Then they would fight. Spears flying, swords whonking, arrows raining from the windows and doors of the meadhall and the edge of
the woods. Horses reared and fell over screaming, ravens flew, crazy as bats in a fire, men staggered, gesturing wildly, making speeches, dying or sometimes pretending to be dying, sneaking off. Sometimes the attackers would be driven back, sometimes they’d win and burn the meadhall down, sometimes they’d capture the king of the meadhall and make his people give weapons and gold rings and cows. It was confusing and frightening, not in a way I could untangle. I was safe in my tree, and the men who fought were nothing to me, except of course that they talked in something akin to my language, which meant that we were, incredibly, related. I was sickened, if only at the waste of it: all they killed—cows, horses, men—they left to rot or burn. Which statement best describes Grendel’s perspective? He enjoys watching the violent men kill one another. He admires the powerful weapons and strong men. He wishes to be part of the excitement somehow. He feels disgusted by the wasteful nature of war.
