Honeysweet, Ravendark

a Beowulf retelling

I.

Before she was called a monster, she was a maiden of fiery beauty. There was talk, of course, of claws and horns and bloodstained teeth—whispers made by men cowering in the shadows. But starlight and moonglow reveal her for who she is—gossamer hair like a shroud, eyes alight with a fire not of this world.

Before everything else, she is the dweller in the deep, haunter of fen and fastness. Some say she was driven away; others claim that the dark is always her abode. Creatures of her ilk, they say, are accursed to hide forever from the light of the sun. An odd thing, for a bewitching beauty such as she is both dark and bright in equal parts.

Before men came to tear down forests, befoul clear streams, and plow the dying earth, they were here. She was here, and ever will be. How she came to be, little is known, but there is a bone-deep surety that she is a being crafted of cunning and ancient magic.

She has a name-maiden, myth, monster. Do not utter it aloud, for if you do, she will find you. And when she does, she shall eat you whole. Tis a mercy, to be eaten whole, for she was known to have torn men limb from limb before. Hush now, and lean closer as I tell you.

Grendel.

II.

She does not take after her mother. The creature that birthed—crafted Grendel is of the waters. She has ventured past the whaleroads, knew secret springs deep within the earth, followed stream to river to sea. In her many wanderings, she learned a great many things. These days, she prefers the form of many tentacles, like the sea-witch she had met in a cave a little ways north. Come to think of it, she too is a cave-dweller now, carving a home past the lake that the sun never reached. The water-wyrms made a home in this place first, but they were kind enough to let her share. Besides, she does not live in the lake itself but in the dry cavern beyond it.

She can take many forms, like most folk of the waters, as does her daughter. The child might not know it yet, but her next shape and skin shall emerge soon if she bothers to coax it out. She knows in her mother's heart that it will not come easy to her daughter. Grendel is not a copy, but an entirely new being.

River-hag she was in the earlier days, in the time before. Those days are gone, and men kept short memories. All for the better. Let them strike when men had grown fat and comfortable in their dwellings of stone and timber. So here she dwells, in this monster-mere, with her daughter—so bright and wild and lovely for she had poured all her knowledge, all her strength upon her making. Grendel, the best of all she had ever crafted, shall take back what was hers, what was theirs.

She is frailer these days, but age has a way of wearing down everything. Her strength she gave to her daughter, and soon Grendel will find and wield it. From the mountain streams she had learned patience, and soon, she will slip into another skin, and be what she was once more.

III.

Maidens are the favored prey of dragons, that much is known. Maidens are then supposed to stay away from dragons, if they know what's good for them. Monsters, however... a dragon is a monster, is it not? So mayhap it shall be glad to be with its own kind. Or mayhap it shall see other monsters as enemies. What do men truly know of monsters?

Grendel, lovely maiden, not as yet a monster, once ventured into a dragon's hoard. There is only so much a monster's daughter can do in her mother's lair. She had long grown bored of examining the bone pile, trying to separate which had been men and which had been beast. She had already befriended the water-wyrms of the mere, bequeathing names to them. Her mother's treasures were no longer a subject of fascination to her, for one can only become so interested in a sword, a cauldron, and a small chest of pearls and jewels for so long. She had devised games, but mother is uninterested in them, and the water-wyrms are fickle and their attention does not hold for long.