Beowulf the Warrior Queen

the epic of beowulf but genderbent

There once lived a great warrior, a champion amoung mortals. Their hands brought fire and wrath to all who crossed them. Even the dullest blade became potent in their masterful grip. Tales of their conquest and glory rode upon the wind to people far and wide. With the conviction of an unwavering soul and a fierce loyalty to the protection of what is right, they stood rooted on this earth, a typhoon amidst a motionless sea, a force to be feared.

She was Beowulf, the Warrior Queen.

She stood, motionless, her shoulders thrown back and her head held high, feeling all but slightly dwarfed in the great expanse of the mead hall. Before her sat Queen Hrothgaria, ruler and provider of the geats. She looked haggard, eyes sunken in and mouth slanted slightly down. She was in desperate need of help, and her pleading eyes told of the burden she carried, a responsibility to ensure her people’s safety. A burden which had become far too heavy in the past few years.

“I have come,” Beowulf said clearly, her voice carrying throughout the great hall to the ears of all who were in attendance. “I have come to rid you of your demon. To return to you the prosperity and security which you have lost. I am here to repay the debt of my mother, Ecthelia. A favor that I owe you and intend to return with competence.” She turned her attention to those in the hall, looking for any opposition, and finding only a small spark of it in the eyes of one warrior. She waited and held her stare to see if it would lead anywhere and when the defiant warrior looked away she turned back to the Queen in search of her definitive approval.

“Beowulf, daughter of the great warrior Ecthelia. We have heard of your conquests and victories in battle, so we shall put our faith in you. We accept your assistance to exorcise our lands and liberate us of this fiend. Too many have died at the hands of this monster and their lives must be avenged.” Beowulf bowed her head to the Queen, and turned to her warriors. They would strike tonight, and they will either kill or be killed.

The air was thick with feelings too strong to express. Nervous coughs and shuffles, last minute murmured prayers. The warriors settled into their sleeping arrangements, each knowing that some would not make it out alive. They were silent, one sleeping entity, minds connected by their intentions and desire for revenge. Silence, the sound of warm breathing and creaking wood, the wind howled outside the great hall. Its icy grip not strong enough to reach past its protective walls. The hall would keep out all but one evil tonight.

Beowulf could feel the adrenaline pulsing through her veins, the power was making her blood sing. Her heart pumped the rhythm of battle, promising glory and offering the power to achieve it. Bated breath and trembling limbs, cold whispers and shivering wind, darkness and shadow. She was here.

Immediately, the hall turned deathly cold. Any warmth thought to exist in the hall was instantly banished. She emitted a soul sucking evil, a crazed madness that pulsated through her grotesque body. It felt as if all joy in the world was lost, and that happiness could never exist again. She carried with her a darkness like the gaps between the stars, endless and empty.

That is how she came, stalking the shadows, exploiting the night with her malignant cravings. Grendella, the demon straight from the depths of hell. Beowulf tensed, every muscle in her body prepared for battle, ready to tear Grendella limb from limb. Beowulf took a breath, she must be patient, she must wait for the right moment to strike or all of her warriors efforts will be lost. Slowly, Grendella made her way through the hall, dragged her clawed feet across the polished wooden floors. Eager to start feasting upon the meal that was laid before her on a silver platter. Her breath reeked of decay, it was the stench of another world, a dead world.

Grendella reached out with her sharp claws, towards the nearest warrior. Her eyes glistening with barely contained lust. It was all she could do to keep from laughing. Laughing at these foolish mortals who dared called themselves warriors. Her claws punctured the soft meaty flesh and she raised the body to her mouth. With a loud crunch she bit in, gnawing through bone and sinew. Her mouth dripped with blood, the life of the warrior leaking onto her body. Grendella smiled, a toothy grin that would have been childish if not for her monstrous misshapen face. Swallowing the rest of the body whole, she moved on to the next warrior. A fierce woman known for her skill in archery. Grendella admired her long blonde hair before twisting her neck and violently tearing her arms off. She reveled in the sound, the tearing of the skin and cracking of bone. Oh! how awful it must be to have an arm ripped off, she thought, giggling to herself with demented elation.

Hearing the laughter Beowulf opened one eye and tried to locate Grendella. It wasn’t difficult, amidst the gleaming glistening hall she was a black void, an ugly scar on flawless skin. Beowulf briefly thought of the men safely guarded deep within the rooms of the hall. It was better that way, what would men know of such things as swords and battles and conquests, that was a woman’s work. Slowly the monster approached Beowulf, reaching out towards her next victim. Beowulf rose, silent and stealthy, making no sound as she neared the beast. She raised her arm, sword in hand, power surging through every nerve in her body. It was time. The hunter was about to become the hunted.

With a swish she brought her sword down, the sharp steel bouncing off of Grendella’s rough scaly hide. It made a sound akin to the screeching of metal on stone. Regaining her balance Beowulf faced her enemy as Grendella turned to face her attacker. Suddenly the hall was alive, every warrior retrieving weapons from former concealments and pointing them at their target. It was a trap, but Grendella had realized that all too late. With a loud battle cry Beowulf charged and the battle began.

Their brawl was epic, stories and songs of its greatness were told by scops around the world. In those moments, those fateful hours, Beowulf bridged the gap between myth and reality, illusion and certainty, truth and deceit. Defeating Grendella with her bare hands, Beowulf emerged victorious, a champion amoung mortals. But despite her triumph, Beowulf couldn’t help but feel as if there was something brewing, a cauldron she had journeyed so far only to stir.

Author's Note

i feel like i greatly misunderstood the purpose of this site, whatever, heres the final draft no need to leave reviews, its not like anyone did when i actually needed them