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’s. 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 on 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 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, where, 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 I 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?”

“Monsters are eating my head,” he replied, voice shaky through the tears.

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 that 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 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 afterwards.

I spoke with everyone—my parents, my lord’s parents, the wise woman Edda, everyone. No one had suggestions that helped 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, gesturing at my son.

Angry voices yelled at me, but Hrothgar 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 angry muttering of the crowd turned to guilty silence at the reminder.

Hrothgar admitted this, and accorded him some leeway for gathering possessions.

My husband’s brother interjected himself into the discussion and attempted to demand that all of my possessions be rendered to him for the breaking of his nose previously. Hrothgar merely snorted, as the man’s behavior was well known, but acceded he could lay claim to the land we lived on.

We were given just a few days’ time to depart. I quietly thanked the gods I had seen fit to be prepared, and there remained little left in our home to remove. I had even removed the small herd of sheep some weeks previous, to a formerly abandoned hut by the swamp, and built them a workable fence, with Grendel’s sturdy help. We would not be completely bereft, and I would be able to keep us clothed.

My husband’s brother insisted on escorting us to ensure I did not take “too many valuables” he “deserved,” and I requested other witnesses. The look he gave me made it clear he resented that I had forestalled his true intent.

Grendel, dear Grendel, remained confused and bewildered at what was happening. But he followed me quietly and did as I bid.

The bastard raged when he took in the mostly emptied homestead. The witnesses merely snickered. Edda gave me a measuring look. She had known I was worried about Grendel, and had advised I prepare for such a situation. I gave her a bitter smile.

The last of our personal belongings were easily removed from the premises. While the bastard snarled at us, one of the other witnesses stood between him and me. “Do not give me a reason to fight on her behalf,” he cautioned. “Your actions disgust me as it is.”

I was grateful for the meager defense, although I would have appreciated it more had the man ever stood up for Grendel or me these past years.

Grendel carried what I directed, in a bundle that awed the spectators. I carried the remainder, including my bow. We left. I ensured we were not followed.

The salt marsh reeked with fetid decay, but it held life enough. Only the old wise woman Edda came here voluntarily, for the herbs that could be gathered nowhere else, but were necessary to ply her trade. She would pay me for gathering those in her stead, in goods I could not make or find on my own.

The sheep fared well enough, learning to find the drier areas with edible grass. The wool kept us in clothing, lambs provided some food, and milk for cheese. Other foods, Grendel and I found in the swamp. He learned which plants were safe readily enough, and he hunted large game with his club. Faster game, I snared or hunted with bow.

It was not an easy life, but it was fairly peaceful. The hearth kept us warm, and I had a pot and a griddle. The hut was made comfortable with furs and hides. And above all, I had my son.

We used the nearby cave for a shelter for the sheep, and to store some goods. Grendel liked to be there, because it was so quiet.

He still had to be bound when the worst storms hit, but he seemed just a bit better here. The fits were fewer, and I hoped for the day they ceased. Alas, that was not to be.

Edda brought word that Hrothgar intended to build a new great hall at last, to replace the one which had burned down. At first, this did not concern me at all. It shortly became apparent that the placement and construction of the building were to bring torment to my Grendel.

The first revelry, filled with song and instruments, and the deep thud of mugs being beat against tables, rolled like a dull thunder at our distant hut. It was too much for Grendel, and I had to wrestle him into submission, binding him to keep him from causing himself injury.

I was not successful in subduing him the next time, and he ran deeper into the swamp. I feared him lost, but he returned a day and a half later, worse for the wear. He brought me a deer he had caught during the fit, but he could not tell me where he had woken up from it.

The next time I failed to subdue him, I was stunned while trying, and unable to follow. I heard the shouts of anger and screams of fear from the direction the party had been. He returned, with a few minor wounds. He was distraught to discover he had injured me, and haltingly described what he could remember of what happened in the village.

“I went into the hall, where the noise hurt most,” he said. “The door was blocked, but I forced it.”

The door fastened with a solid wooden beam, and he’d broken it. Oh, my son, what a warrior you could be, if only the demons didn’t torture you.

“They attacked me and I fought them all. I remember men hitting me, and me throwing them.”

That explained his black eye and bruised knuckles. He’d fought them all, all at once.

“I just wanted them to be quiet! My head spun, and stabbed, and I felt sick. I remember one man broke over the table when I threw him.”

He probably broke his back and was dead. Oh, Grendel, no.

Edda told me more. Grendel had killed one man and maimed two others, one of whom would never chew food again after his jaw was smashed. She looked fearful herself. “I may not be able to bring you any more supplies, if this happens again.”

“I am endeavoring to stop him,” I promised. “There seem to be certain sounds that are worse than others, ones that he runs to instead of from.”

She questioned which ones seemed to enrage him worse and drove him towards the village instead of away. I answered as best as I could. She would try to encourage at least less of those, or some kind of sign, so I would have time to prepare Grendel and restrain him.

It was the best we could manage. As the villagers had turned their stories of him into a troll or something even worse, it even worked for a while. She convinced them that deliberately enraging him was not conducive to their own peace. I owed her much.

Then came the day Edda breathlessly brought word about a traveler, Beowulf, who boasted he would end their “troll” problem once and for all. She argued hard to prevent the villagers from cheering on the insanity, but to no avail. Hrothgar planned for a huge celebration befitting such a “hero”, even that very night, in part to draw Grendel in. I gave her what would be one last hug.

“You have been the only family I have had besides Grendel these last years. Thank you.”

She returned the embrace. “I can only hope this madness can be avoided. Your Grendel does not deserve this.”

“As do I.”

When Grendel returned later, I tried to convince him to settle down early. I even gave him the soothing tinctures, which would normally ease the fits. I couldn’t bear to tell him they were setting a trap for him, and he would not settle for storms that didn’t exist. At length, I did tell him.

“But Momma, why?”

“They think you a monster and want you dead.” I stroked his cheek. “You are my beloved son, and I want you alive. Please, let me do what I can to keep you from their trap.”

He acquiesced and allowed me to bind him to his bed. I made him as comfortable as I could, and then set about doing everything possible to block out all sounds from outside of our walls. Every nook, every cranny, I stuffed full of scraps of cloth and hide. The only light left was one of our precious candles, sitting on the hearth. Even the smoke hole was as blocked as I dared risk.

It almost worked. I underestimated how desperate this “hero” was for a victory against an innocent man gossiped into a monster. The large horn, which should only have been blown in times of invaders, sounded, and Grendel screamed in agony. Thrice it blew, and the third time, Grendel convulsed and snapped his bindings.

I fought with him, trying to keep him home, with me, safe, alive. He managed to fling me wide and battered the door down. I sank to the floor and wept.

It took moments, far too many moments, to collect myself, but I managed to rise and shake off the worst of the grief-fear. Regardless of the outcome, my boy would be hurt, and I set steeping a tea of elderberry and cicuta for pain. I prepared bandages, and a tiny precious amount of honey to aid against infection. I scrubbed and heated the fire iron, to cauterize any deep wounds.

Then I prayed to uncaring, unresponsive gods that Grendel would come home to me, in condition good enough I could tend him, heal him, and take us elsewhere as soon as may be.

An echoing bellow of rage and pain, accompanied by catcalls and jeers, mocked such prayers. The hateful villagers would not be cheering so were it Beowulf who cried out in such a manner. Grief battled with rage, but I took small comfort in the boos-and-hisses. Either Grendel had scored a fair hit or managed to escape. Multiple shrieks of fear echoed, followed by a tumult of muted voices. The distant sounds faded, and I surmised that Grendel had, at the least, escaped. The darkness of the night meant I dared not try to find him, or risk losing him completely. I waited.

A countless eternity later, I heard pained weeping and a querulous “Momma?” in the dark. I ran to the sound to find my son, grievously injured and missing an arm. I shouldered up under his good arm and helped him the last distance home. Once there, I took stock of the wounds.

The arm was no clean cut of a sword, but instead showed signs of having been mostly torn off. The stump was a ragged, oozing mess with dripping blood and exposed bone. I did not, could not cry, not while Grendel looked at me with fearful eyes. “Will I be alright, Momma?”

I lied. So help me, I lied to him. Had I spoken the truth, I would have been unable to ease his suffering. “As alright as I can make you, my love,” I said. I set about doing what I could. The state of the arm was such that cauterizing was nigh impossible, and the bandages I had prepared were insufficient. Once I had it cleaned, bound, and covered, I helped him drink the tea. I settled him as best as I could.

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, and he asked me for a song. I acquiesced as a few more minutes would make little difference in the scheme of things. He, thankfully, fell asleep into a restless, pained slumber. I drew my cloak around me, and gave him one last worried look, before slipping out of the hut to head for the village.

I could afford no dignity. Perhaps Edda knew some herbs, and I would beg and abase myself before Hrothgar for the slightest of mercy. Grendel and I would retreat to the cave and subsist as we could.

The village was active, and I approached carefully, hood masking my face for the little good it would do. All of them knew me.

There was much commotion at the great hall, and I watched from far behind the crowd, hidden behind the hawthorn bushes.

I saw what they did, and my head spun. Was this real and not some horrific dream?

Grendel’s arm hung from a nail above the hall’s broad doors. A trophy to hate and fear.

I overheard Hrothgar announce, “They will sing of this deed for a thousand years.”

And that’s when the rage took me.

I could perhaps forgive Beowulf for killing Grendel. It had been the fairest fight of all. Grendel did only what gods had made him to do. But Hrothgar boasted of the deed, of the killing of my poor, darling boy. He memorialized it with blood trophies.

Hrothgar would not boast of the killing of a favored dog, taken over by the madness. Yet he would boast of the killing of my son.

Any man would avenge his son, his brother, his father for that shame. My son had none of those to call out this monster for his words. He had only me.

I would stand for him.

I turned to prepare.

I heard shouts, and knew I’d been seen.

I ran. There was nothing else I could do.

The shouts became jeers, and my breathing punctuated with sobs. I’d vowed a blood oath, and now I ran.

One voice stood out. That was Aeschere. Years ago, Grendel had beaten his son hard enough to damage his eye, and he’d never forgiven. He pursued me, though my lead was good and my legs remained strong. I hoped he’d slow and give up, with nothing but colorfully degrading insults, but while he slowed, he didn’t stop.

I squished along the high ground and onto the spit where my hut stood. He was some minutes behind, and I had just enough time. I barred the door, caught my breath, and took a drink of water, followed by a mouthful of cheese. Then I set about preparing.

Aeschere was a mouthy sort, and I knew he was trying to provoke me out, rather than enter himself. If I thought that would be the end of it, I’d tolerate his taunts through gritted teeth, but once he grew bored, he’d try to draw others with him. He wanted a fight with an old woman, and I determined he should have it.

When we fled years before, Grendel carried a huge trunk for me, effortlessly. It was in the back of the hut, next to my bed, where it served as a table, a chair, and a storage chest. I swept clothing and pouches off it, opened the lid, and hauled out the clothes within to dump them on the ground. I wanted what lay beneath.

I pulled my brynje of mail from the chest. It was darkened with age, but its rings were well-wrought, and it would protect me. I no longer had the underpadding. It was long since used for baby blankets. My dress and a winter tunic of thick wool would have to do. It was only for one fight.

The armor was snug. I was not a young girl anymore. It covered well enough, though tight on my chest, and dragged a bit on my hips. I grabbed the tails and yanked hard, bursting the three lowest rings at the front, and then it moved as it should.

I took a moment to pull the blankets around my boy, and check the bandages, which were soaked through with dark blood. I carefully bound another wrapping over them, knowing it would accomplish little. Lacking a miracle from the gods who’d never seen fit to give me a pittance, his time in this world grew short. He moaned and twitched, his ruined shoulder sensitive to every waft of air, the mattress, even my presence. I kissed his forehead gently, from above, and resumed my task.

Behind the door, well covered in dust, were my other needs. A thick leathern hat with a string to tie it, a light but sturdy shield reinforced with iron strips and rawhide edging, and my lord’s sword. I drew it from the scabbard and examined it.

There was some small amount of brown bloom that should be oiled and scoured before it turned to rust. There was no time for that now. My tormentor awaited, and I had a blood oath to fulfill.

I stood and breathed deeply, reacquainting myself with the weight of armor, and learning the heft of this sword. When I heard his voice circle around to the front again, I pulled the door and stepped out.

“Hello, Aeschere,” I said, with a sweet tone that didn’t hide my rage. “Would you care to dance?”

His expression told me he hadn’t expected a fair fight. He clutched and grasped for his sword, stuttering as he did so. He almost said something, possibly to placate me, possibly to distract. But his mind caught up and realized the futility.

He dropped into guard and waited for me to attack in rage. Oh, Aeschere, this was not my first battle, nor quite my last. I simply smiled, with a flick of tongue on lips to taunt him. He shifted and hesitated, and I stamped my foot. That startled him and I laughed.

“Afraid, are we?” I asked, advancing a half step.

He took the bait.

I am not small, but he was taller. But women balance better with sword forward and shield at a slant, while men raise the shield forward and the blade back. He advanced to where he could just reach me with his greater height, assuming I could not return the favor.

But that put him a foot into my range, and I struck, punching out my hand and whipping my wrist. I swung my sword low and it bit into the hide armoring his thigh. It did not cut through, but the impact staggered him. His blow stumbled and glanced off my shield, and I pressed at once.

He recovered with a solid swing that cut a deep nick into the hide edge of my shield, and we scrabbled around, trading blows to little effect. He was hurt but little, but he was shocked and scared. He thought to overpower me unarmed, to humiliate and shame me, and perhaps violate me. Once met, he dare not retreat from a mere woman, even if it meant an actual fight. And if he were to lose?

His blood-rage brought him in hard and fast, with a blow that half-cracked my shield and dented the boss. I grunted and powered into it, trying to get my point under his guard and to his belly. I succeeded, but it was a soft thrust and didn’t pierce. He backed up fast, and I flicked the tip up, catching his exposed forearm. Skin parted and blood flowed. I pressed again, and my next thrust just barely nicked his breast under the hardened hide.

This is the true nature of fighting, not the glorious finalities of the sagas. Two warriors cut at each other until one is weakened enough to surrender, flee or die. Neither of us could give or run. In his haste to make a name, he’d ensured one of us would succumb this day.

His next blow broke the section of shield and strained my arm, the shock jarring my elbow. My hand went numb, and pain blazed from elbow to shoulder. But he was extended and his arm weakened, and I hacked it, cutting muscle and bone so blood gushed freely.

Growling in pain, it almost seemed he’d flee, but he knew how that ended. He dropped his shield and swapped his sword to his left. Now undefended, he nevertheless had a weapon on my unprotected side. And he was angry and hurt.

It was all I could do to raise the half-shield in my damaged arm, shriek in pain as his weapon crashed down, and drop under the onslaught. That put me low, and I drove my point up into his belly. Fluid and humors spilled, and I smelled the stench of cut bowel. As my cry of pain faded, his rose, knowing he was dead.

Death was not immediate, though, and might take days. His sword was still live, as was the hand behind it.

I clutched the remnants of my shield just as he struck. Between the splinters and the mail, it felt like a blow from a club, driving the wind from me. Spots before my eyes told me I had no time. All I could do was strike again, this time cutting his thigh. That staggered him back and to the ground, where he attempted to rise and squealed, and then again.

I drew in sips of air, then breaths, and my vision cleared. Taking in a deep draught of damp swamp fog, I staggered around his fallen figure. I was a widow and a woman. There had been no honor given, and I granted none back. I batted his sword arm aside, raised my own, shouted a battle cry, and chopped.

I would come back to this. After I saw to my son.

I leaned the sword on the wall, stumbled through the hut, and into the small room. Before I opened the door, I knew it.

Grendel’s life had slipped away while Aeschere and I dueled. The man had won that much, denying me presence at my son’s passage, and denying Grendel my comfort. Oh, how I raged.

With my left arm damaged, I couldn’t even grant my son a civilized burial. Here he would remain.

I tumbled Aeschere’s separated head, its face still a mask of shock and agony, into a satchel, and slung it over my shoulder along with his shield. Little good it would do me, but it was better to have it, and my presentation would matter.

I walked the long, dreary way back the way I’d run.

This time the crowd was silent, perhaps realizing no good would come of this.

They parted for me, afraid or disgusted, it doesn’t matter now. I walked forward, armed and girded, and stood before the hall, ignoring the gruesome decoration that would only bring me anguish.

“Hrothgar, I call you out. You have wronged a widow and wronged an orphan living with a curse. You are unfit to rule. You lack the discipline to control your men, and let them rampage after a widow, with foul intent.”

I knelt and laid the sack down, grasped the bottom and pulled. Aeschere’s head rolled free, tumbling across the dirt as his nose, chin and spine bumped it. There were sounds of shock and horror among the watchers, and I heard a wail from his daughter. Part of me wanted to be sympathetic, but I choked that down and kept my heart hard.

I pointed and firmly said, “Beowulf, I call you out for killing a man with a cursed mind, knowing full well he had no kin to stand for him.

“Instead of a father or brother, you will face me in combat. I call my son murdered, and I name you the murderer.”

There was stone silence.

“Beowulf, if you claim to be a man, you will meet me alone in the cave in the marsh, the only place my son could flee from his demons. Surely one old woman is no match for you. Certainly not after you slew such a monster as a man crippled by headaches and madness.”

I turned my back and walked. I was half sure they’d dispose of me right there, but I was a woman, and whatever honor they retained let me leave unmolested. The only friend I had left made an abortive gesture in my direction, and I shook my head sharply. This was not Edda’s fight, and she was the only hope our story might be told with some measure of truth. I could not risk her as well.

There was no honorable end to come, no peace. There was nowhere further to flee from the presence of people.

I returned to the hut, to kneel beside my sweet boy and beg the gods to treat him gently. After all, it was they who chose him as a plaything for their whims.

I downed the strongest of tinctures I had left, ones I reserved for Grendel’s worst days, to ease the pain of my shattered arm and broken heart. I splinted my arm straight, at least giving me the ability to awkwardly heft a shield.

No burial was possible, but I was able to drag the furniture close to the bed, dump out the little oil I had, and kick one weakened side of the hut until it sunk lower. The fire could take it from there. I sought an ember from the hearth, blew it bright, and watched the flower of flame dance merrily on the makeshift bier. That assured, I left what remained of my life to burn brightly with dark sooty smoke and walked to the cave. I brought my sword, Aeschere’s shield, this journal, and a crust of bread.

Now I see a figure striding over the dunes and the brush, armed and ready. Distantly behind him are cheers at the thought of the death of a widow and her cursed son. I am bitter, with little to find light in, but there is one final mark in my column.

I hope that Edda, the wisest and kindest woman I ever knew, will come looking, and think to check the spot where we stored the more perishable herbs in the cool cave. That is where I will leave this journal.

I take heart in one warm thought. My lord fell in battle, and now dines in the Valhöll. Grendel was killed in combat, and has also gone ahead of me to revered Aasgarð. When this is over, I shall be reunited with my love and my dearest son. What this world never gave me, the next will. I am at peace. Perhaps the All Father will even grant the spirit of my infant daughter to us.

I will close this now. There are no more words to write. The rest must be action.

I have no illusions about how this will end. Beowulf is a professional warrior, and I am only the mother of a monster. I was lucky once, and now half maimed.

But if they will sing of him for a thousand years, they must also sing of me.

END

Copyright © 2025 by Michael Z. Williamson and Jessica Schlenker

Michael Z. Williamson is variously an immigrant from the UK and Canada, a retired veteran of the U.S. Army and USAF, a nationally best-selling and award-winning SF author and editor, and a consultant on disaster preparedness. In his free time, he is a bladesmith, a gunsmith, and a reenactor who favors the Viking era. He lives near Indianapolis with his wife, Jessica, their children, and a variety of animals that are staff or livestock.

Jessica Schlenker is a professional geek with an MS in information security and a BS in biology. Her interests include homesteading, gaming, and reading (and dissecting) scientific papers in various fields. She lives with her husband, Michael Z. Williamson, and their children, cats, and her various homesteading animals.

Note: This story originally appeared in Fantastic Hope, edited by Laurell K. Hamilton.