Bride of Grendel: A Viking Lore Erotic Tale (Viking Lore Erotic Tales Book 2) by Gwynn Jones Page B

wrapped herself in one of the furs from the bed. He set his clothes right and gathered up his cloak. He turned to her, dropped to his knees beside her and took her face in his hands.
                  “I wish — Wealhtheow — Sigrun — I just wish it could be different. You will haunt me forever. You are special. Precious. Like none of the others. I am so sorry.”
                  He kissed her. She allowed it for a moment, but then she pulled away.
                  “You must go.”
                  He stood up. A tear ran down his cheek. He looked at her, at her dry eyes and calm face, and shook his head.
                  “You do not cry. You have never cried.”
                  “What good would it do?”
                  He left. She heard the bolts sliding shut. She sighed. She climbed out of the bed, shedding the fur and stretching her naked limbs, relishing the shaky feel of her muscles, the languidness of her nerves after sex. She must appreciate these sensations while she still had them. She went to the small hearth, where a basin of water stood warming by the fire. She dipped a cloth into the water and sponged herself clean, wiping away the stickiness of sweat and cum. She pulled her dress back on, carefully fastening and arranging it, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She brushed and braided her long hair. Then she sat down in a chair by the fire and waited for them to come fetch her.
     
                  King Hrothgar belonged to a line of great warriors and powerful kings. As a younger man, he had deposed one of his brothers to become the ruler of the region, and he had ruthlessly expanded that rule, forcing countless chieftains to submit to his overlordship. As he grew older, he decided to commemorate his accomplishments and remind everyone of his power by building a great and lavish mead hall. He called it a monument to the peace he had brought to the land; many saw it rather as a monument to his tyranny. He carved out a new settlement, a space at the edge of the wilderness, a wild and beautiful prospect ringed by forest and crags and moors, overlooking the sea. It was a formidable location for a formidable structure, a massive hall with a roof of shields cast in gold. It was allover carvings, intertwining vines and beasts, dragon heads rearing up from under the eaves. No one would disagree that Hrothgar's hall Heorot was the greatest structure of its kind. But the monument to peace would enjoy very little peace, itself.
                  Some said it was the specter of Hrothgar's bloody climb to power, come to haunt him. Others suggested it was merely a matter of location. Hrothgar had encroached too much on the wilderness, they said. And now the wilderness was come knocking. Whatever the cause, the result was horrifying. The hall, so shining, so new, filled with Hrothgar's loyal men and delighted visitors come to see its glory, was invaded in the dead of night by a terrible creature, a ravening stalker that tore down the doors and slaughtered Hrothgar's men.
                  Grendel.
                  For one long, harrowing autumn, the monster terrorized Heorot, striking randomly but repeatedly, sometimes killing several men in a single attack, at others emerging only briefly, to quietly crush a single unfortunate's skull before disappearing back into the shadows. Then, on the night of the winter solstice, after a season of unspeakable horrors, the truly unspeakable occurred: the creature stole Hrothgar's own beloved wife.
                  The king was devastated, the people appalled. They searched the woods, the crags, the moors for any sign of her and found none. They mourned for her, and they mourned for themselves. And then, as days passed and stretched into weeks, they realized with no small measure of bewilderment that the monster had stopped its