I wrote this piece for a creative writing class in college in fall of 2013.
The roars of drunken victory echo around our mead hall. Men smash their overflowing goblets together, laughing in the cacophony of relief as their mead sloshes over their grimy hands. Even our large fire crackles and shoots scorching sparks into the noisy air as though in triumph.
He had done it, I will not deny it. He managed to rip the limb of the fearsome creature with just his bare hands. The rotten, but somehow still oozing, arm had been pierced with iron nails and now remains staked up on the wall; a symbol of the great feat man had achieved over our monster; for he was ours. No other land had our monster, nor did he attack any other land. Perhaps we was ours more than he was his mothers, perhaps that is why he continued to return to our home; a homeless child.
Yet while all others seem content to dowse past griefs with a pitcher of mead, I feel a great unease. Our monster was destructive, cruel, vicious, yet he did not take any pleasure in his actions, at least not that we could understand. But we, upon obtaining a mangled fraction of him rejoice, make merry, and get drunk.
Do not misunderstand, it is better for us that the monster is dead, I do recognize that. He did kill many of our own by ripping them into inhuman pieces before devouring them in a demonic feast, and we could find no way of ending the slaughter, until the arrival of this man on our dark shores. I look to him now to see him surrounded by staggering admirers, each singing more extravagant praises than the last, he reveals in his earned pride. Yet, he cannot prevent the only thing I truly fear.
My two sons should be sleeping now, it has gotten rather late, but their father insisted that they should be witness to this historic celebration. They have never lived in a world without our monster, he has been a constant nightmare to them, to all of us, but these were nightmares fit for children. A mysterious monster that comes at night to disrupt our loud festivities with slaughter, but who never reaches my children’s beds, can never touch them, can be banished from their thoughts with a peaceful tale that I weave by their bedside.
What will they fear now? Will they believe that there is nothing to fear, that the world is full of great heroes who will vanquish any monster that comes their way? Or will they discover our other monsters that lurk, ones that even heroes know are too great?
My sons do not seem to fully grasp the importance of tonight, of the songs, the drinks, the gifts, but they ought to learn. I suppose I should not regret their father bringing them tonight. It is good for them to see our men at their happiest, at their best, clasping each other’s arms, throwing their arms around each other’s shoulders and singing merry songs, raising their arms in toasts and praises of each other. They should know this side of men, at least tonight I want them to live in a lively yet peaceful world without monsters.
I hope that they do not notice the only still arm in the room as I have. I know most of the people around me would consider it a trophy, a symbol of an end to our twelve years of darkness, but despite the joyful uproar that surrounds me, I cannot help but feel it is a twisted prize, a false idol to which we offer our drink and our joy to no prevail.
I hope that tomorrow they see the weapons that will still be strewn about the mead hall and understand that the exuberant arms they saw this night can also cause great harm, not just to the arms of monsters, but to the backs of men.
This world of ours may now be missing our one monster, but it is far from the peaceful tales I would like to weave.
(Prompt by Prof. Williamson but encouraged by Emily Kleeman)
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