My lord moved him to his bed, and I made a tincture for pain. It took both of us to steady Grendel’s hands enough so he could grip the cup himself.
The second time it happened he wasn’t home, although it was another terrible storm. He knocked a playmate unconscious when they tried to help, and he had to be subdued by several adult men. My boy, barely nine, could no longer be trusted to play with children his age. I kept him home, and close even then. Closer still when the skies looked ominous.
By the time Grendel reached the age of eleven, we had little choice but to bind him to his bed when the weather would start to turn. He did not like it, but he understood. I sat with him, trying to keep him calm during the worst, singing old songs and telling stories. A tincture at the first tremors helped keep him calmer, but at the worst, he still writhed and howled as if possessed.
The rages started soon after that, rages he could not explain afterward.
I spoke with everyone—my parents, my lord’s parents, the wisewoman Edda, everyone. No one had suggestions to help soothe my beloved son’s pain or fits.
But in between the bad days, Grendel acted ever much the young boy he truly was, by turns sweet and caring, rambunctious, helpful, and even sometimes surly. He soon nearly matched his father in height, and outmatched him in strength. The day the tavern caught fire, it was Grendel who braved the billowing flames to hold open the collapsed doors so that people could escape. Had he not done so, more would have been lost. His burns healed, but the pain never quite faded, particularly the ones on his face.
The next season, invaders came again, and my lord fell defending the village.
We buried him next to the sister Grendel never knew, and grieved.
It would usually be expected that a situation worsens when one’s husband dies, but I did not expect the rapidity with which the village turned on me—us. Disgusted by the damage caused to his face by his own heroic actions, combined with the fear of a fit that none had witnessed in several years, only heard, our neighbors and other villagers took to actively avoiding Grendel, and I overheard much vicious, untrue gossip. Had they truly forgotten the scars on his face were from saving their sons and daughters when they could not? The wild tales they made of ridiculous exploits with my Grendel painted as the villain beggared belief.
The treatment slowly extended to me, as well. Shunned and avoided, I could not depend on my husband’s brother for assistance, and my own kin were overextended already. My husband’s brother did not have the honor he had, and I broke his nose after a particularly lewd comment followed by a suggestion that my son be “disposed of” for my “own good.”
The distrustful mutters and hateful glances wore on my sensitive son, and the fits of rage began to increase. We discovered that he could no longer tolerate music beyond my singing. Instruments or other singing voices caused him significant pain, and he became more and more sensitive to loud noises in general. He grew still taller, a full head beyond any man on the coast, and then inches more. The situation untenable, I began to search for a place to remove us to. Grendel needed space and quiet, where he did not have to hear the not-so-whispered comments of “Monster!” that followed him.
Grendel was nigh eighteen when I was summoned to the village regarding him.
Upon arrival, I discovered he was bound and subdued, and a bit confused.
“What is the meaning of this?” I asked, horrified, gesturing at my son.
Angry voices yelled at me, but Hrothgar the king raised his hands for silence. He explained. Grendel had been provoked, and in his rage, killed an erstwhile playmate of years past. Punishment must be rendered, but the circumstances and Grendel’s father’s defense in the name of the king meant it would only be immediate banishment.
I bitterly reminded the king of Grendel’s own heroic actions, and that he still bore the scars and pain. The