paused and I was afraid he would say nothing, but then he continued. “I need someone to talk to, right now. You got some time?”
I pulled my magic back; I had done what I could. Now it was up to him.
SKJ?LDMóDIR
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON AND JESSICA SCHLENKER
My son was called a monster.
Perhaps he was even born a monster through no fault of his own, merely a victim of the gods’ whims.
I did not regard him so. I knew him best as my sweet boy, bringing me bunches of newly opened spring flowers, or asking I tell him the stories my mother told me as a child.
Perhaps I brought it down on him, through my own actions, in the years before his birth. But I had taken up a sword to defend my family; surely the gods would not punish us for that?
Not all noble families are wreathed in wealth untold. Most, in fact, are more like my own: farmers, herders, stewards of the earth. There may be some wealth earned in battle, exchanged for blood, limbs, or lives. Mostly, though, a little is earned through barter and trade, exchanging toil and sweat for enough to live on.
After a hard year, with every nearby family stretched thin, invaders came, bringing battle to our homes. Perhaps they thought we hid the wealth expected of us, but it mattered little. We fought for our lives, and I did my best to inflict as much damage as I could to save our home. But we were overwhelmed, and we fled to save the youngest. The invaders destroyed whatever they found. I still hope they kept some of it, rather than burned everything not gilt in gold or silver. But they did not desire the land itself, and we found the still smoking ruins of our home unoccupied. The cattle but one were missing. We found the remains of the one left on a smoldering spit.
We rebuilt, as my father’s family had done before and no doubt will have to again. A modest bride-price was offered for me, the eldest girl, by friends of my father. Unspoken was the knowledge the offer was made to assist in the rebuilding, as his friends had been spared the devastation. Thankfully, I knew the son, and even liked him. We played together often enough as children.
My new husband assisted in rebuilding my family’s homestead before we moved on to our own future. My lord’s father gifted him a small amount of land from their lands, for us to build a home and to tend. Being just the two of us, we both practiced with the sword daily, and one of our first goals was to acquire sturdy armor for us both. I did not wish to be caught unarmed and unprotected by invaders if I could help it.
I quickly became pregnant with our first child, a beautiful little girl who did not last through her first year.
When I bore our son, Grendel, we saw at once his head was slightly misshapen. But he had powerful lungs, and he was healthy. To me, that was enough. I could not bear to lose another. His birth was difficult, and although we tried for another, he remained our only surviving child.
It became apparent, over the years, that my Grendel was different, besides a misshapen skull that worsened as he grew. Large, and less coordinated than he should have been, he did not know his own strength. He hurt several of his playmates by accident, and I still remember his frightened, bewildered expression as I explained that he had done that.
“But, Momma, I didn’t mean to.”
I would assure him I knew, I understood, and would caution him to be more careful. My lord spent time working with Grendel, trying to teach him how to control his strength more consistently.
Then the day came when, amid terrible thunder and rain, Grendel abruptly howled in torment and collapsed to the ground, writhing and clawing at his face. It took both my lord and me to pin his arms before he did severe damage to himself. After a while, his body relaxed and he simply sobbed quietly. “Grendel, my love? What’s wrong?”