I hate it. I hate that shining castle of godliness. It repulses me to no end. My recent escapades within its marble skin have caused quite an agreeable discomfort within the heart of its ring-giver, Hroðgar. Mother says that in his youth, Hroðgar was quite a sight. She says that she knew him. She says that he was a brave hero, and even likens him a little to Father. I never met Father; perhaps I don't even have one. Mother never speaks of him. However, she is quite fond of telling me stories of her own youth, and from them I can gather a few concrete tales of Mother's past. Mother, in her current status, is quite something to behold. She is fearsome and frightening for a woman her age. She did not tower high, for I stood over her, but she was quite strong for the fairer sex. She tells me that she was immaculately gorgeous in her heyday; however, I find her new appearance far more suiting for a woman of her stature and power. At one time, she so despised mankind that her once precious beauty has now evolved into strength; her fair, useless skin hardened to steel, and her blood begins to flow with acid. Mother says she used to be a great queen. Mother says she used to rule over a large kingdom, but she says also that the Gods do not favor women in a position of power. Not all those of the fairer sex must be fair; not all of them fall under the broad category of 'peaceweaver'. Those who are called 'peaceweaver' are made of glass; beautiful and fragile, but lacking any sort of usefulness. Those who defy the label of 'peaceweaver' are made of steel: created with purpose and reason. Back then her name was Modthryth, but now no one remembers, and they call her horrible phrases like 'monstrous hell-bride', all merely because she is a strong, confident female. The gods despise women in positions of power.
I tell her that I wish to help her regain her life, but Mother calls me reckless. Mother says that someday it will get me into wretched trouble and endless misery. She says that I am of strong body but of weak mind. She swears that the Dane-king will find someone to tear my arm off, but her words ring in my ears as a child's cry in an empty house. She does so like to tear me down. Her words are but a mere annoyance to someone of my immense power and stature. She is the old generation, and I am the new. She must make way, for it is my time to crush the world under my great forearm. I have not yet told her that I wish to retake Heorot's hallowed halls from Hroðgar, to give her back a throne to sit her great person on, but when I return with the gold-giver's head in hand, she will thank me endlessly, for she will have her kingdom back. She will rule once again with her unmatched power and sagacity after I dethrone the so-called "noble" Hroðgar. Mother's rule will be restored after all these years, and she will have a kingdom again. There is no foreseeable way that she will be angry with me. In fact, I believe she feels much the same way about the despicable Heorot as I do.
Heorot is an impressively constructed marvel; however what it stands for fills me with great hatred and disgust. It was built with the sweat and the blood of Hroðgar's populace, and stands in the center of a city on the top of a great hill. Hroðgar ordered it constructed out of pure gold as a tribute to his one and only god, but it seems more a tribute to the one and only Hroðgar instead. How can Hroðgar believe in the concept of a monotheistic religion? How could one god, no matter how powerful, have created life? Creation takes two entities. One woman is not sufficient, and neither is one man. Two Gods for life, one for nature, one for the arts, and several ancillary Gods to round out the pantheon; it's perfect. The concept of one god makes little to no sense. One god simply doesn't have enough power to create the universe entirely, and to believe such is preposterous. Even with their great power, it took the gods several years to create the world. Who is this new deity to claim that he created it himself, and in only seven days? I will show him. I will prove to this new god that the Old Ways are the right ways, the only ways that work. Mother and I are the last bastions of the Old Ways, and we will bring them back into the world. This new god will not be able to defeat us. We will face him head on and we will triumph. I, Grendel, shall force him into submission and win the day.
I wonder, however, whether I was created by two entities. I never knew my Father. All I've ever known is Mother's love. Perhaps I was created by one entity. And if I was created by one single being, does it not stand to reason that humanity itself was created in much the same way? No. No, is what I tell myself. I am but one "man", and that is a separate thing entirely from the whole of the universe. Even if I was created by one being alone, that does not mean that one god could create all of mankind. How could one god create several million people? The definitive answer is that he simply could not. Even my gods are not powerful enough to create mankind alone, and they have existed for countless millennia, and so how can this newcomer claim to have created all of existence? Heorot's supposed tribute to this new god greatly enrages me. Even its door seems to cry out 'I am a symbol of a decadent past pretending to represent a promising future'.
The door of Heorot has been rebuilt time and time again. Each time I knock it down the foolish Danes rebuild it by the next night. One would think that someone would come after me or Mother to stop the madness, but I suppose Humans are not so intelligent. The door is as elegantly useless as the rest of Heorot, possibly more so. Hroðgar has quite an ego, but my superior arm will shatter it. The door falls easily before my might. The foolish Danes are all sleeping peacefully, quietly. It will be easy to rip them to shreds. If they wish to cling to this new god so, I will send them to see him. Better yet, I will send them to my gods, and they will deal with the traitors as they see fit.
As I came upon a sleeping Human I smiled to myself. This one shall be the first to die this night. I lift the poor thing high above my head and rend his top from his bottom. I cry out in ecstasy as his blood bathed my face in warmth. If this new god did create humans, he certainly did make them delicious. For that, he has the slightest bit of my respect. It isn't cannibalism if you regard them as a different species entirely. It makes them inferior beings. It makes consuming them no different than consuming meat from a cow or a pig. Geats and Danes alike cower in fear when faced with the Old Ways, just as I had expected. Perhaps Mother will be restored to her rightful position sooner than expected.
This next victim looks great in stature. Perhaps he is the Geatish hero Mother spoke of, but he will be no match for my immense physical prowess, for I am Grendel, champion of Cain and avenger of the honor of a supplanted woman. I, Grendel, shall never lose, and I, Grendel, shall never die.