J. H. F. Bacon, Beowulf shears off the head of Grendel (~1910); public domain via Project Gutenberg; modified
for canon chapters, see Table of Contents
In some respects, Myrtle and Davian couldn’t have been more different. They had been born an ocean apart, a river divided their boroughs — but at least they had tea in common.
Myrtle produced a small tome and pushed it across the table.
Davian smiled genially, recognizing the book as one of his own, and took it into his hand, examining it with a softened expression.
“Kemble’s 1833 edition of Beowulf,” he said with affection. “I didn’t realize it was you to whom I’d lent this.”
He looked over his nose at her, a coy glance spreading over his face. “Shall I extort you for the necessary fees?”
Myrtle ignored his banter and blinked laboriously before speaking with the utmost restraint. “I thought it best to return it to you.”
Davian put the book back on the table next to the tea cakes. “Yes; glad to have it back. Unique edition, this one, you know; only a hundred printed, and we’re fortunate to have that: a fire or two be damned.” He pressed a lemon between his fingers, letting the juice drip into the steaming liquid. “Tell me, did you actually read it?”
Myrtle raised an eyebrow at him, likewise raising a porcelain cup to her thin lips. She took hers plain.
“You know, I attended a very interesting lecture concerning the interpretation of said text,” he began. “The year was 1936; British Academy. The speaker addressed the tendency of scholars to dismiss the extranatural elements of the text, intent on trying to distill the fact from betwixt the fantasy. His argument was that the monsters were not present simply to drive the plot, quite to the contrary; they could not be ignored or glossed over—”
“Davian—” she tried to interrupt.
“Fine young man,” Davian said, waxing nostalgic. “I only wish I’d had the opportunity to get to know him better—”
“Davian, I’m taking another student.”
The man put his half-eaten sweet back on the plate. He took a napkin in his hand, but spoke hastily, with a crumb lingering in the corner of his mouth. “Another student? Didn’t you just fetch the little girl from Korea?”
She did not say anything, and he continued to press her.
“How many children have you got tucked away in that house now?” he asked, remembering his seniority. “Do you think it wise to take on yet another?”
Myrtle looked at him, and her gaze was focused. “This one is different.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure they’re all quite different,” he said dismissively. “I daresay if you did not keep feeding all the stray cats that happen to wander into your backyard—”
He stared at her with intensity. “...You might have made progress on your alchemy.”
Myrtle conjured a practiced defense. “This is my immortality,” she said, her confidence dotted with wistful resignation. “When my bones lie still in the ground, the house and the children remain.”
Davian took a small spoon in his hand and stirred the tea, though it did not require it. “Such a pity,” he said ponderously. “—That we even have to consider such a limitation to our existence.”
“What would it be, if we endured forever?” he asked pointedly. “Some among us enjoy such luxury. Isn’t it a tragedy they don’t try to share their privilege?”
“Nothing lasts forever,” she responded curtly. “Not the towering trees, not the carved stone, nor even the nightfolk.”
“Such is true of your legacy, too, then.”
“I would like to request your assistance,” she said, dodging his violence. “The young man has found himself embroiled in a conflict with the Mundanes. He’s contained at a holding facility not too far—”
“Jail?” he asked, incredulous. “Not your usual style. You’ve grown tired of changing diapers?”
“I’ll post his bail. I’ll sign the papers,” she said diplomatically. “All you need to do is drive.”
Davian took a drink and it was sour on his tongue, but he liked it.
“...So,” he said, a smarmy grin igniting asymmetrically across his face. “How’d you find out about this one? Some dark thing lurking beneath your mead hall for a decade, seething at the sound of drunken revelry, unable to contain his rage and envy?”
Myrtle, unamused, raised a singular eyebrow, and refused to engage. After ninety-two years of life, she had a way of letting the patterns swirl and relax and leave behind a quiet serenity in her old heart. “There’s always a bigger dragon.”
He sat back in his chair, satisfied with her response, and let his arms rest.
“Then you did read it.”