I am the heir to two kingdoms.
My Mother's kingdom - her Queendom, since only she could be Queen, and only the Queen can rule - of night-time and sea-foam and devouring.
My father's kingdom of men. They live in the day; they fear the world around them, and they build. They build puny little shelters (but oh, the banging and shouting and sawing, it splits my head...) to keep out the blackness of my Mother's world. My father has no other sons. Even if he had, I was first. I was first!
My Mother has told me of my birth. I was conceived when Hroðgar was young. My Mother told me he was a great man, then. She said... that I was not to be ashamed that he does not want me. She said that it is not my fault. He is the one who feels shame.
I went to him... I wanted to see him. I was not then as I am now. I was whole and my ears did not pain me so. My Mother and I are not demons as the men name us. We're creatures of dreams and imagination, and what men imagine - so we are. Once I was whole. Pain was not my every waking moment before my father knew of me.
I was only small, I did not know what to say to him. He did not seem strong. He was not as my Mother had said; he was afraid of me and of my Mother. He cursed me. He shouted and shouted until his voice hurt me, as it has done ever since. As everything has done ever since. What I wanted I still cannot say. Not this.
I will never be prince of his kingdom as I am in hers.
They're building again down there. The noise is too much. They're uprooting trees and hammering nails and splitting my poor head with their yells. My Mother sings to me to stop me from hurting myself, and it works for a while. I don't mean to hurt myself, since it hurts her. I want to hurt them instead.
I want to hurt him.