I was expecting my child to be home soon.

He should be back by now with our dinner.

He is so sweet, gathering the extra men from the castle.

(Such a gentleman.)

I get the parts he doesn't eat on his way home,

There are never leftovers.

Our hunger is insatiable,

Our thirst never quenched.

He does his best,

Saving me my favorite part.

(The heart.)

Why is he not home?

 

I make my way up from the depths of our home,

Impatient, tired of waiting.

I push myself up from the flaming river of wretchedness,

Our humble abode that no one dares to enter.

(It has a great view, plenty of yard space, monstrous decor…)

 

I stand ready to call out for my beastly little babe, but pause.

I see him,

My Grendel.

His crooked shadow is coming towards me,

Almost here,

But not stomping as fast as normal.

(He used to win races, the best sprinter of all.)

 

He limps, crying out for me,

Stumbling upon the ground as he screams for help.

I run as fast as I might,

Holding up his head in my claws.

His scared eyes meet my concerned soul-windows.

I look over to see his blood,

Pouring,

Gushing,

Unceasing in its torrent of death.

My first thought is one of sorrow,

Causing me to let a single tear fall onto his nose.

He sobs into my claws,

Melting off the dried blood with his molten tears.

(I can't let him go.)

 

Next comes the rage,

Filling my entire being with the need for revenge.

I must know who did this,

Who is to expire for this murderous atrocity.

(The worst is for them alone.)

 

¨Little Grendy,¨ I say as calmly as I can manage,

¨Who did this to you?¨ I ask, stroking his furry sideburns.

He coughs, black blood coming out as he lay there, slowly dying.

With all his strength waning,

His young soul leaving his being,

He says a single name in a deadly whisper.

¨Beowulf.¨

 

Thus he dies in my arms.

I rock him like I did when he was little,

Though now he is little in life.

He is limp, and I gather my strength.

Taking a deep, staggering breath,

I lift my darling boy in my arms,

Taking him home one last time.

 

In the depths of our scorching hot river,

I set him down upon a pile of gold,

Treasures from those favored by God.

From those who get the best of everything,

The ones who flee in terror at the sound of us.

The cowards,

The blessed.

The proud,

The arrogant.

The only ones who can ´really love´.

They only ones who get to see the sun.

Why must they get the favor,

While we are cursed because of our lineage?

(I despise them with all of my being.)

Everything ´good´ must fall to my might,

For they fell my only goodness in life.