The pain. The wet and tearing pain.

The new man in the hall had been strong. Too strong. Like cursed iron. Like sacred stone. Not like the other men, the skinny men who pulled apart like boiled mutton.

The new man had not pulled apart, not broken.

Grendel had broken. The new man, the horrible man, had broken him. Broken a Son of Cain.

Grendel, Grendel.

The new man had kept Grendel’s arm, torn away at the shoulder. Black blood ran down. A Son of Cain, bleeding, stumbling. Looking for Mother.

Then, a light.

Grendel, Grendel.

Mother sings under the water. Mother strokes his head.

This is not the water.

This is not Mother.

The light hurts. One arm comes up to shade blinking eyes. Only one arm.

The light speaks.

Grendel, ah, Grendel. I know your heart’s desire. You have until midnight!

Mother?

Grendel, Grendel. Not Mother. Godmother.

The light speaks. Ancient words of power.

A flash.

Grendel stumbles over fens. Moonlight shines on white silk.

In the marsh, at dawn, Beowulf finds a glass slipper.