Everyone else called her a monster. It was because she was big, taller than
most, and stronger, too. She carried a club with her to defend herself, and
she wore tents draped about her in the style of a tunic; it's not like she
could find any appropriate clothing to wear.
I knew her to be kind, and generous, and so very loving. Everyone else claimed that she was brutal, vicious, and bloodthirsty. Giants, men claimed while smoking on pipes in the shady bars that they didn't want their wives to know they frequented, were bred for one purpose, and one alone- to destroy the human race.
I found it terribly ironic, then. Men that claimed to be pure of blood, who called non-magic folk Muggles and Mudbloods simply because they were different, had found some sort of unity. Well, I guess it's true what they say- the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Wizards and non-wizards alike fear the giants, though to non-magic folk, they're nothing but legends, tall tales. Still, even in tales, they are vicious creatures to be killed for sport, to be killed before they can kill.
I know that to be untrue. Sadly, I'm one of the privileged few who know the truth, who aren't blinded by what the books say, who don't fear what I don't always understand. That's the nature of men, I find, and it makes my heart weep whenever I look at my son. People won't understand him, will always assume to know him by his size, and there's nothing I can do about that.
My parents told me that I made the mistake of falling in love with a thing, as if she didn't deserve the respect that all living creatures deserve simply for living. I told them that she is as much a part of this world as any, and that she loved more than most. They laughed at that, sadly shaking their heads when they gave me an ultimatum- told me that it was either the beast or they.
I told them that it wasn't much of choice. The decision wasn't really hard, when you think about it. It was either love, pure and unconditional, or hatred bearing the cloak of love. What would you choose, if presented with those options?
Many don't understand me because of it, and they stare at my son in bewilderment, because at the tender age of two, he's already so much larger than most eight-year-olds. They know that he's half-giant, and they sneer at him when they think I'm not looking.
No one understands my boy, my gentle son borne of a gentle mother. Their lips curl up in disgust, and it's all I can do to build up his self-esteem, help him build an impenetrable wall about his heart so that he won't foolishly let in those who will trample it, because, as they claim, he's not human.
No, my son is half-giant and proud of it. He will be proud of it, and he will know love, and life, and appreciate all that is good in this world more than any other. He will be gentle, and caring, and he will walk the path of righteousness that his mother walked. He will know the hearts of men better than men do, and he will know that he is fortunate to have a bigger heart- bigger so that it may house more love, and compassion for all life, though others may call it brutal, or harmful. He will see all that is gentle in any creature, and know the kind of passion of whatever higher power created us all.
He will know magic. Not the magic that most wizards know, used solely for everyday tasks, but the magic of life. He will not believe in all those tall tales, and he will know not to believe everything that men say, for the mouths of men easily spew forth the hate foaming up in their hearts.
He will know the truth about his mother, and know no shame. Yes, she was of the race of giants. She was tall, and proud, and fled from persecution only because I begged her to, only because I could not bear to see any harm come to her.
People wanted to hurt her because she was different, because they did not understand her. She tried so very hard to make people see the gentleness of her ways, the love in her eyes, that passion for life.
People mistook it for a love of bloodshed, for hatred for all men, and a wish to see their lives, and ways, destroyed forever. People saw exactly what they wanted to see, and created monsters of themselves when they chased out the giants, hunting them down, killing them off as sport. People are hatred, demons of pain and destruction, and do not wish to see pure love when they will not allow themselves to experience it.
It would be easy for me to say I hate them, those men who drove away my wife, and my son's mother. It would be easy for me to wish upon them the pain that I feel when I look at my son, and know the hardships that he will face in his future, simply because he is different. It would be easy..
But it would also be wrong. She made me promise not to hate, before she left, she made me promise. She told me that I was pure, and different, because I alone could love her when all others would only hate. She did not want to see hatred borne of my love, when my love was meant to be a gift, unspoiled and passed on to our son, our little Rubeus. I was supposed to teach them, somehow, and I was never to do what was easy, because she loved me for doing what was hard- for forsaking my family to build one with her, for allowing her the chance to show that she could love, and that she did, for never quaking at her touch, and for always defending her honor to men who'd only hate us both for it in the end.
Beautiful words tumbled from her lips as men forced tears from her eyes. I will not hate them for the terrible things they did to her, but neither will I ever forgive them. Someone needs to hold them responsible for all of their wrongs, for pushing the giants away as the giants tried to embrace them. Someone must show them that they were wrong, and that they will mourn their mistakes in the end, if they do not learn to accept what is different, and see the beauty of the hearts of giants. I fear that that someone will make himself known sooner, rather than later, and the hearts of men will quake with fear, and they will wallow in their hate-filled mistakes and damnation.
I wonder about a world like this, sometimes, when I look at my son, as beautiful as his mother. How can everyone hate something that only wanted to love, and that only showed love and compassion in return? Is it really all worth it- the pain and destruction that comes with love, I mean?
But then I look closer at my son, and I see his mother in him, the giant Fridwulfa who lives now in the mountains with the rest of her kind. I know then, without a doubt, that yes, it is worth all of the pain and destruction. Someone has to love, when all others won't. Someone has to fight for all that is good in this world, when darkness falls, and the hearts of men are exposed to the world in hatred, bringing on despair.
Someone did. Everyone else called her a monster. She was no monster. She was Fridwulfa, the lady giant who captured my heart, and taught me to love through hate, who gave me my son, and first apostle, and will someday show the world that when darkness falls, the giants will be the guiding light out of it.
I knew her to be kind, and generous, and so very loving. Everyone else claimed that she was brutal, vicious, and bloodthirsty. Giants, men claimed while smoking on pipes in the shady bars that they didn't want their wives to know they frequented, were bred for one purpose, and one alone- to destroy the human race.
I found it terribly ironic, then. Men that claimed to be pure of blood, who called non-magic folk Muggles and Mudbloods simply because they were different, had found some sort of unity. Well, I guess it's true what they say- the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Wizards and non-wizards alike fear the giants, though to non-magic folk, they're nothing but legends, tall tales. Still, even in tales, they are vicious creatures to be killed for sport, to be killed before they can kill.
I know that to be untrue. Sadly, I'm one of the privileged few who know the truth, who aren't blinded by what the books say, who don't fear what I don't always understand. That's the nature of men, I find, and it makes my heart weep whenever I look at my son. People won't understand him, will always assume to know him by his size, and there's nothing I can do about that.
My parents told me that I made the mistake of falling in love with a thing, as if she didn't deserve the respect that all living creatures deserve simply for living. I told them that she is as much a part of this world as any, and that she loved more than most. They laughed at that, sadly shaking their heads when they gave me an ultimatum- told me that it was either the beast or they.
I told them that it wasn't much of choice. The decision wasn't really hard, when you think about it. It was either love, pure and unconditional, or hatred bearing the cloak of love. What would you choose, if presented with those options?
Many don't understand me because of it, and they stare at my son in bewilderment, because at the tender age of two, he's already so much larger than most eight-year-olds. They know that he's half-giant, and they sneer at him when they think I'm not looking.
No one understands my boy, my gentle son borne of a gentle mother. Their lips curl up in disgust, and it's all I can do to build up his self-esteem, help him build an impenetrable wall about his heart so that he won't foolishly let in those who will trample it, because, as they claim, he's not human.
No, my son is half-giant and proud of it. He will be proud of it, and he will know love, and life, and appreciate all that is good in this world more than any other. He will be gentle, and caring, and he will walk the path of righteousness that his mother walked. He will know the hearts of men better than men do, and he will know that he is fortunate to have a bigger heart- bigger so that it may house more love, and compassion for all life, though others may call it brutal, or harmful. He will see all that is gentle in any creature, and know the kind of passion of whatever higher power created us all.
He will know magic. Not the magic that most wizards know, used solely for everyday tasks, but the magic of life. He will not believe in all those tall tales, and he will know not to believe everything that men say, for the mouths of men easily spew forth the hate foaming up in their hearts.
He will know the truth about his mother, and know no shame. Yes, she was of the race of giants. She was tall, and proud, and fled from persecution only because I begged her to, only because I could not bear to see any harm come to her.
People wanted to hurt her because she was different, because they did not understand her. She tried so very hard to make people see the gentleness of her ways, the love in her eyes, that passion for life.
People mistook it for a love of bloodshed, for hatred for all men, and a wish to see their lives, and ways, destroyed forever. People saw exactly what they wanted to see, and created monsters of themselves when they chased out the giants, hunting them down, killing them off as sport. People are hatred, demons of pain and destruction, and do not wish to see pure love when they will not allow themselves to experience it.
It would be easy for me to say I hate them, those men who drove away my wife, and my son's mother. It would be easy for me to wish upon them the pain that I feel when I look at my son, and know the hardships that he will face in his future, simply because he is different. It would be easy..
But it would also be wrong. She made me promise not to hate, before she left, she made me promise. She told me that I was pure, and different, because I alone could love her when all others would only hate. She did not want to see hatred borne of my love, when my love was meant to be a gift, unspoiled and passed on to our son, our little Rubeus. I was supposed to teach them, somehow, and I was never to do what was easy, because she loved me for doing what was hard- for forsaking my family to build one with her, for allowing her the chance to show that she could love, and that she did, for never quaking at her touch, and for always defending her honor to men who'd only hate us both for it in the end.
Beautiful words tumbled from her lips as men forced tears from her eyes. I will not hate them for the terrible things they did to her, but neither will I ever forgive them. Someone needs to hold them responsible for all of their wrongs, for pushing the giants away as the giants tried to embrace them. Someone must show them that they were wrong, and that they will mourn their mistakes in the end, if they do not learn to accept what is different, and see the beauty of the hearts of giants. I fear that that someone will make himself known sooner, rather than later, and the hearts of men will quake with fear, and they will wallow in their hate-filled mistakes and damnation.
I wonder about a world like this, sometimes, when I look at my son, as beautiful as his mother. How can everyone hate something that only wanted to love, and that only showed love and compassion in return? Is it really all worth it- the pain and destruction that comes with love, I mean?
But then I look closer at my son, and I see his mother in him, the giant Fridwulfa who lives now in the mountains with the rest of her kind. I know then, without a doubt, that yes, it is worth all of the pain and destruction. Someone has to love, when all others won't. Someone has to fight for all that is good in this world, when darkness falls, and the hearts of men are exposed to the world in hatred, bringing on despair.
Someone did. Everyone else called her a monster. She was no monster. She was Fridwulfa, the lady giant who captured my heart, and taught me to love through hate, who gave me my son, and first apostle, and will someday show the world that when darkness falls, the giants will be the guiding light out of it.