With my left arm damaged, I couldn’t even grant my son a civilized burial. Here he would remain.
I tumbled Aeschere’s separated head, its face still a mask of shock and agony, into a satchel, and slung it over my shoulder along with his shield. Little good it would do me, but it was better to have it, and my presentation would matter.
I walked the long, dreary distance back the way I’d run.
This time the crowd was silent, perhaps realizing no good would come of this.
They parted for me, afraid or disgusted, it didn’t matter now. I walked forward, armed and girded, and stood before the hall, ignoring the gruesome decoration that would only bring me anguish.
“Hrothgar, I call you out. You have wronged a widow, and wronged an orphan living with a curse. You are unfit to rule. You lack the discipline to control your men, and let them rampage after a widow, with foul intent.”
I knelt, laid the sack down, grasped the bottom, and pulled. Aeschere’s head rolled free, tumbling across the dirt as his nose, chin, and spine bumped along it. There were sounds of shock and horror among the crowd, and I heard a wail from Aeschere’s daughter. Part of me wanted to be sympathetic, but I choked that down and kept my heart hard.
I pointed and firmly said, “Beowulf, I call you out for killing a man with a cursed mind, knowing full well he had no kin to stand for him.
“Instead of a father or brother, you will face me in combat. I call my son murdered, and I name you the murderer.”
There was stone silence.
“Beowulf, if you claim to be a man, you will meet me alone in the cave in the marsh, the only place my son could flee from his demons. Surely one old woman is no match for you. Certainly not after you slew such a monster as a man crippled by headaches and madness.”
I turned my back and walked. I was half-sure they’d dispose of me right there, but I was a woman, and whatever honor they retained let me leave unmolested. The only friend I had left made an abortive gesture in my direction, and I shook my head sharply. This was not Edda’s fight, and she was the only hope our story might be told with some measure of truth. I could not risk her as well.
There was no honorable end to come, no peace. There was nowhere further to flee from the presence of people.
I returned to the hut, to kneel beside my sweet boy and beg the gods to treat him gently. After all, it was they who chose him as a plaything for their whims.
I downed the strongest of tinctures I had left, ones I reserved for Grendel’s worst days, to ease the pain of my shattered arm and broken heart. I splinted my arm straight, at least giving me the ability to awkwardly heft a shield.
No burial was possible, but I was able to drag the furniture close to the bed, dump out the little oil I had, and kick one weakened side of the hut until it sunk lower. The fire could take it from there. I sought an ember from the hearth, blew it bright, and watched the flower of flame dance merrily on the makeshift bier. That assured, I left what remained of my life to burn brightly with dark sooty smoke, and walked to the cave. I brought my sword, Aeschere’s shield, this journal, and a crust of bread.
Now I see a figure striding over the dunes and the brush, armed and ready. Distantly behind him are cheers at the thought of the death of a widow and her cursed son. I am bitter, with little to find light in, but there is one final mark in my column.
I hope that Edda, the wisest and kindest woman I ever knew, will come looking, and think to check the spot where we stored the more perishable herbs in the cool cave. That is where I will leave this journal.
I take heart in one warm thought. My lord fell in battle, and dines in the