Beowulf’s First Kill

Beowulf Cover Pic


Rico Lamoureux

All Rights Reserved.



The meadow looked so soft and inviting, sprouting from velvet green grass chest high flowers of bright yellow to a child that one could easily envision frolicking amongst it all, equally fluffy the white patches of clouds above. Indeed at this time of year the earth was at its most beautiful, children normally gracing nature’s playground with laughter and exploration as nearby parents sowed the seeds to their future.

But these weren’t normal times, the fields bare of the purity and innocence they once held, children of the sun now locked away with nothing more than slivers of light creeping through some of the few small holes or cracks of their wooden homes. No longer safe to step outside for even a moment of fresh air, for over eight months now the land of the Geats had been plagued by The Devil’s Mother, or so they called her. A terrorizing creature, spirit, god, they didn’t know, the only warning sign she was about to attack being a flash of a shadow cast from above, plucking in pure silence a child from an unsuspecting family, the innocent’s body being found days later, miles away, emptied of all internal matter as they were discovered to now be nothing but a shell.

With a few catching sight that could only constitute as glimpses no one knew what the being actually looked like, assuming she had wings due to her ability to swoop down out of thin air, her high screech echoing throughout the sky when she was about to release a child back to its land, lifeless with reddened lips, has if they had been suckling upon her evil breasts.

But how then had the children, who ranged from newborns to preteens, been robbed of their entire insides? Some of The Geats theorized that she had made them feed off her, her vile milk then dissipating everything within. No one knew for sure, but all were afraid for the remaining offspring of their kind.

“We have knights on watch at all hours,” proclaimed King Hrethel. “It is only a matter of time before this Devil’s Mother is caught and dealt the harshest of justice.”

Both cheers and jeers came from those assembled within the royal gates, the latter shouting out their objections in a respective yet frustrated manner.

“But it is only a matter of time before the young are all taken away from us. And then what? We are left to die out?”

“That’s probably been her plan all along. To drain us from the face of the earth as if we never existed.”

“I can not bare the thought of losing my child,” shouted a mother, her desperation being the loudest and most passionate of them all, giving her husband the courage to then speak up. “We keep our little one below our home in the cellar, my fear of losing her having driven me to dig deeper within the earth to be farther away from that womanly beast.

“You speak of time, but none of us here truly knows just how long, or even within our lifetimes, if there really is a possibility to stop her. What happens when eight months turn into eight years? Eight decades? How many generations will have to grow alongside the soil, unable to see the light of day until adolescence.

“Is this really the future of the great Geatish people? To live like worms, with the culture of fear shaping our descedents?”

All of a sudden the doors to the grand hall burst open, everyone shrieking back believing it to be The Devil’s Mother. But it was not, the figure in the doorway being that of King Hrethel’s grandson, Beowluf. A mere seven years old, stark naked, a blade bound to each hand so as to prevent them from falling out of his grasp.

“These lands were meant for The Geats to thrive atop, not lie in cowardice below. I, Beowulf, will kill this Devil’s Mother,” he yelled for all to hear.

Then, before any could object, including his beloved grandfather king, the boy rushed out into the open day, running towards the open fields while repeatedly yelling, “I AM BEOWULF!”

All in the court ran after him but it was too late, that flash many had spoken of having come and gone in a blink of an eye, leaving behind no trace of the young lad as eyes searched far and wide.

Far, but not far enough, for they could not see the stratosphere between the stars which lay outside the earth and the clouds which floated within its skies. It was here were the Devil’s Mother nestled Beowulf tightly, his warm bare flesh adding heat to the soft smoothness of her own, her full round left breast staring him straight in the face, blood-red areola beginning to shift, swirl, somewhat mesmerize, as the nipple in its center began to pulsate like a volcano about to erupt.

Stare was all Beowulf could do at this moment in time, the heavens above twinkling with stars, the small craters along the motherly demon’s areola’s surface beginning to extend before shooting out like fingers, like claws, now wrapping around the back of the child’s neck and pulling it to the inflamed nipple, the teat filling his mouth, his tongue involuntarily curling around it, the impulse to suck being too strong to resist, thus bringing forth the richness of her milk.

At first it was like a river of delicious ecstasy, every cell it hit blossoming into one of those stars he could see in the far off distance, but as his hunger grew into an insatiable urge to keep feeding he could feel that the nipple itself was also starting to siphon, the tissue at the back of his mouth, including his uvula beginning to feel the suction the hole of the nipple was starting to produce as it continued to also expel.

Beowulf raised his hands to this flowing bosom, not to embrace but to…

The Devil’s Mother screamed out in pain as she let go of the boy, grabbing for her chest as he hung on to the base of the extended areola fingers, now being showered in both milk and blood, the severed halves of those fingers no longer providing a grip around his neck, only dangling like loose seaweed. He ripped them away and threw them down toward the earth, so very far away it was, knowing that if he lost his grasp it would be the loss of his life.

Beowulf hadn’t seen them but knew through the hovering movement of this motherly demon’s body that she indeed possessed wings, so it was his plan, his hope, to use them to safely close the distance between the earth’s edge and his home below. With a mighty pull he lunged his legs around her torso before she could swat him away, now fine to let go of her bloody areola fingers and hang on to her by his legs and thighs.

Still amidst the earth’s gravity this meant he was now hanging upside down, knowing he’d have to act fast to beat her from peeling him off her body. And so he felt at his back, finding the gateway to all life, the fold between her legs, plunging his bladed hand deep into it.

They were now heading back towards earth at an incredible speed, the high-pitched cry of The Devil’s Mother being infinitely stronger than the rushing air passing over his ears.

Beowulf immediately followed up such a sensitive assault by whipping his body back up to her chest, that left breast still losing blood. He could have attacked again, but he didn’t want to overwhelm her to the point of not being able to regain flight, instead keeping his legs around her torso while inching his way to her back.

It was here where Beowulf was able to take control, positioning his straddle right below her wings while reaching over both her shoulders to place a knife on either side of her neck, his forearms forming an X, so if he were to cut it would mean her decapitation.

The motherly demon understood, flying them back down to where she had snatched him up.

With pressure of the blades he steered her towards the awaiting crowd of his people, all watching in awe as the two made a gentle landing.

Her knees against the soft inviting meadow, Beowulf withdrew his bladed hands from the sides of her neck and came around to her front, the very parts of her that had made her motherly fatally wounded, the boy warrior looking up to where they were now eye-to-eye, through his look offering her companionship within her last moments.

Accepting his compassion she allowed herself to fall into his arms, looking up at him as if he were now the parental pulse of her being.

Until her own pulse ceased to exist, at which time she was no more.


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