skills. Once above ground, she would fashion a bow and arrows for hunting, and she knew how to forage until she was able to hunt.
She would sleep here one last night, and then she would make her escape. She was tired, and she had eaten very little in the past few days, too intent on avoiding Grendel and making her plans. She bedded down in a small, secure room that was close to the main hall. She wanted quick access to the exit, and she hoped that she would be able to hear when Grendel returned. She kept her sword unsheathed by her side. And then she fell asleep.