mir
03-06-2006, 01:48 PM
this is off of Grendel - i'm using it as an English project, so if anyone has any suggestions, especially before Friday, i'd really appreciate it!
Medla
I have never noticed before how heavy death lies upon the bones.
Fear, yes. I have felt fear many times – during battle, as a child caught in a wrongful act, as many times as any other man. And I know the pressure that sinks upon one then, the urgent need to flee, primal instincts aroused. Fear makes the senses sharp. It has saved my life many times.
But death – that I have not felt, I believe. Adrenaline has drowned it, expectation of the coming fight; I always have had my men around me, as loyal as the clouds to the sky. Death does not heighten the senses; it clouds them. Death is a parasite, feeding off strength until my body feels as weak as a babe’s.
I am not dead yet. But I have sealed my doom with a scarlet seal. How foolish, my unthinking rush towards glory! So sure that I could take whatever came, buoyed up by hubris and my men’s unwavering faith. By my own faith. But even god – even that great Almighty, protector and provider – can even he save me now?
I have no shield. No armor. I have not even the comforting weight of a sword at my side. I am alone; and my throat chokes with sobs of terror; my nose burns and my soul beats against my chest begging to be released from this death trap; my teeth bite through my lip as my body arches in a silent scream.
Terror like this is not that of a man. It is that of an animal.
It is that of a frightened, soft-skinned creature who has caught the heavy musk of a predator in the air. And as the hunter grows closer, so does the urge to run – shifting and turning through restless waking nightmares, counting every join in the stones of the floor on which I lay so that I cannot, do not have to, think of what comes. Do not have to think of the darkness. Do not have to think of the sinful, demonic voices in my head, darker even than the coming fiend – voices that urge me to flee, to save my skin if not my soul. Do not have to think of the candles humans light in the shadows – the flames that give the darkness form.
My spine grates against the cold stone of the meadhall floor as I shift position, seeking release from fears that cannot be escaped. My hand brushes against the opposite arm, and I feel goosebumps risen on my skin. Feel the frailty of my humanity. And a lone tear leaks its way down my face. Weathered skin, strong with sun and light, the antithesis of what I face; but is there enough light contained there to combat one who stalks only at night – to rival him in his element? I trace the tear’s wetness all the way to the floor.
Every muscle in my body jerks to attention, suddenly. My nose tastes a tendril of scent floating through the quiet nighttime air; I freeze, tense as a sword in a warrior’s hand. I must not move. His sense of movement is as good as his sense of smell; I must pretend to be asleep, must not move or make any sound – his hearing is beyond that of any human. My hand gropes, by habit, for a sword; meets only the rough fabric of my clothing, the cold floor underneath. My own boasts have led me here, my own need to make myself a name; goaded by wine and the heady fumes of others’ awe, I promised to face this thing – this angel of death, who has claimed more lives than I could in ten lifetimes – with no armor, no shield, no sword. I must face the consequences of my own actions. Perhaps God has ordained this as my fate – and if that be so, I will go to meet it as a man!
I force my muscles to relax, raise my head; the time for paralyzing fear is over. Now my every sense must be attuned to my enemy – the monstrous beast that stalks this hall by night, the reaver and fiend without the saving grace of God’s love. Grandson of a murderer who scorned the Almighty himself, was driven from His sight for his crime; he drinks blood like wine, and lives only on the pain of those he rips to pieces and leaves to die. These stories I have heard, and no doubt is in my mind; for the beast’s heavy panting fills the air and an enormous claw catches the edge of my vision.
A scream rends the air. The cracking of bone and tearing of flesh; a tear frees itself from my unblinking eye and burns a fiery track down my face, rage bittersweet with sorrow. One of my comrades, my friends is dead; who knows how many more before the night is over. Their deaths are on my conscience. I lead them here, I boasted to kill this undefeatable thing, and they are dying because of it.
The monster moves quickly, now that the scream has alerted others to his presence. He expects no resistance; none can harm him, scratch his invulnerable skin with weapons as harmless to him as the prick of nettles in the brush; but he would rather catch his victims unawares, before the tang of adrenaline and fear taints their blood. I feel his rank breath on my face and know that I am next, and am filled with every animal’s instinct when faced with death – pure, unthinking terror, and a strength lent from fear beyond any normal one I posses. This will be a fight to the death. But whose, I do not know.
He is coming, now – close as the Reaper to my soul. All I can hope is that my doubts are misplaced – and the Almighty God will lend me strength – or at the least, that he will forgive my pride, and open his arms to receive my tarnished soul.
Medla
I have never noticed before how heavy death lies upon the bones.
Fear, yes. I have felt fear many times – during battle, as a child caught in a wrongful act, as many times as any other man. And I know the pressure that sinks upon one then, the urgent need to flee, primal instincts aroused. Fear makes the senses sharp. It has saved my life many times.
But death – that I have not felt, I believe. Adrenaline has drowned it, expectation of the coming fight; I always have had my men around me, as loyal as the clouds to the sky. Death does not heighten the senses; it clouds them. Death is a parasite, feeding off strength until my body feels as weak as a babe’s.
I am not dead yet. But I have sealed my doom with a scarlet seal. How foolish, my unthinking rush towards glory! So sure that I could take whatever came, buoyed up by hubris and my men’s unwavering faith. By my own faith. But even god – even that great Almighty, protector and provider – can even he save me now?
I have no shield. No armor. I have not even the comforting weight of a sword at my side. I am alone; and my throat chokes with sobs of terror; my nose burns and my soul beats against my chest begging to be released from this death trap; my teeth bite through my lip as my body arches in a silent scream.
Terror like this is not that of a man. It is that of an animal.
It is that of a frightened, soft-skinned creature who has caught the heavy musk of a predator in the air. And as the hunter grows closer, so does the urge to run – shifting and turning through restless waking nightmares, counting every join in the stones of the floor on which I lay so that I cannot, do not have to, think of what comes. Do not have to think of the darkness. Do not have to think of the sinful, demonic voices in my head, darker even than the coming fiend – voices that urge me to flee, to save my skin if not my soul. Do not have to think of the candles humans light in the shadows – the flames that give the darkness form.
My spine grates against the cold stone of the meadhall floor as I shift position, seeking release from fears that cannot be escaped. My hand brushes against the opposite arm, and I feel goosebumps risen on my skin. Feel the frailty of my humanity. And a lone tear leaks its way down my face. Weathered skin, strong with sun and light, the antithesis of what I face; but is there enough light contained there to combat one who stalks only at night – to rival him in his element? I trace the tear’s wetness all the way to the floor.
Every muscle in my body jerks to attention, suddenly. My nose tastes a tendril of scent floating through the quiet nighttime air; I freeze, tense as a sword in a warrior’s hand. I must not move. His sense of movement is as good as his sense of smell; I must pretend to be asleep, must not move or make any sound – his hearing is beyond that of any human. My hand gropes, by habit, for a sword; meets only the rough fabric of my clothing, the cold floor underneath. My own boasts have led me here, my own need to make myself a name; goaded by wine and the heady fumes of others’ awe, I promised to face this thing – this angel of death, who has claimed more lives than I could in ten lifetimes – with no armor, no shield, no sword. I must face the consequences of my own actions. Perhaps God has ordained this as my fate – and if that be so, I will go to meet it as a man!
I force my muscles to relax, raise my head; the time for paralyzing fear is over. Now my every sense must be attuned to my enemy – the monstrous beast that stalks this hall by night, the reaver and fiend without the saving grace of God’s love. Grandson of a murderer who scorned the Almighty himself, was driven from His sight for his crime; he drinks blood like wine, and lives only on the pain of those he rips to pieces and leaves to die. These stories I have heard, and no doubt is in my mind; for the beast’s heavy panting fills the air and an enormous claw catches the edge of my vision.
A scream rends the air. The cracking of bone and tearing of flesh; a tear frees itself from my unblinking eye and burns a fiery track down my face, rage bittersweet with sorrow. One of my comrades, my friends is dead; who knows how many more before the night is over. Their deaths are on my conscience. I lead them here, I boasted to kill this undefeatable thing, and they are dying because of it.
The monster moves quickly, now that the scream has alerted others to his presence. He expects no resistance; none can harm him, scratch his invulnerable skin with weapons as harmless to him as the prick of nettles in the brush; but he would rather catch his victims unawares, before the tang of adrenaline and fear taints their blood. I feel his rank breath on my face and know that I am next, and am filled with every animal’s instinct when faced with death – pure, unthinking terror, and a strength lent from fear beyond any normal one I posses. This will be a fight to the death. But whose, I do not know.
He is coming, now – close as the Reaper to my soul. All I can hope is that my doubts are misplaced – and the Almighty God will lend me strength – or at the least, that he will forgive my pride, and open his arms to receive my tarnished soul.