Break the Beast: A Retelling Of Beowulf by Allison Tebo

Author:Allison Tebo [Tebo, Allison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

My uneasy feelings follow me into the Hall and do not loosen their hold, even though I am surrounded by high spirits.

The feasting around me only adds to my discomfort. I cannot remember the last time I saw people celebrate, and I cannot shake the sensation that there is something hollow beneath the singing. Surely that must only be me—I am the hollow core at the center of this unwitting crowd that laughs and eats believing that the monster is dead, not knowing that the monster sits amongst them in an uneasy knot.

I would prefer to be seated beside Beowulf, but he is on the dais at the end of the Hall with Yrsa, while I am seated some spear-lengths away at the table that lines the right-hand side of the room.

No one seems to notice that Beowulf himself is far quieter than a man who has won a great victory. Despite the many toasts offered to him, Beowulf looks distant and unhappy, mirroring my own feelings.

It is strange to be sitting in this hall as a welcomed guest when, seven nights ago, I spilled blood here. I should be satisfied. At long last I am one of them—accepted with warmth. But the feeling of Unferth’s eyes upon me in the courtyard, the sight of Beowulf’s somber face, and my own burgeoning secret is a three-pronged prod of discomfort that keeps me from enjoying the feast.

I wonder at the unease in Beowulf’s face, as if he also senses something wrong in the room, or does not fully approve of the celebration. And suddenly I remember: the shrine in the copse. Has it not yet been torn down, as Beowulf so deeply wished?

I look at him and guess that it hasn’t—and I wonder if the emotion I feel lingering at the corners of the room might be defiance.

“More wine, little maid?”

I timidly hold out my glass for the man beside me to fill it. I am too shy to look him in the face, so my gaze slides towards his forehead instead. I freeze when I see the ugly wound at his hairline, only half healed.

My hand tenses, and when I look down at the puddle of wine I spilled on the floor, I see his outstretched arm, with the five scarlet lines caused by my claw marks.

I shrink back, avoiding his gaze, as he turns to speak to a more talkative companion, leaving me to my churning thoughts.

Trollhattan’s bard paces before the roaring hearth and begins to sing of the beautiful and brave captive who aided Beowulf in defeating the great monster.

I squirm: it is fitting that they should sing of Beowulf. Every bit of praise for him that rings under the rafters is fully deserved. But such praise I do not deserve—and every line of the bard’s song strikes me with a knife-wound of guilt.

The merriment continues, but I am only feverishly aware of it, and I cannot eat another bite. The celebration goes on, unabated, until the windows begin to reveal that the night is stained with dawn.

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