(A note on the pronunciation and names: There are many translations of Beowulf, and most of them have changed the spelling of the names to be spelled out phonetically. Scyld Scefing becomes Shield Shefson, etc. Things to keep in mind: ‘ð’ and ‘þ’ and both pronounced as ‘th’. ‘Æ’ is pronounced like the ‘ey’ in ‘hey’.)

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Prologue

The Funeral of Scyld Scefing

I was done with traveling, for a while at least. I had already travelled farther than I’d ever planned on. When I had set out from Rome I wasn’t too sure where I wanted to end up, just that I wanted to get away from that land, from my sister, from my memories. I’d only ever travelled this far north once.

When I came upon the Goths, I joined them. They were a force to be reckoned with. I could relate to that.

Time passed swiftly and carried me to a place where I knew not the name. The mornings were cold and as the sun rose in the mornings a mist would float over the sleeping figures of the Goths. One night I grabbed my sword and I left.

There was no direction in mind, no plan. The only place I remembered in this land was a giant circle of rocks. I never asked it’s name, but I didn’t care to go there again. I wanted to go someplace new. Somewhere I could belong.

Days ran on, the lines of time bled into one and another. The mist seemed to follow me, wrapping its cold arm around me, keeping me company. Until one day I stopped, the mist seemed to crawl away from me and I found myself staring at a great body of water. I could smell the salt on the air, an ocean. What ocean? Where? I knew it was cold. I sat down along the shore and stared out at the vast nothingness before me.

What lies across such a void as this? Is there land far beyond that we cannot see, cannot even imagine? If I were to set a boat adrift and sail onto the horizon, would I eventually find the lands behind me? Like traveling across a globe made of water, where land floats upon it?

I heard a noise, feet marching in silence. I stood and saw them approaching, carrying a litter on their shoulders, and on the litter, a man. They walked passed me as though I was of no importance, hundreds of them. There were men and women, most of them big and hardy, blond and fair.

My skin looked almost black compared to theirs, and my skin was considered fair in Egypt. My hair was also as black as the night and all their hair was relatively short while mine went past my waist. They reminded me of the Goths, though I could tell there was something different about them.

I decided to follow them along the shores.

They spoke very little, but I seemed to be able to recognize their language. I had heard people speaking this language before. I could give a name to it, like most of the languages I knew. I tried out a sentence, knowing my accent would be terrible.

“Who is this man?” I asked one of them. He was not as tall as the others, and so did not tower above me. His faced looked ragged, his eyes red, like he had been crying for weeks.

“This is our cyning, this is our Frean.”

King and Lord?

“His name was Scyld Scefing, and he shall be remembered for all time.”

I hide my cynicism. I doubted that a king of such a small band of people could possibly be remembered for ‘all time’.

Though, as I begin to look around I noticed that most – if not all – of them were well dressed. Heavy cloaks, golden rings and amulets. There were jewels here and there, but gold seemed the most prominent. Then there were women carrying trays of golden goblets, armour and weapons.

I was slightly taken aback. These people were certainly not poor, so this king was probably not an insignificant person. Were these really all of his people, or was this just his funeral party?

My question was answered when the group suddenly stopped. On the water in a boat, already laden with gold and jewels, then standing on the shore were perhaps a thousand people standing in silence, maybe more.

Not a word was spoken, but I could still feel the emotions in the air. Tense, depressed, like the life was being sucked out of the air.

The men carrying Scyld lifted him onto the boat and laid him beside the mounds of gold. Men and women came forward, carrying more gold and setting it on and beside him.

It had been a long time since I had seen such a funeral, not since my days in Egypt. I was beyond impressed. Maybe the man hadn’t been stressing the truth when he said this king would be remembered.

Here was a Lord of men, setting off to the netherworld.

“May the Goddess have mercy on you,” I whispered to myself in Egyptian. It was the language I used when I wanted to keep things from the Goths.

Over his head they placed his standard, made entirely of gold.

When they were done adorning him with riches and some of their finest weapons, they stepped off the boat and pushed it out onto the ocean. It shimmered on the water, ice forming on the tips of the gold, making it look as though it were encased in diamonds.

I thought the silence would continue, but one woman stepped forward. She looked no older than me. She was beautiful, and her grieving only seemed to add to this. I was drawn to her, I think everyone there was.

We all looked at her and slowly, softly, she began to sing. Her voice seemed to creep down my throat and clench my heart. This was sadness. This was loss. This was love.

When the boat was finally out of sight they left the shore and I left with them. That night I stayed at their camp, warm by their fire. They began to tell tales of their great kings, especially about Scyld.

I searched through my things until I found some paper, and in Gothic letters wrote down three lines.

So. The Gar-Dena in days gone by

and the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.

We have heard of those princes’ heroic campaigns.

For a long time I stared at those words, knowing that there was something wrong about them. They were in the wrong language, in the wrong writing. Suddenly I realized that I intended to stay with these people.

I was done with travelling. This is where I wanted to be now.

The next night I wrote the words in their native language. They fit into place like stones in a wall, tall and strong. I wanted to write more. I wanted to belong.

Feb. 2nd, 2006

(Well, this is very short and written on a bit of a whim. So if you have suggestions, questions or want to point out any mistakes you see – please review. If you want to read more, please review. The message here: PLEASE REVIEW!!! I have the first two chapters, but won’t post ‘em here unless you people really want ‘em. Ok, thanks very much for reading!)

Aug. 12th, 2007

(So some of you may have noticed that 23 chapters have disappeared from this novel. Well I decided to take them down, as well as some other chapters I had up on I have no plans to put them back up; so don’t ask me to. Though things might change in the future. I took them down because I want to start working on getting them (specifically this novel) published, and they can’t exist on the Internet for that to happen. So if you like this, keep your eyes peeled at the bookstore. Who knows, maybe one day soon you’ll see this lovely title staring back at you. Oh, and if you really need a Beowulf fix, go see that new Beowulf movie. It looks godawful, but ya never know…)